A 24 hour trip with 17 hours on the road, the odds are already not in my favor…
As word spread throughout the day of my planned evening departure to Nairobi, the strange and busy city far, far away, concern mounted for the little blonde haired blue eyed American girl. Growing accustomed to the well meaning fuss of those with slightly less adventurous spirits I sat listening quietly with a smile. Undaunted I departed the quiet rural area of Webuye, catching the bus which was clearly running on African time. Always thinking ahead, Mama Rose had prepared mandas (East African doughnuts) by torchlight (flashlight) and packed enough to last the required two days journey. Waiting over an hour the Mudengo family sat with her, refusing to leave until she had safely boarded the bus.
Embarking the coach, a frantic attendant raced to greet the only mzungu (white person, thus incredibly easy to identify) explaining she had been most concerned over my whereabouts and was relieved to see that I was safe.
The journey from the far edge of the Western Province into the heart of Nairobi city was long and arduous with little sleep and thousands of bumps. Often feeling more like a popcorn kernel refusing to pop as it bounces around a pan, then a comfortable ride through the countryside, I arrived safely into town very groggy and well shaken.
Disembarking, I was startled to find an unfamiliar face calling my name. Walking forward seeking to verify information before proceeding, all thoughts were cut short when the all too awake little man began spouting warm welcomes and greetings on behalf of the Pastor who sent him to watch over me. Clearly enthused by the task, we sat safely within the warmth of the bus terminal waiting for daylight to break. News stories spun overhead of Obama (what else would this country, the motherland for Obama’s father, talk about), while my new friend eagerly informed me of all the wondrous aspects of the city, the country and ALL his friends from the States.
As the hour passed and the sun awoke we made our way across the heart of town to the restaurant of a small hotel where a local pastor from Webuye was staying. Being seated quickly by my guardian, he apologetically raced upstairs to inform the Pastor of our arrival. Waiting patiently I sat, trying to adjust to life in a major city. Making friends with the waitress who also happened to be from Webuye, I found myself sipping a complimentary cup of coffee with milk. On a short walk to the bathroom, I was stopped by the well-meaning waitress who inquired into the security of my bag which I had left sitting at the table under the watchful eye of the Pastor who had met me at the bus station. Assuring her that it was fine I continued on my way. Roughly twenty minutes later, this same waitress returned to once again check on my safety (and clearly my sanity) as she grilled me on my connection to this African man I was sitting with, during what would end up being about the only few minutes I found myself without supervision that day. Reassuring her that he was indeed a trusted friend she seemed satisfied, but continued to keep a close eye on my throughout my time there. Joined by Pastor Gideon and his friend John, the four of us ate our breakfasts of cereal with steaming hot milk (completely wrong in every sense of the word breakfast), before heading out to take care of business in the city.
Coming to Nairobi for only one reason, I was escorted to the Indian High Commission to look into a visa. Signing me in and instructing the guards to keep close watch over me (as I am young, female and liable to simply wander off…) I was ordered to wait at the consult until he returned to pick me. Arriving before the offices officially opened, I sat waiting, watching people come and go. An Indian lady soon stood beside me. Growing bored, I began asking her about her hometown in India. “I am from the southern part,” she coolly responded, clearly not intrigued by this young American thing sitting beside her. “From Bangalore?” I pushed harder. Noticeably surprised that I knew anything of Indian geography, she quickly spouted off a series of other southern Indian city inquisitive to discover the depth of my knowledge. [Sufficed to say, she wouldn’t have had to press much farther as I am still relative uninformed on the world of Southeast Asia.] By the time our short conversation ended, I had a new “Indian mother” and a welcome place in Nairobi.
The Indian High Commission proved to be even less agreeable in person then they were on the phone. Waiting in line, I had been casually informed that the office used to be quite friendly, but now everyone was angry. Making my way to the front I discovered that the process was going to be difficult then originally planned with additional paperwork, processing and waiting. I was gruffly instructed to return on Monday. Return? Do you have any idea how many hours it has taken me to get here?!? My mind was racing at the thought of repeating the grueling commute again, but his less than lenient face told me I would find no sympathy here. Stifling my cries of frustration I left the office and made my way back to the friendly guard station. Signing out I decided to wait for my babysitter outside.
Standing patiently people watching for several minutes, I soon found myself a great source of speculation with all heads turning as they passed me. One concerned lady stopped to ask if I needed assistance. I politely informed here that I was waiting for a friend. When that didn’t work, I lied and told her I was waiting for my driver to arrive and pick me up. Seemingly satisfied by this response she bid me farewell and disappeared around the corner. A few minutes quickly became an endless stream of waiting as my already exhausted system was growing faint from standing. Resolved to wait, I remained planted at my post, that is until an unwelcomed stranger began to take a particular interest in me. Nodding his approval my mind raced back to the streets and stares of Moroccan men. Repulsed I turned away and retreated toward the entrance of the building. Refusing to let this man win the battle of wills that had unofficially begun I remain outside with my back to the road and eyes pretending to study the intricacies of the plant before me. Feeling his stares lingering ever longer on my back, I grew disgusted and finally took refuge safely inside behind the guards desk. Time stood still as I waited until my chaperon finally returned.
Apologizing for the delay we made our way toward the Stanley Hotel and the center of town. In this manicured section of town that fell between the Hilton and Stanley Hotels, I found my people, the foreigners. It was also here that I found the only half decent bookstore in the area. Not finding either of the two items I needed, I did manage to walk away with two wonderful books I wanted.
Thrilled by the captive audience, my babysitter walked me up and down the streets of Nairobi giving me a guided tour of landmarks, well-known buildings and the history of everything Nairobi. When that conversation stalled, the ever popular game of compare the countries began. Needless to say, America does not have a staple food that EVERYONE eats daily, nor is there a consistent climate or one main crop! With the sun growing ever hotter, my guide asked if I wanted to rest for a while. Thankful for the opportunity to relax with my mission now complete for the day, I agreed. Pleased, he led me passed what I have lovingly named coffee shop row, to an office building of a friend so we could sit in the waiting room. My entire body screamed in protest as we were led into a stoic brick building that looked unchanged since the 70’s and I was shown to a plain awkward chair.
Rescue came in the form of a call, as my phone rang just outside the door to the office. Excusing myself, I stepped out into the hallway to talk. Exhausted and frustrated by the turn of events at the embassy, it was nice to hear a friendly voice. My boyfriend had called to check in on a brief break from work that day.
Finishing the conversation under the watchful eye of my guardian, I reasoned I was too exhausted and tired of the constant supervision to remain in Nairobi until 7:30 that evening to drive back to Webuye with the other pastors. Instead I asked to be taken to the shuttles (matatus – aka. glorified vans). Through my travels I have discovered that well meaning helpful locals are often harmful to the negotiating process, today was no exception. My guard secured the price (50 shillings higher then it should have been) and waited at my side until the vehicle departed.
Free at last we started and stopped all the way through the streets of Nairobi, finally discovering open road outside the city limits. Engrossed in my new purchase I happily lost myself in the pages of another’s life. Receiving a poke from behind, I cringed as I knew what was coming, the sign to shut the window was silently being passed along. Savoring my last breath of oxygen I begrudgingly slid the window shut. Trying to find joy in the 7 hour drive down the hot dusty bumpy road I focused my energies on the pleasantries of life. It was to no avail, as my mind raced and heart seethed with each passing kilometer. Knowing I was going to have to make the exhausting trip again 3 more times over the next week was not encouraging.
Stopping unexpectedly for lunch, I remain planted by the car, willing our break to be short and our journey to continue without any other unauthorized stops. My desire was clearly not alone as two other women stayed behind as well. Trickling back, our matatu once again filled. Back on the road I found it hard to focus on anything but the slowly disappearing minutes. Feeling no closer to home then when we began I wondered if we would ever reach Eldoret. And then it happened, the all to familiar poke to the back of my exposed arm. Turning undoubtedly to face the threat of another ‘close the window’ sign, I was startled to find a pink note being pushed my way. Unfolding it I found a personal introduction and request for a meeting. Annoyed I slipped the piece of paper into the far pages of my book. Unable to forget the words I began to wonder if it was indeed for me. Nearly turning round to ask, I stopped myself with the sinking realization that it had been intended for me as I was the final person in line of hands it clearly passed through.
Hours later our drive ended, having reached Eldoret. However, I was still far from home. With specific instructions from my guardian back in Nairobi, the driver knew better then to simply abandon me. Intrusting me to the care of another, I was passed off yet again and forced to follow behind him as he wove in and out of the back streets of town toward the taxi stand.
Reaching the already filled matatu to Webuye, a frantic argument began between the conductors. Before the dust settled back to the ground, the full matatu had been reshuffled and I now found myself seated in the front row. My new self appointed protectorate 'graciously' agreed to pay my fair - in actuality he was using the money I already was forced to fork over and pocketing the extra for himself, what a gentlemen.
The bumpy 2 hour (I think) drive to Webuye seemed unending as light sky turned to blackness and I was finally deposited at the large junction near my house. Walking down the barely visible cracked dirt paths I edged my way home, thankful to be home, safe and back in the quietness of my small town. The DAY was over and I was finished.
