Bizarre times in Kenya

The Wild West Kenyan Style

I am the first to concede that I have a tendency to throw around bizarre a little too frequently, but I think two recent experiences in Kenya justifiably fit in to that category.
After having been filled with delight at receiving my Eritrea visa after having to only wait a week, I was feeling pretty chuffed when I found a minivan taxi a few streets from my hotel that would take me all the way to Maralal, the jumping off point to visit Lake Turkana - the Jade Lake, in the north of Kenya.

I rocked up the next morning at 6.30, and sadly it was not to be, there was a strike and none of the minibuses were running. I wandered about between the various companies for half an hour, and then finally jumped in to one that was going about half way to a town called Nyamahururu. A few of my fellow passengers were also headed for Maralal and they began to explain to me that there was an outlawed gang called the Munkiki Gang, who extorted the minivan drivers. They had threatened any driver who entered or left Nyamahurururu that day would have his windscreen broken and his minivan set on fire - finally it looked like I might find some real danger in Africa, and I might see some action. Driving out of Nairobi things started to get a little surreal, all along the side of the main double carriageway highway people were milling about watching the road as though there had been some kind of accident. We then approached a police road block which was only letting one lane of cars through, we passed through at a walking pace as the traffic was backed up. A kilometre or so beyond the roadblock we were directed through a gap in the barrier in the centre of the road on to the other carriageway. A truck filled with Kenyan police or military was parked by the side of the road. The two or so guys in the back were decked out in the full three quarter length green bullet proof vest, with a flap at the bottom hanging below there hips down to there knees making them look like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The truck entered the traffic before us, and the guy next to me seem relieved, "Good, they are providing an escort for us". I felt a little more comfortable with the whole scenario, but about ten kilometres later the truck pulled off the road, did a U-turn and left the traffic to itself. Nobody in the minivan said anything.
We continued our drive, but strangely the few stops we made to drop passengers off were always just before a town, or just after. We only picked up one other passengers, and then the driver requested that we draw the curtains. As we drove along the side of the road was filled with people walking along, most of whom tried to flag us down as we went past. I knew things were strange when a minivan driver has empty seats and doesn't stop to pick people up. Eventually we arrived in Nyamahururu, and the remaining five of us were dropped about two kilometres out of town in a petrol station. Three local guys were also heading to Maralal, so they took me under their wing and we headed in to town to find a lift. As we approached the centre of town, things got even more spooky, I suddenly felt like I was in the wild west. The main street was empty of traffic, but all along the side of the road people were milling around quietly gossiping amongst themselves in small groups, a few groups had taken up vantage points on second story balconies, one group had climbed a water tower. All of the shops were closed with shutters drawn, even the market was empty. The quiet was so out of place in an African town it created an air of expectancy blanketing the entire place. It felt as though any minute a tumble-weed would roll through town, and two men with six shooters would wander on to the set.
Suddenly the tension was broken when a motorbike carrying a pillion passenger slowly motoring though town hit something and ended up sideways, rider and passenger caught underneath. Both were unharmed and soon on their feet, but they were immediately encircled by a large group of people, who all began talking at once, seemingly relieved that something had finally happened, and nobody had been hurt. As the crowd continued milling a police truck, filled with police in riot gear, rolled through town, and parked just off the main street.

The other guys were approached by some touts who directed us towards a hotel in the back streets of town, to wait whilst they investigated possible transport options. We headed up stairs and in to what was a dingy bar, almost too dark to see, with a few barflys already knocking a few back at eleven in the morning. To continue the wild west theme, Ma Baker came over from a table to serve us while we waited.

Eventually we made in out of town in a taxi, and rather anticlimactically, about three kilometres out of town my fellow passengers said, we are fine now, once we reach here there is no trouble. It was strange to go back to the most dangerous thing being the general state of disrepair of the car and the way the driver choose to drive. We immediately had a puncture.

Archers' Rest

After giving up my quest to get to Lake Turkana the back way, I jumped on a matatu heading for the main road. Eight hours later, after driving through some incredible savannah backed by encircling mountains in every direction I rolled in to Archers' Rest - a small town on the main Ethiopia - Kenya road. The sun had already slipped behind the mountains and it was well beyond twilight and the silvery shadows created by the almost full moon meant everything took on an extra edge. The lack of electricity and hence streetlights magnified the effect - and every now and then random objects were caught in the light of a passing vehicle, a face illuminated by a mobile phone, or a candle blown in the wind creating strange moving shadows on the hastily thrown together wooden walls of the strip of shacks which was the main street.

There were a lot of people wandering about, a large bus had just arrived, and a the back of a big truck was filled with road workers heading back to camp. I had been befriended by a fellow passenger on the minivan and he suggested we go and get something to drink and check out the accommodation options whilst the driver decided if he was to go on to Isiolo or stay the night. We crossed the road and immediately I noticed that there were an awful lot of soldiers wandering about, and all of them were carrying automatic weapons, slung across their shoulders, in one hand pointing them to the ground, or in both hands in front of their chests. We wandered in to a bar which was a few tables in a row outdoors, and four or five small enclosed sitting areas in a row. Every customer, and there would have been about fifty, was a soldier, every one was in uniform - in differing degrees of battle preparedness, and every one of them was carrying a gun, most had a few beers in front of them as well. As I sat down there was a big explosion from outside but nobody else but me seemed in the slightest perturbed. My friend explained that sometimes some soldiers had a little too much to drink, which made me feel even more uncomfortable. We had a drink and then sauntered back out on to the street and I felt the bizarreness of the place wash over me.