Just as I thought, the road from Isiolo to Nairobi was smooth. I hitchhiked with a bus from Isiolo to Meru, with a car from Meru to Kobo, and then with a pickup from Kobo to Nairobi. Meme, the driver, is a university professor in Nairobi. He came back to Kobo to visit his family. He usually picks up passengers to share the gas, but he picked me up for free, bought me lunch and even paid for my transport from his home in Nairobi to where I was supposed to meet Mwega, founder of Karika, the organization I was going to volunteer with.

How I got to know Karika was an interesting story. Free Hugs Vietnam works with an American NGO called HOW. HOW’s director, Ms. Amazing Hillary, has a partner in Ireland called Niamh. When I started my trip, Hillary asked many of her friends to help me, and Niamh introduced me to Karika. Karika basically saved my life when I first arrived in Nairobi.

Mwega and Karika’s secretary, Violet, picked me up from Hilton hotel. I made it to Nairobi just few hours before my birthday with almost nothing in my pocket. I was over the moon. All I wanted now was a good shower, a good dinner and nothing else would matter.

They took me back to Violet’s place. She lives in a slum area called Kawangware with her two sons: 15 y/o Kale and 11 y/o Hamfari (whose name I thought at first was ‘I’m free’). The 9m2 room was divided into two parts by a wattle wall, the outside part serves as the living room, while the inside serves as the bedroom-cum-kitchen. The living room has a small set of sofa, and a tiny TV. The bedroom has 2 small bunk beds for the kids and one slightly bigger one for Violet. When I was there, Kale slept on the couch to give me his bed. I was deeply touched. I couldn’t thank them enough.

After 5 days 4 nights on the road, I was coated in dust and smelt like sour dough. I desperately needed a shower. I looked around for the sign of a bathroom but couldn’t find any. One hour later, still nobody mentioned anything about it. Unable to wait any longer, I asked for permission to use the toilet.

Violet’s face suddenly became pale. She gave Kale the flashlight to show me the toilet outside. It was a traditional Africa toilet, shared by a dozen of family. Next to it was a small empty room which I assumed to be used as the bathroom. Now I understood why nobody ever suggested me to take a bath. It was just impossible to take a bath at that time. No water no light.

Nothing else to do, I went to bed early after carefully cleansing my skin with some tissue so that the dust wouldn’t fall on my bed. I was waken up next morning by the suffocating smell of the oil cooking stove. Violet was making tea. She warmly welcomed me:

- Do you want to take a shower now?

- A million times YES.

And she gave me a bucket of 5 liters of water. There is no water to waste. Water only comes once a week. Violet stores it in two jerricans. I asked for a little more so that I could wash my hair as well, promising her that I wouldn’t take a shower the next day.

After a breakfast of milk tea and mandazi (sweet fried bread), Mwega and Violet took me to work. Karika stands for Kenyan Aged people Require Information, Knowledge and Advancement. They work with old people, providing them with information, consultancy and support. I was supposed to teach the management board how to use computer but they didn’t have electricity at the “office” (which is actually a hut sparsely put together), so most of the time, I just hang around the class. At that time, Karika was teaching handicraft to two dozens of youths who can’t afford to go to university. They asked me how old I was.

- 21. Actually I’m turning 21 today.

- Really? Today is your birthday? Are you going to buy us cakes?

Geez, I couldn’t even buy a cake for myself T_T I changed the topic. They asked what I was doing and I told them that I was doing a long trip.

- Wow, you are rich.

- No, not all travelers are rich. Actually I’m traveling with very little money.

- How can you buy flight tickets?

- I’m don’t fly. I travel by road, mostly hitchhiking.

- How about accommodation?

- I couchsurf. I mean, I stay at strangers’ houses for free.

- Are you kidding us? Chip, it’s ok if you don’t want to buy us cakes, but stop telling lies.

Offended, I tried my best to let out a faint smile and walked away. I couldn’t blame those kids. Years of colonial White-settlement created a racial chasm that still affects Africans nowadays: many of them believe all white people are walking money bags (I’m called “white” here). Those tourists who pour money carelessly on luxurious tours and local kids don’t make it any better. I went out to find an Internet cafe. To my utmost delight, a friend invited me for dinner to celebrate my birthday. I told Mwega that but he didn’t want me to go. He was worried about my safety. Nairobi, especially Kawangware, is not the best place to go around at night. He told me that Violet already cooked me dinner.

- Come on, she will be very upset if you don’t eat with her.

And we went home for my birthday dinner. Violet made ugali and cabbage, the same as what we had last night. Suddenly my heart broke into thousands of pieces. I knew it wasn’t easy for them to keep food on the table everyday, and I felt really bad that I couldn’t help them with anything.  But I couldn’t hold myself up any longer. I finished the dinner and went to bed. Tears dwelt in my eyes. I cried and cried. I didn’t blame anybody, but I wished Mwega had let me go out for dinner instead of forcing me to eat at home. Self-pity? Yes. Bitterness? Yes. Oh Chip, you get what you deserve. It’s YOUR birthday, not MY birthday. Who gives a shit about you huh? Millions of people out there don’t even know who their parents are, let alone what day they were born. If you think you deserve something, go get it yourself. Nobody is obligated to make you happy. I felt more lonely than ever. I missed my family, I missed my friends. I almost convinced myself that the next day, I would rent an apartment and get out of here. Life here is just too hard.

 

But the next day as I woke up in the suffocating smell as usual, the broad smile on Violet and the kids’ faces struck me made me feel like a pussy. I had stayed there for only one night and already cried my heart out. They had been living there for ages and still think that there is no better place than home. A situation doesn’t define who you are, but the way you deal with it does. And apparently, they were dealing with it better than I was. I felt ashamed of myself. If they can live with this, so can I. I’m going to make myself get used to the “no water no light” life in this slum, I’m going to make the kids at the orphanage understand that you don’t have to be a money bag to travel, I’m going to teach Violet to use computer, and I’m going to learn Swahili to talk to the old people.

Challenge accepted!

Tags: Africa, Chip, Karika, Kawangware, Kenya, Nairobi, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary, Volunteer

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

I woke up the next day, fresh and happy. At that time, I was sure that the decision to hit the road was the right one. If I had stayed in Addis, I would just hang around the places I usually went to. Lot of comfort, no risk but also no excitement. Now I had the whole new road, 487km, in front of me to explore.

I had neither a map nor a guide book at that time. From Mergia, I knew that I would have to get to Dilla, then Haggae Mariam, then Yabelo and then Moyale. Negat Children’s Home is very close to the main road down South. Mergia walked me there, then we bit goodbye.

- See you around! – Yeah, around the world.

The first car that picked me up dropped me at the bus station. He never understood the meaning of hitchhiking. I hopped on like 3 different cars: a car, a pickup truck and a truck; each took me around 20km further. The road was winding and deceiving. After 4 hours, I thought that I must have traveled at least 150km. But the truck driver who dropped me at Dilla warned me:

- Are you sure you want to do that? Still 400km to go.

- What? How far is it from Awassa here?

- 90km.

Oh I hate it! With this speed, it’d take me at least 2 more days to reach Moyale.

The further south I went, the less traffic there was. Only a car every 10 minutes. Most of them traveled very short distance. I had to walk for a long time, and attracted a lot of unsolicited attention. Normally I would try to walk out of town to get rid of it, but at that time I was too tired to care. I put my backpacks down. Two dozens of people, both young and old, gathered around, stared at me. I took out my phone and played Ray Charles’ music loud. Soon I got carried away by the music. I closed my eyes, started whistling and dancing. Some whistled back. Some sang along. Some laughed. When I opened my eyes, the audience had grown to at least 50 people. I burst into laughing. And they all laughed. It was quite a scene. I must have been the first street entertainer they had ever seen in their entire lives in this boring village.

I got on another truck and immediately fell asleep. I woke up just to realize that the truck had come to stop. The engine broke down and the drivers were trying to fix it. There was absolutely no traffic on the road. I fell back into sleep and woke up again. The truck was still stalling and there was still no hope of fixing it anytime soon. So I just sat in the middle of the road patiently waiting for a car to run me over and end all my miseries. Finally a pick-up truck emerged from dust. It was transporting furniture with metal legs shooting up like giant teeth. I crouched trying to avoid being thrust through by one of them.

The truck dropped me outside of a small town 27km away from Haggae Mariam. It was around 4pm. I planned to hitchhike to Haggae Mariam, but as I was walking through that small town, few dozens of people surrounded me. They forcefully put me on a bus. I had no idea what they told the bus conductor that he refused to accept my payment.

I arrived in Haggae Mariam at dust and had no other choice but to stay here for the night. I walked in the only stayable-looking hotel in town, Haggae Mariam Hotel. It was way over my budget. I explained my situation to Tina – the beautiful receptionist. She was at the same age as me, and was completely shocked to hear my story.

- Stay here, pay as much as you could, and we’ll chip in the rest.  – spoke she on behalf of the staff at the hotel.

But I couldn’t let them do that. I knew they got paid next to nothing, and I’d kill myself if I took their money. Luckily, a gentleman who was staying at the hotel overheard the story and offered to pay for the rest.

After having my accommodation fixed, I began another mission impossible. I would have to buy Kenyan visa at the border in dollars, but all I had was Ethiopian birr. Something strange about Ethiopia, you can never buy dollars anywhere outside Addis Ababa. The banks only buy dollars. They don’t sell. A man there told me that he would take me to a place where I could buy dollars. I agreed to go with him after dinner time. But as soon as I walked by the reception, Tina grabbed me:

- Did that man do anything do you?

- No, he told me he’d take me to a place where I could get dollars.

- Don’t go with him. He’s not a good man. We live here, we know. – The girls around nodded in approval.

- He seems to be nice to me so far.

- He told everybody that he kissed you.

I also didn’t have a good feeling about him, so I thanked the girls and decided to drop that mission. Bored, I gave the waitresses there a hand, then went to bed early. If you ever come to Haggae Mariam, please drop by to say Hi to Tina for me.

Tags: Border Crossing, Chip, Chipro, Ethiopia, Haggae Mariam, Hitch-hiking, Isiolo, Kenya, Moyale, People, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary, Yabello

I’m devastated.

It was a long day, the longest day of my life: getting lost in an island, a fight, 2 police stations and being robbed by a group of 6 men with knives, losing my camera and all money I had left.

I woke up early in the morning. It was only 5am, so I decided to take a walk around Lamu island for the last time before heading back to Mombasa. The walk was nice, until I went deep inside the island and got terribly lost. The short walk turned out to take more than 4 hours. I was so tired that I had to knock on a house’s to ask for some water. The house owner gave me a glass of water, not clear but white, and I could see all the nasty things swimming inside. But I was too thirsty and too polite to decline. It tasted like washing detergent.

I came back to where I was staying on the island to get my stuff. There I had a fight with the house owner over the bill. He told me a price when I came, but when I checked out he asked for another price. I was so tired and just wanted to get back to Mombasa, so I paid him anyway. I left feeling like an idiot. Later, probably ridden with guilt, he called me to apologize. He said that since I looked so sad, I must have told the truth and he must have told me the other price but forgotten. He offered me 2 days staying for free, but I was already on a boat to the mainland, and wasn’t ready to face any other kind of treachery.

I reached Lamu mainland at around 10am. Lamu is on Somalia – Kenya border, and since the recent war between these two countries, the road from Lamu back has been the main target of Somali terrorists. All vehicles that go through this way have to have at least 2 armed escorts. When I came, I tried to hitchhike but failed since there was no traffic at all. But this time, having already spent more money than I should, I made up my mind that I’d hitchhike back to Mombasa. I got a ride with a jeep to Mokowe, a small town around 5km from the jetty. From there, I walked. There was absolutely no car. There was no moving things on the road apart from occasional monkeys. I found myself in the middle of a jungle. The sun was getting hot, my water was running low and my skin was getting burnt. But I was in a very good mood. I’ve always had a thing for the road, and being on the road again made me happy. I was also kind of looking forward to being back in Mombasa. I played my favorite songs and screamed along on top of my lung. The monkeys stared at me. I walked like that, singing and dancing on my toes, for around 1h until finally I got a ride on the back of a pickup truck. The road was awful, loads of potholes. I tried my best not to get thrown out of the truck. The car stopped in Mpeketoni. I joined the driver for lunch. Here he started asking stupid questions.

- Where are you from?

- Vietnam.

- Do you know history?

- I’m aware of it. Yeah?

- You know about the war with America? How was it?

- What do you mean how was a war? It was a freaking war, of course it wasn’t fun.

- Do you know why you won the war?

- Because we were good.

- No, because you were lucky. The jungle helped you.

Jesus Christ, I hated this kind of conversation. I hate people talking about our war as if they knew it. He then started asking about my trip. I told him that I’m traveling by hitchhiking, but he didn’t answer the word so I said “walking and asking cars for lifts”.

- You must not be serious. People really give you lifts?

- You saw me walking, and you gave me a lift.

- I’m stopping here. How are you going to get from here to Mombasa.

- The same way.

- No, you can’t walk from here. It’s too far.

- Of course I can.

- You are not allowed to. This is not a safe area.

- Who doesn’t allow me to?

- Me.

- Excuse me, I’m the only one who has the right to decide. I walk where I want to.

- You can walk, but you’ll have to sign a paper that if something happens to you, our hands are clear.

- I’m not gonna sign any paper. If you are afraid of responsibility, I’m leaving now.

I got mad. I hate it when people decide what I can do and what I cannot. I’d rather starve than to have to stand that paranoia through the lunch. I stood up and left. That man called the police. A policeman on motorbike approached me when I was walking.

- Excuse me ma’am, can I see your ID?

- No, there is no reason why I should show my ID to a random policeman. It’s not even a checkpoint.

- Ma’am, can you stop for a minute?

- No.

I kept on walking. The guy followed me for like 15mins. Then he parked his bike somewhere, another policeman joined him and they both walked after me. They grabbed my backpack:

- Ma’am, you have to stop. We need to search you.

I took off my backpack and left it to them.

- Take it and keep it safe. I’ll get it later, if anything is missing, you’ll have to pay for it.

So they were carrying my backpack and walking after me while I was shouting at them all the way.

- It’s offensive. You don’t stop random tourists and ask to search them as if they were criminals. I have traveled a long way and I have never been treated like this.

I wasn’t offended. I know I was being an asshole, even though I don’t quite know why. Finally their boss came, and he really stopped me.

- You are under arrest.

So I had to follow them to the police station. There they searched my backpack but I wasn’t very co-operative.

- You take them out, you have to put them back.

There were a dozen of men in their office and none seemed to be working. All of them gathered around and inspected every single item of my backpack. They found a tampon.

- What is it?

- A tampon.

- What is it for? It looks like a candy. – One of them held it up and sniffed it. Oh geez, do I really have to do it, in front of 12 inquisitive African guys?

- It’s for a girl when she has period. I hope you know what “period” means, ‘cos I really don’t want to explain it. – I laughed so hard that I almost fell off the table (I was sitting on a table). – And for God’s sake, stop smelling it.

I was carrying a bag of salt. They found it but probably thought it was heroine or something.

- What is it?

I decided to use it for my own amusement.

- Find it out yourselves.

So they all put their faces close down to the table, sniffed it, touched it but too scared to taste it. Finally, a man gathered all his courage to taste it:

- It’s salty. – He frowned, probably trying to think of any drug he knew that tasted salty. I couldn’t hold myself back anymore. I burst into laughing.

- Of course it’s salty. It’s salt.

After that came the interrogation which they called “interview”. I told them that I’m from Rainbow island and gave them all kinds of fancy names for whatever they asked and they totally bought it. Finally they were done. But I didn’t want to leave like that. I decided that I’d give them a harder time than they gave me.

- You made me late. I’m gonna be stuck in the middle of nowhere in the dark. You won’t want to be responsible if anything bad happens to me.

- We will put you on a bus.

- Are you going to pay for it as well.

So they put me on a bus and paid for the ticket. I reached Mombasa at around 9pm. In Mombasa, I was staying with a CouchSurfer called Philip. He told me that he and his roommate were cooking dinner and watching fireworks. It was Diwali, the festival of lights in Hinduism and Mombasa is full if Indians. I was too excited when I got the bus that I didn’t notice where I was heading to. I was just thinking to myself: “This road is kind of dark, I should take a matatu” when a group of guys approached me. One of them pushed me down on the ground and held me down with his knife. The others took away the camera bag. I ran after them and shouted. I stripped and twisted my ankle. I lost them. There were a bunch of security men in front of a hotel. I shouted at them in vain.

- What the hell is wrong with you? There are tens of strong men in freaking security uniforms, and a bunch of thieves ran right in front of your nose and none of you stopped them? Not that you didn’t know, I was shouting thief all the way.

- Sorry Ma’am, they have knives.

I felt more vulnerable and lonely than ever. I just sat there in front of the hotel, didn’t know what to do. I was still shocked to walk back alone, and didn’t have money to take a taxi as all my cash was lost with the camera bag. Somebody called the police. They came pick me up and took me to the police station to report. “Shit happens. 2 robbery in 1 week are too much, but at least I’m safe.” – I gathered all my leftover strength to act normal and smile. I hadn’t eaten anything since the morning. All I wanted to do was to get back to Philip’s place, take a good rest for few days to recover then decide what to do next. The police dropped me at Philip’s place at around 11pm. He welcomed me with the worst news ever:

- Kenya is in war with Somalia. The company is pulling us out. We will be evacuated tomorrow.

That means I’ll have to find another place to stay tomorrow. I’m too weak to hit the road again, too tired of this city to stay any longer, and too broke to afford a rest in a hotel.

I feel more lonely and vulnerable than ever.

I’m tired, but can’t sleep. I’m afraid, I won’t be able to face what is to come tomorrow.

Tags: Africa, Chip, Kenya, Lamu, Mombasa, Police, Robbery, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary