I can’t see the scene behind the overturned tuk-tuk, but I can see the reaction of the people who are rushing out of the storefronts. At first they hurry toward the accident, but when its scope is revealed, they stop in their tracks. It’s as if there is an impenetrable force-field of horror radiating from something on the pavement. Nobody can approach closer than about fifteen feet, and soon there is a perfect geometric circle of onlookers. Many turn away. A few drop to their knees. A woman screams. The young men are ashen-faced and dumbstruck, fingers knit, hands clutching the backs of their heads in the universal gesture of helpless despair.
Author: <span>Patrick Cumby</span>
We can’t experience the true nature of rural/farm life in Ethiopia because we are such obvious anachronisms that the village locals change their behavior when we are around. Most people…
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Mombasa. What a great name. Mombasa, Mombasa. I like saying it out loud. It conjures up exotic mental images of African sheiks and sultans, of clove tea and British sailing ships. We are packed into a matatu, one of the ubiquitous and careening minivans that the Kenyans use for public transportation. There are comfortable seats for nine people. This morning, we have twelve passengers. My Kenyan friends tell me that oftentimes the matatus hold as many as thirty. I try to imagine thirty sweating people crammed into this Nissan minivan.
So there’s this beastie called a blue centipede that’s about seven inches long and is probably the most horrifying creature I’ve ever seen and it just crawled under the rug…
My Kenyan friend shakes his head when I tell him about my “special treatment” during the visa application process at the Nairobi airport. For the past several minutes he’s been ticking-off all the ways Kenyan government officials extort bribes from the citizenry. Some of the complicated schemes he’s describing have made me suspicious about my own odd treatment at the Nairobi airport, where my wife and I were whisked through immigration without filling out the required paperwork (see my previous post titled Profiled).
The way to the mountain camp is along a treacherous mud path that hugs the inner wall of a river gorge. I creep the Toyota RAV4 along the path, dreading…
They are waiting in front of the house as our tuktuk arrives from the airport, lined up along the driveway in identical poses, backs straight, hands clasped gently at their waists, smiling. Two women and three men. One of the women is wearing a smart business suit, the other is dressed in a housekeeper’s smock. One of the men is in a blue security uniform, one is wearing a high-collared white chef’s uniform, and the third is dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. None of them are sweating, despite the oppressive humidity.