A Lonely Road

"There is room," the tout insisted.

The matatu was bursting at the seams with passengers.

"Where?"

The tout looked over the heads of his customers, searching vainly for an empty spot, then he shoved a few people further inside and pointed down at one of the steps.

"There."

He gripped the back of my arm and tried forcing me aboard. I dug my heels in. "No."

He made a hissing sound, dismissed me with a wave, and then banged the side of the matatu with the flat of his hand. "Enda!" And they were off.

I had been standing at the same corner for more than an hour, waiting for an acceptable ride. It was obvious one would not materialize. Not this morning. I must lower my expectations.

Like the others, the next matatu to wobble toward me was overloaded. But from my discerning eye it did look relatively new, somewhat dignified, unlike the others, which sagged from broken suspensions. Or heaved and lurched like boats on a choppy sea.

You are the one, I said to myself.

The tout jumped off the back fender before the matatu had come to a full stop, a maneuver, I am sure, which would have planted me face first on the pavement. He, however, commenced a graceful jog alongside the vehicle.

"Wapi?"

"Shimoni," I said.

He grabbed my backpack and tossed it swiftly onto the roof of the matatu. I peered through the door. Sardines.

"Wapi?" I asked.

He pointed vaguely inside. I looked again.

"Hapa," I said, pointing at the rear bumper, and before he could answer, I jumped on. The tout laughed and slapped the side of the vehicle. A jolt, and we were off, hurtling down the road toward the turnoff to Shimoni. I clung to the luggage rack for dear life. We stopped a few more times to pick up passengers, who somehow managed to squeeze inside, and each time the tout would laughingly comment about the crazy mzungu, while pointing at me. Halfway to the turnoff, at a busy stop, enough passengers had disembarked so that I could wedge myself inside.

"So, you want to be a tout?" an elderly gentleman said to me. An explosion of laughter.

I smiled. "It doesn't pay enough."

"That is good," the gentleman said. "You should not take jobs from Kenyans."

More laughter. The remainder of the ride was cheerful, and I answered the older gentleman's many queries. Then, the tout stuck his head through the door and said, "Hapa."

I wriggled my way out of the matatu, jumped onto the pavement, and retrieved my backpack. The matatu sped off, burping diesel fumes, and left me standing alone at the turnoff to Shimoni. According to The Rough Guide, I had an eight-mile hike ahead of me, so I set off at once down the dirt track.

It was a long, lonely walk. A few miles in, I was parched and weary and rested a few minutes beneath the shade of a palm tree. Something was odd, and when I thought about it, I realized I had yet to see a soul. I knew a town existed at the end of the road, but there was no vehicular or foot traffic in either direction the entire time. I had seen distant huts through the trees, but no people. 

I trudged on and then thought about how far away Christy was at the moment. She had gone home to Missouri for several weeks for the holidays. I imagined her with family, and felt a little wistful, especially with Christmas approaching. There was a time when my hometown was all I needed to know of the world. I had explored every nook and cranny of Elk Grove Village, Illinois, even Busse Woods and the industrial park, which, because of its proximity to O'Hare Airport, was one of the largest in the world and very attractive to children. 

I left Elk Grove for Southern Illinois University only because it was expected of me. The day I packed my belongings into the family car, and my father drove me six hours to Carbondale, was my cleaving. But I did not know this as I gazed forlornly out the window of my dorm room, watching my father's dwindling figure recede in the distance.

I had begun traveling my own road, and one road would lead inexorably to another.

The road I was now on eventually led to Shimoni, a sleepy coastal town with a cement pier jutting about one hundred yards out to sea. To get to Wasini Island, my destination, I needed a ride, so to the pier I went and reserved a seat on a motorboat to the island.

I paid for a room at a hostel with a well-stocked bar and a restaurant that was legendary for its seafood. In fact, luxury safari outfits dropped off clients at the restaurant just for the meals alone. They never stayed, though, as the accommodations were basic.

The island was Islamic, as was its architecture. All the doorways were narrow and the lintels at forehead level, so I had to duck to enter or exit any room or building. My room was very basic and contained a bed and an end table. That was all. I did, however, have an ocean view. I tossed my backpack on the bed, retrieved The Rough Guide to Kenya, and headed to the bar for a much-deserved Stoney. 

I walked down the hallway, flipping through pages of The Rough Guide, trying to plan the rest of my day, so I forgot to duck as I exited the building. My forehead slammed into the lintel's edge, staggering me. It was the only time The Rough Guide would betray me.

The flow of blood was immediate and copious. I stumbled toward the bar, only to be greeted by gasps and horrified looks from the staff. I am sure I looked like Sissy Spacek's Carrie. The bartender rushed toward me and immediately applied a bar towel to my head. Another staff person approached with a rusted bucket full of water that looked as if it had been squeezed out of a dirty mop. He looked ready to pour it over my head, but I waved him off.

The bartender said he knew where to get fresh water. He led me away from the bar, where rows of bottled water stood sentinel on a shelf. We turned a corner between buildings and a young Swedish woman was met by my ghastly countenance. She gasped and covered her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers, as if I were missing a limb. 

"I forgot to duck," I told her.

"Come here," she said, grabbing my arm and leading me away. 

The bartender relinquished care of me. The Swedish woman (her names was Anna, she later told me) took me into her room and began ministering to my wound. She poured bottled  water over my head, and then dabbed and applied pressure with the bar towel. She retrieved antibiotic ointment from the first aid kit in her backpack and salved the wound. Scissors, gauze, tape. In no time, this saving angel had my wound cleaned and bandaged.

"You should go to hospital," Anna said. "You might need stitches."

Out her window, the sun was already low in the sky. As if reading my mind, she said, "It is too late now. You must leave in the morning."

I thanked her profusely. At dinner, about an hour later, I bought her a bottle of water to replace the one she had used to clean my wound. I was so dazed, so fixated on the dull ache of my head, that I could not savor the famed seafood dinner. The bartender told me I had to be in Shimoni no later than 8 a.m., as that was when the last matatu left for the main road. Remembering that long, lonely hike, I believed him. I asked him why there were no matatus after eight.

"Nobody leaves Shomini," he said, "except matatu drivers."

I lay in bed that night, my head throbbing, realizing I had traveled this far to see Wasini only to be leaving without having experienced anything but the hostel and its renowned restaurant. I made it to Pandya Memorial Hospital in Mombasa late the next morning. I was impressed by the facility, and I told the nurse ministering to my wound as much. 

"Mistah Reech-ahd," she said, in a dignified tone, "we perform surgery here."

Aghast, I thought she meant that I was going to require surgery, but then she said, "We even give our patients anesthesia before we operate on them."

Sarcasm. I apologized and told her I meant well.

"I must shave you," she said.

She retrieved a razor from a cabinet, sterilized it, and began shaving the hair around my wound. A few minutes later an Asian man with graying hair and a Hitler mustache walked in. He looked at the wound and quickly proclaimed I would not need stitches.

"None?"

"None," he confirmed.

He retrieved a hand mirror to show me the wound, a vicious-looking knot with a two-inch gash. What worried me more, though, was that I looked like a monk, as my hairline had been shaved back several inches.

"Can you at least shave the rest of my head?"

"Mistah Reech-ahd," the nurse said, "this is not a barbershop."

Luckily, I had a hat. I left the hospital at mid-afternoon. Sweltering heat. By the time I reached downtown Mombasa, every article of clothing was soaked through with sweat, even my hat. I had not eaten since dawn, a mandazi and a cup of coffee, so I stepped into a restaurant for a late lunch. 

The dining area was open, airy, with cement walls and floors. I soon began shivering in my damp clothes. Teeth chattering, I ate my nyama choma, sukuma, and ugali, while flipping through pages of The Rough Guide, deciding on my next destination.

I settled on Malindi, a coastal town north of Mombasa. Malindi was popular with Italian tourists, so it had some of the best pizzas, pastas, and ice cream in all of Kenya. And it had a reputation for hospitality to strangers, ever since Vasco da Gama was welcomed warmly by the king of Malindi in 1498.

What could possibly go wrong there?

(To be continued)