Travelling to Mombasa with abandon

By Eric Mawira

I had been sitting on the greasy rail side on a deserted stretch in Nairobi’’s Industrial Area Nairobi for an hour. A pack of red carrots kept me quite busy. My half-filled rucksack lay beside in abandon. I could hear the roar of an approaching train. It was 3pm so I hoped it was a cargo train.

A view of the beautiful sceneries along the Nairobi-Mombasa Railway Line. Photos: courtesy

I stood, threw the rucksack on my shoulders and breathed deeply. The train came snaking with its characteristic sluggish speed. It was a cargo one all right. I scouted an open container and made a run for it. I grabbed the edges, hopped on and declared all the open space therein mine! If only I had an emblem and my flag to hoist.

I removed my crumbled map of East Africa, which had a bull’s eye on Kismayu, and grinned with scheme. I had no money or personal documents on me. I was on quest for adventure, poetry and enlightenment. To remind myself that a few hearts on earth harboured goodness within. Dare you call me a disturbed freak unless you are a hitchhiker.

There were many stops ahead. By now I had figured the train was headed for Mombasa port as it was empty and needed loading. The lull of the rail and the swing of its motions gave a sweet soothing sensation that soon had me conked me out.

Hours later, the cold woke me up. It was late in the night. Being alone in a dark moving container gave me a morbid funny sensation of death. I reached for the door. Tsavo plains! My first thought was lions — the man-eater kind! I kept the door open and sat on its base with my feet dangling out. It felt exhilarating, a sense of freedom gushing from within.

The writer enjoying an adventurous ride to Mombasa in a cargo train.

Shrubs and anthills

The plains, bathed in blue moonlight, rolled out with such painstaking beauty. The open expanse of the Nyika plateau lay flung with such awe and splendour, the kind that makes you want to weep. The floor of heavens was gay and sandy-lit, few fireflies dotted anxiously. They all came together, like a communion of sorts. I thought of God, awed and mused at His splendour in creation. I prayed against hunger, diseases and poverty in Africa and for the peace of Jerusalem and global harmony!

The latter part of the dark morning was spent watching silhouettes of shrubs and anthills emerging and disappearing in the slow, moving scenery. In a wild sense, the choking, rolling distance of the plains ignited such soulful thoughts within.

Soon, it was dawn. The eastern horizon flamed up faintly beneath the drifting clouds. Rolling green hills revealed the ancient rail town of Voi. It sat quietly at the feet of the rock-studded hills that rose to meet creamy clouds, which covered the hills’ tops. I figured there would be a stop here. I gathered my stuff, cleaned my clutter and hung my bag. I was going to jump. And I did, like a seasoned matatu tout.

Voi was deserted. I spotted a kahawa chungu (bitter coffee) shade beside the highway. I could not resist that awesome red coffee with its secret spices. I exchanged niceties with the owner. He was okay, but not very nice.

Tiny sanctuary

I sucked up, bootlicked, then cut to the chase by asking him the secret ingredients he uses besides the usual coffee and sugar. You would have thought I had asked for the Coca-Cola soda formula. He wasn’t forthcoming. A free sample wasn’t forthcoming either. I staggered away a dusty road shrouded by hills.

Eric waving at vehicles along the highway. It may be hours before any driver finds the courage to stop.

Music led me into a Pentecostal church near a residential part of the town. It was a tiny sanctuary. I sat on the plastic chairs at the rear of the church and bowed in genuflection. The faithful kept streaming in and pacing about telling the Lord how glorious He is. I looked up and carefully surveyed the faithful. One struck me; she knelt on the aisle weeping in utter brokenness.

Somehow, in a mystic way, it felt like I knew her. Something within told me the universe had conspired to get me here. I stepped out and sat on the steps. I removed my antique high school Bible and turned to Psalms. She found me mumbling chapter 139. I rose with a smile and extended a firm handshake as if we had shared a lifetime. She requited with greater warmth. She was Sarah, taught at the local primary school and I looked like her son who is in high school. She led the way to her house.

There was a husband who, in a rush to go to work, left quickly. There were also children to play with. I needed breakfast. We chatted on a variety of things: faith in Christ, my reasons for the trip and humanity. She implored that I stay, I protested.

"Where will you head from here?" she asked with a concerned look. She was struggling to understand exactly why a whole lawyer would be hitching across the country without any money or personal documents.

Down south east of Mombasa then to Kismayu, came my blunt answer.

Swaggering gracefully

She asked for my bag. I was taken aback but gave it anyway. She disappeared to the kitchen and came back smiling. My bag was bulging.

"I think you are ready to go," she said, handing back the heavy bag. I tried to protest but she read me and beat me to it with a "you will need it for the journey".

The waving children and cheerful mother disappeared into a sun rising horizon. It was then that I swore to visit them again. I hit the new smooth highway surrounded by flaming acacias. Five kilometres down from Voi and all was wilderness. I spotted an elephant wandering off amid the acacias, a loner. Some restless zebras swaggered gracefully in the brown pastures. Then there were herds of cattle lying in an open enclosure.

Astronomical speed

The rising sun of 7am was already a life sucker. I removed my shirt and hood. The straight road ahead rolled to a mirage that dazed any footloose. With a rucksack on my back, I lifted my left arm at a right angle with the hitching thump finger raised. Speeding trucks, haughty buses, overloaded matatus, sleek shiny speedy private cars. My arm kept waving at every passing road machine. Fatigue was setting in.

After almost an hour, a white pickup stopped. The driver looked strange, like a harvester of human organs, but that thought is not for a hitcher. He was going to Changamwe. I hopped in with thanksgiving. The driver was quiet and unnerving. I thought of whistling a road trip medley or asking him what his dash board buttons did.

He jerked the truck to astronomical speed. I approved. I spent the latter part dazed by the moving scenery punctuated with poverty and famine. Women balancing water cans on their heads, naked children rushing from mud shanties to wave jambo to passing traffic. It felt like the classical clichÈ Africa.

Mariakani was not that far. The dusty town was unmistakable with its red soil and rusty roofing. Coconut trees shrouded the highway ahead as the land bent to a wide descending curve. From this downhill, Mombasa could be viewed clasped by its blue oceanic waters. I lowered my rucksack to get the sunglasses.

Inside, I saw Sarah’s gifts — a Sh1,000 tucked inside the Bible, a whole meal of sandwiches, packets of milk and a full lunch pack. I sighed. Sustained by happy thoughts, I napped. At 11.30am, we arrived at Changamwe. The driver parked outside an industrial gate and stared at me. I jumped out and profusely thanked him.

I walked about. The sea breeze rode in air laced with an ocean smell and a rich heavy scent of vast hidden life. Changamwe was Mombasa for me. I could walk or hitch to town. A shrub tripped me and I landed on my knees. I rose and started wondering how and where to survive the next hitch to Kismayu.