The next day, I woke up early. There was absolutely no traffic, so I was forced to take a bus to the border. Standing next to me was a middle-aged man in brown leather jacket and checked cap. There was something about him that distinguished himself from the rest of people on the bus. His face was sharply cut, his eyebrows were thick, and his eyes were deep. He stood there with one hand holding on the metal and another in the trousers’ pocket. I couldn’t help but imagining him puffing on a pipe, just like any Don in a Hollywood mafia movie.
- Where are you going, Sir?
- To visit my mines in Yabello. – His English was perfect.
- Mines?
- Yes, I’m a gem trader.
And just like that, I had the most interesting conversation about finding and trading gems. Mining had always been a myth to me, a lucrative myth that through history has caused millions of people to leave their homes to dig into the ground and never go come back. Suddenly, I desperately wanted to have the first hand experience of it.
- Can I find a job at one of your mines?
- Haha young lady, look at your hands. Can you even hold a hoe?
- Of course I can. Pay me less if you think I’m not working as hard as the others, but pay me more when I find something.
- This is the dry season, we don’t have water to run the mines so you’ll have to wait. Why is that you want to work in a mine? You don’t have money?
- You can say so.
- I have to get off here. Email me your address once you have one. I’ll send you something.
Later I found out that he paid for my bus ticket. He gave me his business card, but I have never emailed him. Maybe I should, just to say thank you eh 
The bus driver and conductor took me under their wings and bought me breakfast/lunch. I arrived at the border town Moyale in the afternoon. The whole town centers around a dusty main road that hosts a busy market, a petrol station, a church and a mosque. I always love border towns. They are never modernized enough, yet they are never backward. They are always exotic, the perfect playground for the infusion of two different races, two different cultures, two different languages, two different cuisines. Border towns are probably the only place ever truly borderless, as the differences are embraced, rather than to be rejected. And nothing beats the feeling when you first see the sign: “Welcome to [country name]”.
The only time I don’t like border towns is when I have to change money here. I tried to find to find an Internet cafe just to see how much money I’d be willing to lose, but nothing worked. I approached a man in black suit hopefully he’d know the rate.
- You need to change money? Come, I’ll take you to Kenya bank.
- On the other side of the border? Oh, I can’t buy Kenya’s visa now ‘cos I don’t have money.
- Don’t worry about it.
As I jumped in his car, I realized that it was a Kenya’s government car. This man was the governor-to-be of Kenya’s Moyale. As long as I was with him, nobody asked for my passport.
The rate was ridiculously bad, and after buying $50 for the visa, I had only 400 Ksh left (~$4). He put me in a guesthouse, a 4m2 room with a single bed and a window to the gloomy corridor. The toilet is outside, and there was no water for washing. But “it’s safe, clean, and only 200Tsh/night”. He paid for it.
Kenya’s Moyale is one hell of difference from Ethiopia’s Moyale. People there called me “mzungu” instead of “faranji”, but nobody gave me higher price just because I looked different. Kenyans speak English better, and they hassle you less. The dry sand, the white tents, the girls in black veils and the mosque made me feel as if I was back in the desert somewhere in Egypt. I made friends with a local family and they sent their teenage daughter to show me around.
There was nothing to see in Moyale. I knew it was time to leave, but I didn’t know how. Taking bus was out of question, but I was reluctant to hitchhike. The road from Moyale to Isiolo is considered one of the most dangerous roads in Africa. Most vehicles that go through it have armed escorts. My best friend Asher, a crazy traveler who has been to this area, sent me a message: “Ha, from Addis to Moyale is easy. Now try to find your way to Isiolo. If you hitchhike, I’d kill you.”
I ran into a Chinese guy called Roger and his colleague. They invited me to join their promotion in Ethiopia the next day. For the sake of procrastination, I agreed. The next morning, as I went to their hotel to wait for them, I struck up a conversation with a man sitting in front of his laptop. It turned out that he was also going to Isiolo.
- How are you gonna get there?
- A private car.
- When?
- In about 1 hour.
So I ran back to my guest house, quickly packed my stuff, called Roger to cancel and joined the man. His private car was actually a jeep, and he wasn’t going alone. There were few other buff men in the crew. I was seated on the back of the jeep which was sparsely covered with thick camouflage cloth. At first, I was happy. I’ve always liked sitting on the back of pick-up trucks with fresh air and natural wind on my face. But I soon realized that traveling on a tarmac road and traveling through the desert aren’t the same.
I couldn’t count how many times my head banged against the metal hanging cross jeep. The only thing I could do was to hold tightly to the pole, as there was a real threat that I could be thrown out of the jeep any minute. The sun was hot. The wind was strong. The sand was ubiquitous. My lips parched, my eyes slit, my face covered in dust. I couldn’t breathe. Looking to my left, I saw another jeep about 100m from where I was. Suddenly I realized that there wasn’t any road at all. We were just following scattering trails cross the desert.
Once in a while, I saw the resemblance of a forest, but the trees looked like they were straight out of the Old Forest of The Lord of the Rings, created to trick the profane travelers who dared to enter the haunted land. They were big like oak trees, each with hundreds of branches spreading out like an umbrella. They didn’t have any leaves, but the bark was whimsically colorful: green, blue, yellow. I stared at them like a stoned junkie staring at Windows Media Player, until the sound of a bang and a dent on my head brought me back to reality. I knew that I was extremely lucky to get a ride from town. Had I hitchhiked in this land, if I didn’t get kidnapped and killed by bandits, I’d probably get lost and die.
The jeep stopped by Marsabit, a desolate desert town half way between Moyale and Isiolo. I barely had time to breathe and picked the dust out of my nose when the jeep started moving again. We were running out of time. The road was long and bumpy.
I arrived in Isiolo at midnight with only 200Tsh in my pocket, as I already spent 200Tsh on water and some food. The jeep stopped at a hotel but I couldn’t afford it for nuts, so I walked around hoping to find a cheaper option. I found a guesthouse for 600Tsh. I told the owner that he didn’t have to give me a room, that he could just leave me sleep on the couch for 200Tsh. I must have looked like a zombie at that time, as troad had completely destroyed me. He told me that I looked like I needed some rest, and he let me stay in a room for all what I had left.
So I went to bed. I had no money left but I felt better than ever. I just travelled through one of the worst roads in Africa, safe and sound. Now there was nothing standing between me and Nairobi. I had no doubt that I’d reach Nairobi before Sep 19 – my 21st birthday.
Tags: Border Crossing, Chip, Chipro, Ethiopia, Gem, Hitch-hiking, Isiolo, Kenya, Mining, Moyale, People, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary
