BY DEBORAH AHO

E AWAKE IN THE DARK, SENSING it's time to rise, and hurriedly slip into our best safari clothes. A few minutes later a sleepy night guard unlocks our gate, allowing us to ease our Land Cruiser out into the shadowy predawn and onto the abandoned roads that take us west from Nairobi.

An hour later we reach the brink of the Rift Valley. The morning sun is shimmering behind us, illuminating in a blaze of bronze a timeless landscape stretched before us like a deep cut across the earth's surface. Carefully we follow the carved road down the edge of the escarpment, weaving our way in and out of a train of creeping trucks, to the world below.

It's another Sabbath morning in Africa, and we're making our way to the small town of Ewaso, Kenya. We've journeyed this road many times on our way to Masai Mara, one of Kenya's most inspiring game parks. But today there's special significance to our trip, because we're attending the first Masai camp meeting ever to be held in Kenya.

By the time the sun has risen above the acacias that line the dusty roadside, we've reached the town of Narok. Early-morning traffic slows us down as cattle meander across the highway, mingled with goats and sheep and donkeys laden with heavy plastic jugs of water. Sunshine reflecting off low-hanging clouds falls like soft firelight on the dark and slender figures, clad in blood-red blankets, who mingle with the livestock. We know that after three failed rainy seasons Masai herdsmen are forced to migrate long distances in search of adequate grazing land. The weary pace and emaciated appearance of the cattle tell a sad story--common now, as the effects of the drought have reduced most Masai herds to a handful of bony carcasses and left a great number of families financially destitute. We watch in silence and then carefully wind our way around the procession and continue down the road toward camp meeting.

A half hour later we turn off the Tarmac and head into the bush on 10 miles (15 kilometers) of what used to be a dirt road but is now reduced to a long ribbon of deep powdery dust. Our Land Cruiser has taken on the appearance of a mud hut by the time we pull up alongside the dung and stick bomas built on the outskirts of the camp meeting site.

Not Padded Pews
It's a barren location, flat rocky ground dotted with thorny scrub brush and scattered with browsing goats and skinny dogs. By now the sun has slipped behind the low-hanging clouds, and a cool wind has begun blowing small dust devils across the open plains. We sit for a moment in the still vehicle, absorbing one last breath of comfort before emerging. An image flashes into my mind of a quiet, tidy New England church, and I momentarily yearn for carpeted floors and padded pews.

As soon as we emerge from our vehicle we are engulfed. Nine hundred twenty Masai from all parts of Masailand have traveled to this desolate spot to fellowship, worship God, and study Scripture. They have camped in their makeshift bomas for an entire week, a community of believers sharing crowded sleeping mats at night and cooking maize and chapatis together over scattered fires during the day, somehow making a temporary home in a place barren of comfort.

We join them just as Sabbath school begins. Someone offers us a small space on a rough bench, and for a moment we hesitate, thinking it would be more comfortable to stand, but sensing that it would appear ungracious not to accept, we smile our thanks and squeeze alongside the others. The Sabbath school speaker is talking about church growth, witnessing, living to bless others, and ways of reaching our communities with God's love. He speaks in Masai, which they begin interpreting into English for us. It slows the service down, but they don't seem to mind. They're glad we've come. We've shown our support and respect for their first camp meeting by worshiping with them today.

The speaker asks for testimonies from different believers of their witnessing experiences. People rise to the occasion. They want to share. Some are wearing secondhand suits carefully smoothed out for this special occasion. Others are wrapped in traditional bright-red blankets or pink cotton sheets. It is cold, and a few lucky ones have ski caps pulled down low over their foreheads or are tightly wrapped in winter jackets. Some are barefoot; others wear shiny patent leather loafers. Most have Bata plastic shoes or rubber tire sandals on their feet.

But they're not conscious of their appearance. They've come to worship God and share with fellow believers, and they stand in line to testify with no hint of self-consciousness. I'm touched by their enthusiasm and listen closely. One tells about his colporteur work, another about his church's small outreach group, and yet another about her ministry to street children. One speaks about ministering to warring tribes, helping to negotiate tribal clashes and bringing about peace. Their testimonies are varied, but their spirit is the same.

Sabbath school is followed by endless singing--Masai value music as much as preaching, and sermons must be counterbalanced with an equivalent portion of song. It's noon before the preacher takes the podium. Pastor Joel Okindo, the South Kenya Conference president, gives a brief overview of the history of Masai evangelism.

I understand very little of what he says because the sound system crackles and screeches throughout his talk. But I manage to learn that in 1933 the first Masai converted to Seventh-day Adventism. Today this man is around 100 years old and lives in a faraway village. His son is a minister in the Transmara district and is worshipping with us today. He stands and greets us in the name of Jesus. Together with his father they have witnessed to their people almost 70 years, and today Masai are embracing Adventism as the true church that upholds biblical teachings. Pastor Okindo goes on to describe his vision for a program called Toward Total Evangelism of Masai (TTEM), a five-year program to evangelize the Masai and create a self-reliant conference. He shares some very enthusiastic goals, and his vision for evangelism is contagious. Sitting there, I feel humbled to be witnessing such evidence of the Spirit's work.

Church ends at 2:00, and a baptism follows. We crowd around a small cement baptismal pool specially built the preceding weeks for this momentous event. Since water is not available in the area, a water truck has hauled in a tankload to fill it. I want to take a few pictures, so I edge in closely. My camera gains me unsolicited privileges, and I am allowed a front-row position. It's hard to know how many candidates are being baptized; a long line winds away from the baptismal pool and gets lost in the jostling crowd. I hear there are 103.

The viewers cannot see well from 20 feet back, so they push and shove themselves forward. By the time the baptism begins I am standing pressed against the baptismal tank. The first man wades down into the water, and from the anguished look in his eyes I assume he has never stood so deeply in water and fears what will happen next.

The pastor sings out a blessing in Masai and quickly thrusts the man underwater. He momentarily resists, but is somehow immersed, and a second later comes sputtering out looking radiantly victorious. In the same instant a wall of water sloshes out of the tank, drenching my khaki skirt and filling my shoes with mud. Immediately worried onlookers offer condolences, but I laugh, and they laugh with me. I watch several more candidates repeat the procedure, and then they all begin to look the same. I turn and crush my way through a wall of bodies to my husband standing on a termite mound in the background. I am tired and want to go home.

Reflections
The three-hour drive home is a relief. I have a hot shower to look forward to, a decent supper, and a comfortable, clean bed. Our Sabbath is about over, and we are weary. Yet we are inspired.

I think of the 920 Masai we have just left in Ewaso who are making their preparations for the evening meal, gathering together in friendly clusters, sharing their few belongings with each other, and enjoying their last few hours together before making their long journeys back to their various districts. It's all somehow familiar, like a scene out of my childhood Bible storybooks depicting the people crowded around Jesus on the hillsides or in the villages or by the seashore, absorbing all He has to share and ignoring the inconveniences of following Him.

We climb the winding road up the Rift escarpment just as dusk begins to fall, and pause to watch the sun sink behind the western horizon. The last rays of sunlight flood the valley, transforming its dry and barren landscape into a magnificent portrait of vibrant color. This final display of grandeur somehow seems symbolic. We take one last glance and then continue toward home, knowing for certain that the Light shines in the valley.

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Deborah Aho has worked in Africa for 11 years with her husband and three children. They currently assist the Masai in Kenya with church and community development and operate a volunteer program called Adventures in Mission. For more information, see www.africamissionservices.org.