the road to engaruka

[Transposed from the journal I kept while in Africa]

I board Peace Kiazi, which translates to Peace Potato, bound for Engaruka. A turn north takes us onto a washboard road. The seat vibrates me like an expensive salon chair would in the States. Soon, the Maasai and giraffes are as common as street lights and stop signs on my daily drive to work. Two chickens in a closed cardboard box cluck on a rack above my head.

Across from me, a man's decorated earlobes hang inches from his shoulders. He's beautiful. At our stop in Selela - the one stop on the two-hour trip from Mto Wa Mbu - children reach toward my window, then turn their palms up. I'm not sure if they are begging or saying hello. I reach for a young girl's hand. She jumps to touch mine and squeals when our hands brush. Bags, bananas and more pass through the bus windows from one pair of hands to the next.

Entering Engaruka I pay an entrance fee of 5000 shillings (about $4). It's mzungu (White) price, for which I receive a receipt. Some leave the bus. Others board. We ride to the last stop. I sit inside the pages of National Geographic magazine. Covered Muslims, Maasai warriors and other indigenous faces with dark eyes stare at me. Huts with thatched roofs and mud and stick walls blanket the landscape. I remind myself to inhale and exhale. I don't think I've ever been this far from home.