Piki piki rides. What an adventure. First, I should start with a couple things, then proceed with the narrative. One, when riding a piki piki, there is no such thing as personal space. Picture three people on a dirt bike. Two, the things I have been calling roads are likely misrepresented in your mind. Yes, I have said they are bumpy and filled with potholes. I apologize for such light remarks. The things I have been calling roads are in fact used, abandoned minefields with thin strips cutting their way through the least hazardous paths (though this occasionally becomes compromised by oncoming vehicles [cars, trucks, tractors, ox carts. I have passed within inches of some.].) Perhaps I exaggerate slightly on the second one. (We have photo evidence of four people piling onto the back of one. Three is comfortable. Two is lucky.) Half the time the things I have been calling roads actually resemble roads (i.e. they are paved, not perfect [please, don’t let your imagination run wild.]). The other half, the things I have been calling roads resemble the above description or turn into a rocky (i.e. not even a thing I would normally consider calling a road) uneven patch (sometimes stretching for an entire hillside. Though, thankfully, the vehicles are well equipped.). In either case, I have no choice but to trust the driver (if work is to be done), and the rides are quite a thrill. On the back of a piki piki, you are free to turn in any direction. (It offers the type of view I hoped for on the matatu coming to Mbakalo without the comfort or safety [I use this term loosely given the way the ride was at times. If confused, see the post about how people drive.]) The breeze blows swiftly throughout the ride, chilly in the morning and evening, perfect during that warmer period in between.
My first ride was with Douglas (who I just learned today (6/12) owns a butcher shop in one of the nearby towns) and Simon on Wednesday (6/3) as we heading to visit three OVC’s. I chose to sit in the middle (obviously, with the front out of the question [though, that will perhaps change soon. We are supposed to be spending an afternoon at what we have now coined Douglas’s School of Driving.]), feeling it the safest choice. Not being a veteran rider yet, I used Douglas as a grip, one hand on his shoulder, the other resting on his waist. Both laughed as Simon explained that I was new to this particular experience. I slowly relaxed (and learned from watching) and allowed my to move to my knees. As we moved onto the better things that I have been calling roads, tears began forming as the wind howled and we picked up speed. I watched as Douglas maneuvered and swerved deftly into the (sometimes narrow) gaps between the potholes. My mind flirted with thoughts of what would happen should he miss, how the front wheel would stick and catapult us into the air. (Yes, some of the potholes looked to be that bad.) As I shifted my focus back to the actual ride, I realized my body was still tensed and my fists were clenched. Again, I let myself slide a bit further into relaxing and turned my attention to the Kenyan countryside (which will likely continue to be revealed bit by bit as my mind wanders from topic to topic. I do expect to eventually find a place to get it all in.). Waves of maize stretch across the landscape, conforming to the hillsides, nestling into the valleys between, seemingly elevating the ground a couple meters into the air. Tall, thin trees (usually the size of an arm or leg, usually never thicker than a man [characteristic in fact of most people’s appearance here.]) decorate the scene and meld into the sea of maize. Thatched roofs poke out randomly, leaving the mud or brick body hidden below. Fronds of the broad banana tree leaves add a bit of flair, stretching towards the sun, relaxing just a bit before the tips. I took in each aspect and admired my new surroundings as we continued to Mfupi, arriving in what seemed to be no time. We visited our first OVC and continued on our way via matatu (which will be detailed in a later post).
After our long day of work, Douglas returned to pick us from outside St. Cecilia’s Girls’ High School in Misikhu. We raced back as the sun began setting to the west, starting to cast hues of orange, yellow, and pink across the sky, illuminating the tips of the maize stalks a fiery gold (perhaps symbolizing the energy the plants will soon provide?). Mt. Elgon rested just below the sun’s rays, a hazy outline on the border with Uganda, formidable peaks crooked, hardly visible against the darkening sky. Children and adults waved and smiled (again, what smiles!) as they saw the Mzungu pass reflecting back the same. At a certain point, Douglas decided it best to take a shortcut. I was half expecting this shortcut to take us past his home, but to my surprise, it did not. Instead, it took us along a narrow path, a thin line of dust curving between grass and maize field, bumpily. At the halfway point, we reached the river and were forced to dismount (not because we couldn’t cross, because it was a bridge made of twisted wood planks and round, shaved braches interposed between and across.) Reaching the other side, women sat beneath a tree, asking to me buy avocado. (I declined, more so because it was in Swahili and we were already pulling away than a disdain for avocado.) From here, the ride went smoothly, shortly returning to the main things I have been calling roads and pulling into the dispensary, hands cold, concluding another day’s work.
Our other rides have taken us across similar bridges, through evergreen forests (with monkeys crossing the thing I have been calling a road according to Mo), across rivers opening a view of different, exotic vegetation resting on its banks, leaves exploding like fireworks from the trunk. Our travels have taken us to places where the things I have been calling roads cease to argue that I should call them roads, and we slow, creeping gently down and up and over the rocky passage. We have raced against the clock to reach a school before visiting hours close, becoming clouds of dust as our speed raises, maxing just above seventy kilometers per hour, shooting past boda bodas and walking people, hearing the whiz as trucks head the opposite direction. We have returned on a thing I have been calling a road under construction, piles of dirt waiting to be shoveled into place, nearly flying off as we avoided an oncoming truck and later again as we hit a bump going a bit too fast. If you cannot guess, I have written this post after this last ride. Piki piki rides. What an adventure. What a thrill.-Pat
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