But, Mom, Everyone's Doing It!

Mombasa to Kisumu. Straight through. 14 hours on a bus. We hear Coach Line, Muslim run, has the best reputation so we book a 6pm overnight bus. If we take the train from Mombasa to Nairobi, then a bus on to Kisumu, we'll reach home about 9 pm tomorrow night. On this bus, we'll reach home at 8am tomorrow. It's not until we're underway and the sun is setting that Ed mentions this overnight bus trip is frowned upon by VSO. Oh, yes, bad roads peopled with erratic drivers navigating pot holes and washed out portions in the dark. Makes sense it will be dangerous. We pass an accident involving six trucks, one nearly jack-knifed. Traffic on the two-lane highway is piling up. But our industrious driver backs up about 100 yards and turns onto a parallel path, dirt, that runs behind roadside shrubs. We crawl past the wreck and see the trucks all crammed into each other, their headlights still on. Traffic moving in the opposite direction sits motionless, a string of cars already in line. I feel fortunate that we're moving and not sitting, even if we inch through this dirt path, rocking crazily in the ruts. Several guys sitting in front and around us, in their 30s and 40s, speak Luo, so we surmise they're headed home, all the way to Kisumu. The one in front of me is sitting forward laughing with his friends when he suddenly throws himself back into his seat. When he hits the back, seat gears strip one by one with loud pops until he's practically in my lap. He sits up quickly and continues to talk, but when he sits back, again he's coming into my personal space and knocking the book by Dervla Murphy I'm reading. Irritated, I push his seat up and say, "Can you try to get this chair to sit upright, at least until everyone is sleeping?" He's very kind and immediately fidgets with the handle, pulling the seat toward him. He works at it for five minutes and his friends assist. They're so earnest about fixing the seat that I feel badly about having pushed his seat. "It's broken," he says to me and I say, "It's okay. You can sit back." But he doesn't sit back. He leans forward or on his left elbow, being considerate. After an hour, I can't stand that he's going to so much trouble, so I lean forward and tap his shoulder and say, "Please sit back in your chair. It's okay, you won't disturb me." And He replies, "I'll sit back in a little, not now." So as I go back to reading the book, he turns in his seat and holds up a green stalk, slightly limp, with tiny uncurled leaves at the top. "Would you like some of this?" he asks. Not recognizing it, I lean forward and say, "what is it?" He has quite a wad of gum in his mouth and he talks around it, saying, "We chew it like this," and he bites the end of another stick, pulling off a strip about five inches long. I realize it's miraa, a plant grown near Mt. Kenya that's shipped immediately after harvesting to East Africa. Chewing miraa is extremely popular, especially with men, though it's illegal in Tanzania. Something of an amphetamine, it energizes folks as they chew it, usually with gum to cut the slightly bitter taste. I've also heard it called "khat" or something similar in other areas of Africa. It seems to be popular everywhere, selling in bundles of 100 twigs (called a Kilo) for 100 shillings. So without further thought, because I'm curious about this plant, I take the stem and nibble from the bottom, pulling off a strip about the size of a toothpick. Our conversation is something of a public spectacle and I feel self-conscious taking the plant, for a split second feeling like I'm breaking the law, though miraa is legal in Kenya. It tastes like the tall, straight weeds we'd pluck from the yard as youngster and chew to extract the sweet milk. He hands me a piece of Big G bubble gum in bright red packaging and I pop it into my mouth with the stick. The guys keep adding miraa and gum until their jaws are really working to chew the mass. But I'm only taking this one little bite, to see what it's all about. It's probably not enough to make a difference, but soon I feel a little more chatty than before, a little more smiley and clearheaded. I'm no longer irritated with the guy for breaking his seat nor am I nervous about being on this poorly maintained road at night. Soon I sleep and sleep some more. We stop regularly at little stores and rest stops, to pick up or drop off packages and passengers. Africa at night, along the highway, is serene. Our crowd is quiet, milling around, stretching their legs, getting a bite to eat. Sometimes we stop in the middle of nowhere for the driver to urinate. Then other men will climb out and they all line up shoulder to shoulder, backs to the bus, facing the bush. The women step into the black shadow of the bus for privacy. I sleep some more, until we pull into Nairobi to take on more passengers around 2 am. It's chilly in Nairobi and chilly on the road to Nakuru. When we pull into the Mobil station in Nakuru, passengers file on and someone says, "Hey there. Hey, there," with their hand reaching toward me, past Ed, and I look up to see Tony Bolo, from TICH, smiling down. My sleep-fuzzy mind registers his presence but not much more. After two hours, we reach Kisumu and then Tony and I are awake and able to talk. He's headed to the office after spending the weekend in Nakuru. I'm going home to rest. But first I stop by the Internet cafe to send emails, then walk home. Halfway home, a bicycle pulls up beside and Walter Odede says, "Hello there." He straps one of my bags to the back of the bike, greatly reducing my burden, and we walk along, talking about everything that's happened in the last 11 days since we've seen each other. He took medicine for the Malaria, went to his home place for four days, and is now better. I give him a paper bag of Swahili cake bought from a young woman at one of the bus stops. At my gate, Walter understands I must get inside and shower, for I'm filthy and tired from 24 hours on a bus. How lovely, though, to run into Tony and Walter upon arriving home. Of all the people in town to see, I bump into my two favorite guys. It's going to be a very good day.