There is a gated parking lot at 11th Avenue where— if you arrive in the morning— you’ll find dozens of trucks. The trucks are owned by logistics companies, whose offices surround this informal shipping centre. Each of these companies with their trucks are bidding for shipments.
The process is frantic. Goods are brought in by agents. And before they can survey the situation, the owners of any not fully-laden truck surround them and begin negotiating prices. When the flurry of shouting dies down, a staff of loaders stack the merchandise in the back of the appropriate vehicle.
Haggling for a ride is a similar event. Except, instead of merchandise, the loaders will be stacking your belongings. Upon entering the parking lot, touts will yell destinations— “Kisumu?” “Moyale?” “Wajir?”— while trying to “help” carry your luggage. Ignore them and bee-line toward an already loaded truck. Ask for the owner, he’ll be the shouting man appearing stressed, and see if you share a common destination.
There are two choices for every trip: a ride in the cab, or a ride in the back. The former is significantly pricier than the latter. I found it helpful to play into muzungu stereotypes and first ask for the cab fare. Then, when I asked for the cheaper ride, I was certain to not be starting a negotiation at the higher rate.
If you arrive early— around 9 to 10am— there will be multiple trucks to play against. The latest you can arrive is around 2pm. By then, everyone will either be fully loaded or already gone.
Your journey is dependent on the skill of your driver. You want a good driver. The sand track will sometimes be broad enough for a freeway, and then quickly contract to less than a single lane. It can vary from hard pack to a half-foot of loose red dust. In the hard pack, your driver is trying to avoid rocks with the potential for puncturing tires. And loose dust can be worse than mud in its ability to arrest movement.
Encountering other vehicles in these conditions is a tricky proposition. Occasionally, two drivers will face-off for right of way. Neither wants to endanger themselves or their cargo by leaving the worn grooves. Leaving the path means danger— with the worst case of the truck tipping over.
You have no opportunity to get comfortable. There’s little room to etch out for laying down. At night, the desert’s temperature quickly plummets. And every bump of the rough terrain can be felt through whatever items you lay atop.
Food is plentiful! Several towns are used as rest-stops. The trucks and their passengers are a significant source of income for many of the smaller villages. We were able to eat several regional dishes. And I had the pleasure of getting sick from one of them.
Truly, I left my putrid mark in the Kenyan desert.
