I had met my future wife Maureen, a British nurse, at a friend's house at Makerere, but our first real date was a safari to Lake Turkana in northern Kenya.  With my buddy Jim Warford, a TEA teacher at Bungoma, Kenya, and Maureen and her friend Daphne Micklethwaite, we traveled north in my old Land Rover.  All went well until we reached Lodwar, the place where Jomo Kenyatta had been imprisoned.  Maureen was driving—her first experience with a four wheel drive vehicle I later learned—and she put us into a ditch.  I stupidly and boorishly shouted at her, and she responded by silently ignoring me.  We proceeded on to the southern end of the lake where luckily a tax collector was being taken over to a fishery camp by Turkana warriors, and we were able to hitch a ride in their canoes. 

     These Turkana were quite spectacular—tall, powerful black men with headdresses of mud and cow dung festooned with ostrich feathers, naked except for capes tied at the throat, carrying their little stools and long spears, propelling their canoes with wooden paddles like a well-drilled boat racing team.  Slipping through tall reed beds swarming with birds, we crossed the open water of the lake to the camp.  There the young British fisheries officer, somewhat surprised by our visit ( he told us he never had visitors), let us set up camp under a thatched shelter.  He also took an interest in Maureen, who obviously had no time for her uncouth American escort.  Despite my ostracism causing a somewhat strained atmosphere, we spent an interesting couple of days swimming in the lake (we were assured that fish were so plentiful that the huge crocodiles didn't bother people), watching the Turkana fishing with nets, broiling tilapia filets on the campfire and sharing our Tusker beer with the fisheries man.  It was an unforgetable glimpse into a stark and ancient way of life. 

     Unfortunately, on the way home to Kampala, Maureen suffered an infected mosquito bite on her leg which immobilized her and was serious enough to put her in hospital for a week.  While she was there, the fisheries officer came down from Lake Turkana and tried to see her.  Luckily for me, he arrived at the hospital out of visiting hours and the tough old matron—bless her heart—wouldn't let him in.  Presumably, he went back to his lonely station on the lake and was never seen again in Kampala.  At the same time, I was suffering remorse for my behavior and visited Maureen every day—being sure to go at the correct time—bringing flowers and apologies and words of good cheer.  Evidently,  Maureen changed her mind about this contrite penitent because when she got out of hospital we began conventional dating and the rest is history: we have been married for forty-six years.