Mists of the Serengeti(5)

       
         
       
        

I thought of the notes that she had not been able to cross off the map-the part of her that remained undone-and resolved to fulfill her wish. Six kids in six months. That's what she'd aimed for. There were still three kids left.

I'm going to get them for you, Mo. I'm going to cross off every one of the notes before I head back home.





I PAUSED AT the foot of the palatial stairs that led up to The Grand Tulip, a legendary hotel in Amosha, known for its tradition of hosting discerning celebrities. I was still jittery after taking a local mini-bus, a dala dala, to get there, but it was where Corinne had sent me. She didn't know Gabriel's last name-the man my sister had been working with-but she knew where he lived.

And no, it was not at The Grand Tulip.

It was in a village on the outskirts of Amosha.

"You could take a dala dala there, but they're kind of chaotic and not too safe-okay for a quick hop on and off. To get to Gabriel's place, I would recommend getting a driver," said Corinne. "I've used one a couple of times. His name is Bahati. He doesn't venture too far out of town, but he knows the area and he's fluent in English. He's usually at The Grand Tulip in the mornings."

So there I was, climbing the stairs to the grand dame of hotels. Massive pillars that resembled giant, gnarled trees supported the shaded entrance at the top. Two uniformed men guarded the open lobby, but what caught my eye was the life-sized statue of a Maasai warrior, set against the stark, white expanse of the outside wall.

It stood in a proud pose, spear in hand, hair embellished with ochre mud. The ebony wood had been polished so smooth that his skin looked like it was smeared with animal fat. His red toga billowed and flapped in the wind. He looked like a young biblical prophet in a time that had moved on, like something that belonged in a museum.

I moved closer, examining the fine details-the red and blue beads that adorned his body, the eyelashes with tips so fine, they caught the morning sun. I pulled out my camera and framed his face.

"Eight thousand shillings," he said.

"What?" I jumped back.

"To take a picture."

"You're real!"

"Yes, Miss. I make it six thousand shillings for you."

"That's okay," I said, backing off.

"You are from England? I can tell from your accent. Two pounds sterling. Cheaper than a Starbucks coffee."

"No thanks. I'm actually looking for someone. His name is Bahati. Do you know him?"

"A thousand shillings. I'll take you to him."

"Never mind." I shook my head and walked away. He was obviously a hustler. "Excuse me," I said to the doormen. "Do either of you know where I can find Bahati?" 

They exchanged a glance and then pointed behind me.

You have got to be kidding me. I turned around slowly.

Sure enough. The Maasai was grinning at me.

"You found me. Commission-free. You are a smart haggler. What can I do for you?"

"I was looking for a driver, but it's okay. I changed my mind." I started walking down the stairs.

"My friend. My friend!" he called after me, but I didn't look back.

Great. I thought. I'll have to take the dreaded dala dala all the way to Gabriel's village.

I trekked a dusty twenty minutes back to the bus stop. It was a dizzy cacophony of charter buses, tour operators waving maps in my face, and people wanting to sell me bracelets, bananas, and roasted corn.

The street resembled an orchestra between motorcycles, cars, and dala dalas, all going at different speeds-starting and stopping with no order or warning. Conductors hung out of minivans shouting their destinations, slapping the side of the van when they wanted the driver to stop for passengers. Each dala dala was brightly painted with a decal or slogan, honoring some type of celebrity. Beyonce, Obama, Elvis. I waited for the call to Gabriel's village, Rutema, but none of them were going that way.

"My friend. I found you!" A 4x4 screeched to a halt beside me, narrowly missing a man on a bicycle. The driver was wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and aviator shades that reflected my frazzled face. "It's me." He removed his glasses and shot me a cheeky grin.

Bahati.

"What happened to your . . . costume?" I shouted over the honking.

"It's not a costume. I am a real Maasai."

"Your hair is gone too?"

"The braids? They are extensions. I dress up for the tourists. They take pictures with me. I am also a tour guide, but it's all temporary. I am really an actor-an action hero-waiting for my break. One day, you will see me on the big screen. But that is for the future. You said you were looking for a driver. Where do you want to go?"

"Rutema," I replied.

"Get in. I'll take you there."

"How much?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"For you, same price as the dala dala."

I hesitated. I wasn't one to hop into a car with a stranger, let alone a stranger in a whole different part of the world.

Someone pinched my bum. It could have been the old woman trying to sell me the bracelets. I didn't check. I hopped into Bahati's car as a conductor with a megaphone blared something in my ear.

"You know Corinne from Nima House?" I said. "She told me to come see you."

I have friends, buster, and they know where I am.

"I know Miss Corinne. She gave you good advice. I am an excellent driver." Bahati made a sharp left, while I clutched the dashboard with white knuckles.

"You have no seat belts?" I reached for mine but came up empty-handed.

"No one wears seat belts around here." He laughed. "Don't worry. You are in good hands. I have an impeccable record. No accidents."

I watched as two pedestrians swerved out of the way just in time to avoid being clipped by him.

"You didn't tell me your name, Miss . . . ?" He left the question hanging.

"It's Rodel."

"Miss Rodel, you are lucky I found you or you would be on that." He pointed to the dala dala overtaking us. "Most of these mini-vans are supposed to hold ten people. If there aren't at least twenty, it isn't a real dala. If you're comfortable, it's not a real dala. The driver has absolute authority. Never ask him to turn down the music. Never expect him to stop where you're supposed to get off. Never make fun of all the pictures on his visor. Once you step out of the dala, you waive all your rights. He can run you over, take off with your other foot in his van, your luggage, your-"



       
         
       
        

"I get it. I'm better off with you."

"Absolutely. And I offer many special packages. Packed lunch. Banana beer. Free African massage. No. Not that kind of massage, my friend. I mean this, see?" He glanced my way as we bounced over a pothole-riddled street. "African massage. Hehe. It's good, no? You will leave me a review? I have a 4.5-star rating on-"

"Bahati?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"You talk too much."

"No, Miss. I only give you important information. Today is a good day to go to Rutema. Tomorrow there is rain. The roads get very muddy. I am happy we are going today. Tomorrow I would have to charge you extra for a car wash. For Suzi, my car." He thumped the steering wheel. "She likes to keep clean. But if you want to go tomorrow, that is okay, too. I have an umbrella in the trunk. It is from The Grand Tulip. Very big, very good. Oprah Winfrey used it. You will see the logo. The Grand Tulip logo, not Oprah's. They gave it to me because-"

"Today is fine. Isn't that where we're headed?"

"Yes, yes. That is where I am taking you. You already told me. Did you forget? That's okay. I have a good memory. But I don't understand why you want to go there. There is nothing to see. If you ask me, you should go to . . ."

We passed bustling markets and colonial buildings that stood like stubborn, dusty historians among the modern shops. Bahati droned on as we left Amosha and followed a dirt road through small farms and traditional homesteads. He trailed off on a hill with sweeping views of the area and stopped the car.

"Look," he said, pointing beyond the canyons, to the horizon.

Rising above the clouds, like an ethereal crown of glory against the jewel-blue sky, was the snow-capped dome of Kilimanjaro. I had imagined its vast splendor whenever Mo talked about it, but nothing had prepared me for my first sighting of its lofty, powdered peaks.

Bahati seemed to share my sense of awe. For a few moments, there was a lull in his commentary. He had no words to share with me, no litany of facts to impress me. We gazed at the surreal giant that loomed in the distance, towering majestically over the golden plains of the African Savannah.

"Why do you want to visit Rutema?" asked Bahati, once we were back on the road. "It is just a bunch of local homes and a few shops."

"I'm looking for a friend of my sister's." I explained what had brought me to Amosha, and why I needed Gabriel's help.

"I am sorry to hear about your sister. It was a terrible thing," he said. "This man-Gabriel-you don't know his last name?"

"No. Just that he and my sister worked together."