Last weekend I went to northern Kenya for what was supposed to be a quick and easy handover; a co-worker was supposed to take over the final days of a trip so another co-worker could get back to the office and address some upcoming changes to our program...we forgot how rare quick and easy is.
With no satellite phone and no real food (other than some Ramadan dates), the rear/long axel on our Defender came out of alignment/cracked/'was bad.' The car would start, the gears would engage, but we simply did not move. Stuck on one of the more-isolated stretches of road in the district where we work, I began to prepare myself for a night of dates and waiting.
Despite being in an area where lions are regularly sighted, I felt safe with my co-workers and fellow passengers. Luckily, we did not have to wait long for a vehicle, albeit one going in the wrong direction. Cargo trucks driving the abysmal roads in northern Kenya often carry mechanics who can hop out at a moment's notice and crawl over/under/around/through an engine in their omnipresent green canvas jumpsuits. Our first vehicle was such a truck and out popped a lanky mechanic who quickly assessed that we were not going anywhere. He told us what specifically was wrong with the Defender and what would be needed to fix it. Able to do nothing more, he hopped back into the cab and the truck rattled to life and continued down the road, leaving us in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. Not too much longer we had the luck of another truck, this time headed in the direction we needed to go. We were doubly lucky as it belonged to a company owned by my co-worker's cousin (despite being geographically vast, northern Kenya is a small world) and my co-worker vaguely knew the driver. The cab was crammed full, five men with the windows rolled up tightly against the dust. Riding on top of the crossbars covering the trailer of the truck were two sandy men, dazed by sun and wind. My co-worker turned to me, "Can you go ahead to Ngurunit and tell our mechanic to come get us?" His plan was that I would find our mechanic, who was with the rest of the team in a village anywhere between 2-4 hours ahead, describe where our broken Defender was and then send him out as a rescue vehicle.
I looked at the truck. I did a quick calculation. "Can I ride at the top?"
For everyone in northern Kenya, riding trucks (or 'lorries,' as they are called, only one of many vestigial English terms) is the way to get around. It is nothing new, nothing exciting. While 20-25 feet of iron or steel trailer gives you some shock absorbance not enjoyed by passengers closer to the ground, it is not a comfortable way to travel. I didn't care. As a woman, my independent movements (anywhere unfamiliar, but especially in northern Kenya) are limited. More adventurous male backpackers can boast of riding lories into the desert but it remains out of reach for most female travelers. Even in northern Kenya, lorries pass by with men on the roof and women down in the trailer, standing among goats, relief food, construction equipment, cows and cement. This was my chance.
"Of course," he said, "You are our messenger." So after politely declining the space squeezed out by the guys in the cab, I handed my bag up and climbed to the roof. As we pulled away from the stalled Defender, I could hear my co-worker yelling the name of the closest village, to tell our mechanic as a landmark.
As soon as I balanced myself on the crossbars, I noticed how different this familiar landscape looked a few feet higher; the view was spectacular. Mountains were no longer obscured by wide-spreading acacia trees, I could see over brush to herds of dik dik, duiker and gerenuk. The road snaked in front of us and I noticed ditches and rocks with enough time to shift my grip and brace for bumps. It felt like being on a ship but with dusty rather than salty wind at my face. I can't think of a better perspective from which to see northern Kenya for the last time. As my work draws to a close, this trip was my last time to be in such an evocative and powerful landscape.
The journey was slow but uneventful. I arrived in Ngurunit to the shock and amusement of our field team, whose jaws nearly hit the floor when they looked up on top of the lorry to see it was me shouting their names. Our mechanic leapt into action, carrying freshly cooked rice and hopes of finding a spare long axel as he went to the Defender's rescue. When they finally arrived, seven hours later, it was clear our working vehicle would have to leave early in the morning to deliver my co-worker and I back home, picking up spare parts on the way and attempting to get back north before dark. This necessitated a 4am departure the next morning, 10 hours after I had arrived dusty and dry from our failed Defender. We decided it was the shortest trip possible to northern Kenya.
As we flew through the dawn, reaching the southern-most community in which we work just before sunrise, I looked out the window and swallowed a lump in my throat, realizing it would be some time before I came back to this place. With no time for reflection, we sped onward, hitting the beginning of the paved road, signaling the end of 'the field' as the sun arrived fully in the sky.
With no satellite phone and no real food (other than some Ramadan dates), the rear/long axel on our Defender came out of alignment/cracked/'was bad.' The car would start, the gears would engage, but we simply did not move. Stuck on one of the more-isolated stretches of road in the district where we work, I began to prepare myself for a night of dates and waiting.
Despite being in an area where lions are regularly sighted, I felt safe with my co-workers and fellow passengers. Luckily, we did not have to wait long for a vehicle, albeit one going in the wrong direction. Cargo trucks driving the abysmal roads in northern Kenya often carry mechanics who can hop out at a moment's notice and crawl over/under/around/through an engine in their omnipresent green canvas jumpsuits. Our first vehicle was such a truck and out popped a lanky mechanic who quickly assessed that we were not going anywhere. He told us what specifically was wrong with the Defender and what would be needed to fix it. Able to do nothing more, he hopped back into the cab and the truck rattled to life and continued down the road, leaving us in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. Not too much longer we had the luck of another truck, this time headed in the direction we needed to go. We were doubly lucky as it belonged to a company owned by my co-worker's cousin (despite being geographically vast, northern Kenya is a small world) and my co-worker vaguely knew the driver. The cab was crammed full, five men with the windows rolled up tightly against the dust. Riding on top of the crossbars covering the trailer of the truck were two sandy men, dazed by sun and wind. My co-worker turned to me, "Can you go ahead to Ngurunit and tell our mechanic to come get us?" His plan was that I would find our mechanic, who was with the rest of the team in a village anywhere between 2-4 hours ahead, describe where our broken Defender was and then send him out as a rescue vehicle.
I looked at the truck. I did a quick calculation. "Can I ride at the top?"
For everyone in northern Kenya, riding trucks (or 'lorries,' as they are called, only one of many vestigial English terms) is the way to get around. It is nothing new, nothing exciting. While 20-25 feet of iron or steel trailer gives you some shock absorbance not enjoyed by passengers closer to the ground, it is not a comfortable way to travel. I didn't care. As a woman, my independent movements (anywhere unfamiliar, but especially in northern Kenya) are limited. More adventurous male backpackers can boast of riding lories into the desert but it remains out of reach for most female travelers. Even in northern Kenya, lorries pass by with men on the roof and women down in the trailer, standing among goats, relief food, construction equipment, cows and cement. This was my chance.
"Of course," he said, "You are our messenger." So after politely declining the space squeezed out by the guys in the cab, I handed my bag up and climbed to the roof. As we pulled away from the stalled Defender, I could hear my co-worker yelling the name of the closest village, to tell our mechanic as a landmark.
As soon as I balanced myself on the crossbars, I noticed how different this familiar landscape looked a few feet higher; the view was spectacular. Mountains were no longer obscured by wide-spreading acacia trees, I could see over brush to herds of dik dik, duiker and gerenuk. The road snaked in front of us and I noticed ditches and rocks with enough time to shift my grip and brace for bumps. It felt like being on a ship but with dusty rather than salty wind at my face. I can't think of a better perspective from which to see northern Kenya for the last time. As my work draws to a close, this trip was my last time to be in such an evocative and powerful landscape.
The journey was slow but uneventful. I arrived in Ngurunit to the shock and amusement of our field team, whose jaws nearly hit the floor when they looked up on top of the lorry to see it was me shouting their names. Our mechanic leapt into action, carrying freshly cooked rice and hopes of finding a spare long axel as he went to the Defender's rescue. When they finally arrived, seven hours later, it was clear our working vehicle would have to leave early in the morning to deliver my co-worker and I back home, picking up spare parts on the way and attempting to get back north before dark. This necessitated a 4am departure the next morning, 10 hours after I had arrived dusty and dry from our failed Defender. We decided it was the shortest trip possible to northern Kenya.
As we flew through the dawn, reaching the southern-most community in which we work just before sunrise, I looked out the window and swallowed a lump in my throat, realizing it would be some time before I came back to this place. With no time for reflection, we sped onward, hitting the beginning of the paved road, signaling the end of 'the field' as the sun arrived fully in the sky.
