Going solo

Traveling alone has not been difficult, as long as I am the one to make the effort to greet people, preferably in their mother tongue. A smile goes a long way but a few words goes much farther. Most Kenyans speak English, but they seem unsure of me. Who is this crazy mzungu traveling alone on a bicycle? Once the ice is broken, we speak in a mixture of English and Kiswahili. People are actually more open to me now and raised prices I feared has not happened much. People must have thought I hired Toto as my personal bodyguard so they viewed me in a totally different way. For the past few days I have been biking uphill at a 45 degree angle in the foothills of Mount Kenya. From Meru to Embu, I was greeted with banana and papaya trees in the valleys and tea fields on the steep slopes. I've entered the Embu tribal area, so now I greet villagers with "Ni mweega!" instead of "Muga muno!". I decided to take a rest from the sleazy places I usually sleep at after I discovered the Boy Scout Training Center. Rooms are only $4.00 and no worries about drunk men and all night loud music. I can even watch Nigerian soap operas in the cafeteria. As I leave the shadow of Mt. Kenya, the road drops into rice paddies, which I'll be looking forward to on tomorrow's ride.

Tea fields on the slopes of Mount Kenya

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A Messianic "synagogue" in Isiolo...or is it a church?

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I'm missing Isiolo like I'm missing home

There was a knot in my stomach the day we had to leave Isiolo. Toto boarded a bus headed for Nairobi where he had swimming lessons to teach. I was nervous about traveling alone. Not for my personal safety, but for the prices I might be charged. When you are a Mzungu (white person) in Kenya, the prices automatically go up. I know the price of almost everything by now and have learned a few words of Kiswahili, so that helps. Leaving Isiolo was like leaving home. I felt so at ease there because I was surrounded by Afaan Oromo speakers, women wearing hijabs, mosques dotting the landscape, the smell of sambusa(samosa)and Somali restaurants. The hotels owned by Muslims there always have an open courtyard, built as a space for the men to say their daily prayers. However, the large, open area beckens people to sit communally whether it is to chew khat, drink tea, or talk. I have not seen the open courtyards in any other hotel I stayed at so far. Since I teach at a Somali school in St. Paul and many of my friends are Oromo, Isiolo was as close as it gets to home. Now I am in Meru, a small city in the Meru tribal area. Traveling alone has been easy so far. I found my $5.00 "hotel" (brothel) which was quite noisy all night but I felt safe there as long as I didn't venture out of my room after 9 p.m. I met Naitore, one of the maids, who invited me for dinner to meet her daughters. Yesterday I spent in the countryside, talking to the farmers, practicing my Kiswahili, watching old men play Mankala, and reading a novel.

Somali truck drivers chewing khat during their break

Toto drinking camel's milk

Gabra, Borana, and Samburu bring their camles wherever there is food