Garissa Road

Perhaps there’s a deranged infatuation with things unforgiving like with bad relationships or flirting with death. For me, it’s deserts – the simplicity of being in the wild and a wild that cares little about you.

So I am always excited when I am sent somewhere remote and when I am to meet with people who consider themselves forgotten.

Last week, I went to Garissa.

The last time I was on that road was about ten years ago but only to go as far as Mwingi, to spend time with the mother of my father’s friend. He liked to do that, my father, to send me to remote places to remind me of the privileged life I lived. And then, there was only a long dirt road that stretched beyond the eye could see which only 4x4 cars could survive. And the one that I was in had two fuel tanks to boot. It was the type of place, where if you stopped for lunch and ordered chicken, and asked after it an hour later, they would tell you, nonchalantly that they have just caught the chicken.

But the road is good now, thanks to Mzee Kibaki, all the way to Garissa and beyond.

The landscape changes from buildings to villages and from villages to barrenness, from semi-arid to arid, from cows to camels and from Kamba to Somali country.

Reaching Garissa town is like finding an oasis, a town that blooms and is given life from the River Tana. And the people I meet are friendly and accommodating. And we go about our meetings without problem.

Before I know it, we are on my way back to Nairobi.

It’s 11:30am and we are expecting to reach Nairobi in five hours.

We stop at one check point. And then we stop at another. At the third, I wish I had notified someone that I was on my way back and was being stopped. Because a bad-boy looking KDF officer – yes, he had wrapped a scarf around his head like a durag, sported sunglasses, and swaggered his way toward me and ordered me to get out of the car. Where is your ID? He barks. I hand it over to him. Where is your passport? I didn’t bring it. Why not? I didn’t know I should be carrying it. You should! He chastises.

Ok, sorry. I didn’t know. Next time, I will bring.

You think this is enough? This is not enough. How do I know how you entered the country?

Yeye ni Mkenya, (she is Kenyan) my colleague offers.

Hata Al Shabaab ni Wakenya (even Al Shabaab are Kenyan).

Alikuwa hapa kitambo, (she has been here a long time) my colleague continues.

Hata Al Shabaab walikuwa hapa kitambo! (even Al Shabaab has been here a long time)

He returns to me, You have laptops?

Yes.

Bring them.

We bring them.

Enter the passwords.

We enter our passwords.

They snoop.

At this point I am trying to remember my legal rights. With police, they come quite easily, I even think of methods of redress lest I am more than harassed. But with KDF? My mind draws a blank. This is what we had wanted right? For our authorities to have all the powers they require to do all that is necessary to curb terrorism. And for the moment, Bad Boy has decided that I am worthy of suspicion and is exercising his powers to “investigate” my terrorist-ness.

What are you doing in Garissa?

I was meeting with water actors.

You are a water expert?

No, I am a citizen engagement expert. We try to promote citizen engagement in water issues.

Mhmm. Do you know this ID is not enough?

No, I didn’t know. But I now I know. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

You know we can keep you for questioning?! He threatens.

Ah! My colleague, sighs, msemehe, (forgive her) he pleads.

Yah! He balloons with power, we can keep her! The rest of you can go. But this one, we shall keep.

It is hot. The sun burns us like it has burnt everything around us. There is nothing on this road but us and power-wielding KDF soldiers. I imagine myself on this road for hours, watching them stop car after car, bus after bus, returning every so often to harass me. I imagine my colleague just helplessly waiting for them to be done with me. But I also imagine the worst – disappearing and how much more likely that would be were I evidently Muslim.  

We stand – eye to eye – the full force of his uniform plus rifle versus civilian me. I try to convey as much cooperation as you possibly can in a stare.

And then he says, ok, this time I’ll let you go. But next time? Aaah... this ID won’t be enough.

Ok thank you, I humble myself, next time, I will always carry it, thank you again.

We return to the car as fast as possible before he changes his mind but not hastily enough that it looks like we are running away.

We climb into the car, hold our breaths until we have at least set off before we can properly exhale. We text people back home to tell them that we are on our way and that we have been stopped severally by KDF and that if we do not make it home this evening, that they can look for us on the Nairobi-Garissa road.

There is little company on the road beyond the odd bus-full of passengers from Eastleigh and the random Probox with uncomfortable chickens banded to the roof of the car.

My colleague might have exhaled as soon as we got into the car. But I only really did when we reached the Ukasi police station and it felt like we were back in “Kenya” again and under police instead of KDF “protection”. He joked about preferring to meet with thugs than police or in this case, Al Shabaab than KDF and I mused at the irony.

song for the traveller

for those with itchy feet, i heard this song in the morning and thought of packing up again and going...

Turkana again

I'd only been to Turkana once before and then it was by road - which is what I recommend - because it eases you into the idea that you are going to desert land - even if it does take you two days to drive :)



Flying over Lodwar


So this time, I get off the plane and I am surprised to find sand at my feet. They say this is is the worst drought ever to hit the Horn of Africa.... they say that the cycles are getting shorter and shorter... so that one day, perhaps there will be a continuous state of drought.

It's maddening to think that it could be prevented or at least mitigated... and I'm wondering what it would take to actually see some real results... because it's not that there isn't rain. It's that no sooner does it rain then we are flooded and then we are at a loss again. It's like oases - appearing and disappearing - only over here, it's tragic.


seasonal rivers or lagas (I have no idea how that's spelt)

I'm actually sad to learn that the droughts are causing more and more pastoralists to abandon their lifestyles. Interventions range from destocking to finding alternative livelihoods for them. I'd prefer that we found some way to keep that way of life alive... or is that quixotic?

And so we traced the migration corridors of these Turkana - the children especially who filter into towns, travelling under the belly of buses. They find themselves most commonly in the Rift Valley, in green towns like Eldoret and Kitale... the boys become farm hands if trusted enough to toil, but are most commonly stereotyped into roles most akin to what their pastoralist lifestyle would've entailed such as caring for cattle or becoming guards. And the girls become prostitutes, selling themselves for 20 shillings or one ndazi at a time. How old are they, I ask a resident of Kitale, twelve, thirteen...

They tell me that early marriages coincide with the drought. A girl is given away for dowry just before the drought hits so that the family is better cushioned to undergo it. In the green towns, they say that incidences of rape and defilement are rampant just before harvest. That's when the maize is high - that's when you can cover all manner of sins...

maize fields in Kitale

saturdays

I used to dance at the Vera Zerkovitz School of Ballet - on Saturday mornings, from 10am - 12pm in a studio just above the conservatoire. It's the only time I ever saw dancers dress fully like ballerinas. Not in any of the modern dance wear but simple, classical, tights, leotards, hair in buns and blocks even at the bar.

Vera rarely spoke beyond reiterating instructions - instructions that weren't really necessary because for two hours, she had a programme for us: from the bar to the floor and from the floor to the corners. She commanded a quiet respect from all of us... Neither of us spoke to each other either. We just diligently followed the programme - to the tap of her heels and to the notes of her partner on the piano.

That was what I loved about it. It was so disciplined. It made me wonder whether this was what ballet was like in Russia. No recorded music, no choreography. Just every move in ballet in sequence and to the simple honesty of the piano.

I returned to the school recently. It's a studio now. For aerobics or something. The sign reads something else. They have put glass around what once was an open verandah. Where we used to bask in the sun.

India

I fell in love with India. Because before I met Rohan, she didn't have a face. She lived in the stereotypes of the diaspora, who try to be more Indian than the Indians themselves. She lived in the prejudices of a former colony that has never really known how to feel about the wahindi who stayed after the railway, speak kiswahili and invest in the country without marrying their daughters off or assuming seats of public office.

Enter Rohan. The first Indian from India I've ever really known. A proud Brahmin who lived on the thrill of what he liked to call 'calculated risk'. I met him at a time I wanted someone to accept me, fight for me, love life with me - and he did all three.

And it's because he was so proud and comfortable with his country and history that I learned to love her too. And all the prejudices slipped away as I reacquainted myself with India's social fabric, religion, history. And it is her age and her civilisation and her vastness that impress me. But it's also her hurts and dreams that now assume a human face instead of what had been a reason to continue to be prejudiced. 

He has since taken motorbike trips from Rajasthan to Madhay Pradesh (a-la-Che Guevara style in 'Motorcycle Diaries') and though I am no longer with him, I feel myself riding there too.

It's funny how you can live vicariously through looking at photographs. But when I see those temples and them looking out from those cliffs. I am there too. I have driven for 10 hours and I am perched on a rock, wind-whipped and satisfied. And I am happy that he gave her to me. That he allowed me to accept a place and a people and a culture without ever even going there.

And maybe one day I won't equate India with him. But for the moment, everything that I am open to knowing about her, is because of him.

it's that uncertainty that makes you feel alive - afraid - hopeful - dreamy. negotiating who you become when you make that decision, agreement, committment, losing a little bit of yourself in that process and decision. worrying about which way you'll go and how it'll change your life.