A KENYAN TRAVELLER
GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN
A
Delays and a heavy gear shift slow Morris Kiruga’s progress to Rusinga, but he soons finds that speed isn’t everything
t 11 am, my mechanic still wasn’t done. Ishmael, like most people in his trade, swore he was doing his best to finish with car. But it was a story I’d heard before. Three times, actually, in the preceding 24 hours. I was getting impatient. We all were. There were 408 kilometres between where we were, with fully-packed bags, and where we needed to be. From Google Maps, it looked like a long, winding blue line between the center of Kenya and its Western edge. To an island so beloved, its people named it twice-Rusinga Island (the base word for Rusinga in Suba means island). There were other reasons for my anxiety. The year before this trip, I’d hitched a ride with two fellow pens, Magunga Williams and Abigail Arunga. In a car blaring the new Sauti Sol album on repeat, we cruised past Nakuru with nary a care in the world. Then somewhere after Salgaa, on a straight descent, we got caught speeding. Abigail was herded into a tiny hut and we had to spend four hours waiting for the wheels of justice to turn. There are two ways of getting to to Rusinga Island, just off the mainland in Mbita. One goes through Nakuru and Kericho, and is one of the most policed roads in Kenya. The other, through Narok and Kisii, is slightly shorter. But it has an unfortunate history of flash floods making it at times impassable. Still, to ward off the bad vibes from the previous trip, I chose the latter. Thankfully, and in a macabre sense, I was at the wheel of a VW Golf with gear issues. Speeding was out of the question.
22
DISCOVER
EXPLORE
EXPERIENCE
Ishmael finally called at midday, just before my company and I gave up on getting to Rusinga on time. The Rusinga Island Festival, a fervent two-day event that takes place every year, would start the next morning. It is a celebration of Abasuba culture, one so misunderstood that it is often just stacked up with its neighbors, the Luo. To get to Narok, you first have to descend the precarious escarpment towards Mai Mahiu. There are a few roads like this one in Kenya, carved onto the side of the hill so perfectly that you feel l’appel du vide - the call of the void. The first pit stop was in Narok, just 142 km in. It is a town defined by its many nyama choma meat stops; so popular in fact that you can buy and be on your way in under five minutes. From Narok, the road weaves into an endless play of turns and long straight stretches on hilly land. It feels like a rollercoaster at times, and even in a faulty car, I was still paranoid of speed guns lurking behind the bushes and shrubs. At least thrice between Narok and my next major destination, Kisii, I found speed spots, and drove past them with a smug smile. Somewhere between Bomet and Kisii, my safari buddy was a white pickup driven by a man who doesn’t like to lose. The problem is that even a Golf with gear issues is beautiful on the turns, especially in places where speed matters less than stability. As we entered Kisii, the man drew level with me to get my attention, then his friend passed a note with a phone number. If I ever want to sell the car, he shouted, I should call him. I was still smiling about this when I realised that we still had a long way to go. Darkness
was setting in and my shoulders were cramping up. On the other end of this trip would be one of the most fascinating places in Kenya. Set on Lake Victoria, Rusinga Island is an elongated stretch connected to the mainland by a new bridge. At night, if you look out into the lake, it looks like a city has sprung out of nowhere. An endless city of flickering lights as fishermen camp out in the lake. In the morning they’ll make their way to the beaches, dragging with them the night’s catch. From Rusinga, you are just a short boat ride from Birds’ Island, a mound of rock rising out of the lake that’s home to many bird species. Then there’s Takawiri, the images of which tend to look unbelievable. Its white sandy beaches and lush palm trees look misplaced in these parts. There’s also Mfangano, the second home of the Abasuba, descendants of exiles from a dynastic war for the Buganda throne on the other side of the lake. Two centuries after that war, I am driving towards the islands at night, with Diamond’s Salome Wangu blaring in the background. It’s a smooth stretch of road with proper markings and reflectors, on an otherwise totally dark night with little traffic. In the back, three tired people are singing to the chorus, “Unanitekenyaga ukinyonga Salome/ Unanitekenyaga ukinyonga.” We finally get to Rusinga Island at 9 pm, tired and famished. Our home for the night is a place called Blue Ridge Hotel. After a shower, we head downstairs for dinner. As we sit down to eat, someone combs through our bags and makes away with our electronics and money.