Hot.. Dry.. Dusty..
Trip Start
Aug 30, 2006
1
15
25
Trip End
Nov 10, 2006
Kibwezi, Kenya
Saturday, October 14, 2006
I'm so burnt. The back of my neck feels raw. My arms are crisp, my cheeks feel warm. And everything feels dirty. I'm caked, covered, in dust. My hair is shedding sand.
We arrive at a 'home' with a beautiful garden. It's something to see all of the green in the middle of the dry dessert like surroundings. The farmer, Pius Kioko, has access to a water pipe, and he's done a lot with the place. Growing everything from pumpkins to cowpeas. And he's also farming organically, and it's quite impressive. There are nine organic farming techniques, and he's using eight of them. A seriously hard worker. He trains other farmers in the same techniques.
I like how the Kemba women here want a little extra weight on themselves. They seem sturdy and well fed. And jovial. They're always joking or smiling or telling an extravagant tale.
Kibwezi for me will be a place where the lovely family of Eddie Mwanza lived. The happy content well rounded Mwanza household. That eats corn and bean stew for every lunch, and ugali with spinach every dinner. And it will be the hot, unforgiving dry days. The white sand, thorn bushes and scampering lizards. It's a place where the cows actually look beautiful. And a place full of hope. A town striving for better things. A people who recognize a good opportunity and the wisdom in taking advantage of it. People who are not afraid of seriously tough work. Because everything, everyone has a future.
Kibwezi to me will also be the exhaustion. My tongue literally sticking to my lips, my legs weary, my skin burning.. slumping under a tree by the main 'road', waiting for a matatu, explaining to Eddie what ice fishing is. What a snow man, a snow fort, snow shoes are. Not being able to answer the question why nudist beaches exist in America.
Isn't it horrible that at this exact moment I started to day dream about slushies from 7 11? I could taste the exact syrupy ice mixture through a straw. Practically feel the waxy cup in my hand. I knew I had to stop or I would depress myself. So I tried to visualize an ice cold orange Fanta. Still sweet, syrupy and cold.
Packing ourselves like sardines into the first available vehicle, a bus, I hated the Kenyan government for their horrible 1960s roads. They are literally so bumpy in some places, it's impossible to keep your teeth from chattering. But the wind from an open window, and the quickly passing wilderness was more then enough to content me.
My presence is a novelty for the commuters. I'll always remember the fascination with which one woman stared at my hand. Examining my plain silver banded finger, the maroon and white checkered wrist band I wore.
