Namanga, on the Kenya-Tanzania Border—23 June
The dusty little town with its single street and collection of ramshackle structures was an accident of history. There was no reason for its existence until the split-up of British East Africa. Now it was the only formal border crossing for many miles in either direction.
None of the permanent structures made of wood, stucco, or concrete blocks rose higher than a single story. This included the government building at the north end of the street. Beyond the solider edifices, like the lace trim on a lady's fan, was an undisciplined sprawl of sheds and huts fashioned from discarded poles, scrap lumber, and sheets of corrugated steel. Framing this urban orphan of independence was a pale-blue sky utterly devoid of clouds, brown hills marching southward, and the occasional feather-duster silhouette of an acacia.
None of Nairobi's sophistication here. Hordes of traders and nomads, travelers and squatters raised a cloud in front of the shops that lined the central street. Others with nothing to do and nowhere to go sat on wooden steps and porches and stared at the minutes of their lives ticking past. They came to Namanga because it was a destination, and any destination was a better place to be than the dry, empty plains. The town was poor, but it was not boring.
It was also a jumping-off place for Amboseli, one of Kenya's smaller but better-known game parks. As they parked next to the government office Oak watched a police officer in neat tan and khaki uniform wave a Volkswagen bus crammed with overdressed tourists eastward.
Their own driver was obviously delighted to be rid of them. He seemed genuinely surprised when Olkeloki favored him with a generous tip, however, and now that he had discharged his obligation a little of his original good humor returned.
"Good luck to you all. Ji hadari, be careful."
"We'll be fine." Even as she said it Merry wondered if she believed it herself.
While Olkeloki waited outside, she and Oak entered the government building and were directed to an office where a man in a dark suit sat behind a desk and stamped papers.
Amazing, Oak mused, how interchangeable bureaucrats were. He'd seen this man's twin countless times in Washington. Change the suit to a uniform and he'd have been right at home in the Pentagon. This is the species that really rules the world. Bureaucratis paperpushii internationalis.
Off in one corner two men in Arabic dress and narrow, pointed beards were arguing with a police officer. One wore a Muslim cap of embroidered white cotton that kept slipping off his head as he spoke. The officer leaned against the wall and listened patiently, arms folded and eyes half closed. As best Oak could make out the men were trying to come into Kenya from Tanzania with visas that were something less than in order.
The official inspecting their own passports noticed Oak's stare. "You see, sir, most of our traffic here is one way. There is nothing to buy in Tanzania, so whenever the people there can accumulate any hard currency or Kenyan shillings, they try to cross the border so they can shop here in Namanga. First they have to bribe their own officials to let them out, then they have to bribe them so they can get back in." He tactfully left off discussing what bribes if any might have to be paid at the Kenyan end of such shopping excursions, and handed back their passports.
"Thank you for visiting Kenya."
"We hope to be back in a few days," Merry explained.
"You have extended visas. We will be pleased to welcome you back when you have concluded your safari in Tanzania." Suddenly he glanced sharply up at her companion and Oak was immediately reminded of some of his colleagues in the Bureau. The man's main job might be the checking and stamping of passports, but he clearly did a little police work on the side.
"You are going just for safari, aren't you?"
Among the various guises Oak had perfected over the years to hide his real feelings and intentions was a vacant smile of surpassing blandness. "We're just tourists. We like traveling by ourselves. I think you can see and learn a lot more when you're not traveling with a group."
The official wasn't finished. "But you are not married."
"Do couples have to be married to travel in Tanzania?"
"No, but I advise you to stay as far away from the provincial authorities as possible. They do not usually harass well-organized groups of tourists traveling with professional guides, but one or two foreigners such as yourselves traveling by themselves are likely to provoke their interest. They are very suspicious over there. The Tanzanians think all foreigners are South African spies."
"Is there anything to spy on?"
The man grinned up at him. "Of course not. And should the South Africans want to spy on Tanzania, it follows that they would choose people who would be inconspicuous and would blend in among the locals, like a white man and woman with American accents. But that is what Tanzania is like today."
The sarcasm made Oak homesick for the corridors of Washington. He slipped his passport back into his backpack. At the same time a family of Indians stepped forward and the father dumped a dozen passports on the official's empty desk. He sighed and opened the one atop the pile.
Back outside they were momentarily dismayed not to find Olkeloki waiting for them. Merry finally spotted him standing across the street, poised on one leg and balancing himself with his staff. His ancient suitcase looked very out of place. He waved and gestured for them to join him. Oak shouldered his backpack.
As they crossed the street Merry was conscious of many eyes following their progress. They were the only white people in the town and it was a strange feeling to be the minority for a change. Probably the tourists who paused here on the way to Amboseli from Nairobi didn't bother to get off their air-conditioned buses. Certainly they didn't walk down the middle of the main street carrying their own luggage.
"Don't you have to get your passport checked too?" she asked Olkeloki.
He smiled at some private joke. "Not in Maasailand, Merry Sharrow."
"This is still Kenya." She pointed down the street. "Over there is Tanzania. Everyone in the office was having a passport checked."
"It is time to go. You will see." He picked up his suitcase and started down the street. Shopkeepers ceased their haggling to observe the unique passage of two muzungu trailing a laibon with a suitcase.
From time to time they would pass Maasai herders who had come into town to trade. There was unmistakable reverence in their voices when they spoke to Olkeloki. Seeking his blessings, perhaps, Oak thought. His opinion of the old man rose another notch. The Bantu did not speak to him, but they gave him a clear path. This unspoken deference extended to a cluster of half-naked children. They interrupted their soccer game to watch solemnly as the laibon strode past.
The street here was devoid of vehicular traffic. All cars and matatus were stopped at the barricade back by the government building. Nothing on wheels was allowed within a hundred yards of the border.
They were approaching a tall chain-link fence. It was initially impressive, until you noticed that it only extended for about fifty feet in either direction. Oak almost laughed aloud. Anyone could drive right around the barrier at either end. For that matter smugglers probably struck out across country and avoided the town altogether. But this was the formal border crossing, so it had to look formal. The fence was window-dressing, not a barrier.
Then they were walking in Tanzania instead of Kenya. Same dirt, same sun, but everything else was different. There were no crowds and no shops, just a couple of fading structures off to the left. The government building dated from colonial times. Next to it was a makeshift garage with a couple of pumps out front. A number of trucks and smaller vehicles stood parked wherever their owners had left them. No one was doing any trading because, as the Kenyan official had said, the people of Tanzania had nothing to sell to Kenya. What trade there was, as in illegal ivory, for example, would not pass through government hands.
Olkeloki directed them to the government building. Instead of the neatly uniformed Kenyan who'd escorted them to his passport offic
e, a single tired-looking overweight cop in pants and short-sleeved shirt boredly gestured them inside.
The building consisted of one large room with a few desks and filing cabinets. A fan turned lazily overhead, making life difficult for the flies. The single official was short-tempered and busy. Busy? Busy with what? Oak thought as they stood quietly and waited. He kept them waiting for an hour before he deigned to motion them forward. There followed another thirty minutes of inane questions until Merry began to fidget and Oak had to fight down the urge to toss the man out the nearest window.
Looking out the window as the man questioned Merry, Oak could see Olkeloki standing in full view of the cop on the porch. Surely he'd seen them cross the border. But he made no move to accost the old man or shoot questions at him.
A glance in the direction of the fence showed a line of men crossing back into Tanzania. They did not even glance toward the government building. They were clad in togas of light red or yellow and wore no blankets. Instead of staffs they carried long spears tipped with blades of varying length. Oak did a double take: it looked like they were wearing designer hose.
A closer look revealed that the differing designs composed of stripes and chevrons, dots and circles, were painted on. Their hair had been braided tighter than the tightest corn-rows with some cordlike material and the result dyed brightly with ochre. Like the leg paintings, each man's hairdo was different in design. Some wore long, straight braids while others preferred a pleated mat ending in a single short pigtail. They padded along silently in single file. A few carried calabashes similar to Olkeloki's, though not as fancily decorated.
As they passed the old man, each of the marchers executed some sort of salute.
Eventually the insufferable, insulting customs official consented to stamp their passports and they were allowed to depart. As soon as they rejoined Olkeloki Oak asked him about the line of marchers.
"Ilmoran. Junior and senior warriors."
"I notice they didn't check in with our slug of a customs man either."
"The Maasai have no need of passports in Maasailand. The governments of Kenya and Tanzania know this."
"And they let it go?"
"It is safer that way. Insistence upon unreasonable regulations would anger the Maasai. Neither government wants to anger the Maasai."
"They all saluted you or something."
"Yes." Olkeloki started toward the garage. "It is well that they did. It does not do for a moran to show disrespect before a laibon. They are good boys, most of them. A little high-spirited, but that is the nature of ilmoran."
"You must have been a moran yourself when you were younger," said Merry.
"Yes. It is a wonderful time, full of energy and excitement. We can rest a little easier now. We are in Maasailand and there will always be ilmoran around to call upon if we should need help. When there are warriors about, the lions leave."
"What about the shetani?"
He looked thoughtful. "That is something we may have a chance to find out, Merry Sharrow. Ah, here we will find transportation." He gestured toward the vehicles parked nearby.
The drivers were sitting in the shade of their machines, chatting or playing cards, but when the two muzungu appeared talk and play was instantly forgotten. Perhaps the travelers would be able to pay in dollars or sterling.
Oak studied the assortment of wired-together hulks and brakeless wonders with a jaundiced eye. "This lot makes the car we came down from Nairobi in look like a Rolls."
"Singularly unimpressive," Olkeloki agreed. "Nevertheless, we must hire one or walk."
"How far is it to where we're going?" Merry asked.
"Perhaps ninety kilometers. Sixty miles. But the way will not be as smooth as was our journey from Nairobi." They were walking around an old, abandoned bus pursued by pleading drivers when a miracle appeared. The miracle took the shape of a nearly new Subaru station wagon. It was white without any decoration or customizing whatsoever but it stood out like a winged chariot among its chunky, older relatives. Not only a real car, but four-wheel drive as well.
"Purchased for an outrageous price from some foreign-aid worker leaving Tanzania," Olkeloki explained. As they drew near, the mini-wagon disgorged what seemed to be half the population of Calcutta: mother, father, grandmother, mother-in-law, and an endless stream of bright-eyed children. Each of them down to the littlest infant clutched an empty shopping bag.
"Going over the border," Olkeloki said unnecessarily. "A major expedition. Perhaps all the way to Nairobi."
The driver was sitting behind the wheel with his door open counting his money as they approached. Olkeloki didn't appear to mind that Oak took the lead.
"We need transportation."
Obviously well-to-do, the driver looked up at him from beneath his cap. He wore faded blue jeans with only one visible hole above the left knee and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Mickey's two-button shorts had faded from red to pale pink as a result of endless washings.
"Certainly, bwana. Where you want to go?"
Now Olkeloki spoke up. "West."
The driver eyed him up and down, very modern and unimpressed by this paragon of traditional African power, Then he casually turned his attention back to the foreigner.
"I will take you east as far as Kitumbeine. The road to there is okay, but beyond is very bad. Washed out in places. Why you want to go west? If you want to go to Ngorgoro I will take you, but is best to go south to Arusha and then follow the main road to the parks. You want to go Serengeti? I take you Serengeti."
"No," said Olkeloki firmly. "My kraal should be near Engaruka now. That is where we must go."
Again the sideways appraisal before the driver smiled up at Oak. "I will take you and mama anywhere you want to go, but not him."
"Sorry. The old man goes with us or we don't go. He's our guide."
"Then let him guide you. I don't take him in my car." He pulled his legs in and started to close the door.
Olkeloki stepped past Oak, spoke softly. "Your vehicle is easy to describe. I know your license number and vehicle identification from the plate fastened to the upper dash." He gestured slightly with the walking stick. "I have friends in Dodoma."
"What is that to me?" said the driver, but he hesitated with the door closed only partway.
"How did you get a fine automobile like this?"
"I bought it" was the proud reply. "With my own money and money contributed by my family."
"Yes, but who did you buy it from, and how?" Olkeloki looked back at Oak and Merry. "You see, there is no way an ordinary African can purchase such a vehicle in Tanzania and it is illegal for departing foreign workers to sell their cars to local people."
"I bought it in Nairobi." The driver was chewing his lower lip and looking defensive.
"Do you take me for a fool? You and your whole family could not afford the duty you would have to pay to bring this back into the country. You have a black market license. The car has papers because they were transferred from the muzungu who sold you the car, and you paid off your local police. That is tolerable in small towns, but not in the capital. There are people there who will go out of their way to take this away from you."
The driver looked resigned. "All right then. But the old man sits in the back. I don't want his flies up here with me." Clearly he was hoping that Merry would slide in front next to him. Oak quickly disabused him of that notion by taking the other front seat while Merry and Olkeloki put their luggage in the back end. A few words of Swahili between Olkeloki and the sullen owner settled the price. The Subaru pulled out of the garage area with the other drivers looking on enviously.
They had encountered little traffic on the road from Nairobi to Namanga. Now they saw none. Like the highway on the Kenya side, the road they were bouncing southward on was also paved, but there the similarities ended. The Tanzanian road was showing the effects of inattention and disrepair. It didn't slow them down. Their driver seemed to know the exact location of every crack and pothole in
the pavement. He drove as though he was anxious to be rid of them.
Several miles south of the border he pulled over on the shoulder and stopped. "I want one hundred U.S. dollars to take you to Kitumbeine or you can get out and walk."
"We settled on a price." Olkeloki was clearly restraining himself. They'd never seen the old man mad. Oak wasn't sure he wanted to. "And you said you would take us to Engaruka. That is too far to walk from Kitumbeine."
"Strange things have been happening around Engaruka. I do not see for myself, but I hear. One hundred U.S. dollars to Kitumbeine."
"You drive this new car with all its innovations and you are still superstitious?" Olkeloki taunted him.
The driver pushed his cap back on his forehead as he turned to face Oak. "Where did you find this slippery-tongued laibon and what are you doing with him? What do you do in an empty place like Engaruka?"
"He's our guide. He's showing us around."
"Huh." The driver glanced in his rear-view mirror. "He's no tourist guide. You want to go to Engaruka, you have to pay fair. Maybe I wreck my car. Not much road between Kitumbeine and Engaruka."
Olkeloki had a small leather pouch attached to his belt. Now he unfastened the bone button that secured the flap and withdrew a wad of green paper. The driver's eyes got very wide as the old man counted out ten American fifty-dollar bills.
"I do not have time to argue with a thief. Take us to Engaruka."
"N'dio, laibon! Immediately! But if anything happens to my car it will cost you more."
"If you get us to Engaruka with a minimum of delay I will give you two more American fifties. If you try to cheat us I will give you the sharp end of my knife."
The driver did not look afraid. "Don't try to frighten me, old man. I will get you there without threats. I am not one of these simple country folk."
Oak thought the man's response smacked of false bravado, but then what did he know of local customs? Speaking of local customs…
"You said strange things have been happening around where we're going. What do you mean by 'strange things'?"