Wrong Place Wrong Time - Part 2


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Africa » Kenya » Rift Valley Province » Turkana
December 18th 2013
Published: December 18th 2013
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We made our exit early in the morning and quickly reached the place we’d been aiming for, which irritatingly turned out to be just an hour down the road. As we entered the town a cheerful man implausibly carrying an enormous tree trunk over his shoulder greeted us, helpfully offering directions to the police station. We were a little confused by his assumption that we would wish to go there, but decided it might be wise to follow his advice and check with them about the situation on the road ahead. First though we went to have a look at the campsite, which turned out to be surprisingly lovely, situated in a shady spot on a bend in the river. The surrounding hills looked very inviting and the campsite, which seemed to be aimed mostly at schoolgroups, advertised guided walks, so we decided to break up the drive by staying for a day to explore.

The only other person around was a talkative Norwegian chap, the owner of a safari company, testing out the route with a view to potentially setting up tours around Northern Kenya, an area largely unexplored by tourists. When asked about the road to Turkana he summoned his local driver, who assured us that though they hadn’t been there on this particular trip, he had driven it recently and was certain it was perfectly safe, just very rough. No problems.

We did our half day walking with a local guide, arranged via the campsite. He seemed surprised to have customers. When asked how often he did such walks, he said ten times. A month, we enquired? No, ever. The rest of the time he looks after his goats. Who’s looking after your goats today, we wondered? No-one, he replied, looking briefly worried. We meandered through hills and villages, seemingly with no specific route in mind. He chatted to us about tribal life… fetching water, making charcoal, goats. Especially goats. He likes goats. Children shyly stalk us through every village, hiding in bushes as we pass and turning to flee, screaming and giggling, if we pretend to chase them. They were fascinated by us, but never quite brave enough to touch my hand when I reached out. We hiked up a massive hill just to sit and eat crisps at the top, contemplating the view. The kids assembled at the bottom and silently monitored our progress,
Our guideOur guideOur guide

Look closely and you can spot his new goat whipping stick.
waiting for us to come back down so they could enjoy being terrified again. As we rested at the top, our guide expended a lot of effort breaking off a particularly springy tree branch. It’s for the goats, he explained. Assuming it was intended as a tasty snack, Sam commented on how much the goats would like it. “No they won’t”, said the guide, stripping the leaves off and making a whipping motion.

On the way back down the heat became intense, like hitting a barrier, a physical pressure on my skin. With the sun and the exertion and the lack of lunch I was just edging towards being tired and cranky, when our guide, with perfect timing, lead us across a bridge to a series of little pools and rapids in the river. People were swimming. Well. Men were swimming. Naked. There were no women to be seen. Sam and Hugh, without any discussion, immediately striped to their pants and jumped in. I stopped to consider whether it would be 'culturally inappropriate' for me to dive into the river in my knickers with the naked Kenyan men. Reluctantly I was forced acknowledge that it probably would be. After a while I decided the best compromise would be to launch myself in fully clothed. The current was strong, but the water felt amazing.

We were up early again the next day, ready to head to lake Turkana. The previous night the woman who owned the campsite had told us definitively not to go. She made this statement without explanation and would not be pressed for further details. Puzzled, we turned back towards town to find the police station and make our inquiries. We didn’t get there. Not far from the campsite, 15 or 20 lorries were parked defiantly across the road, angry drivers out in front protesting their grievances. As we slowed to a crawl they surrounded us, all shouting at once.

This is a roadblock, you can not pass. No one is allowed though. We are protesting the danger on the roads. We will not move until the police make the road safe. Danger. Fighting. Guns.

Gradually, we deciphered what had happened. Two people were dragged off a bus and murdered last night, just down the road. The day before, two bodies were found by the roadside, shot dead. It’s all tribal, one group retaliating
against another. A village was attacked earlier in the week. It’s getting worse. They were scared of further violence.

Nobody threatened us. They were irate, but their voices were raised in frustration and fear, not aggression. They desperately wanted us to understand, to acknowledge. But the roadblock stood between us and the only way out. We were on the wrong side. We listened to them, agreed with them, yes it’s terrible, yes the police should do something, of course we understand, thank you for making it clear. Carefully, we tried to explain our situation. That we wanted to visit Turkana, but now we realise the road isn’t safe and we should turn back. Couldn’t they please let us pass? Slowly, we gained some sympathisers. After a while, our allies directed the other drivers to let us through. The whole time we were waiting there, nobody else passed in either direction.

Safely and very gratefully on the other side, we tried to get a clearer picture of the situation. At the police station, an army truck had arrived. They told us the previous night’s incident had actually occurred in the next town south, somewhere our preferred escape route would
take us. Our only other option (aside from going further into Turkana, which had now been utterly vetoed) was to retrace our steps along the Marich pass, back towards the border. The lorry drivers assured us this was safe, but it was a whole day in the wrong direction from where we were going. The army commander kindly offered to let us go in convoy with them on our preferred route, to see us safely past the troublesome village, since they were heading that way in any case. I quite liked the idea of being escorted out of town by the army, mainly because I could imagine gleefully recounting the story in this blog at a later date, but I did wonder if it might have been perhaps the single stupidest idea anyone had ever suggested to me in my whole time travelling the world. The army, surely, were MORE likely than average to get shot at? I was slightly reassured by the fact that the soldiers looked thoroughly bored. Nothing about their demeanour suggested they were expecting any trouble. They reckoned that no-one was in danger here but the tribes involved. After some discussion between the four of us
it was agreed that we would take the road we wanted, and go with the army. We followed them at what we considered to be a reasonable distance, close enough to keep in sight but not be too obviously associated. Absolutely nothing happened. They left us where they thought we’d be safe and we continued alone down dirt roads, splashing through small rivers and doubling back on ourselves when we lost the main track. Life continued at the roadside. Nothing about our surroundings suggested conflict. After several hours, at a safe distance, we stopped in a village to find some food. A man we tried to buy bananas from asked us how much we were willing to pay. We guessed and he looked puzzled, then returned half the money we'd given him, along with an extra banana. Back in the car, I struggled to eat my banana as we bounced along a rocky track through a gorgeous valley. Not for the first time, I wondered how some of the most beautiful parts of the world are also the most messed up.

Over a week later, safely back in Moshi, we went out for dinner with one of our friends
from the course, a local doctor. As we were describing our misadventures in Northern Kenya, he rolled his eyes and made the following insightful comment…

“You see, as soon as I heard that story I knew a white person did it. You know why? Because us Africans would say oh, there might be a war here? I’ll just GO ON HOLIDAY SOMEWHERE ELSE”.

It’s hard to dispute that kind of logic.


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18th December 2013

V Good
Another very interesting blog
19th December 2013

A great story
I love his logic and the ending!
19th December 2013

This is a great journal; thoroughly riveting and much better written than most out there. Wonderful to read as well as being insightful for people looking to visit these places.

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