I was very excited. It was going to be a great Saturday. Teacher Noisim was coming to collect me from school. We would visit her home and family before going to a pre-wedding party at a neighbour’s house. It was going to be my first opportunity to be really immersed in the Maasai culture and I couldn’t wait.
She planned to come to collect me by motorbike and then we would take a matatu to her house. A matatu is one of the main forms of transport in Kenya. It is a small minibus that seems to reach places even goats would fear to go. It is very cheap but doesn’t leave the starting point until it is totally full. By this, I mean that if it has room for 12 people – there must be at least 18 crammed in before the journey begins. This would be my first matatu ride – or so I thought.
Noisim arrived on the back of the motorbike, driven by her husband’s cousin, David. There had been a slight change of plan. We would not take a matatu after all. We would travel by Picka Picka (motorbike). A plethora of thoughts raced through my head. Where’s the other motorbike? (we’ll need two to take us there.) Where are the helmets? Has anyone seen the ruts on this track? Is it even possible? The last one was a particularly stupid question. I should know by now that everything is possible in Africa.
Noisim announced she would take my backpack on her back – otherwise she wouldn’t fit on behind me. Well, at least that answered one of my questions.
With a fixed grin on my face, I banish thoughts of traffic accidents and invalid insurance and climb on the back. At least Rwanda had prepared me a little, as almost all our travel there was by moto. We set off with me clinging on to David for dear life.
If I had known, I would have chosen a better outfit. I was wearing a long skirt with slits up the side so was now showing much more thigh than is acceptable to either me or the general Maasai population. However, I was not prepared to make myself more decent by letting go of David. It would have to do. We made it up the hill to Kisamis, where the sight of us caused quite a stir. People were literally coming out of shops to stare at the muzungu on the picka picka.
I thought I was nervous on the rutted track but when we hit the open road, David opened the throttle and we shot off. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I forced myself to focus on the small talk from Noisim. She explained to David why I am in Olepolos, how wonderful I am and that I am coming back in September. David has a good grasp of English and listens carefully. Did I have a husband in Scotland? I confirm that I do. Would I like to have a husband when I am in Kenya? That’s an interesting thought. I think I might be holding on too tight!
The scenery was spectacular as we drove through the Ngong hills. We passed goats, sheep and the inevitable cattle, driven by Maasai men in their brightly coloured tartan chukkas and their long wooden sticks. It was also wonderfully cool as we sped along. The picka picka is Kenyan air con, David explains.
Every car, truck and person we pass, stopped and stared. We must have made an extraordinary sight – white flesh and blonde hair blowing in the wind.
There are a couple of skippy bits – driving through the river, getting off to climb to the peak of a particularly steep hill, getting stuck behind a truck belching black smoke from the exhaust. But we make it there and back alive. Even I can tell that David is a particularly good driver and he is very kind and considerate. If I were to consider a Kenyan husband, he would definitely be a contender.
It has been a classic day in Africa, unexpected, terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time. However, if any of my children are reading this – don’t try this at home or at least don’t tell your mother!
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