by R G Ainslee
The officer answered, betraying no emotion, "No accident. Shiftas attack and kill."
"Shiftas?"
"Bad men. Somali bandits. Much trouble north, now they come south. Very bad."
Max seemed frightened and pleaded, "Can ve go Malindi, vill it be safe?"
The officer stiffened, his expression wooden. "No. No, you stay. Much danger. Police come now. You not go."
The death scene freaked out the hippies. They wanted to leave right away. The officer refused to let us go on. Shiftas might still be in the area. I knew the killers weren't shiftas. They were the men in the Peugeot. People milled around. New arrivals strolled over to inspect the bodies. A slow-motion chaos ensued. The officer seemed overwhelmed by it all.
A couple hours later, a police convoy arrived and allowed us to continue to Malindi under escort. The force consisted of a stake-bed truck and ten officers armed with old bolt-action Enfield rifles.
We approached Malindi after dark and parked on the beach north of town. Tropical sounds and smells filled the air. I stretched out in the back of the truck to ponder the day’s events. Too tired to think, I soon drifted into a peaceful sleep.
Saturday, 11 February: Malindi
A few hours after sunrise, I woke Rolf and told him I needed to be on my way and didn't have time to wait. He understood and offered a traveling weed stash. I politely declined but did trade my tourist clothes for an outfit that would help me to blend into the local hippie scene.
Dressed in dirty worn-out shorts, a faded tie-dyed tee shirt, sandals, and a leather hat, I hustled out to the main road and hitched a ride. An older German driving a Cadillac convertible gave me a lift straight to the center of town.
At the bus station, I bought a ticket for the eleven o'clock bus to Mombasa and headed back looking for a restaurant. A blue Peugeot passed by. Peugeot’s are a common sight in Kenya. This one placed me on edge.
The Spanish speaking men were looking for me. I needed a plan for contacting American authorities, preferably the embassy in Nairobi, or perhaps there was an American Consulate in Mombasa. The name Santini reverberated: Sounds familiar, can’t place it. Who is he?
I wandered down an alley lined with shops and stalls. On the main street, I was one of many western travelers and blended in. In a back alley, out of my element, my white skin and hippie garb stood out in the crowd. Realizing my mistake, I cut a right at the next corner and headed back towards the main road.
A tall thin woman dressed in a multi-colored outfit stepped from the shadows and grabbed my crotch. "Hey Bwana, fifty shillings."
Caught by surprise, I broke away and dashed down a side alleyway. My wrong turn had brought me to the red-light district. I rushed along for about thirty yards past a line of tawdry women offering their services, wheeled around a corner beside a deserted stall, and began to jog towards the bus station.
A man stepped out of a narrow passageway. We met head on, not three feet between us. The man’s face registered a look of astonishment, he recognized me — the Arab from the dhow. We both froze. I had to stop him from contacting the others.
He made the first move and spun on his heels. Without hesitation, I grabbed his dirty white robe from behind. He whirled around. I lowered my head, pushed forward against his chest, and wrestled him into an open space behind an empty stall.
He fought back, tried to break my hold. I hung on in desperation. He twisted away, lost his balance, and we tumbled to the ground. I kept my hold as we rolled, but he ended up on top with a chokehold around my neck. His eyes narrowed, face warped with rage, his rough sailor’s hands tightened their grip.
The Arab was too heavy, and I couldn’t gain leverage to push him away. I frantically fought back, unable to break his grip. He had me and was about to choke me to death. I froze for a moment, on the verge of giving up and accepting my fate.
The specter of imminent death produced a clarifying moment. One can surrender to the inevitable — or resist. In a moment of absolute terror, I reacted. The knife — I reached into my front pocket, jerked out the switchblade and pressed the button. The spring-loaded blade popped open with a reassuring click.
A desperate slash struck his left arm and slid away. He flinched, froze for a moment, and then increased his grip. His eyes burned with a renewed determination, victory was in his grasp, revenge for humiliation on the dhow.
My lungs fought for air. I began to fade. Time for one last effort: I extended my arm and stabbed at his elbow with a burst of raw energy. The cold steel blade struck bone. He recoiled and loosened his hold for an instant.
I seized the moment to drive the blade deep into his ribs with a wrenching motion of my wrist. The knife twisted against cartilage and flesh.
A shudder from his heartbeat on the blade, his muscles contracted with pain, the death grip relaxed. He stared at me for a moment. The fire in his eyes extinguished as they glazed over and life faded away. He emitted a pitiful moan. His limp body slumped off to the side.
I leapt to my feet and swept the area with a frantic eye. We seemed to be alone. No one had seen us. I drew the blade from his side. Blood spurted from his wound creating a crimson stain on the robe and a pool at his side. The coppery smell of blood permeated the air.
My pulse raced. He’s dead. I killed a man. A euphoric adrenalin rush produced an intense primitive sensation. Killing is surprisingly easy when it's a matter of life or death, not satisfying, but better than dying. There’s only one rule when caught in a death grip: Kill-or-be-Killed — words of wisdom from my bayonet instructor in Army basic training. This was reality, the law of the jungle applied. Him or me. This time I won.
I resisted the urge to run away and wiped the blade on his dirty robe. A search of his leather belt pouch turned up a wad of brand new Kenyan Shillings. A fair sum — his pay-off for betrayal. Blood Money. He won’t need this anymore. I decided to keep the cash. Probably on his way to the local cathouse. — Too bad.
After a quick look around, I realized the others remained a threat, perhaps lurking nearby, searching for someone who looked like me. I broke out of my confused state: Gotta get outta here. I made my way through the narrow alley towards the main street. My steps felt like walking in deep sand.
At the bus station, I stood in a dark corner and thought about what happened. The fight replayed in slow motion, I stared to shake. I began to feel pain from the effects of the chokehold and my head throbbed from hitting the ground.
The adrenalin of the fight subsided leaving me sick and ashamed. The blood money burned a hole in my pocket. I robbed a dead man. Survival sometimes involves crossing the line into a world of grey morality. The Arab sold out his shipmates and they died. He tried to kill me and died. My own actions and the sudden power brought on by the struggle for life or death alarmed me.
No longer just a hazardous trip to Nairobi, it had become a desperate fight for survival. Kill-or-be-Killed also meant I might be the next to die. My blood ran cold. Euphoria turned to fear. Are they still after me? Are they still here? I was in mortal danger. A flood of possibilities ran through my mind, countered by frantic thoughts of escape. Where would I go? I'm in Africa, no passport, not much money. Panic began to seep in.
* * *
At eleven o’clock, the driver opened the door of the modern vehicle and people crowded in. Only four other white travelers boarded the bus. I sat behind three young men hoping to appear to be part of their group. Canadians from Vancouver who talked enthusiastically about a new weed variety found on the beach.
A glance down revealed a stain on my shorts, blood from the dead man. Revolted, I fidgeted and tried to hide the spot. A lump rose in my throat. Stomach muscles cramped. I stifled an urge to throw up.
The driver settled into his seat and one last person entered. A short man dressed in brown — the would-be Romeo from the bus stop — stood impassively beside the driver and glared silently at every white face.
I tensed and reflexively checked for my knife. The survival insti
nct kicked in, heart rate increased, muscles tensed. Strangely, I wasn't afraid. Slipped my right hand down and grasped the damp switchblade.
The guy didn't seem to recognize me but did pay attention to a well-dressed white male passenger in the rear. He continued up the aisle, looked us over, and glowered intently at the lone traveler.
Pretending to ignore his presence, eyeing him out of my peripheral vision, I placed a finger on the switchblade's button, ready to spring into action.
He stood next to me, moments away from a one-way trip to hell’s inner reaches, when someone yelled from outside, "El árabe es muerto," The Arab is dead. The short man rushed down the aisle and out the door. He met El Jefe the leader and they ran in the direction of the killing. A few tense minutes later, the driver fired up the diesel engine and we left Malindi headed south.
* * *
The bus continued along the paved coast road past villages and a marine turtle sanctuary. The Canadian passengers, on their way to climb Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, worried about getting across the border. Disputes between Kenya and Tanzania often interrupted cross border traffic. The man sitting alone, member of a medical team, spoke up, informed them about a cholera epidemic in the Kilimanjaro region, and insisted they get shots in Nairobi.
Down the coast, the bus halted to wait for a motor ferry to carry us across Kilifi Creek. A long line of Land Rovers, Peugeots, safari vans, busses, and assorted trucks waited to cross. Anxious about a delay, I decided to go check it out rather than sit and wait for the unknown.
Down at the landing, there had been some problem with the ferry. I hoped the holdup wouldn't allow the men to catch up with us. After checking on the dead Arab, they would likely pursue the bus.
On my way back, I was surprised to spot the MAN diesel truck at the end of the line. Rolf was driving. One of the other guys slumped asleep on the front seat.
With caution, I passed by the bus and walked along the line of vehicles, keeping an eye down the road. Rolf seemed preoccupied and didn't notice my presence. I tapped on the door.
"Hey Rolf. Wie geht's."
"Das pigs, das pigs," cried an agitated Rolf. "Zey come zu camp und take ganja, ve muss pay funf hundred marks baksheesh. It vas bat scene, hell vit Malindi, ve go zu Twiga Beach by Mombasa." He paused and looked me over. "You vant ride vit us now?"
The goons chasing me were suspicious of the bus and this seemed like a practical alternative. I was dressed for the part and decided to take him up on his offer.
A despondent Max greeted me as I climbed over the tailgate. "No ganja, no veed." The others had nothing to say, still in their permanent stupor.
Soon, traffic began to move. Rolf drove the sputtering diesel on the ferry. The modern craft took only a few minutes to cross the creek. I stayed toward the front, trying to keep a low profile, fearing the boat could become a trap.
We crossed the wide creek and came upon the bus parked beside the road. Traffic ahead ground to a halt with us right beside the bus. A group of passengers stood behind the vehicle and off to the side a senior police officer questioned the three Canadians and lone American.
A police sergeant and a team searched the baggage. One of the officers emptied the Canadian’s packs on the ground, let out a yell, and proudly held up a large plastic bag. He turned to his sergeant and announced, "Ganja, ganja."
The police bust frightened Rolf. When traffic began to move he accidentally killed the engine. Desperate, he cranked the diesel repeatedly. The spectacle drew unwelcome attention from the crowd, including the police. A sergeant approached, called out to Rolf, and asked if he needed assistance.
A blue Peugeot pulled up four car lengths away. My body tensed. Three men dressed in brown emerged and surveyed the commotion. They had been only a few vehicles behind us on the ferry. I slumped behind the tailgate.
The obstinate diesel turned over with a loud clatter and Rolf accelerated away from the scene at a lumbering speed. A cautious peek over the tailgate, no one seemed to be following. I moved back towards the front, kept a wary eye on the road behind us, and tried to be inconspicuous.
We raced towards Mombasa at thirty-five miles an hour, top speed for the ancient truck. The ganja bust by the police freaked Rolf out. He was determined not to stop for anything. Every approaching vehicle produced another tense moment until it passed. I tried to relax and block it out of my mind but couldn't. Each vehicle caused the same reaction until we arrived in the teeming streets of Mombasa.
Rolf drove straight through the city, crossed Kilindini Harbor aboard the Likoni Ferry, and continued south along the coast to Twiga Beach. Max enlightened me to its many fine qualities, cheap ganja available in countless varieties, and other travelers, including hot girls eager for a good time.
I wasn’t thinking about hot girls and a good time. Someone was after me and I didn’t have a clue as to why. Hunting antelope out on the ranch came to mind. Hours of careful stalking, waiting, and moving in for the kill. My body numbed as I realized, now I was the prey. The difference was the antelope relied on speed and distance to escape. I had neither.
The sun had just set as we pulled off the main road on a coral paved drive and entered the campground. The scene resembled a tropical island paradise: palm trees swayed in the evening breeze, the Indian Ocean gave off a faint radiance beyond the white beach sands, lights from a bar or restaurant glowed, campfires lit up the shore further south.
Rolf parked beneath a vacant palm stand. It seemed like a calm and serene place, a refuge from the cares of the outside world. The Germans left in search of ganja weed and women. I strolled around for a while, down to the water, returned to the truck, and soon fell asleep, exhausted.
Chapter 11 ~ The Beach
Sunday Morning, 12 February: Twiga Beach
Strange noises woke me from a furtive sleep. A troop of monkeys screeched overhead. Unfamiliar voices chattered in the distance. A bleary squint around the back of the truck showed I was alone. Apparently, Rolf, Max, and the others left early or spent the night elsewhere. Got lucky, or more likely, lay passed out under a palm tree.
The past days blurred like a bad dream. I lost track of time, uncertain of day or year. At least my head felt better. An image of the dead Arab returned. The struggle played through my mind: his rough hands around my neck, the eerie feel of the knife going in, blood oozing from his side, the coppery smell. At least, now I was safe.
A basket floated by the tailgate. Two young Kenyan girls strolled by with baskets of tropical fruit and pastries balanced on their heads. Dug out a few bills of blood money and bought breakfast: a banana and sweet pastry.
My hunger satisfied, I exited the truck, stretched, and checked out the area. The glittering sea dazzled my eyes. Morning dawned crisp and clear. A refreshing breeze fanned the palm fronds.
People wandered about the campground, mostly young travelers, and no sign of Rolf, Max, or the crew. An open thatched-roof structure a hundred yards down the beach appeared to be a restaurant. I headed over, anxious for a mug of coffee.
The place hummed with quiet conversation. The clientele exclusively young white hippie traveler types, all dressed in similar fashion: shorts, tee shirts, and sandals. Most guys sported long hair and the girls favored shorter tresses. Like me, they were unwashed and unkempt. I surveyed the scene and looked around for an empty seat.
"Hey Mate, join us," beckoned a young man, tall and obviously Australian. A blue headband corralled his long black hair. He sat at a table with three others, two girls and a guy.
"Thanks." I settled down in a chair beside a short girl with blonde hair and an obvious hangover.
The tall guy said, "Not seen you around. You new here?"
"Yeah, arrived last night. You been here long?"
"You bet Mate, at least three weeks, "he laughed, "Maybe longer, we've gone troppo for sure." He stuck out a hand and introduced himself, "Billy from Darwin … you know, in the Northern Territory.
No one else bothered with introductions
. They sat half asleep, the caffeine having no effect. Apparently, they hadn't been able to drink the effervescent Billy under the table.
Billy examined the faded bruise on the side of my head. "Bummer Mate, looks like you been in a good one."
"Yeah, learned too late about the panga gangs. Need to watch out on the beach."
He launched into a long story involving a run in with an assailant on a beach to the south. Either Billy was a good storyteller or there was one "sorry SOB bush ranger," who ended his mugging career early. Neglected to tell him the details about my encounters and didn't even consider telling him I killed a man the day before. Billy told an entertaining tale. Mine was better and best left untold.
No one else seemed eager to talk, so I asked Billy about the campground and inquired how to get back into Mombasa.
"Mate — the coast from here south is a virtual tropical paradise. You got miles and miles, no, an endless stretch of sandy beaches lined with coconut palms and bathed with warm crystal-clear water." He sounded like a travel guide. "This place here is the world famous Twiga Beach, known far and wide as the best hangout in Africa. It has everything: cheap sleep, endless weed, endless beaches, and an endless supply of women."
The girl beside me gave a derisive huff.
"It’s an endless paradise, only problem Mate … they don’t have an endless supply of Fosters."
"Fosters?"
"Beer, Mate. You never heard of Fosters?"
"Yeah, what does Twiga mean?"
The taller girl with short blonde hair informed me, "Twiga means giraffe in Swahili. Ain’t seen no giraffe here." She turned to Billy, "Ave you?" Billy ignored her.
Enough of the travelogue, I asked, "How do I get into town?"
"Mate, all you have to do is trek out to the main road and hop a northbound matatu — you know, one of those crazy little lorries they use for taxis — carries about thirty blokes."
"Are they safe?" I wondered if they might be a good way to get into Mombasa.
The short girl answered, "Yeah, if you don't mind getting your bum pinched." Everyone laughed except her.