No Bypassing, No U-turns! Northern Kenya to Nairobi
Moyale continues across the border in Kenya, but there is a mystical presence of change as one makes that courageous march over the bridge. Behind us was more of that intense Ethiopian sun tumbling down the hillsides. Ahead of us was a dense mist floating in the road as to remind us that our travels could not be allowed a foresight we so desperately hoped for. Even the border-post sign was lost in the thick wheezy breath of the morning. We wrapped tightly against the chill and continued slowly uphill towards the all white barracks in the distance.
Our first impressions of Kenyans, like in much of our travel, were the warmest greetings of border patrol officers and hawkers. Immediately we felt as if our defense systems were out of synch with our environs. Ethiopia had trained us to tread a different ground entirely as we found in Kenya. We were much more on-edge and suspicious than we needed to be.
There were few options from Moyale southwards. Without any public transportation due to the history of violence on the roads in the North, travelers making their way between Moyale and Isiolo have only two current options. The first is to hang perilously from a steel frame of a cattle truck as the truck bounces about some of the worst roads in East Africa for over twenty-four hours, while the second is to rest upon sacs of beans in the back of another transport truck. We chose the second (although, there were more people than could fit in the truck, so we all took turns hanging from the same metal frame poles for several hour shifts at a time). Our truck, in total probably held a good fifty people in total and enough beans to feed a small country. This means of travel is only permitted where no other option is available, and soon there will be a new Chinese road with it’s own transport, so we unfortunately came just a little too soon. The problem was not the comfort, but the condition of the roads. Soft red soiled paths, only wide enough (barely) for a single truck turns to mud soup quickly in the rain season (which is when we travelled) blocking lines of trucks up for seven or so hours each time the leader of the pack overestimates a footing. The total trip is given for KSH 1500 per person (under $20) and is sold as an eighteen hour passage. It was over twenty-four hours to reach Marsabit, the first stop, where the majority of passengers descended the vehicle and were replaced with an equal number of the famously unfriendly Turkana tribe (lavishly adorned in their traditional clothing, strange piercings and markings, shaved heads, and high-tech cell phones). Their reputation is one of aggressiveness and paranoia. Although I wouldn’t say that I witnessed a particularly polite demeanor from many of them, I did receive a hardy bear hug from one herder as I offered help in carrying his staff and bag as he descended the vehicle, so I have nothing negative to contribute to such reputation. We were further delayed by numerous break-downs, popped tires, and road blockages. Our landscape becomes a rich ostrich full savannah and our water supply runs out quickly. We spend the rest of the trip to Isiolo on top of the steel frames watching as our surroundings and company complete a childhood fantasy of National Geographic Africa. Conversation runs low as the sun falls, and the mood becomes one peek for revelation and reflection.
The region to the North of Kenya had for long been considered a danger to cross, full of banditry and lawlessness due to the inaccessibility of the region, the lack of roads, the well guarded tribalism surrounded by regions of conflict (particularly Somalia), the extreme poverty, and the popularity of the crossing by both transport vehicles as well as foreign travelers. The most common theft being shoes, since many of these bandits spend their days walking endless kilometers in the harsh rocky dessert. But their threat had been significantly reduced by the time we made the passing. Still, the well equipped checkpoints were in the plenty, and we were told as sun fell at nights that the officers could decide to not let a truck continue until morning for fear that bandits might be more likely to take advantage of the unprotected unlit roads of night. Fortunately for us, we were never held for long and always allowed to pass. Although we were made to depart with a group of other held trucks on our last night for added protection of numbers. Many trucks, out of habit and history, preferred to remain at such checkpoints overnight, but ours was already running so late he wouldn’t consider delaying any further. Besides, the camaraderie between we passengers made for a warm and invigorating journey into night. I was filled with some guilty sense of rebelliousness as the truck rambled on, bouncing and tossing it’s hard beans about. We reached Isiolo around 6 am that last morning, only three days into our trip towards the capital. From this point on, because there was public transportation available, it would be illegal for passengers to travel with the transport truckers. Welcome to civilized Kenya.
Isiolo was a depressing and unnecessarily expensive town. It was explained to us numerously that Isiolo was a wonderful town before drugs had destroyed it, and forced the prices up to deter freeloaders. It from here that we made our final stretch from the relative comfort of a matatu (private vans which act as the public transportation for most Kenyans). Our matatu driver was proud to reveal his success as a race driver, though was hardly understandable beneath the 150 hz bass pumping from his bad playlist and chopping hip hop video mix (projected onto his flatscreen for passengers entertainment). The road was filled by fields of greenhouses where most of the worlds table-top flower arrangements are grown, interspersed by fancy task-adorned lodges as we passed Mont Kenya and surrounding nature reserves. It was a quick six hours to reach Nairobi, finally, from Isiolo. I was proud to have begun with the travel that most Kenyans would never imagine making without absolute need to do so.
Etape au bout du monde : passage entre le Nord du Kenya et Nairobi
Moyale coté kenyan est ce matin couverte de brume, on ne voit même pas le poste frontière à l’horizon. Ici, en ce qui concerne les transports pour le Sud les options sont limitées. C’est camion Suzuki jusqu’à Isiolo puis, parce que la police devient trop pointilleuse, les transports en commun prennent le relai vers la capitale. Deux possibilités s’offrent quand même à nous, « préférez-vous voyager sur des sacs de haricots ou sur les barres en métal du toit d’un camion qui transporte du bétail », nous demande – on ? Nous voilà donc embarqués dans ce camion chargé de haricots avec une cinquantaine d’autres voyageurs, sans compter ceux perchés sur le toit et les quelques femmes dans la cabine. Ce moyen de transport à dos de camion est toléré, même si légalement interdit, il n’y a pas d’autres solutions pour parcourir ces paysages désertiques étendus sur des centaines de kilomètres. Véritable business pour les transporteurs, le trajet coute une fortune, 1500 shillings kenyan par personne soit un peu moins de 20$. 
Le guichetier vous tend alors un ticket avec l’annotation « dans l’arrière du camion », il y a pourtant un joli bus dessiné sur le ticket. Il faut en théorie 18 heures pour rejoindre Isiolo. Nous mettrons 24 heures pour parcourir les 250 km qui séparent Moyale de Marsabit, seule grande ville du Nord du pays. Sur la route le camion embarque des membres de la tribu des Turkana. Têtes rasées et parsemées d’ornements, vêtus de pagnes colorés ils semblent tout droit sortis d’un autre monde. Leur réputation de guerrier ne leur tient pas à la peau pour rien, ils sont désagréables et s’installent dans le camion organisé tant bien que mal comme dans leur propre maison. Tous descendent dans un village un peu plus loin, ils sortent alors leurs téléphones portables avant de disparaitre dans la nuit. Entre de multiples problèmes de pneus et de mécanique, l’embourbement des camions qui nous précédent, la route est sans fin. Nos provisions d’eau et de nourriture ne vont par contre pas tarder à disparaitre. Perchée sur le toit du véhicule et parcourir la savane où de grandes autruches se promènent à la nuit tombée a son charme, l’impression d’être libre comme l’air l’espace de quelques secondes, avant de revenir à la dure réalité du tapis de haricots rouges…
Les problèmes de sécurité jusqu’alors très fréquents dans la région ont été considérablement réduits. Les check points sont partout et (en théorie) à la nuit tombée les camions sont arrêtés et restent groupés autour de la base de police jusqu’au lever du jour. Pendant longtemps les véhicules ont été la cible des shiftas, ces brigands venus de Somalie. Ces derniers volaient en général le bétail chargé dans les camions et les chaussures des passagers. Pour des raisons d’habitude et de sécurité, les nombreux camions ne sont jamais bien loin les uns des autres. Notre chauffeur cumule tellement de retard qu’il roule toute la nuit. Les haricots rouges ne font pas de bons matelas mais au moins il fait chaud dans ce camion bondé qui tangue sur la route défoncée. Nous arrivons à Isiolo le matin suivant à 6 heures du matin, après plus de trois jours de trajet. Bienvenue au Kenya.
La fin du trajet se fait en matatu, ces minibus qui parcourent le pays et la capitale Nairobi. Le notre a un charme tout particulier, il diffuse, volume poussé au maximum, des clips de mauvais hip - hop sur l’écran placé à l’arrière du véhicule pour le bonheur des passagers. La route est parsemée de serres où l’on fait pousser les roses qui décorent les tables basses d’Europe. Quelques beaux lodges ornés de défenses d’éléphants en plastique apparaissent aussi, nous sommes proches du Mont Kenya et de quelques réserves naturelles. A 30 km de Nairobi les premières constructions sortent de terre, l’arrivée est proche. Le trafic devient rapidement ingérable, mais dans le fond qu’est ce que cela peut bien faire, nous sommes arrivés à Nairobi non ?
