Our experience hitching a ride to Moyale involved a bit of beginners luck. We walked into 11th Avenue and grumpily bypassed the touts. There was a shady spot on a nearby wall, and we dropped our gear in it. I then walked back into the fray and allowed myself to be lead to a couple trucks.
I refuse to pay or negotiate with any tout. So, they’d find a dazed looking guy who only spoke Kiswahili and say, “This owner! He lorry owner!” My mental alarms went crazy. “Umm… the driver? I want the driver.”
Clearly, I’m a shrewd guy who there was no fooling.
Eventually, I’d meet an owner and haggling would commence.
“2000.”
“Oh, wow—” Loaders grab at me to take my bag.
“But, I was told… uhh, 1000—” Actually, I was told 1500.
“Who told you that?”
“Err, someone?” A guy at my hotel, a tout.
“Ok, 1500.” Loaders grab again.
“1300.”
“Ok. Ok.” I push at the loaders and walk away to carry my own stuff.
We were installed in a perch on top of bags of produce. Five other people, none talkative, shared our temporary home. It was noon, and four hours remained before getting underway. In the meantime, Chris and I alternated shopping trips to the nearby market for water and citruses.
Ten minutes before departure, five more people and accompanying luggage joined us in our, now confined, space. But, we were finally off!
Being stuck in the back of a truck for two days is a bonding experience. Our fellow passenger’s reticence and language worries broke down. We tried miraa; and, decided it wasn’t for us. Our knowledge of Kenya and their knowledge of the States was compared. And, everyone always wants to know about how Obama is “ruling.”
One of the guys offered his sister’s hand in marriage if I helped him to America. I accidentally stepped on a pregnant woman. And, yeah, I was that guy who bought a football and played with the kids in a tiny village.
Riding to Moyale was a great experience. But, I never want to do it again.
