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Published: February 6th 2006
After crossing the border into Kenya, we arranged to catch the first lorry heading south towards Nairobi. We paid before actually seeing the vehicle. That was our first mistake. The truck that soon stopped in front of us had 20 cows crammed in the bed and a skeleton roof of thin metal bars that criss-crossed above the cattle. We climbed atop the steel frame, secured our backpacks and butts as much as possible, and let our feet dangle down among cow horns and backs. We were joined by a soldier armed with an AK-47 for the truck's protection against shiftas (bandits), a cattle wrestler whose job it was to coax fallen cows to stand up by twisting their tails, and a boy who collected the money from locals catching rides from village to village. At 10am when the driver started the engine, we had no food but assumed we could eat when the driver broke for lunch. That was our second mistake. It was 12 hours before we stopped for a meal.
Our destination was Isiolo, about 2/3 of the way to Nairobi. On the road, there was no refuge from the sun or the noise. At top speed the
Military Escort Through Bandit Territory
This gentleman listened to my IPod for 4 hours. I was a bit worried I might not get it back!truck sounded and felt like a jackhammer as it bounced along the unpaved road. We watched the road ahead with wind-watery eyes trying to spot the big bumps to brace for or the low-hanging branches to dodge. Every half hour a cow hit the floor, and the cow jockey jumped down amongst the herd to save it from being trampled. After a while the cattle were so exhausted that they formed big dog piles, and the frustrated cow man spent hours trying to get them all back to their feet. Definitely one of the worst jobs ever--although in Kenya, perhaps that job's better than no job at all.
At first the landscape was just more of what we'd seen in Ethiopia: a blanketing of dry brush and tall dirt pillars made by termites. Slowly it evolved toward desert: fewer trees, fewer bushes, until the ground was mostly volcanic rock and dry, cracked dirt. It looked so desolate--but even here we saw villagers herding their skinny cattle in search of water. Carcasses of those cows that never made it were scattered along the roadside, one of the more gruesome signs of the intense drought that has plagued this region for
the past 3 years but only reached the international media when it became a crisis in the past few months. We heard stories of pregnant women in rural areas begging for water from passing vehicles, and tribal clashes over the precious little livestock that was left. Those with camels are lucky; those without are in grave danger of losing their only source of livelihood and nourishment.
The desert went on for hours, and our arms grew tired from gripping onto the metal bars for dear life. We were in awe of the locals who scampered about on the truck like it was a schoolyard jungle gym. We got a short break when our lorry blew out a tire in the peak heat of the day, but we were soon back atop the cattle car for hours more of nothing but desert.
As the day turned to dusk and the temperature cooled, we watched the sun set in front of us and the moon rise behind, while perched atop the speeding lorry with the wind whipping around our ears. In the distance, lone triangular mountains rose from the blue-gray mist that had seeped into the valley, giving us the
eerie feeling we were on another planet. We passed an enormous crater that could have rivalled the Barringer Crater in Arizona for size, but it was overgrown and unmarked. The road curved around just 10 meters from the edge, so we could peer down deep into the crater's basin.
At 10pm the truck finally stopped for a meal, and we eagerly pulled our bags off, assuming this was where we would also stop for the night before continuing on in the morning. That was our last mistake. Before finishing our dinner we were told to get back on the truck as it was going the full distance to Isiolo that night. Having already paid the whole way, we climbed back aboard and struggled to tie our bags on in the dark. The truck jolted on late into the night; leaning against the spare tire, we tried to sleep but mostly just shivered, bounced, and bruised. Around midnight we had our second flat tire of the day; we waited in the middle of nowhere in pitch black for several hours while the crew patched up the spare and the Muslims took prayer breaks. Somehow during the night Randy was the
victim of an oil spill from a leaky canister that soaked his entire right side from rib to knee. It was a long ride.
At last we pulled into Isiolo at 4:30am. Though the ride had been rough, we disembarked alive and well, which was more than we could say for some of the cattle. Filthy and exhausted from our 16 hour ordeal, we slept soundly for 5 hours despite the bats shrieking in the trees of our hotel's courtyard.
In the morning we were greeted by our first running water since Arba Minch, and by a heartbreaking discovery: Jenny's journal, the one she'd been writing in almost every day since the start of the trip, was missing. We tore up the room searching for it, but all effort was in vain. We rushed out to see if the lorry was still there, but the truck and journal had already departed for their next destination. Eventually, with the help of enthusiastic locals, we were able to get a hold of the lorry driver, confirm that he had the journal, and determine that he would be returning to Isiolo the following night. All we had to do was wait.
After we'd washed the desert dirt out of our hair and caught up on sleep, we were happy to discover that the tiny desert town of Isiolo offered much to keep us busy for 2 days. People-watching alone kept us entertained for hours. In 20 minutes you could see Somalis, Ethiopians, Turkanas, Borenas, Samburus, and Kikuyus--though it was impossible to tell who was who unless a local pointed them out. Some were dressed in their full tribal get-up: colorful beaded necklaces, huge hoop earrings, patterned shawls, animal-skin bags, daggers and spears.
Word had quickly spread about the lost journal, so we had strangers approaching us on the street asking if we'd gotten it back yet. In this way we met locals who showed us the town beyond the main road of shops and hotels. We had tea in a schoolteacher's wooden shack not much bigger than our hotel room, where he lived with his wife and 6-month-old baby. It was humbling to see that we probably had more possessions in our army packs than they had in their whole home. We were also invited to see blacksmiths make the bracelets Isiolo is famous for--unique combinations of steel, bronze,
and copper handcrafted over small wood fires using whatever materials they have on hand: old bicycle handles, pliers, pieces of dismantled railroad tracks. We bought some of the bracelets they made before our eyes, bronze and steel in the Somali style. Back in our hotel room, two young boys wandered in and spent an hour speaking indecipherable Swahili and playing with our gadgets. It was amusing to watch how fascinated they were by Randy's sunglasses and our digital watch...even if we felt a bit like babysitters.
Both of our days in Isiolo were marked by several hours of rain each evening--a blessing for the drought, but it made it difficult to navigate the muddy dirt paths outside the main strip. Still, locals plowed through with wagons full of fruit and vegetables, clothes and other wares. This was coupled with the smell--and sight--of wet garbage everywhere, since whatever people couldn't burn seemed to be thrown into the streets. In Isiolo (as in most of the small towns we passed in the north) the trees and bushes on the edge of town were snowy with litter, leaving us wondering if there was any other option besides throwing waste to the wind.
The truck with the journal was scheduled to arrive on the second night at 7pm. 5 hours later, we were still waiting patiently and drinking tea on the sidewalk; every time a car drove past Jenny's heart beat a little faster. When the lorry finally pulled in well past 1am, we scrambled to the driver's door where, amongst a small crowd of curious onlookers, he handed Jenny a brownish beat-up journal. From the look and smell it was clear it had made most of the journey at the bottom of the cow pit--though the pages inside were miraculously intact. Despite several cleanings, the journal still retains the smell of cow, reminding us of its grand adventure.
Once we had the book back we had no reason to remain in Isiolo, so we hopped in a matatu headed south. (Matatus are Kenya's speedy minibuses that blast hip-hop music and pack 16 people in one van. They're cheap and convenient, but drivers are reckless and accidents are frequent.) South of Isiolo, suddenly everything was green and the cattle were fat. A few hours on, we passed Mt. Kenya (Africa's 2nd highest mountain after Kilimanjaro) and crossed the Equator into the
Southern Hemisphere.
Approaching Nairobi, the scenery became increasingly urban and the roads widened into freeways. On the outskirts of the city we drove past slums filled with makeshift houses and busy open-air markets. But downtown the city was modern: skyscrapers, movie theaters, trendy cafes, and a safari company on every corner. We headed straight for the cheaper River Road area but were anxious because of the neighborhood's reputation for robbery and general seediness. In our search for a hotel, we shoved our way through street vendors selling clothes, pirated DVDs, and watches spread out on sheets on the sidewalk--making it easy for them to gather their wares at a moment's notice and take off running in a huge stampede whenever someone cries "polisi!"
As we contemplated one dingy-looking hotel, a wide-eyed bystander said, "you don't want to stay there, it's only for drunkards with a few pennies." Randy said, "that's us!" and that's how we ended up staying in a brothel in Nairobi. Actually it wasn't any different from other cheap places we'd been in--besides the ever-friendly loitering girls and a few strange bumps in the night. We stayed almost a week--with hot water at $3.50 a night
(less than half we'd pay elsewhere in Nairobi), it was the best deal in town.
We took a few days to luxuriate in the conveniences we'd been missing: cheap Internet, grocery stores, and real filtered coffee (Kenya grows and exports a ton of coffee, but if you order it at a cafe you'll usually get imported Nescafe). We also met up with one of Jenny's contacts through a friend back home; he was working for an aid organization in Nairobi and constantly flew all over the world for work-related projects. He treated us to lunch and dinner with his colleagues--first at a fancy Italian restaurant in the upscale Westlands district, then at a friend's gorgeous house, which featured a guard to watch the security gate, a maid to watch the children, and a large back porch to watch the garden. We were unexpectedly lifted up into high society, enjoying classy wines, delicious food, and sophisticated conversations connecting string theory and sexuality that would break down into giggles whenever someone mentioned "vibrations." We were grateful for the nice evening, even if it felt a little strange being pampered with such comforts and security when, during our travels, we'd seen so
many others go without.
After wrestling with our ideals and financial concerns, in the end we decided we couldn't come to Kenya without experiencing its main attraction--wildlife--so we booked a 3-day safari for the Masai Mara national park. During our drives through the huge reserve, we saw elephants, giraffes, lions, cheetahs, hippos, zebras, buffaloes, wildebeest, ostriches, warthogs, monkeys, about 7 types of antelope, and other less exotic species like Masai cows. The highlight was watching a cheetah stalk, chase, and kill a newborn wildebeest then chow down with her two cubs just meters away. We shared a safari van with an Austrian guy and his Kenyan girlfriend (Klemens and Celeste); we got along well, so we made plans to travel together after the safari.
Before leaving Nairobi the second time, we tagged along with our new friends on an exploration of the city's poorest and richest neighborhoods. First we visited Kibera, Nairobi's biggest and most famous slum--if you've seen the movie "The Constant Gardener," you've seen Kibera: densely packed mud houses with tin roofs; narrow dirt alleyways lined with shallow sewage trenches that empty into the rancid stream below; chickens pecking at piles of garbage on door stoops.
Kibera is an illegal squatters community, home to one third of Nairobi's population, and it grows by hundreds people each day as families come from rural areas in search of work and a better life. Not many get past the slum.
Next we went to Muthiaga, only a few kilometers away, where the houses take up a block each, the grass is green and trimmed, and the security gates are 10 feet height, making it impossible to get a good view of the decadence that lies inside. Most of the "High Council and Residences" of various countries are located here, and we knew when we walked by the house of the First Lady of Kenya because the security guards were military men in fatigues bearing AK-47s, and they motioned us to keep moving. In reality, the gap between Muthiaga and Kibera wasn't all that different from what you'd find in many American cities, making us think about the things we've exported besides Coca-Cola.
Having stayed a week on River Road without getting robbed, we decided to quit while we were ahead and board a train for Mombasa. Coming soon: stories of sun, sand, and sea along Kenya's spectacular
coast.
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Carol Metzker
non-member comment
Dear Jenny and Randy, I've been following your adventures since the start. What an amazing journey. Some of your stories leave me shaking my head in recognition - extreme poverty is similar worldwide. Other stories leave me with my mouth wide open or laughing out loud. A brothel as a cheap hotel is definitely the most creative reframing I've seen recently! Congrats on the rescue of your journal. Best, Carol Metzker