Dance of the Jakaranda

Dance of the Jakaranda by Peter Kimani, © 2017, Akashic Books

What better time than the holidays for travel. That is exactly what I got when I picked up Dance of the Jakaranda by Peter Kimani over the holidays. I was whisked off to Africa for a look at Kenya during the years of British colonization and its subsequent independence.

Dance of the Jakaranda opens in the Great Rift Valley in 1901. The first train chugs along the newly built railway linking Nakuru and Mombasa with Reverend Turnbull and Master on board. In second and third class, the rest of the people who broke their backs building the rail line are on board—blacks and browns alike. Class might separate them on the train, but their lives are intertwined and a collision course is inevitable.

Kimani looks at the peoples who shaped a nation in his newest novel. The story follows Babu Salim, an Indian technician, Ian McDonald, the colonial administrator sent to oversee the building of the railway, and Richard Turnbull, a preacher intent on leaving his mark on the African people. The novel delves into the tumultuous race relations between the many people who shaped it. Broken dreams leave their mark and change the shape of history for not only themselves, but the many people who come after, including Babu's grandson Rajan.

We all have faults, but some leave a bigger impact than others. Should the British have tried to enforce their will in shaping a nation, regardless of how many lives were lost and cultures corroded? Can we condemn people for self-serving behaviours, despite the good that invariably comes along with it? Is it ever that easy when the backlash can be as heavy-handed as the original infractions? I think not, as Kimani steps into the minds and hearts of all his characters, regardless of the colour of their skin and decisions they have made, be they good or ill.

Thank you to Akashic books for another book that has me thinking long after the last page is turned. May we all learn the lessons that come from the mistakes we make. 

Heading South

Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Our leisurely days of sipping freshly squeezed juice and dining on seafood extravaganzas with locals and other tourists, could only last so long. While it was relatively cheap to stay in Lamu, and food could be had at a bargain, my money was running thin. It was time to move on.

After a week spent on this magical, tropical island, I packed my bags and bid adieu to Lamu,  as well as Stuart and Rob. We were all headed in different directions. They were headed North. I, on the other hand, turned myself towards the South, destination Cape Town. It was time for me to wind down my trip and head towards home. My hometown was still a long ways off, but it was finally calling.

So for now, I took the ferry back over to the main land, then flagged down the bus headed towards Mombasa. The threat of road-side attacks remained unfounded, as we travelled along peacefully. We picked up our armed guards for their part of the journey, but aside from their guns serving as a reminder of ill tidings, I reached Mombasa no worse for wear.

One night in Mombasa was all I squeezed in, but I did get the pleasure of an ice cream date with Renée ‘Deutsch’ for company. He even bought me breakfast in the morning, before I jumped onto the bus for Dar es Salaam. He was a gentleman through and through, and I thanked my lucky stars that I had the pleasure of meeting him. Laughter and conversation was all we shared, but he filled my heart with a little more faith in humanity.

As the day wore on, I appreciated Renée’s lovely gesture even more so. The journey between Mombasa and Dar es Salaam was scheduled to be 12-13 hours. I had bought some minor refreshments for the drive, but apparently not enough. The trip turned out much longer than anticipated and hunger gnawed at my insides before long. To make matters worse, being hungry always seemed to make me grumpy.

When I got on the bus, I was the only white face and one of few who apparently spoke English. One man began to chat with me, dancing between English and a native language that I knew nothing of. At first, I was happy to have someone to talk to, but quickly realized that perhaps I had picked the wrong person to speak with. He was loud and I felt like he was saying unkind things about me. The women around me tittered nervously and turned their heads away from my questioning stares. It became obvious that I was the brunt of some unpleasantness, so I turned inward from his taunts and focused my eyes out the window. I tried to ignore him, and soon enough he left me to my own devices.

The road was longer than anticipated though. When we reached the border, everyone got out of the bus to be processed. Again, I was singled out by the obnoxious man, but this time I had no place to turn. Women were having their shopping bags rifled through and border guards began to unpack the stowed luggage. I had been processed quickly, but now was at the mercy of the rest of the bus passenger's paperwork. To get away from my tormentor, I wandered into the bush to squat a pee (when I opened the outhouse door, I gagged, so thought better of it), then returned to an area further away from where he stood.

By the time we finally got on the bus,  a nice young man had quietly befriended me. English was not his first language, but he managed well enough for us to have a conversation. He confirmed that the other man was indeed besmirching my character and that the others were uncomfortable, but unwilling to stop the antics. I guess better me than them.

Once we got back on the bus, I shared a seat with my newest acquaintance. I managed to get some sleep when the bus driver pulled over to rest himself for a few hours. Our border crossing had delayed us so long that no one could keep their eyes open. By 6am, we finally pulled into Dar es Salaam and I was shown to a hostel by my seat mate. We dropped off my backpack and he took me for a delicious breakfast of chapatti and tea. My eyes were getting heavy though, so I returned to my hostel with a promise to meet up with him later. I quickly scribbled the account from my last few days in my journal and turned out the light to get some much needed rest. I would explore Dar es Salaam later.

Lazy Days in Lamu

Lazy days in Lamu began with a call to worship. The many mosques on the small island rang their bells five times a day to remind the Muslim population of their responsibilities in prayer.  While I did not run off to join them, I still found the island community fascinating. Just two degrees south of the Equator, with a population pulling from Chinese shipwrecked survivors back in the 14^th century, local Swahili people, Portuguese explorers, Turkish traders and Omani Arabs, there was a rich tapestry in the local history. It was reflected in the narrow streets, numerous markets, even more mosques and gently bobbing dhows that nestled in the harbor. Time seemed to stand still on this exotic island that begged one to slow down and stroll at its pace. As long as you watched for the donkey droppings underfoot.

In the mornings,  I sat on one of my two balconies and watched the world drift by with a book in hand. It was hard to believe that I was in the heart of Africa, as I gazed around at the culture that I was submerged in. Men would saunter along the narrow streets, kicking at the occasional donkey that refused to get out of the way. Chaste women seemed to disappear due to strict religious decrees of who they could be seen by. Their presence was noted though, in the laundry strung out to dry between the narrow alleys. The sounds and smells of locals going about their days, making chapatti, tea and crafts to sell to the many tourists that descended upon the tiny island for a taste of something exotic.

When I had enough of idling watching the world drift past, I would venture out to stroll through the narrow streets myself. I had never seen streets so small before. They were no more than 6-8 feet across, hence the lack of vehicles on the island. None were allowed, but for one solitary police car. It did little good really though, as there was nowhere that it could really go. When I got tired of wandering through the streets, I would find Ali Hippy, and sit and talk religion for hours over mango smoothies. He helped me to understand a little more of the Muslim ways of the island and I appreciated the time he spent with me.

One day Stuart and I even ventured so far as the beach. It was a long walk from our apartment, but the adventure was worth the 45-minute stroll. Of course coming home to a reliable source of running water and ample beds for the three of us, plus room for many more was a luxury that I did not experience often in my journey to date. The bugs were a bit overwhelming mind you, but for our 1050ksh for the week, it was still a good deal. I just had to remember to steal myself to the scurrying cockroaches, ants and spiders that scattered in all directions when the lights were turned on. Ugh. Better to go out for another mango smoothie or take in a seafood meal at a locals home. If we could look past the bugs and numerous donkeys that overtook the island, then it was indeed a tropical paradise very worthy of anyone’s time. 

Friends Along the Path

Within a short time, I was amongst friends again. It is amazing how when you travel, you can make friends at the drop of a hat. Your backpack alone gives you that first thing in common. The road erases your differences and you embrace people for their smiles alone.  It still amazed me though; that ease of friendships formed. Back home, you can pass a million faces and not look at any of them. Or worse, not talk to anyone for fear of the what ifs and the dreaded maybes that could harm you from the “strangers” that filled the world. As I ambled along though, all those strangers were friends that I just hadn’t met yet. I was ready and keen to meet them all.

The newest friends in my roster were Stuart and Rob. I met Rob in Malindi. After my long and uneventful night bus from Nairobi to Mombasa, I quickly moved along to Malindi. The plan was to explore Mombasa later on my way back through town. For now, I was headed  North on my adventures.

In the pleasant town of Malindi, I met Rob at the hostel where I stayed. Over the two days that I explored the coastal town, I got to know Rob a little bit. He was a quiet sort that had a bit of a weird feeling to him, but we discovered that we were both headed to Lamu, so decided to join forces along the way. Heck, we are all weird in our own ways and being a traveller made anyone alright in my books. Despite our differences, we were still on the same path.

So waving goodbye to Malindi, Rob and I climbed on board the bus to Lamu. It stopped on the side of the highway to pick up us dusty travellers, then we were off again. We found a seat and right ahead of us was Stuart, another backpacker. He was travelling alone from Mombasa, also headed to Lamu. We got to talking and figured that perhaps sharing a room between the three of us would help to stretch our traveller’s dollars a little further.  

Once it was decided, we all got to know each other a little bit better. Stuart was much more dynamic than Rob and we instantly clicked. We had similar taste in music, food and conversation flowed between us like water. By the time the bus pulled up to the ferry dock, I felt like I had known him for years. Rob, Stuart and I laughed and joked waiting for the ferry that would take us across to the island. I was excited to get to know another new place with my new friends. While it wasn’t a long crossing, by the time we reached the other side and landed on the vehicle-less island, I knew that my travelling companions were a good match for this new adventure. Lamu shimmered in front of us, like an oasis ripe for exploring. I faced it smiling. 

Polepole, I Travel Along

I stood in line and waited for the bus to load. We were supposed to leave at 9:00 PM. I shifted from foot to foot and looked around nervously. My eyes were peeled for the infamous pickpocketers that I had been warned about. Stories of buses getting hijacked or being driven into wandering animals in the dark of night plagued my imagination as well. Standing in a queue with a collection of strangers surrounding me, did not help matters. For the most part, we did not even share a common language. While I am sure there were some who understood English, my knowledge of Swahili was limited to Jambo = hello, jambo bwana = hello brother, and hakuna matata = no problem. That unfortunately wouldn’t take me far in an emergency though.

I just wanted to leave. I was conspicuously out of place with my backpack piled high with a sleeping bag and all my worldly possessions crammed inside of the bulging pack. My white skin shone neon against the majority of my dark-skinned neighbours. Once we were on the bus, I felt like I would be comparatively safer from the potential evils that surrounded me. I could hide in my seat, with only the worry of my seat mate. That alone would make it difficult to sleep on our seven-hour overnight journey. I did not sleep well on overnight trips at the best of times. I prayed that our drive would be uneventful and safe. I was glad that at the very least, we would not have to cross any borders during the journey. If I could get a little sleep, then the trip would be over before I knew it.

I shifted from foot to foot again and glanced at the clock hanging over the platform. Dim lights illuminated the hands on the clock face. It was time to go. A bus sat at another platform, but we had nothing at ours. While Nairobi to Mombasa was a major route between two influential cities in Kenya, I also knew that I was in Africa. African time was polepole.

Ah, there was some more Swahili for me – polepole meant slow or slowly. It had a strong link to hakuna matata. We could leave at 9:00, 9:18, 9:43 or whenever the bus finally arrived. No one sweated it or batted an eye. The women sat beside their giant red and blue checked plastic bags crammed with goods for market, with their babies strapped to their backs completely unperturbed. The babies slept or looked around themselves silently with large brown eyes. Not a peep was made. Men laughed and joked with other men, or amused themselves with games.

I tried to relax to the polepole schedule, but found myself looking at the clock again. It didn’t help that once I arrived in Mombasa, I would be in a new and foreign city. This time alone. Really, this was the first time that I had travelled all by myself. Always before, I had had family, friends or tour companies helping to set the itinerary. Now it was just me. My plans were loosely based, and I had no concrete destination in Mombasa or beyond. I refused to allow myself to think of the craziness of the situation. That was the nature of backpacking.

For the time being, I preferred to live in the moment though. With a sigh of relief, I saw the headlights of a bus swing into the parking lot. It pulled up to our platform and stopped with a release of air brakes. While it might take a while to get people and baggage loaded, it looked like we would leave soon enough. My smile returned, as I allowed myself to think about the adventures that lay ahead. 

Hakuna Matata

“Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase.”

While this is a line from “The Lion King”, I learned it in Kenya. No worries, indeed. I heard this Swahili phrase everywhere I went. While I perhaps should have had a worry or two, this phrase stuck with me though. I held faith that everything would work out for me, as I travelled along.

At present, I gazed out the window of the Sunrise B&B into a throng of waiting taxis. There was a constant buzz of traffic, horns, music and people’s voices in the air. It probably wasn’t the best neighbourhood, but I wouldn’t be staying for long.  I had spent a few nights there before I went to the Masai Mara, and now had returned for a mere few hours. Only long enough to have a last visit with Amin and his wife. I had met him in a take-away the week before, and he had been the one to recommend this particular establishment. It wasn’t overly pretty, but it certainly had character being in the heart of this bustling neck of the woods. I didn’t go out after dark though.

Meeting Amin had been a God-send that I didn’t take lightly. Aside from the little packet of goodies that his wife had made up for me for my night bus to Mombasa, he had given me something much more valuable. This Edmonton, Alberta local was filled with the spirit of adventure himself. He had recently relocated from Canada and while his wife was still having a difficult time with the transition, their faith in “Hakuna Matata” was contagious. He had buoyed me up when I felt threatened with depression at my dismissal from the overland truck and now urged me on to the adventure ahead. He reminded me of the thrills of the road, and I could tell that he would love to take flight again, if the opportunity arose. His wife seemed only to dream of a flight back to Canada, but she gamely struggled on.

So for me, my road that night would take me on a dangerous adventure, from the accounts I had heard thus far. At 9PM, I would be taking the night bus to Mombasa and be rejoined with the coast. While I looked forward to arriving on the Indian Ocean, it sounded like my chances of arriving would be fraught with peril. More than one person that I met had fear in their eyes when I said that I was on the night bus. They told me stories of vehicles without lights colliding, the dangers of hitting animals on the road, as well as the threat of hijacking. I tried to take it all in stride, but I have to admit I was worried. By 9PM, it would be too late to do anything about it though, except for hopefully sleep some of my fear away. 

The Birthday Present

Happy Birthday to me! I was not in the best of spirits when I woke up this morning due to a distinct case of “poor me” and loneliness, but the morning turned out pretty darn good. After yesterday’s sightings of “everything”, I figured today would not be all that exciting. Pretty hard to beat lions, a cheetah, hyenas, giraffes and thousands of wildebeest (plus, plus, plus!). We did a mighty fine job of it though. We watched five cheetahs devour an impala, while heaps of vultures watched on hoping for leftovers. We arrived moments after they had taken down the small antelope and  the band of cheetahs still panted from their exertions. They ripped it apart, growling at each other as they vied for a piece of the kill. Their furry faces were matted with blood before the feast was done. From the safety of our landrover, we observed the gruesome display of life on the savanna with clicks of cameras and hushed voices as a quiet backdrop to the setting. By the time the cheetahs were done, all the vultures  got was the stomach and intestines. They didn’t go very far. Before we knew it, the cheetahs were slinking away to rest and digest, and the vultures were picking through the grass to find any missed morsels that held more than the stomach full of grass that was gone in an instant. This was the cycle of life in the African wilds.

I reflected on my safari after returning to camp. I had thoroughly enjoyed the Masai Mara so far. There were heaps of animals here. The Masai Mara was in Kenya, but continued into Tanzania as the Serengeti. The political border was all that stood in the way of thousands of animals migrating from one location to the next. While I had not realized it at the time, July to October was the prime time for the Great Migration when literally millions of wildebeest, zebras, and many other species of antelopes migrated North into the Mara. It was absolutely incredible.

Yes, the wildebeest were very impressive creatures. It was wild seeing thousands upon thousands of them. At one point, our driver Jimmy drove us into the middle of a herd. We were surrounded by black beasts that stretched on and on as far as the eye could see. It was neat to see the way they migrated. One day, we came upon a line of them crossing the road late in the afternoon. They were all in a single or double-file line and when they got approximately 200 metres from the road, they started to run. We sat watching them for a period of time. The line stretched out forever it seemed. It was fascinating to watch. I laughed  as they crossed the road and continued for a bit before they jogged to a walk again. I couldn’t help but shake my head at the patience and orderliness of it.

During my brief 4-day visit into the game park, I was spoiled beyond belief with these animal sightings. They quickly followed each other in a succession of sightings till I felt like I was almost in a zoo, going from a cheetah lazing in the sun with a herd of wildebeest and zebra in the background, to two hyenas munching on a wildebeest with vultures on the side lines, to the sight of simple group of giraffes gently loping along in the African sun. In addition to all of that, we saw four lions lazing under some bushes to avoid the heat of the day. The male even got a bit of a root in, although the female did not let it last for long. As I said at the time, “typical male; after a good meal (wildebeest), all he wants is  a little piece of action”. Ha!

Oh, but was it ever hot during the day! Due to getting stuck in the dirt briefly, and watching our national geographic moment with the cheetahs, we ate a late lunch that day. Lunch was followed by a break, as we were in need of siestas ourselves. My pen scratched out the stories from the morning’s adventures, while I sheltered from the baking rays from the near equatorial sun. Once the heat of the day abated,  we would go on a bit of a walk.

The safari had certainly been worth it. While the people in my van were not the most interesting bunch, you can’t have everything. I got a chance to talk to some of Masai people that accompanied us on our game drives and helped out in camp. They provided an interesting study themselves. I found the women very beautiful.  In fact, I felt that the Masai were a good looking race as a whole. They had good facial features, were all quite tall, and had very interesting piercings. One of the men in camp told me how his were done. A hole was cut in his ear with a knife, and gradually bigger and bigger pieces of wood were put in the hole. He said it took two months to get to the size the holes were now. The lobes dangled down towards his shoulders loosely. And while the lobe looked like it would have no feelings left, the young man encouraged me to feel it, and replied that  it still did. Interesting, to say the least.

By the end of the day, we had taken in a nature walk as well. I showered, then popped the top on a bottle of Claret Select by Drostdy-Hof. It was my last birthday present to me for the day. Not a bad birthday all around with game viewing, a nature hike, good meals and a bottle of nice, red wine. It was my first birthday away from distant relatives, but I survived and had a list of new animals spied to add to my growing list of sightings.

New Animals Spied

ü  Topi

ü  Grant’s gazelle

ü  Thomson’s Gazelle

ü  Dik-dik

ü  Hartebeest

ü  Masai Giraffe

ü  Olive baboon

An End in Sight

It was over. There would be no recommendations from Kylie. I was not good enough. Not a surprise by any stretch with our formal and distant relationship that never had a chance from the start. It was closure none-the-less though. I was thanked and advised that my services would no longer be necessary. I was not cut out to be an overland truck courier. This news was shared with me in Nairobi, Kenya - the end of the line.

Instead of being depressed by the change in plans, I was oddly pleased. It had been terribly obvious that Kylie and Angus had never thought much of me. While I had tried to make up for my first gaff five weeks earlier, of arriving late on departure day from Harare, I must admit my efforts were never top-notch. I had been a backpacker too long and used to living on my own time-line, with my own agenda. Male attentions at our various stops had led me to too much drink. It had been doomed from the start, and I suspect that I had hastened my demise despite myself. Processing the change in a little take-away over chapati and tea, I managed to find the bright spot in my failure. I was in a new country to explore!

The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. It did me no good to dwell on my dismissal, so instead I looked to the future. I had paid $40US to get a traveller’s visa into Kenya and planned to put that visa to good use.  A little town on the coast by the name of Lamu tickled my fancy, as did a little more exploring of Nairobi. I would need to find alternate accommodations once my former passengers returned from the Serengeti as well. While I still benefitted from a roof over my head compliments of Phoenix, that luxury would be withdrawn post-haste. I would get a chance to say a proper goodbye to the friendly faces that I had got to know over the span of the trip though. While my tour guide trainers had never blossomed into dear friends, I did have the pleasure of having a lot of fun with Di, Tanya, Cathi, Dave, Adrian, Mette and Camille. I was happy to exchange addresses with these passengers that I had felt more comfortable with than any of the overland crew that I worked with or met from Zimbabwe to Kenya. The life of an overland truck courier was just not for me.

With a light and free heart, I wished overlanding adieu and thrilled at the adventures that now sprung forth, as I resumed my life as a backpacker once again. With my birthday mere days away and the knowledge that I would face it alone, I decided that I would celebrate my 23rd birthday in style. Friendly locals planted the seeds of strength in me, and I bought myself a bottle of red wine, a new camera and a ticket on a safari to the Masai Mara. Happy birthday to me!