by R G Ainslee
The other men, two guys with light brown-skin, also wore sunglasses and were clad in perspiration stained brown outfits with a slight military flair. The taller of the two, with a pockmarked face emblazoned with a thick black mustache, surveyed the scene with the confident air of a leader.
The shorter man reminded me of a Nogales pimp: slick hair, thin mustache, and an evil curve to his lip. He sauntered over, halfway to the hut, halted, reached in his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit up, and eyed the women with a self-assured leer. His flirtation ignored, he blew out a stream of smoke, sniffed in disgust, and strutted back to his companions by the dock.
The men seemed out of their element, didn’t quite fit in. Something deep inside signaled a warning. Their assertive manner gave the impression of hard-cases.
The helmsman killed the motor and the boat coasted in. The wooden hull scraped against the concrete dock and screeched to a halt. The helmsman and a man on the dock engaged in a feisty argument about where to tie up. This offered a few moments of entertainment and prompted another stinging commentary from Martin, the tall Dutch sunbather.
Passengers exited the craft. Instead of boarding the boat, the four men from the car waited on shore. Two men separated from the crowd and approached the men.
My skin crawled. The Arab from the dhow.
The other, a short dark-skinned man, dressed in brown like the two men from the Peugeot, had been with the Arab in town. The other man was nowhere in sight.
The three men in brown outfits spoke loud enough for me to recognize a familiar language — Spanish. The dark-skinned man with the Arab pulled an object out of a bag, unrolled an article of clothing, and presented it to the guy with the thick mustache. He examined the label and exclaimed an important discovery.
An icy chill gripped my spine, my mind stuck in limbo, followed by a moment of dread. Pale green long johns flapped in the morning breeze.
A spark of recognition unleashed an adrenalin blast that triggered a primal survival instinct. Nowhere to move or hide, trapped like a rat, they merely had to shoot a glance towards the shed, the Arab sure to recognize me. My only means of concealment, the group at the bus stop. I shifted uneasily, pulse accelerated, and tension raced out of control. Mesmerized, I diverted my eyes, tried not to stare at the pale green underwear.
Kara continued with quiet small talk. I mumbled a response, tried to stay calm, and watched the men out of the corner of my eye. I remembered wearing the pale green outfit, knew it belonged to me, but couldn’t reason why.
The three continued their conversation in Spanish. Minutes seemed like hours. Waiting dulls the senses. I had to be careful not to let my mind wander, not to think aimlessly about things that might happen.
The leader spoke with intensity to the Arab and pointed back in the direction of Lamu. It was only a matter of time before they scanned the group and spotted me.
The shorter guy swaggered towards us once more, his eyes on the well-built Australian girl wearing a red headscarf. My hand grasped the switchblade, thumb on the slide.
The old man in charge of the ferry yelled to the men on the jetty, motioned for them to board. The leader snapped his fingers and barked out "¡Vamos!" or come-on.
The short guy looked us over with an icy impassive shark like stare, wheeled around, and boarded the craft. Fortunately, the Arab didn't glance in our direction. He showed a fearful respect for the men and gave them his full attention.
Kara continued to natter on about her plans. My thoughts focused on other things: Who are these guys? They're not locals. Why would they be after me? It was then I realized the matter was more than a ruined vacation trip. Something bigger and more dangerous was involved.
The dhow. Why was I on the dhow? The aircraft, were they looking for me? Who would be looking for me … and why? A sense of disorientation left me uncertain whom to trust. I felt alone and vulnerable. Did the Arab sell out his shipmates? Why were the men killed?
The green underwear — I wore it on the dhow. But the gang stole… How did the Arab find it? I reasoned: Maybe the panga gang tried to sell them … someone made the connection. A frightening thought: Can they trace me back to the hotel?
The boat motored down the channel towards Lamu. They knew I was alive and in the vicinity. Trapped like a rat, wherever I went, they wouldn't be far behind, circling like sharks waiting for the kill.
Kara noticed my distress, "Are you alright?"
"My stomach. Must have eaten something bad." Not an exaggeration, I was on the verge of throwing up.
"Where did you eat?"
"At the thatched roof place on the waterfront."
"No wonder, you should be more careful."
Thirty long anxious minutes later, the bus arrived. A large vehicle built on a truck chassis. Multi colored stripes stretched along the sides and it appeared to have logged many miles. The bus filled with passengers, the roof rack half-loaded with luggage and goods. A goat stared from a back window.
The people and goat streamed out of the bus, baskets and packages unloaded from the roof and carried to the jetty. The tall heavy-set driver and his young helper sat under a tree and munched on food bought from a vendor who materialized as the vehicle drove up. They didn't seem to be in any hurry.
The men might return with the next ferry. The Peugeot sat parked, not fifty feet away. I considered disabling the vehicle or even stealing it. About fifteen minutes later, the driver motioned for everyone to board the bus.
The Dutchmen and the Australian girls loaded their luggage on the roof rack. Kara invited me to sit with her. They would be searching for a man traveling alone. Didn’t want to involve her but had no choice and slipped in beside her. The driver pulled the door shut and drove off in a cloud of dust.
* * *
The bus bounced along the unpaved road at breakneck speed, the shock absorbers non-existent, or a distant memory. The so-called highway consisted of a series of potholes surrounded by dirt. The driver swerved to avoid the nastiest obstacles. Dust billowed through the open windows covering everyone and everything.
We sped recklessly along the rutted road. The speedometer needle lay passive, on zero, broken and useless. The driver wore Muslim headgear. His fate in Allah’s hands, he could speed fast as he wanted, or maybe he subscribed to the East African philosophy: Hakuna Matata — Swahili for no worries.
The local passengers paid little attention to the western travelers. Most men chewed wads of qat, a concoction of bitter leaves. Several gambled with a deck of cards and exchanged stories. Women talked, and one breast-fed her infant. Children sat passive and stared at us. The Dutch guys tried to sleep, but the rough ride and noise kept them awake. The Australian girls focused on the passing landscape and compared it to the outback. Kara and I sat quietly and spoke only to comment on an interesting sight along the road.
The bus paused in villages to pick-up or let off passengers. Women plodded beside the roadside, large loads of wood tied to their backs. Young boys tended small herds of cows. In the distance, gazelle and giraffe grazed — a typical day in rural East Africa.
Events before the past few days still elusive. Sight of the dead men returned a hazy vision of the dhow, the context a total blank. An image of Mack Gibson and Fort Huachuca. A name played in my consciousness: Santana … No that’s not it … San… Santini … Nairobi … Embassy … That’s it, gotta try the embassy.
Thoughts returned to Lisette and her uncle. An intense feeling of guilt numbed my spirit. It had been years since I prayed, but I tried: Please do not let them get involved in this. Protect them. Forgive me for whatever I have done.
* * *
The bus rolled on until we reached Witu, a dusty rundown town on the edge of nowhere. The driver pulled up to unload and pick up locals amid a collection of drab ramshackle market stalls that lined the unpaved main road in the heart of the village. Stall vendors rushed the windows offering fruit and roasted nuts for sale. Several passengers, along with the driver and his assista
nt, left the bus and headed over to a small open-air restaurant frequented by locals. Kara and I followed.
Five hippie types sat at a rickety table off to one side. One of them, about thirty years old and beardless, motioned us over and introduced himself as Rolf from Germany. The other four, tanned, scruffy beards, dressed in threadbare shorts and tie-dyed tee shirts, sat mute and sipped lukewarm bottles of Tusker beer.
The waiter eventually showed up and I ordered two bottles of Fanta and spicy ears of corn on the cob.
Rolf informed us they were traveling south in an old MAN diesel truck to Malindi, a coastal town. Witu being an unscheduled stop to work on their vehicle, the fan belt had shredded on the outskirts of the village. All five had spent a month at a remote village called Kipini, famous for its potent local ganja weed. They were living proof.
After a last bite of corn, Kara winked at me and took another swig of Fanta. The look in her eyes caught my attention — big time.
Kara spoke perfect English. She had recounted her career as a cross-country ski racer before injuring a knee. Her Olympic dreams gone, she now wanted to live life to the fullest. She was fit, attractive, sociable, and sexy.
Rolf leered at Kara. "You vill ride mit us? Vee go soon."
Kara and I exchanged glances. A subtle movement of her brows said it all. She answered without looking at Rolf, "No thanks, we've already paid for our tickets."
Relieved, the last thing I needed was to get involved with a bunch of dope-heads. Managed to find enough trouble on my own and didn't need their help. Besides, who would be the most likely target for the authorities, an innocent tourist on a bus, or a truckload of hippies?
Kara heard the bus start up and grabbed my hand. "We must go."
We dashed across the dusty street to the departing vehicle. I leapt through the open door and reached back for her. My arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her up the steps. She paused, peered into my eyes, and brushed against me. A provocative nudge from her hip ignited a jolt of testosterone. I followed her down the aisle with expectations in overdrive.
Martin, the Dutch traveler, announced to no one in particular, "The Australian girls missed the bus." At that moment, I didn't care.
Kara moved closer, up against my shoulder, her intense presence almost too much to bear. I responded to her unsubtle enticements with half-hearted chitchat. Lisette: She was a nun, not my type. I stole a glance at Kara. She countered with an unambiguous enticing smile. Don’t think she's a nun. My pulse accelerated.
Kara nudged ever closer, sexy and untamed. In any other circumstances, I would have been busy making a fool out of myself trying to impress her. My desires barely suppressed, I tried to remain alert to possible danger, concentrate on what I needed to do, and stay focused. A primitive survival response overrode conflicting emotions. Forced myself to take a step back and re-assess the situation. Kara’s tempting, but … can't get involved. Can't place her in danger. Gotta resist for both our sakes.
* * *
The bus halted at a river about forty yards wide and the driver carefully drove the vehicle on an old rusty motor-less ferryboat. I joined the male passengers and we pulled on a cable stretched across the stream. A look back revealed an empty road, no other traffic. Two disinterested herd boys watered cattle on the stream’s edge and women washed clothes in the water downstream.
Across the river, we arrived in Garsen, a dusty backwater junction with a line of vendor’s stalls in an open market. Kara had to change busses. She was going back to Nairobi by way of Garissa near the Somali border where she planned to meet friends. Martin warned her about Somali bandits. She coolly dismissed his warning. I hated to see her go, but maybe the desperados would be less of a threat than my pursuers.
The driver screeched to a halt in front of an open sided shed emblazoned with a large sign: The New International Hotel. In fact, the joint was just a shabby restaurant. The bus for Garissa sat ready to leave.
The driver’s assistant helped Kara with her backpack and loaded it on top the bus. We stood beside the door and said our good-byes. She gave me a gentle kiss and boarded. I genuinely regretted we had to part so soon.
Kara paused on the first step, turned, and spoke confidently, "Will you come to Garissa with me?"
Her enticement set off a firestorm of expectations. Kara had an uncommon athletic beauty and a fascinating and alluring personality. The temptation to go with her was irresistible.
"I… I wish I could … have to go to Mombasa."
"Please come." The soft pleading in her voice was enticing and enthralling. "I want to be with you."
A warm tingling coursed through my body. I almost succumbed — for once, good sense prevailed. "I’m sorry…"
She chose a seat by a window, gave one last poignant gaze, and turned way. The bus took off, she leaned out the window, smiled, threw a kiss, and a final good-by.
I returned her wave and watched the vehicle ramble down the road with a strange mixture of regret and relief. The bus faded in the distance and I wandered back to the so-called hotel for a meal.
"Jambo, rafiki," greeted the scruffily dressed waiter.
Ordered a plate of spicy grilled meat and regretted after the first bite. A Tusker beer helped wash it down.
I couldn't erase the image of Kara pleading to me. I should have gone with her. A series of fanciful scenarios played in my mind. Man, am I stupid or what?
About halfway through a second Tusker, a blue Peugeot station wagon pulled up beside the bus, paused, continued on, and parked down the street. Six men got out and strode towards the bus. The group included the three Spanish speakers and the Arab from the dhow.
The men looked around, their attention focused on the bus. The shorter Spanish guy and one of the black men boarded and searched the bus occupied by locals and the Dutch sunbathers.
The taller man with the mustache snapped his fingers and shouted to the Arab. The Arab, obviously nervous, followed and they began to explore the nearby stalls. The third guy and his companion searched in the opposite direction.
I paid the waiter and slipped out the back of the open hut. Few practical options were available. A lone white man stood out, impossible for me to blend-in with the crowd. I carefully moved up the street, watched their shark like movements from the shadows of market stalls while they rummaged around the immediate area.
The bus driver left a drink stall, entered the vehicle, started the engine with a brash diesel clatter, and honked the horn. The men circled and inspected passengers through the windows. The door slapped closed and the bus drove off, leaving the men standing in its dusty wake.
The crew gathered beside the Peugeot. The tall man, the boss, one of the men called him Jefe, approached the Arab face-to-face and a heated exchange ensued. The Arab, visibly afraid, pleaded with the leader and gestured down the road. The leader snapped his fingers and motioned for the Arab to return to the car. After a few minutes' conversation, the group marched over to the International Hotel, took a table, and ordered food and drink.
Trapped in the shadows, not daring to let them out of my sight, out of options, I was stuck. Alone in a two-bit town in the wilds of Africa, floating in a hostile sea, surrounded by predators.
After the meal, they returned to the Peugeot. El Jefe stood erect beside the open door and inspected the area one last time with a bitter scowl. He entered on the passenger side, slammed the door, and they drove off in the direction taken by the bus.
Relieved, I was safe for the moment. My only option, wait for the next bus, whenever that was. I stepped out into the street.
"Ey, vat you do heer?" Rolf waved from the driver's seat of the now chugging MAN diesel truck.
"Missed my bus." Reluctantly, I asked, "How ‘bout a ride?"
"Ya, you come. Ve eat now. You come vit us, ve go zu Malindi, prima beach, prima ganja."
"Thanks." I walked to the back and paused. The two Australian girls climbed down from the tailgate and stormed off up the street without a w
ord.
A young man with long blond hair and a scraggly beard called out after them, "Come back, I loff yu." The well-built girl with a red headscarf answered with a one-finger salute over her shoulder. He shrugged and introduced himself as Max.
We drove down a back street to a small local eatery. An open shed like most places in Garissa. The owner, an older man with a wrinkled face greeted the Germans. They had been there before. He brought a simple meal of rice topped with some sort of meat and we had another round of lukewarm Tusker beer. Rolf and Max jabbered away non-stop, the others seemed permanently stoned.
Chapter 10 ~ Malindi
Friday, 10 February: The Road to Malindi
Two hours later, we set out southward on the same road as the Peugeot. Fifty kilometers down the way, following an hour-long pause to fix a flat tire, we sighted the bus to Malindi, parked fifty yards off in the bush. A lone police officer dressed in a dusty tunic, shorts and sandals directed us to halt behind three other vehicles.
A sullen crowd, locals and occupants of other vehicles, stood around the bus. Several bodies with multiple gunshot wounds lay scattered outside the bullet-riddled bus. The survivors, old men, women, and children huddled under a large tree fifty yards away.
Rolf and Max approached the scene. I sensed what had happened and hung back. The dead included the driver, his attendant, and the Dutch sunbathers. Martin lay beside the rear wheel, his torso mangled and bloody. The younger guy sprawled half way under the bus as if he had tried to crawl away, his back and legs torn by automatic weapons fire. The driver and helper, plus a younger Kenyan male, lay in a pile in front of the bus. The smell of death permeated the area.
A wave of revulsion and shame swept over me. An image of the road in New Mexico rippled through my mind. Someone died because of me.
The officer returned from the road and Rolf asked, "Vat happened? Vas accident?"