|
Home
Diary
Topics
| |
| On arrival at Malindi, just before sunrise, we changed from a bus
to a matatu. We all crammed into one bus, along with all of our luggage, to travel the
100km+ to Garsen. I sat in the front with Tom, our Kenyan escort. Right from the start, he
translated the driver’s comments on who had died at the various points we were
passing on the road. From the bridge where two buses had collided killing everyone on
board, to the Americans who had simply turned the car they were driving. He even
translated the reason for the large cracks in the windscreen. (Some birds had failed to
get out of the way in time: it wasn’t difficult to see why). I decided not to pass
all of his comments on to the rest of the team, but simply pointed out the saltmine and
the camels we passed. I think I waited until later before passing on that the only white
people normally seen in the area were American soldiers, who trained there, making use of
the hardness of the terrain. |
We passed an occasional mud hut, but we had travelled about 50km,
and were roughly in the middle of nowhere, when there was a loud noise and the vehicle
filled with smoke.  We had travelled a further kilometre or so, before the matatu
finally came to a halt. As it turned out, we had not got a puncture as suspected. In fact,
the entire left rear wheel had fallen off and we had driven over a kilometre on the disc
brake, gouging a lovely white line deep into the road – a mark that will probably
remain for years to come. The driver then walked back over a kilometre to collect the
wheel, while we waited by the side of the road. What had seemed a deserted road in the
middle of nowhere began to fill with children and teenagers, who stopped to watch. The
jack having broken, they also helped to lift the vehicle, in order to replace the errant
wheel. Unfortunately, the thread had gone on each of the nuts and it was beginning to look
like we were stranded. |
  |
| Still, the friendly driver pointed out a bullet hole in the door to
help keep us entertained. What was it the travel guide said? ‘The bandits here have
dispensed with the usual "Your money or your life" formalities, and simply spray
the vehicle with bullets to bring it to a halt, whether it’s a relief truck or a
heavily guarded bus.’ Actually, that describes the road just north of where we were.
It described our road as one of those ‘mostly safe, they do see the occasional
attack, no less bloody than [the road further north]. If you’re driving, the usual
rule is to get wherever you’re going by 3pm – attacks thereafter seem more
likely, and if your car breaks down after then, you’ve little chance of a lift.’
Hmm… |
| Eventually, the driver managed to fix the wheel (though a little
unconvincingly), so leaving our luggage on board with Tom to look after it, we waited for
the matatu to do a short test run. It seemed okay, so we caught up with it, climbed in,
and set off SLOWLY. Before long, those in the back said they heard the same noise they had
heard just before the wheel came off. (Apparently, they hadn’t thought it worth
mentioning at the time!!) We stopped and, sure enough, the wheel was working loose. We
tightened it up and set off again … for a short distance. It was clear that we would
have to do something drastic. |
| The driver assured us that there was a village up ahead and that we
would be better off there, so everyone climbed out to walk a mile or two to the village
– everyone except me that is. The plan was that I would stay in the laden matatu to
keep an eye on our luggage. We set off slowly, stopping every twenty yards or so, to
retighten the wheel nuts. It was now clear why matatus always have at least one other
person on board beside the driver: in case of emergency. A little conversation revealed
that our driver had 6 years experience, but that his colleague was his brother and that it
was his first day on the job. It was the first day of his university holidays, and his mum
was going to be none-too-pleased when he returned home with his nice white vest covered in
oil. It was hard not to begin to feel sorry for him. He had become genuinely worried: that
is, in between jumping out of the matatu every so often to retighten the wheel nuts. |
| The driver was clearly relieved when we arrived at the village.
There was no help to be had there though. There was no phone, electricity, garage or
indeed much of note, except a roadblock, and a lot of children who insisted on trying to
sell us vegetables. The roadblock was a curious state-of-affairs. Apparently, every
vehicle was stopped while a man dressed in combat gear and carrying a rifle tried to
convince them that they needed an armed guard for the road north to Garsen. Most of the
vehicles agreed, though some haggled over the cost. Most vehicles heading south were
carrying an armed guard, who disembarked on arrival at the roadblock, so there was quite
some change in personnel. |
| Of course, I only know all this because there was little else to
watch during the hours we were marooned there. Fortunately, we had set off very early in
the morning, so we still had time before the 3pm curfew. Eventually, a friend of the
driver jumped off a passing matatu and tried to help them fix the wheel, using his
toolkit. It proved more difficult than he had imagined. For some reason, his replacement
bolts didn’t seem to work either. |
| Meanwhile, our team were getting restless. No, that’s not
quite true. Some of them were on the verge of panic. It was clear that there was very
little space on any passing vehicle and time was moving on. It’s funny how sitting
about doing nothing in the sun can seem like such a good idea at times, and yet, at other
times, people just don’t seem content. |
| Our journey finally resumed when we convinced a full matatu to
return after finishing its run. They insisted on being paid more than the original journey
was to cost us, and we had to pay the original driver most of his fare as well, but we
were clearly desperate by then, and it didn’t seem worth arguing over a few pounds.
(Actually, we paid the original driver’s brother. The driver had managed to hitch a
lift back to Malindi, where he intended to go back to bed, having had such a bad day.) |
| Sitting up front beside our armed guard, I chose not to try and
start a conversation. I simply pointed out the baboons that we passed, glad that they were
all that we saw. |
| Arriving in Garsen, we were introduced to Peter Masai, who heads up
Sheepfold’s work in the area. Peter Masai was usually called Baba Jesse, or father of
Jesse, since it is respectful to name people after their firstborn son. Similarly, his
wife was known as Mama Jesse. In all, the Masai's had five children. |
| "Garsen itself isn’t anyone’s favourite place",
according to the guide. It’s only redeeming feature was its mangoes "reckoned to
be some of the best and cheapest in Kenya." (Actually, they’re about 1p in
season, 4p out of season, and 6p if you’re white.) |
Garsen is in one of the hottest parts of Kenya, and the
Masai’s small mud house offered  shade
rather than cool. It was plastered inside, with only Bible verses pinned up round the
walls for decoration. There was a toilet about two buildings down (or at least a
ventilated pit latrine) and water could be poured out of a jug to let you wash your hands.
(This reminded me of village life in Lithuania, but some of the team found it harder to
accept.)After doughnuts (of a sort), boiled eggs, and a lot
of bone with some meat on it, we travelled to the YWCA to unpack. For camping
accommodation, it wasn’t too bad. It was freshly painted, as the wet paint on
John’s T-shirt testified and there were flushing toilets (except for the 6 days or so
when the pump broke down, leaving no running water at all). The monkeys (black-faced
vervets no less) scampered around on the roof and rattled the door handles, but we were
assured that they never entered the rooms. The lizards on the dormitory walls added to the
authenticity of the experience, causing no real problems, and the ants generally stayed
outside the rooms. Even the massive holes in the mosquito nets caused no real concern,
seeing as we had all been provided with our own nets by Tearfund – except for Tom
that is. |
| Some had cold showers (though not as cold as in Nairobi), while I
surveyed the plain. Unfortunately, great as the view was, we never did see a single animal
there, throughout our time in Garsen. There were some trees and bushes that could have
been animals though. |
| Dinner was rice, meat stew and cabbage. In fact, dinner at Garsen
was nearly always rice, meat stew and cabbage. There was a little variety – a very
little variety – such as ugali or pasta as well as rice, and there was sometimes meat
mixed in with the rice. We guessed the meat to be goat, but it was always served with
bone, and quite often there were very small bits of crushed bone in with it, which proved
especially nasty when it was mixed with the rice. Occasionally, we would have a piece of
orange or a small banana to finish the meal, but the treat was the 20p bottles of
blackcurrant Fanta that they sold. They also sold Coke, Sprite and orange Fanta, which was
handy for John, who seemed to drink up to four or five bottles at a time. |
| Tired after quite an eventful day, we took an early night. |
|
| Etymological note: We debated where the
word matatu comes from for some time. ‘Hakuna matata’ means ‘no
problems’, so Nicola figured ‘matatu’ just means problems. I figured that
in Swahili, the beginnings of words change, not the endings, so it probably came from the
word ‘tatu’, which means ‘three’. Therefore, a matatu is a
three-wheeled vehicle. We eventually found out that neither of us was quite right. The
name matatu does indeed come from the word ‘tatu’ or ‘three’, but only
because it used to cost three Kenyan Shillings to travel on one. |
|
