Taken by the Muse

by Anne Wheeler

  As Margaret Laurence advised, I have filled the spaces between my recollections with possibilities. While my memories of these real events hold these stories in place, I have allowed them to acquire a will of their own, determined to be more than a report of where I went and what I did. With age and experience, my stories have gathered meaning, and I have come to know myself better. I hope they will stir my readers’ curiosity about themselves and the lives they are living.

  A few months after her phone call, I heard that Margaret had taken her own life. She left quietly, without any fuss, only sixty-one years old. Having terminal lung cancer, she decided to save her family, friends, and herself the anguish of a slow, painful death.

  She must have been sick the night she called, but nonetheless wanted to take care of some unfinished business and pass on to me something of what she had learned. She was so honest and generous. I regret that I never got a chance to meet her in person, to thank her for the gift of that call. She gave me the courage to explore the world within and to find my own way out.

  Anne Wheeler

  SOUTH OF MOMBASA

  May 1971

  EVERY THING IS GREY. The night is grey, the road is grey — no wonder I almost collided with that elephant back there! Coming to a screeching halt, I missed her by an inch, and she didn’t even flinch. She just stared at me with her tiny eyes, so small that they barely kicked back the light. Slowly, calmly, she shimmied to the side, regarding me with disdain, giving me just enough room to drive around her. She was right. I am an idiot to be driving at night, alone and exhausted, emotionally unhinged, talking to myself — crossing the plains of Africa.

  I should have stayed in Nairobi for the night, but the tension between Michael and me was unbearable. I had been in a whirl, hopelessly impulsive, throwing my stuff into my poor wee car, leaving behind what I couldn’t squeeze inside or strap onto the roof. I should have taken her in for servicing before I left. I didn’t even send my brother a telegram, warning him that I’d be landing on his doorstep in a couple of days — alone. I left in such a fury, I hadn’t even changed my clothes, and now I was headed south, bound for Tanga, Tanzania.

  It’s hard to believe that a week ago I was working in the basement of the Nairobi National Museum with my fiancé, Michael, an ambitious, handsome Harvard archaeologist. We’d only met a few months back; our romance had been intense and exciting. I volunteered to work on his doctoral dig. He loved that I was a cowgirl, happy to camp out. I loved that he had such a passion for his work, such a keen curiosity. He spoke Swahili fluently. We got on well, the work got done, and the place he had chosen to dig was rich with artifacts. After the fieldwork was complete, I stayed on to help him sort out and log the findings. Being an old-fashioned man of action, he wrote to my widowed mother and asked for my hand in marriage. She was thrilled that I had landed a good man with a future and some sense of protocol — quite different from the guys I had been bringing home in recent years.

  I knew my family was worried about me. My three older brothers were all happily married, raising children. I was the odd one out, constantly changing direction, going from one job to another, never showing up with the same man twice. Suddenly I had taken off and disappeared somewhere east of Europe. For a while, nobody knew where I was. I sent postcards from Greece, Syria, and Egypt that arrived in no particular order, with no return address. When I did resurface, engaged to Michael, it looked as though I was finally going to live a more conventional life.

  I had said yes to Michael’s proposal without fully anticipating the implications. It wasn’t until we were on our way to get married at my brother’s home in Tanga — he and his wife had agreed to be witnesses — that I realized I had made a big mistake.

  Michael was waxing on about our future — how he had applied and been accepted for “married housing” at Harvard where we’d live for the next two or three years while he completed his thesis. I was going to love Boston, the States, the work, the people, his parents — and the courses I could take to better assist him. A feeling of dread overtook me as he sketched out his plan.

  I couldn’t let my life funnel down into his — labelling artifacts, writing up proposals, fulfilling his career. He was a great guy, ready to commit, to take care of me, to love me, to provide for me. It should have felt like a dream come true, but it didn’t. Why? Why couldn’t I embrace this next obvious step in my life? What did I want?

  While sitting in the car beside him, on our way to our wedding, I realized that, in truth, I loved the freedom of being a loner, of taking the path uncharted. I hated being locked into a rigid plan, especially when it was someone else’s. There was an undeniable need inside me to do something of meaning; I just hadn’t figured out what that was.

  So, even though we were on our way to tie the knot, I called off the wedding. Michael was overcome with disbelief, convinced that I didn’t know my own mind. I was ashamed of myself, sick with remorse — but resolute. We pulled over to the side of the roadway and batted my decision back and forth, whacking it to death — until finally he was convinced that I was not going to change my mind. We turned around and drove back to Nairobi in silence.

  That was yesterday. Now I am rudderless and heading into the unknown. No woman in my family has ever remained single. Education was always considered to be a “fall back” luxury. But, like the Bob Dylan song, “The Times They Are a-Changin’.”

  Before I met Michael, my plan was to stop in Kenya, work for six months, and then travel on to South Africa where I would take a boat to India via the Seychelles. Now I’m broke, with nothing to my name but this beat-up Volkswagen, jam-packed with African drums, bolts of brightly printed cloth, Makonde carvings, salad bowls, baskets within baskets, and a bag of film I can’t afford to develop.

  I was going to stop in Mombasa, get myself organized, make a plan, and get some sleep, but I got turned around in the tiny streets and ended up in a slum near the old port — a place of poverty beyond all imagining. I was hoping to find a cheap hotel with secure parking. No such place existed. Luckily, some friendly teenagers hanging out at a gas station led me to the Likoni Ferry, which took me over to the south side of the city where there were several modest motels on the main road out of town. But these places also seemed too dicey; the lock on my driver’s door was broken, so I’d have to haul everything inside my room and find someone to stand guard over my car all night. Too tired to contemplate such a task, I decided to keep on driving.

  Gawd, I love my car. It’s so much easier having my own wheels. I travelled through Europe by train, around the Mediterranean by freighter, through the Middle East by bus, down the Nile by barge, and by every means possible across Sudan and Ethiopia. It took me six months to get from London to Kenya. Travelling alone, I sometimes felt like I was up for grabs. A couple of times, I almost got claimed, like a stray cow, by men who thought they’d add me to their herd.

  I bought my VW Beetle when I first arrived in Nairobi — it’s become my place of refuge and my suitcase on wheels. Consequently, I have accumulated a market-load of stuff — more than I would ever be able to carry.

  East Africa has gone through a political shift in the past few months. The borders between Uganda, Tanzania, and Kenya, which were open when I arrived, are now heavily secured. The three countries no longer share the same currency, or a sense of “oneness.” The volleying for power has made everyone nervous. In fact, there are no other cars on the road. There is a tiny border crossing coming up, between Kenya and Tanzania, and I’m afraid that my passport, which reveals all of my wanderings and backtracking, will provoke a lot of questions.

  As I drive up to the booth, it looks like the gate has been closed for the night. I might have to wait until dawn for someone to show up, so I cut the engine and start to make myself comfortable. Mysteriously, the gate opens on its own, as though I should just pass through and carry on, but I know better than to cross a border without getting a visa stamp.

  “Hello,” I call out, “anyo
ne here?”

  A head pops up from beneath the small window in the booth and two tired eyes squint out at me. I swear the border guard thinks I’m an illusion as he comes out of his box, carrying his gun, and straightening his uniform. Wiping off his sleepy face, he marches right up to my window and takes a closer look — right down my low-cut top. I realize I’m dressed inappropriately.

  “Jambo!” I smile, using my limited Swahili vocabulary, leaning forward, blocking his view of my cleavage. He responds, asking me a question I don’t understand. He’s maybe forty, heavy-set, his uniform stretched across his ample belly.

  Holding out my passport, I continue with a phrase I have memorized. “Ninahitajipasipotiyanguiliyopigwa, bwana. Ni muhimusana.” (I need my passport stamped, sir. It’s important.)

  “Muhimusana.” Agreeing that it is important, he chuckles, amused by my pronunciation. He looks inside the car, curious. “You one person, mwali (young woman)?”

  I know I look young to him; Africans often guess me to be a teenager, even though I’m twenty-four. “Ni nzuri!” (It’s all good!) My “go to” response to almost everything.

  “Ni nzurisana!” (Not all good!) He then talks on, gesturing. I pick out the words “barabara” (road) and “mbaya” (bad).

  Is he is suggesting that I should stay here until morning? I keep a smile on my face and remain still. He leafs through my passport, toying with me, I think. “Unanjaa?” he asks. (Are you hungry?)

  This, I understand. “No, asante.” (No, thank you.)

  He asks me something more, still smiling. I think he has just offered me a bed. I remain reserved, acutely aware that we are totally alone.

  “Wewenimwemasana.” (You are very kind.) It’s a phrase I’ve learned for situations such as this.

  That’s it. That’s all the Swahili I know.

  He nods and then mutters something to himself. Handing my passport back, he touches my hand just a little too long. Then he motions for me to follow him through the gate.

  I note that he has no vehicle here other than a pedal bike. I stuff my papers back into my pouch and drive slowly beside him. He points to a place to park, underneath an old baobab tree, beside a shed. I gradually speed up, and when I think I have enough distance from him, I take off. Pedal to the metal, smooth tires spinning, dust kicking up, I get back on the roadway and bounce off into the darkness.

  In my rear-view mirror, I see him waving at me to come back, holding up his gun. We both know he cannot catch me and there isn’t time to take a shot. I feel guilty — I could not find my trust. He might have been a kind man, being protective, and now I have slighted him. The truth is that my nerves are frayed, and I would not have slept for a moment.

  Beyond the border, the highway becomes a narrow sandy road, cutting through the palm forest that crimps the shore of the Indian Ocean. I’ve been warned that at night, truck drivers, often drunk and tired, own this road, driving at breakneck speeds with their headlights off. My own headlights are dim and my windshield is webbed with multiple fractures. I drive with my windows down so I will hear an approaching truck over the roar of my noisy engine in time to pull off the road.

  My little car, affectionately called Dudu (“Bug”) has taken me all over East Africa and into the Congo. I have run of gas a couple of times, but it has never let me down.

  Until now.

  With only the shadowy palm trees as my witnesses, the sound of my motor crescendos with a series of raucous vibrations and a final loud C R AC K ! The lights expire as Dudu seizes up and dies.

  Rolling to a halt, I sit, listening to the night sounds of the forest — the hum of insects, the wind in the trees, some faraway voices — and then — oh no!

  I hear a horn in the distance and the distinctive rumble of an 18-wheeler! I pound on my horn and something explodes with a bang. What was that!? A gun?

  Doesn’t matter! I gotta get this car off the road right now!

  Jumping out, I push against the doorframe. The car starts to move, but as soon as I turn the wheel, it comes to a stop. The tires are wedged into the sandy ruts; I don’t have the strength to push Dudu over the higher centre of the road. Wailing with the effort, I rock it back and forth, again and again. Wet with sweat and fear, I hear the truck honking, getting closer. Maybe if I get my stuff out of the car, it will be lighter and more manageable.

  Like a madwoman, I throw clothes, drums, carvings, camera, salad bowls, baskets, as much as I can grab, into the blackness. Again, I try to move the car off the road, but I’m hopelessly stuck now. I am ready to run down the road toward the truck with the wild hope of stopping the driver, when I hear a babble of voices.

  Turning, I see a cluster of torches marching toward me through the palms. A dozen or more men emerge from the shadows. A couple of them are running down the road toward the noise with their torches. I hope they are going to stop the truck. Others see me and rush in my direction. Their excited chatter sends me back into my car.

  Buxom and wearing a going-to-get-married mini-dress, I feel naked and exposed. I roll up the windows and lock all the doors, except the one with the broken lock. I duck down, and hold my door closed.

  Animated, the men surround my car and peer inside. In the dancing light of their torches, I look up and see their faces — decorated with scars and tattoos, their teeth filed into points. They are knocking on my window, pounding on the car, yelling as the sound of the oncoming truck intensifies. It’s not going to stop.

  Acting quickly, the men push the car out of the way. I slip it into neutral and they almost lift me off the road! Just in time! The big noisy tanker crashes past in a blur of sand and diesel smoke. The driver sounds his horn in a fit of anger. That was too close!

  As the air clears, I register that these men have saved my life. They knock again on my window and talk to me in a language I’ve never heard before — it isn’t Swahili. I cower in my seat — feeling vulnerable, frozen with indecision. How should I handle this? Maybe if I just stay put they will go away, and I’ll just sleep here for the night.

  One of them opens the engine hood in the back, while others start looking through my stuff, which lies scattered on the ground. An older man, whom the others call Kanu, looks through the windshield and motions for me to try the ignition. I turn the key and a shocking barrage of sounds erupts, so I turn it off. Wanting to get inside, Kanu tries the passenger door, which is locked. I remain rigid as I try to assess what my choices might be. If I sit here until morning then what? They might go away. They might roll my car over. Or maybe set it on fire. I am thinking craziness here. Why would they do that, having risked their own lives to rescue mine?

  Dizzy with fear, I open my door. Summer jobs acting in children’s theatre kick into play. I emerge from the car, clown-like, bowing and throwing kisses of gratitude. From the perplexed looks on their faces, I ascertain that they have no idea what I’m trying to say.

  So, I embellish my performance using mime, acting out my whole story, which I recount to myself in English. “Here I am, happily driving through the night, singing to myself, rolling down the window, nervous because I can’t see. Then I hear strange sounds coming from my engine as it chokes and sputters and ultimately stops dead!”

  I provide sound effects, which they like. They are visibly amused as I continue to animate each action. “I hop out of the car and try to push it but it is too heavy, so I throw everything out, madly, in a rush to avoid a horrific collision with — what do I hear? A lori kubwa — a big truck!”

  They have grasped that I am a buffoon and love it. I am warming to my audience. “I kick my car, calling it “Dudu kufa! Dead bug! Bad dead bug!” as I do all the actions, pushing the dead weight. They cheer me on.

  “Then suddenly I stop — big men with big muscles are coming toward me! Frightened like a mouse, I jump back in the car and hide. Taking a peek or two out the window.”

  They get it; they think I’m hilarious. Thank you, Mother of all Muses! Surely they won’t kill the clown.

/>   Remembering that I am in this ridiculous outfit, I grab one of my African cloths and wrap it around myself, as we begin a gestured conversation about what could be wrong with the car, which looks like a wreck. When I bought it on the black market in Nairobi, it was like new. After having been chased by rhinos and crossing thousands of miles of roadless wilderness, the retreads are worn smooth and the body is pocked with dents.

  They are all over Dudu now, inside and out. One young man hops in and steers as the rest of them push it further off the road and into the forest. I can hear the ocean as I trip into the darkness, following them. Clutching my purse like a little old lady, I try to keep up. A flicker of firelight up ahead makes the trees dance. I smell maize being cooked and it stirs my appetite. I haven’t eaten for a couple of days.

  The village is closer than I thought. All at once, I come out of the darkness into a colourful place. I am surrounded by people, some of them smiling, some of them nervously hiding behind others, not easy with having a stranger intrude.

  Though the women are topless, I feel underdressed. They wear boldly printed turbans and, around their hips, cotton kangas of bright, large patterns — orange against turquoise, red against white, black against yellow. Their arms and legs are adorned with beads and shells. The men, too, wear kanga cloth around their waists, though shorter, and kufis (caps) on their heads, which I assume means that they are Muslim. Children stare at me from the shadows. A couple of daring women pull me toward the fire.

  Some young boys sneak up from behind and try to grab me inappropriately, and I do my angry dog routine, growling at them. They jump back, startled, but are quick to muster up the nerve to heroically try again. I take the offensive and jump at them, growling and barking wildly. They are convinced that I will bite them. I suspect that they think I am mad. So, I play with them; let them get closer and closer, until finally I let them touch me on the head. That seems to go over very well. They giggle and clap when I start to pant like a happy mutt.