Renowned 1970s-era daredevil Evel Knievel firmly planted his foot in his mouth for the second time that day when what he said to Chief Thathi of the Turkana Tribe was translated as “Your daughter has halitosis and back acne.”

Ironically, there was no error in translation – that is what he said.   Even more ironic was that the daughter did in fact have a putrid stench coming from her mouth and had a back that resembled the topographical map of an angry, scabrous lava field.

Nevertheless, I immediately took control of the situation by offering the chief a few minutes of obligatory apologies and a gift of the coveted April 2001 issue of People Magazine.  Almost immediately, the chief’s ruffled feathers were sufficiently smoothed, and we were cleared to again go about the order of the day.

Though I love Evel like an older and socially dysfunctional brother, I must continually remind myself to exercise caution when traveling abroad with him.

The order of the day was to remove the dusty togs we had been wearing for the last two days while excavating ancient human remains at Koobi Fora on the eastern shore of Lake Turkana in Kenya and change into garments befitting the evening’s activities – dinner and drink as personal guests of the chief.

Throughout the course of the evening and into the wee hours of the morning, Evel and I ate foods of dubious origin, participated in quasi-erotic tribal dances and drank lethal amounts of a sweet and intoxicating concoction known as “Joy Juice” served in gourds the size our heads.

The evening was relatively unremarkable, save for one intriguing yet troubling detail.  As any student of African tribal history will tell you, Turkana men wear no clothes – none, nil, zero, zilch, nothing, not a stitch.  What they fail to tell you is that Turkana men, as a group, are arguably the most well endowed men on the planet.  Though typically I am very comfortable with the size, shape and general aesthetics of my hang-down, I must admit that I was feeling a bit inadequate and was uncharacteristically longing to be with my own kind – er...so to speak.  On the other hand, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Evel so “alive.”

The following morning found me and Evel lying unconscious on the shore of Lake Turkana – the “Jade Sea.”  The relentless African sun baking my swollen face woke me just in time to avert nasty facial blisters and to drag Evel’s motionless and naked body away from a float of angry crocodiles intent on turning him into a mid-morning snack.

As I sat, panting beside my unconscious companion in the stiflingly hot air in the relative safety of the shade of a muna tree, I spied a metal-skinned, combat ready ZMC-2 airship manufactured by the Aircraft Development Corporation fall from the sky.  I watched absently as it dove nose-first into the pristine jade colored water and as it quickly disappeared beneath the beneath the gentle swells -- destination, intent and affiliation unknown.

I left Evel in Kenya with a substantial sum of money and in the hands of aggressive Turkana tribal real estate agent Richard Ndiiriri.  As we parted company, I thought I overheard Evel ask the agent, “Got a pencil, Dick?”

Will you never learn?