African Journal (2)

Day Seven: A Drive Across East-Central Africa

The Monday morning sun dawns in Nairobi, Kenya and we find ourselves over four hundred miles from where we would end the day in Mwanza, Tanzania. We enjoy a last breakfast with the Weavers before heading for the butcher to pick up six coolers of meat for the Howells and Sanders. The butcher is a third generation Kenyan from India that Rob knows from several years of business transactions. He welcomes us into his shop and offers to make us sandwiches while an employee finishes packing the meat. He mentions that he only makes sandwiches at 7am once-a-year when Rob pays a visit. He pulls out a three foot bun and begins to build the mother-of-all-subs--turkey, ham, and beef piled as high as possible, and then cuts it into thirds--no way am I going to eat half of that. While making the sandwiches we engage in small talk and learn the butcher earned his MBA at the University of New Orleans, where he survived hurricane parties strapped to a palm tree with a Jack Daniels. It's a small and sometimes strange world. We haul the coolers outside and tie them on the top of the Toyota Land Cruiser. She is weighed down.

The drive out of town is uneventful. We head out into the country on a cool morning with a low mist clinging to the trees and hilltops. The first several miles outside of Nairobi continue to be filled with people walking in the road, small towns (just clusters of buildings along the road), and little stalls. There are children dressed in brightly colored uniforms heading off to school at various points along the way, as well as adults attending to crops, stalls, or travels. The first major landmark is The Great Rift Valley. We ascend to almost 8000ft before snaking down a nine kilometer stretch of treacherous highway. The road is an accident waiting to happen. The mist clears enough by this time to see a spectacular sight--the valley laid out before us, but the way down puts my heart in my throat. I mention that the unprotected drop-off to our left (and remember we are driving on the left-hand side of the road and I am in the left-hand seat with too good a view) must be several hundred feet. Rob corrects me with, "Thousands." Thanks.

Rob navigates the road like a seasoned pro, passing slow moving trucks and cars. Almost to the bottom of the descent we come across a container truck lying on its side. Several men are gathered around it inspecting the wreckage like it is a dead carcass. The cab is intact, so hopefully the driver is not seriously injured. We pass a second tanker truck off the side of the road before relaxing at the bottom of the valley and starting across the open plain.

The scenery changes abruptly. The green foliage of the farmlands is replaced by the brown of the open plain. Instead of men and women working in the fields, we encounter herds of goats and cows. Occasionally we pass a man dressed in a red shawl tending a group of cows--a member of the Masai people. Rob calls them the "Amish of Africa" because they refuse to adapt to modern methods of living. Here is our first opportunity to spot wild game and we see gazelles, zebras, and ostriches. I always pictured them way out on the plain far from any inhabitants, but instead, they are just a few hundred yards from people, huts, and domesticated animals. The drive across the valley extends for tens of miles. I am relatively surprised at the decent condition of the roads. They are for the most part paved, although they are in varying stages of decay. Sometimes we will come across a section that seems entirely washed out and is nothing but deep ruts, but this is unusual. Apparently, the governments of both Kenya and Tanzania are working to improve the few roads in existence.

On the other end of the valley the terrain begins to ascend slightly and turn green once again as we head toward the borders of Kenya and Tanzania. Villages and towns become more numerous. In each one, the typical stalls and shops line the road. There are people and animals everywhere in the street. At times it seems like the truck will barely be able to pass, but they always make way, especially when Rob hits the horn. It is an American parent's worst nightmare, as unattended school age children wander the roads and play dangerously close to passing vehicles. Housing consists of small concrete or brick huts with tin roofs. In large towns there is a market, rows of shops, and perhaps a rare gas station. When we stop in to refill, I discover the shelves much more bare and stark than in Nairobi; there is nothing that interests me. Rob buys a bag of tasteless pretzels. The restroom facility is broken and gives off a pungent odor--we use it anyway because there is nothing else around and get back on the road.

Southwestern Kenya turns into a series of beautiful hills and valleys, much like West Virginia, but not as dense. The hills are dotted with small huts capped with shiny tin roofs and terraced crops on small farms. The average Kenyan farmer only owns about seven acres and usually grows more than one type of crop. The crops include: cotton, tea, corn, bananas, mangoes, beans, sugar cane, and coffee. When a bus or van stops in a town, the farmers go from window to window selling their crops. Some are consumed on the spot and banana peels and corn husks cascade onto the ground beside the bus. These vehicles are the primary means of transportation for the general population, besides walking or riding a decrepit bicycle.

As we approach the border of Tanzania the population begins to thin and the terrain turns brown again. The actual crossing itself consists of a series of four metal gates, just metals bars really, bound together with chains. A uniformed guard opens each of the gates as we pass through. On the Kenya side we have our passport stamped, and then I have to pay for a visa to drive into Tanzania. I walk into a small building consisting of a single room just large enough for one desk with two uniformed men behind the counter. I am third in line and wait with one eye on our vehicle. We try not to let it out of our sight. I stand in the doorway and keep looking back over my shoulder as the person in front of me complains about the cost. It is $50, and they do take American dollars. The border crossing area is crowded with people and vehicles is various stages of crossing. Trucks are lined up like a truck stop in the States. Out of hundreds of people, we are the only whites to be seen, except for one girl who looks to be of Indian descent. While I wait for Rob to finish transacting the paperwork for the vehicle, I watch people. Really, the people are watching me. I am the oddity here. A young boy comes up to my window with a paper cone full of peanuts and offers to sell them to me. I shake my head in the negative, but he lingers until absolutely convinced he's not going to make a sale. Rob and I are relieved when the gates are behind us and we are on the last leg of our journey to Mwanza.

The drive across Tanzania is like a drive across the western United States. The landscape reminds me at times of Utah or South Dakota. Wide plains break like waves against the bottom of steep foothills and small peaks. The ground is brown, dry, and rugged, covered with stones and piles of rocks with tough plants and trees. The hills have no vegetation, instead they are rocky and strewn with boulders, some balanced precariously on top of one another. The road stretches out before us for miles. When we are driving between the hills, each turn opens a new vista seemingly more spectacular than the last.

The population is thinned considerably, and yet even here, we encounter the typical pedestrian traffic. There is a decided and visible shift in the standard of living in Tanzania; it is noticeably poorer. Concrete block houses are now made of mud, and the roofs are thatched, rarely tin. Many of the huts are small round dwellings. There are fewer vehicles on the road including bicycles, and the trucks, vans, or busses we do see are usually commercial transport or public transportation. I will not see any more white people today until we arrive at Rob's home. The people here are living in abject poverty. The stalls in the small towns and villages along the way are shabby and contain only a smattering of goods, nothing we would be interested in buying. In the fields of Kenya there were tractors and combines, here the farming is by hand. People toil on enough land to subsist and sell the remainder in the market.

The rest of the journey into Mwanza is the same scene repeated time and again. Small towns further apart along the road, stalls, children playing in the dirt or walking home from school, adults tending cattle or goats, women with water or produce balanced perfectly on their heads, men gathered in a circle talking, and people everywhere walking. This is my most vivid picture of Africa yet--people walking. They walk with hands full, or head stacked high with a load, or back bent over a cart. Children, baskets, mattresses, shoes, fruits, vegetable, anything you can imagine is strapped, tied, balanced, pulled, pushed, or carried along the road. We whiz by in our Toyota Land Cruiser and I wonder what they think of us.

The outskirts of Mwanza are announced by the greater density of the foot traffic and shopping stalls. The city rests along the shore of Lake Victoria, perched on giant outcrops of boulders where no one would dream of building a city. In truth, the inhabitants probably began to build along the shore and the growth has just continued onto the mountains. There are people everywhere. It appears you will not be able to drive down a street because of the thick crowds when they magically part just as it seems the bumper is going to push someone over or worse. Rob begins to point out landmarks as I take in the shanties perched on outcroppings of rock on both sides of the road. Men are walking their bikes up a hill in the opposite direction we are traveling with bright silver milk jugs attached to every conceivable bar on the bike. They are moving the vital liquid from the town market to outlying communities. Others are bent over stacks of light mattresses on their heads, bound and balanced by a small rope around the whole thing. Women have bunches of bananas or plates of oranges on their heads. The sounds, sights, and smells are difficult to take in...the streets in the States, even the most busy, are boring and routine compared to this mass of colorful humanity on the move.

We drive into the heart of Mwanza, and after taking a left, soon see the blue of Lake Victoria off to our right. Fishing boats are pulled up on the banks. Passing right by the town market, which I will describe later (if that is even possible), we drive by old and dirty buildings as we head for the village of Sweya where the Howells live. After a right off the main drag, we bounce down an unpaved track between rows of mud or block shacks on each side. An open sewer runs alongside the road. Chickens, cows, goats, ducks, and dogs roam the streets. People stare as we pass. Now a stall consists of a piece of wood with thirty or so tomatoes stacked neatly in rows. Children are beating shells with sticks. Women are hanging laundry on lines or tending fires.

After a few minutes Rob announces we are home and their house comes into view. Driving up to the gate, Rob beeps the horn and Momma Stella appears from around a corner. With a huge smile, this forty year old African woman swings open the gate and we finally put the Land Cruiser in park. The kids and Kara come out to greet Rob with hugs and kisses. It is good to be home.

Comments

[Connie]

I feel as if I have made this trip!! You are doing a great job narrating. Aren't other countries fascinating? Being surrounded by another language and at the mercy of a translator can be unsettling as well. Tell Rob and Kara hello for us.

[kevin mcfadden]

Great posts Jon--I feel like I'm there. Looking forward to hearing more.

[jon]

Thanks for the kind words, Kevin. You would know, eh?