4:05 p.m. I was running late. My brother, Phil, his new wife Leslie and stepdaughter Katie expected to be picked up in Leparua – a teeth-rattling 45 minute drive away – at 4:30. Leparua is the community Conservancy just north of Lewa and just outside the range of Safaricom’s cellphone towers; from a communication standpoint, it’s on the other side of the moon. I’d dropped Phil and company off at 10 a.m. to spend the day in the bush with Silas, our favorite Masaai warrior. It was the first time we’d left guests unattended outside the gate and I was a little nervous. Would they be flush and happy after a day of adventure or dusty, sweaty and irritated, waiting impatiently for me to retrieve them?

I accelerated into forth gear, broke the Lewa speed limit and flew along at nearly 30 mph. Half way there, as I entered the Leparua valley, the hairpin turns, loose gravel and large rocks forced me to downshift into second and slow to 10 mph least the car vibrate to pieces. I ignored a group of magnificent Kudu grazing on a hillside and arrived at the gate at exactly 4:45 p.m., only 15 minutes late and well within “Kenyan time.” I drove up the steep slope to Sila’s house expecting to see Phil, Leslie and Katie sitting in the shade drinking tea. The house was locked and curtains drawn. I took a folding chair out of the back of my car and sat down on the ledge wondering where everyone was.

A minute later two ebony-skinned pixies peered around the dusty front fender of my Land Cruiser, giggled and then popped back out of sight. More twittering and then the bolder of the two, dressed in a long flowered skirt and lime green top with bright pink plastic shoes, came out and approached me, ready to run at any sudden movement. She stood a foot from my chair; the beaded, plastic crucifixes around her neck glinting in the sun. Then the shy one stepped up. Her dress was a white satin, ruffled number that must have started life as a Latin-American confirmation gown. It was trailing its shiny blue trim and hadn’t seen soap or water since it was packed in a one-ton bundle from The Salvation Army and loaded onto a freighter. We all stared at each other. They were about four years old.

I broke the ice by shaking hands and slapping a high-five with each of them. That produced peals of laughter. More high-fives, then high-tens followed by low-tens where I swiped my hands out of the way, their hands swishing into mid-air while I reached through and tickled their ribs. Giggles and jostling ensued. It was clear they were no longer afraid of me. Hmmm. What to do with two four year olds who have no intention of leaving and with whom you cannot communicate? iPhone to the rescue. The urge to ham it up for a camera must be built into the human DNA. My iPhone was as alien to them as a space ship or a dishwasher, but within minutes they’d figured out how to take pictures and were busy trying goofy poses and facial expressions. They’d get into position, I’d take the picture, they’d run around to look at the results and inevitably fold over squealing.

A little while later a group of secondary school girls in maroon and tan uniforms passed by on the path beneath us. My companions stopped what they were doing, picked up pebbles, ran to the edge of the ledge, spit on the rocks, hurled them and what I presumed were taunts at the older girls and then dropped flat into the dirt to hide, wiggling and kicking their feet. I waved at the high school girls and shrugged my shoulders as if to say “Oh well, what do you expect from four year olds.”

By this time it was 5:30. Where in the heck was Silas, not to mention Phil, Leslie and Katie? I could see the goats and sheep descending the hill opposite, returning to the protection of their acacia thorn bomas for the night. The sun was dropping in the western sky and would soon disappear behind the local mountains. I didn’t really think they’d all broken bones, been gored by elephants or chased into the acacia thorns by lions, but my western mind couldn’t help conjuring these images. Restless, I left my pixie friends and got in the car. I drove a quarter mile up and down the road looking for Silas and looking ridiculous to the children, women and elders who watched my automotive pacing. A couple elders lounging on a rock wall looked friendly. “Muzungo tatu and Silas?” (Three white people and Silas?). They signaled that the group left the village and went up the mountain. When? Around 2:30.

At 5:45 I decided I needed to contact John. There was really nothing substantive he could do, but he could keep me company if my vigil continued after dark. I drove back into Lewa to find a signal. The guard assured me that my missing party was fine, nothing could happen to them. I told the guard I’d be right back; “Don’t lock the gate.” At the top of the nearest hill, my phone rang. It was John. “Where are you guys?” he asked “We’re supposed to be at a sundowner on Mlima Sirikoi.” I gave him the scoop, he agreed to come and I headed back down the valley.

When I pulled into Sila’s narrow drive a little after 6 p.m., the house still looked closed and my band of pixies had grown from 2 to 6. Then I caught the flash of a white t-shirt and Phil rounded the corner, beaming. They’d had the most wonderful and fantastic day and they’d just arrived back, right on schedule, Kenyan time.