Chapter 34
Pink Elephants
August/Ramadan
Two days later, the looting stopped in Nairobi, and the trains started running again. The second-class cabin of the Mombassa to Nairobi train faced east. Out the wide window, savannah grasses and prickly plants of the Tsavu Plain flashed by in bursts of yellow and purple. Farther out toward the horizon, thorn trees dotted the savannah, their branches capped with wigs of thorny brush.
Between the trees, a giraffe galloped in slow, elegant motion. I pointed and bounced in my seat. A herd of Thompson gazelle raised dainty heads to watch the train—a beast that roared and belched smoke as it followed its tracks across the plain.
I clasped my hands and pressed against the bubble inside my chest. Here they were, in flesh and blood—the descendants of the ghosts who only existed in the heat waves of Upper Volta. In Kenya, they teamed across the land, animal life rich in diversity and numbers.
Tricia sat across from me on the padded seat, scowling as she read the local newspaper,
The Nation
. Four other WT’s shared the cabin with us, chatting in Italian and German over a card game. All together, we smelled like something close to a barnyard.
I nudged Tricia’s knee and motioned her to follow me into the corridor, where we walked with wide steps, keeping rhythm with the side-to-side motion of the train. Passing through two cars of second-class cabins and a third-class stretch of uncomfortable looking seats, we came to the restaurant car.
White linen cloths covered small tables set up against wood-paneled walls. A square window graced each table. Through the windows, clouds billowed pink against a blue sky.
We snagged the last available table and ordered two beers. A pair of elderly British ladies in hats and gloves drank tea across from us.
I perched my elbows on the table and rested my chin in my hands. “Isn’t this great?”
“Yeah, great.” Tricia had become nervous and withdrawn since the coup attempt. The crease had once again taking up residence between her eyes.
“Stop worrying, Trish. Bob’ll come. The airport will reopen any day now.”
Our beers arrived. I took a swig and looked out the window. Damned if I was going to let Tricia’s cloudy mood dampen my own.
Out on the plain, a baobab tree stood alone. It looked out of place, as if God had pulled it from the outskirts of Dori and jabbed it into this ground, upside down in an alien place surrounded by grasses, trees, and rivers. The familiar old tree reached into my heart and plucked it.
I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay in Africa! Then I saw them.
“Look, look!” I pointed out the window.
A herd of four cow elephants and two calves lifted their trunks and poured cascades of red dirt over their backs.
“Elephants! They look pink in this light. Aren’t they gorgeous?”
“Pink elephants,” Tricia said.
The train left the herd behind, and we settled back into our chairs.
I sighed. “I could stay here forever.”
Tricia shook her head.
“What?”
“You’re chasing ghosts.”
“What do
you
know about ghosts?”
“You see only the good of Africa and only the bad back home.” With her index finger, she jabbed the picture of a tank on the front page of
The Nation
. “Look at this! These past few days. There’s violence here! Soldiers shooting people, rioting, looting. Governments overthrown!”
“People shoot each other in the States all the time, Tricia. Only there, they hardly ever have a reason! They do it for fun!”
“Maybe so,” Tricia lowered her voice. “But we don’t have a coup every time somebody decides they don’t like what the government is doing. We don’t get thrown in jail for speaking out against the president. And we don’t have soldiers standing in every airport and on every street corner with machine guns!”
We stopped talking as the waiter and several Kenyans walked by.
“Do you know what I think?” Tricia’s eyes followed two more people who passed then darted back to me. “This freedom you love so much in Africa is just your way of being in-between. In-between your own country and this one, a foot in both, not really in either.” She raised her hand to indicate the Africans in the car. “You don’t share the risks they do. You’ve said so yourself, you can get on a plane anytime you want and fly away from the heat, the starvation, the violence. Just the way you flew away from us, to get away from all the things you didn’t like, didn’t agree with. It’s so much easier being in-between, isn’t it? No commitments, no real risks. This is your precious freedom, Susan. But, you know what? It’s an illusion, this freedom of yours.” She flipped her wrist toward the window. “It’s as much an illusion as those pink elephants.”
A fluttering started at the edges of my stomach. A bell rang inside my head. “Those elephants were real.”
“But they’re not pink!”
The conversation inside the restaurant car surged and dropped in and out of the clicking of the train wheels.
“Every place you go is just as good and just as bad as the last place you left.” Tricia glared at me for a few seconds, then sighed and rested her head in her hand. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
I sat for a long time, staring out the window, pondering Tricia’s words. A sliver of molten gold poured onto the horizon to the east. The western sky still held the last light of sunset as a full moon rose. The moon shimmered and inched higher to sit for a moment on the line that connected earth to sky.
Long after dark, I walked back to the cabin. Tricia slept on the upper bunk. Our berth mates were off somewhere and the cabin was quiet. I hoisted my pack onto the upper berth opposite Tricia’s and climbed up. The
click-clack
of the wheels and the rocking motion of the train soothed me into sleep.
Out the airport’s glass windows, the lake shimmers in the sun. A boat floats next to a dock. A tall figure stands in shadow under the eves of the boat. I press my face against the window and wonder why I am trying to catch a plane when I don’t know where it’s going and I don’t have a ticket.
Chapter 35
Nairobi
August/Ramadan
Sunlight skipped the front edge of the train, angled a pencil-thin ray through the window, and landed on my bunk in a round little button of brightness. I rolled onto my stomach. Out past the whir of high grass, dark green bushes trailed over hills. These were the tea and coffee plantations of the high country. On the opposite bunk, Tricia woke with a yawn and a groan.
I slid off the top, nearly stepping onto the sleeping face of one of the German guys who was wrapped around the Italian woman on the bunk below. Tricia followed. We tiptoed out the sliding door into the corridor, then duck-walked our way to the restaurant car.
During a breakfast of strong coffee, milk, and buttered rolls with marmalade, stories hopped like crickets from table to table. People passed rumors about gutted stores, barricaded hotels, arrests, and several hundred dead. The chatter followed us out of the restaurant car, along the rows of seats, back to our cabin. We shared the stories with our bunkmates as the train sped closer to Nairobi.
People with furrowed brows and pinched lips passed by outside our cabin. Tricia stopped talking and turned toward the window. In the distance, the buildings of Nairobi rose up off of the plains like giant bean stalks. A steward passed our berth, announcing the train’s arrival into Nairobi. Soon the wheels screeched and whined to a stop. The air smelled sour.
Suddenly, the corridor was filled with people elbowing their way to the doors. We clutched our backpacks to our chests and wedged our way into the crowd, which swept us down the train steps and out into a sea of shouting people. Everyone scurried to get somewhere else.
Soldiers with guns stood guard at all the entrances and exits. Tricia grabbed onto the back of my T-shirt, and we snaked our way through the crowd past groups of tourists that moved as single organisms. Ticket sellers, baggage attendants, and traveling Kenyans hurried about with tight faces. At the edge of the platform, we found a young boy selling newspapers.
Tricia tugged my shirt. “Do you have a couple of shillings?”
I dug into my pocket and handed over a few coins. Tricia took a paper from the boy and scowled at the front page. The headline reported three hundred dead from the attempted coup and riots.
We exited the train station through a high, wrought iron fence flanked by grim-faced soldiers. After several attempts to wave down a taxi, one finally pulled up to the curb. We scrambled into the backseat. The taxi immediately pulled away into traffic.
“
Jambo, bwana
.” I was surprised to find myself out of breath. “Where can we catch a
matatu
for Mt. Kenya?”
The taxi drive glanced over his shoulder. “That would be the
matatu
station near the city market.” He shifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “You want to go there?”
“Yes, we want to get to out of Nairobi as quickly as possible and go to Mt. Kenya.” Sweat trickled from my armpits down my sides.
“Maybe we should rest up here and check out the general situation first.” Tricia peered out the taxi window to the empty streets. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to…”
“We really want to get to Mt. Kenya,” I said to the taxi driver. “Can we get a
matatu
today?”
The driver nodded to his windshield. “Yes, many people are leaving the city, but…”
“Maybe the buses will be overbooked, Susan.” Tricia’s face had paled a shade or two. “Maybe we ought to stay put.”
“Where do you want to stay?” I said. “The Hilton?”
“Yeah, but maybe it’s too dangerous to be out.”
I shook my head and leaned forward. “Is the station far?”
The taxi driver whistled under his breath. “I can take you to within a block or two.” He looked at me out of the corner of one eye.
“
Asanti sana
.” I sat back, noticing a twitch in the driver’s cheek muscle. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.
He drove the taxi east on Haile Selassie Avenue then turned north onto the Uhuru Highway. I wondered briefly if the avenue was named after Lieutenant Uhuru from Star Trek. Probably the other way around. I wiped my palms on my pants.
We passed an abandoned tank parked half-off, half-on a street corner.
Tricia’s turned to me with wide eyes and mouthed, “Shit!”
The Kenyatta International Conference Center towered against a sky of deep blue and brilliant white. Lines of purple jacaranda and red flamboyant trees stood guard along the avenues.
Tricia jerked and reached across the backseat to grab my arm as we passed several shops with broken windows. The taxi driver white-knuckled the steering wheel, turned, and slowed. Broken glass, overturned shop tables, and clothing littered the street.
My jaw dropped. Bullet holes pocked the walls. The taxi pulled to the curb and stopped.
“The
matatu
station to Mt. Kenya is just around the corner at the end of the street.” The driver turned and held out his palm.
“Here?” Tricia’s voice squeaked. “We have to walk down this street?”
“Excuse me,
bibis
,” the twitch in the taxi driver’s cheek was on triple time. “You said you wanted to find a
matatu
to Mt. Kenya. Now, please, just walk quickly to the corner and you will find the station. I do not wish to stay here any longer.”
I paid the driver while Tricia, mumbling expletives, scooted out the side door. We started down the middle of the street as the taxi screeched around the corner. Above us, a woman opened a second-story window and shook out a rug. When she saw us, she stopped and stared, then shook her head. A soldier with a machine gun stood at the far end of the street.
“I can’t believe you’ve dragged me to this place!” Tricia gripped my arm.
“Just keep walking.”
A man with an armload of clothing darted out of a side door, nearly running into us. He stopped with a startled look then ran on. The soldier yelled and ran past us with his gun drawn, chasing the man. Their footsteps echoed off the shop walls and into the empty street.
“Let’s get out of here.” I grabbed Tricia’s arm and we ran.
Past the corner, the narrow street gave way to an open square strewn with rotting fruit and vegetables. On the far side, people crowded around three medium-sized buses painted in bright colors. We hurried across the square to the first
matatu
.
“Mt. Kenya?” I yelled out.
We worked our way past the first
matatu,
already bulging with passengers. A man strapping luggage onto the roof of a second
matatu
waved us over.
“Mt. Kenya?”
The man nodded and motioned for us to hand up our backpacks, which he wedged into a ridiculously high pile of bags and cloth bundles.
Tricia shook her head. “We’ll never see our bags again.”
The man pulled a rope over the top of the pile, then across the opposite direction, and tied the ends to the luggage rack. We boarded the bus to find each double occupancy seat filled with three to four Kenyans. There wasn’t a single tourist on the bus.
Tricia groaned. “It’s full.”
“No, this is good. This means we’ll leave soon. Come on.”
Down the aisle to the back, the last seat was occupied by a little girl and a woman holding a baby.
“
Jambo, bibi
,” I said. “May we sit with you?”
The woman smiled and pulled the little girl closer to her. Tricia and I sandwiched ourselves in, our knees pressed against the back of the seat in front of us. The man who had loaded our bags boarded the bus and counted the passengers. Content that he could not possibly squeeze another person onto the bus, he grunted, sat in the driver’s seat, and started up the engine with a chug and a roar.
“Hoo, we made it. Lucky.” I smiled over at Tricia.
“Lucky?!” Tricia’s voice was somewhat shrill. “I guess we were lucky! We get to Nairobi and the first thing you do is take us to the most dangerous part of town!” Her face flushed red. “We could have been shot back there!”