Land Cruiser: Ground Zero

Oh bother. The rear tire is flat again. I can see the bulge through my side mirror. That slow leak needs attention. The repair will have to wait. I pull into the gas station. The air compressor is off. By the time it’s ready, the daylight I’d wanted is slipping way. The sun fades and darkness settles. The traffic thickens the closer I get to the city. I miss my turn for dinner and wind my way back. My card is read, charged, but the order not sent to the kitchen. Delayed again as a manager untangles the glitch. I expect to arrive bedraggled and frustrated. Instead, the welcoming smiles of my hosts as they draw me into their home melt away every hint of stress creeping in. I fill with an anticipated excitement for my journey ahead.

Taxi Central

The alarm sounds much too early. I’d been so determined not to oversleep that sleep had almost escaped me altogether, my drooping eyes re-opened by whooping cheers as the world-cup played in a nearby bar. I swap my shorts and T-shirt for the travel clothes laid out the night before. I stand in my room staring; there was something… something important I’m not supposed to forget. I circle slowly then, THERE! I pack my phone charger and meander down the stairs with my backpack haphazardly slung over one shoulder. It slumps to the floor and I mindlessly press ‘brew’ staring at the trickle, drip… drip… drip. My cup is ready except for the milk… where is the milk? Right. The fridge. I sip my cup while waiting for the driver to show up. A quiet PING interrupts the solitude. The quietness of the streets creates an impossible silence as barely another vehicle is in sight. He brings me to the exact spot I need to be- I could touch the bus if I wanted to as I wander towards the first of many unknowns: Public Transportation.

Abuya Bus

I snuggle into seat 6A, adjusting and readjusting my head against the uncomfortable window seam with my eyes flitting open and closed. A gentle ‘thump’ causes me to crack just the right eye to analyze my seat partn-ope. New guy already. Oh golly. This could be a long one. I hope he hasn’t noticed the cracked eyelid, and does recognize my headphones as a signal to leave me alone. Not a chance. He is so thrilled to be sitting by me and now wants to be my best friend. The engine roars to life and the bus starts to crawl slowly- the only way it can-to navigate the narrow city streets. The attendant who had loaded my backpack to the undercarriage gestures right, left, straight directing it to avoid the fruit stand, goat… small child… and the morning line up of motorcycles. SMACK SMACK! What in the…? An alert: “Heads up! Four more passengers are climbing into the bus!” The bus hasn’t even slowed. Two hours an half a dozen ignored social cues later, we’re at the first bathroom break- I think. I stay in my spot. My seat partner gets up, and comes back with his first of many gifts: a water for me! Now I have two waters in light of his admirable persistence. A few more hours pass as we settle into conversational routine: I pause my audiobook, remove one of my headphones, request to repeat himself, provide a breif answer, and attempt to go back to my book.

This stop, I do need to go to the bathroom. I ask the lady serving in the restaurant where the ladies room is and she directs me up the stairs. I quickly return to the bus, not wanting the bus to leave without me. It’s about lunch time, and I am ready to pull out my pre-packed lunch when, “I was looking for you in there! Where did you go?” My generous benefactor is back. This time with two yogurts, a package of little donuts, and an orange. The multitude of new passengers changes the atmosphere of the bus and I finally give in to conversation. Five hours later we arrive at the Abuya bus station and I’ve learned, “That old man is 115 years old!” and “Milk doesn’t have calories.” Somehow he was surprised when I did not in fact provide him my phone number.

Land Cruiser: The First

I lean against my backpack and watch closely, wondering if the vehicle before me is THE car that will take me the next three hours of my journey. Finally I spot him, D, the pastor at the mission station I’ll be visiting, negotiating for a seat on my behalf. One spot in the front is procured for me, so he wanders over and relieves me of my pack, adding it to the growing pile of cargo being strapped to the roof rack. I climb into my spot and he explains he’ll need to take a motorcycle with a few other passengers past the police stop, then he too will be added to the roof rack. The back is full of bodies, limb on limb entangled, not a square inch available for another butt to squeeze in. I could not imagine humans on top of the bags, jugs of fuel, sacks of rice and MEHHHHHHHHH. The braying of goats being manhandled as they are lifted past my window to waiting hands above jars me out of my ponderance.

The metropolitan of Marsabit fades away. No more gas stations, no more shop fronts, no more homes. My neck cranes as I glimpse a sign of life in a preteen boy clad with leather sandals, a beaded headdress, and a long prodding-stick in his hand plodding along in the red dirt behind forty camels. In a blink he is gone and as I turn my head back to the road before I wonder at the trust of the driver: our fuel gauge reads completely empty, but then again, the next gauge records our cruising speed to be zero kilometers per hour. Oh well. A turn off the main highway brings a warm emanating acrid smell as the rattling of the vehicle calms to a thrum. This deep black wide, straight road hinting of civilization is in stark contrast with the empty baron wilderness stretching before me. Not too much time has passed and we drive off the side of the road blocked by a calculated row of rocks instead of orange cones. The new tarmac tempts our tires as we zigzag across the uncured beautiful blacktop, bumping along just off the brand-new path. Eventually even this ends and the road we’re left with is nothing more than two tracks to follow, a clear place where the rocks have been cleared. Nothingness stretches. A funky secretariat bird. Emptiness. The orange flash of a bobbing hare. Silence. A smack on my arm, the offender points to gazelle. Red dirt gives way to tan sand as the red ball hanging low in the sky casts a dusty glow over the dusty plains to the clatter and rumble sounding beneath me.

Dusk falls as we come upon the grocery delivery segment of our journey. A dozen ladies stand ready near two permanent buildings surrounded by a few dozen stick huts. The car creaks to a halt and the deliveries begin. I watch in amazement as bags of rice are unloaded into waiting arms! A lady approaches my open window and I assume she is digging around behind my seat for her special order. Indeed, it was special. We’re not just a grocery delivery service. Miraa is a leafy plant chewed for its stimulating psychotropic effects, and bags and bags of the stuff are packaged behind mine and the drivers’ seats.

The chaos left in our wake breaks my heart as the cool air tickling my face grounds me in the beauty of the landscape.

Picky Piki-Piki

The dots on the horizon grow. The vehicle slows to a stop at what must be Kargi. My bag lowers next to me followed by two feet and a face I recognize. I unfurl myself from the groceries, laptop, and lady tucked into the front with me and start taking stock. Phone stashed. Water sipped. Jacket donned. Introduction given. Backpacks swapped. I’m shoved onto the back of a motorcycle, called piki-piki’s here, between the driver I just missed the name of and D. My head is still swirling and Kargi is gone. Blackness engulfs us.

I slowly tilt my head back and stare at the dark sky. No, not dark. One star emerges, then another. An entire galaxy unfolds above me, interrupted only by the glow of the moon. The breeze is the perfect balance of warmth and cool as it travels through my linen top tickling my arms gently. I inhale deeply expecting sweet night air. Then exhale sharply as I’m met instead with farm animals. Heat rolls in around me with the rhythmic plodding sound of hooves. A slow smile spreads across my face as I work to help balance myself while the driver stabilizes the bike with his feet. “MEEP-MEEP-MEEEEP.” Our headlight illuminates a brown wall of legs as camels part to either side of us close enough I could spread my arms trace the sides of their fur. We follow the narrow track until a single glowing orb announces the mission station we approach.

By Foot

Silver toenail polish peeks out at the hem of my dress as I carefully navigate around baseball adjacent stones. I hike my dress almost up to my knees and lengthen my stride as I climb the last few meters of this dune. I take off my sunglasses to wipe a bead of sweat from my brow, pausing to admire the rocky mound as I reach the crest. I spin in a slow circle. To my left, the mission station, to the right… an unknown world. I choose my game trail, noting where it branches and curves. When I reach the stoneless walkway carved by camels and goats, I can finally lift my gaze from my feet and notice a lone tree, fuzzy white blossoms peeking out of the rugged branches to grace the tips with light. I stop to study it and tilt my head, trying to separate one bird song from another. I note trill followed by a chirp, then the small song birds are silenced by a murmuration of crows cawing as they ebb and flow overhead. A flash of orange catches my eye as a black and white burst explodes from a tree nearby. I turn off my path, instinctively following. I approach the tree I saw it land in, but the bird has disappeared. The magnificent show of black, white and orange is hidden well. I’m almost ready to pull out my camera when again, I am rewarded once more with its unexpected pattern, clearer this time: a white stripe emerges on each wing as the bird takes flight. That stroke of orange on its back is a little peekaboo jumping out to say hello when he leaps into the air. I follow it from tree to tree until I’m confident one more tree and I will have lost my game trail. My measured steps land in tiny puffs of dust interrupting the glistening mirage of heat.

I train my eyes on the horizon, searching for any other signs of life. When I spot a herd of camels I make a wide turn around a nearby bush to begin retracing my steps. A bead of sweat gathers at the nape of my neck and I feel it run along the length of my spine. “Nebey Mbritayn” I attempt to greet the pre-teen leading a line of donkeys into the wilderness where I’d just come from. I can see the mission station from my new path, so I’m not so worried about losing my way. I follow the animals this time instead of avoiding them, the path ends at a well. A man clad in nothing but a loincloth stands with his body almost parallel to the ground. He chants rhythmically, a deep throaty sound echoing back up from the water below, as one arm after another grasps a rope a few feet further down with each pull, drawing up a bucket from a deep well then splashing it into a trough where goats jockey for the chance at a few mouthfuls of briny water. I attempt my greeting once more and meander back to the mission station.

Piki-Piki Again

I’m back on the back of the bike. But the sun is on the other side of the road this time. The vehicle loads around 7am, and we can’t be late. I’m re-packing my bag, making sure nothing is left in the room I’ve stayed in the last six days when the rumble alerts me that it’s time to go. I am about to climb on when D asks about my jacket. Oh yeah. An hour on the back of the motorcycle. That might be helpful. No bag for me to carry this time. I’m in the middle again but wondering how we fit last time. Today there is less room, I’m sure of it. The cold bites as the sun hasn’t yet made an appearance. We speed forward hitting loose sand too fast, and flying over bumps that cause me to jostle between the two men. This is not the same slow pace we’d had coming to Kurkum… I wonder if it’s the same driver? The sun peeks above the horizon as I ease into this slightly faster pace and still try to take note of things I missed in the dark ride here. Kargi is much bigger than I’d visualized! For ten minutes we’re passing chickens pecking for seeds in the dirt and dogs lounging outside the stick huts before the center of the city arrives. As quickly as we climbed off the back of the bike, it had disappeared back into the dessert.

Land Cruiser: The Second

We pull into the pickup spot, or perhaps a pickup spot, at 6:52. Four minutes later a truck rumbles to a stop beside us. “Now that’s punctual,” I whisper to D. He smiles. “We arrived on time,” he assures me, “but we won’t leave on time.” As the first of many shuffles begins to make room for more I survey the back of this twelve-seater. Every bench is full. The two front seats are occupied. It looks exactly as full as a twelve-seater ought to look.

Then two more adults climb in.

We pull away, only to stop again. More passengers. The mothers carrying toddlers are ushered inside while the men give up their spots and scramble onto the roof rack. We drive another hundred meters. Stop. More passengers. An elderly woman tries to climb into the back, but even I can tell from the animated exchange that there simply isn’t room. She steps away, defeated. Five minutes later two more women and two more toddlers somehow squeeze into the very space that previously didn’t exist.

Forty-five minutes later and we’re finally leaving Kargi. Curiosity gets the better of me. I conduct a census.

Fourteen adults. One school-aged child. Five toddlers and infants. Twenty people. Inside.

There are at least another fifteen riding on the roof, with three more up front. Nearly forty people are about to set off in a vehicle designed for twelve.

I give up trying to understand and simply laugh.

The canvas roof droops low enough for me to rest my head against it as I reach one arm through the open sides to brace for the inevitable jolts. Every so often someone points excitedly toward the landscape, but from my seat all I can see are mothers nursing babies and knees pressed into every available inch of space. So much for spotting gazelle today.

The truck surges forward, then slams to a stop. We all sway together as though we’re one oversized passenger instead of forty separate ones.

As the desert gives way to the cooler highlands, I shiver and wrestle my linen shirt over my shoulders. Just as I’m beginning to think we must be close, the truck stops and a swarm of piki-piki drivers descends, each shouting the lowest fare into Marsabit.

Then people begin dropping from the sky.

One after another they slide down from the roof rack and disappear onto waiting motorcycles. I stare upward, still trying to figure out how many had been up there in the first place. Within moments they’re gone, and our truck continues the final stretch with only its “official” passengers.

Well… almost.

That toddler who had somehow appeared in the back without a parent earlier? His mother now climbs aboard. Two more men cling to the rear bumper, leaning through the opening so they’re technically inside the vehicle.

By the time we roll into Marsabit, I’m laughing again. On the walk to Big Tusk for my first real cup of coffee in a week, I relive the shared experience to D, marveling at the absurdity rolling off my tongue.

Prado Parade

D has left back to Kurkum and now I’m staying with D2, a friend who works with my organization and lives in Marsabit. We replay every impossible detail of my impossible adventures until even I can hardly believe it happened. I check my phone and see a text from E, “Leave at 6:15?” I pause to remember how easily things had worked out for my return trip.

I’d been planning on the bus for the return trip to Nairobi too, until D2’s neighbors had us over for lunch. “How are you getting back?” E had asked. “Oooooo! And you’re going on Tuesday?” Yes. “Did you buy your ticket yet?” No. “Do you drive?” Yes. “And you have your valid license with you?” Yes. It was solved. It was the same day they were going into Nairobi and neither of this sweet older couple loves driving. I officially accepted the position of chauffeur.

Climbing into the back seat is like climbing into the lap of luxury! I gaze out the window looking for wildlife and spot a hyena! I crane my neck to watch him as we speed by. I take my turn behind the wheel next and pause when I turn the key. I love bright colorful lights! Just usually on my Christmas tree, not my car dash. “Ummmm…”

“It’s ok!” B says, “We are going to the Mechanic in Nairobi.” Seven hundred kilometers away. Everything seems to be running smoothly so I keep driving. We stop a few times for bathroom breaks and to swap drivers again. Gloriously, we stop in Nanyuki for brunch just over halfway into our trip. Refreshed with the food, I pull out my headphones, get behind the wheel and am gifted with some time just me and the road as both B and E drift off for a nice long nap.

About three hours later, and only one hour from our destination I pull off into a gas station for another bathroom-break driver-switching situation. And the car won’t start. Yikes. Those lights were not just for decoration I guess.

It’s a Shell full service station. The mechanics are here. Unknowingly I’d stopped in the exact place we could get the repairs we need. B & E are chattering away as three men crawl under the front end of the Prado and I stand off to the side not sure what to do with myself. RIIIIINNNNNGGGGGG. My sister answers my question as she calls me in this exact moment. I sink onto the curb and answer. As I recount the taxis, piki-pikis, buses, and Land Cruisers that somehow stitched this journey together, I realize I can name every vehicle that carried me from one place to the next. What I couldn’t count so easily were the people who had quietly made each one possible.