Postcards from the Mombasa Road

Traffic in Nairobi moves like a tourist on Lomotil during morning and afternoon rush hour. After a week with George, the AWC driver, I�m used to his aggressive take on assertive driving. But edging through congested traffic circles and cutting off matatus at 20 Km/h is one thing, playing chicken with transport trucks at 140 Km/h is another.

If you�re going overland to the coast, the Mombasa Road is the only way to get there. It�s busy. There are matatus, buses, coaches, transport trucks, safari tours, private cars, cyclists, goats, hand carts and even an occasional baboon. Today, there is also construction. Miles of it.

We leave Nairobi later than intended and are slowed further by the poor condition of the �bypass� routes for the construction zones. These are essentially rutted dirt paths wide enough for two transport trucks. Apparently road crews here follow the same guidelines as road crews in North America. For every one man working, there are three others assigned to stand by and watch him work. And here there is less heavy equipment, so the construction is lengthy in both distance and duration.

George is determined that we will get to Mombasa before dark. It�s only about 400 Km, but with construction and a stop for lunch, that�s a solid eight-hour day. So dirt shoulder or newly-laid blacktop, on-coming matatus or none, George floors it. As the guest from Canada, I get the passenger�s seat and a front-row view of what �road trip� means in Kenya.

He passes buses. He passes matatus. Ostrich, zebra, camels are just black, white or brown blurs on the side of the road. Oncoming traffic is also busy passing other oncoming traffic. Decisions about who will give way are made through a mysterious language of light-flicking, horn honking and hand-waving.

I stop pressing my imaginary break pedal once my toes start cramping. I�m pretty much in the 140 Kph groove when George pulls our little Subaru into the path of an oncoming Maersk container truck.

�George?� I say.

He looks over at me (that means he�s not looking at the road), �You are scared?�

�No,� I say, in an attempt to remain dignified.

�You don�t trust me?� He is smiling at me. �I�m in control. And God is with us. I�m still young and God wants me to get old and have children.�

I can�t bring myself to tell him that I don�t believe in God, but I do believe in physics, and that Maersk truck would crumple the Subaru and keep on rolling.

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The East African Rail Line runs alongside the Mombasa Road from Nairobi to the coast. Construction of the railroad shaped much of Kenya�s development, kind of like Canada rail lines helped shape our provinces. Nairobi was just a Maasai watering hole, before the British made it a supply depot as they built the rail in to Kampala.

�You know, there are many man-eating lions around here,� Wilson says from the back seat. �They ate the Indians when they were building the railroad.�

East Indian immigrants were brought here by the British to work on the railway. In fact, they led the Asian influx into what some people hoped would be the �The Indian�s America.� There is still a large Indian population in Mombasa and Nairobi. And, yes, lions did attack some of the laborers who worked and lived under poor conditions in an unforgiving environment.

�And did you hear, a few years ago, how the lions ate a British girl?� Wilson says. �You should be careful here. The lions in Tsavo like to eat white people.�

�In North America,� I say, � we call that international cuisine.�

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After four hours of dusty, rutted road, we stop in Kibwezi for lunch. There is a small row of shops and restaurants on the side of the road here. The main attraction is the gas station and an open-air bar and restaurant. Before you enter this restaurant proper, the menu out front lists chicken, goat, chips, chapati� all the Kenyan staples.

The specialty of the house gets special billing; beside the menu board, fresh racks of goat ribs hang in a mesh-walled display case. Wilson points to a rack that is big enough to feed all five of us. The restaurant owner lays the ribs on a bed of coals next to the bar and we all wash our hands for the Nyama Choma (meat roasted) -- Kenyan party food.

Under the high thatched roof, a handful of brown bats are sleeping the day away. Small cats prowl the bar, waiting for bones from Nyama Choma leftovers. As we wait, the clouds that have dogged us since Nairobi thin slowly.

Kibwezi is about half-way between Nairobi and Mombasa. It�s a regular stopping point for people traveling to and from the coast. The town is known for its honey. Wilson tells me there are many beehives in the enormous Baobab trees that are scattered across the grassy landscape.

Samburu and Maasai sales people walk through the restaurant selling belts, flip flops, beadwork, sunglasses, hats, and key chains. IWhen a man shows up with a big, live chicken in his hands, I learn my Swahili for the day� kuku mkubwa means big chicken. He�s asking 300 Ksh for it, a little more than four dollars. And this is one big chicken. The salesman keeps poking and squeezing the chicken�s legs, pointing out all the meat we could be eating. We tell him that we�ve already ordered lunch and he heads off for another table.

I�m surprised when the nyama choma arrives. The goats we�ve seen wandering alone and in herds on the side of the road look scrawny to my unpracticed eye. But chop them up and throw them on the fire with a little salt, and they turn out fatty, sweet and delicious. The only trick is to eat your fill before the flies move in.

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We see a group of kikoy-clad Maasai standing on the side of the road just past the eastern edge of Tsavo National Park.

�Hey guys, why haven�t the Massai started wearing western-style clothes like every other tribe in Kenya?�

Solomon explains that the woven tartan cloth that is classic Kenya tourist trap fare is actually a European introduction. Before the British came in the Maasai wore animal hides, he says, and they were the dominant tribe in most of Kenya.

The British had to negotiate with the Maasai to get passage for the railway. Solomon explains that, because the Maasai are traditionally nomadic, once the British got their way with the rail line, they didn�t have to �manage� (read: subjugate with Christianity and British schooling) the Maasai the way they did more stationary tribes.

Red cob Maasai homesteads are sometimes just visible through the scrub trees on the side of the road. The only thing that sets apart a Maasai cluster of buildings from a Samburu homestead are the animal pens built out of thorny cuttings from acacia trees.

�They stay very much to themselves,� Solomon says of the Maasai. �It is still that way, though it is slowly changing. It will change when they find oil or coal in this part of Kenya.�

In fact, Chinese interests have exclusive rights to search for fossil fuels in Kenya. But for now, tourism is the main economic driver. Solomon says most of the tourism money doesn�t stay in the country. When people book tours and safari in Europe or the US, he says, it�s overseas tour companies that keep the cash. The Maasai and other Kenyans only make money selling bottled water, flip flops, beadwork and other incidentals. Although these grassy plains and the approaching coast are prime destinations for visitors, the locals here are selling the peanuts at the big ball game that is Kenyan safari tourism.