Paul's demeanor was cool and collective. He's 21 and rents out a shop beside one belonging to a good friend of his, Mike. Paul and Mike go way back to when they were both toddlers. In high school, they went their separate ways.
On our drive to the national park, Paul told me about his ultimate goal: to become a pilot. He has never been out of Africa and longs to see to the world. He fantasizes about meeting his future wife in Brazil while on layover in Sau Paulo or Rio. According to Paul, pilots need to accumulate 50 hours of flight training to receive their commercial licences (a number which strikes me as frighteningly inadequate). One hour of flying lessons comes to about Ksh 15,700 an hour, or $180, more than the average Kenyan monthly salary. So far, Paul has racked up 27 hours. He knows people who've spent precious years in vain trying to reach the magic number of 50. For Paul, his art and and fashion business are but a means to amass enough money for the flight lessons.
As we continue to drive, Paul elaborates on his plans. He hopes to eventually start his own flight tours company out of Embu (a nearby town of about 50,000 residents). The idea is to fly wealthy tourists over Kenya's stunning wilderness. "You can only make really good money, when you are own boss." He tells me.
The road from Rukenya to Mount Kenya National Forest is surprisingly well paved and maintained, a sharp contrast to more heavily traveled Kutus-Kianyaga highway from which it branches out. It is a well known fact in these part that this road happens to lead to the house of the region's Member of Parliament.
Sometimes Paul takes up the whole of the two lane road, centering along the dividing line "Us pilots are more used to runways " he jokes. He favorite movie is Flight, a drama about an alcoholic pilot starring Denzel Washington.
The engine overheats and the car stalls, we are forcing the car on to the shoulder. We add water to the cooling system and wait for the engine to cool. We decide this unplanned stop might be a blessing in disguise: we will see if Mike's girl cares more about the car or him. We pass around a bottle of brandy and talk about aviation disasters. Paul says the biggest problem about making water landing in the middle of the ocean is fear, the collective fear of a couple hundred stranded passengers on lifeboats in the middle of nowhere.
We try to start engine and it works. In ten minutes, we reach our destination at the gates of the national. Mike and Paul are friends with the park ranger who lets us park in the safe confines of the gates.
Getting out of the car, Paul finishes the brandy in a few swigs. We make our way along an electric fence, meant to keep elephants inside the forest. The fence apparently leads to a waterfall with an amazing view. I am told of a Youtube video purporting to show an elephant being thrown 100 feet after making contact with such a fence.
On our way down the cliff towards the base of the waterfall, we stop to appreciate the view. We see what appears to be farmhouse among tea fields. Admiring it, Paul tells me this will be his dream home. All that's missing is a runway.
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| Paul's dream home |
I smile and nod encouragingly.
At the base of the waterfall, Paul marvels at God's creation. After taking some pictures, we look at the time. It is almost 5, the time he promised to have returned the car to his mother. Walking back up the hill, we decide it would be best if Mike drove back.
On the road, Paul realizes his mother texted him three time asking his whereabouts. "She probably thinks I'm irresponsible," he moans.
Mike's phone rings and he answers it, to Paul's dismay. "I told him never to answer the phone while driving. It's dangerous."
We soon realize that it was Paul's mother who called Mike. "She doesn't even trust me!"
We pick up the pace, cruising down the nicely paved road to Rukenya, hampered by the speed bumps and rumble strips installed every few kilometers or so, designed to prevent speeding drivers from getting into accidents. Mike honks at slow moving piki-pikis and cow-drawn carriages, passing them when possible--no easy task in a mountainous landscape lacking in straightaways. I look outside the window at sights that would be odd back home: groups of four or five black figures walking on the shoulder beside fast-moving traffic: livestock playing a stubborn game of chicken with oncoming traffic; the mutatus driving even faster and more aggressive than us; students from primary and secondary school heading from Saturday classes.
The road ends at a T intersection, hitting the Kianyaga-Kutus highway, and we leave the smooth asphalt, head home on the pothole-infested thoroughfare. Pedestrian and vehicle traffic is heavier and so even though this route more straightaways, overtaking slow traffic is harder. The treacherous potholes at times forces us to abandon the paved road entirely in favor of the gravel shoulder.
In time, Paul grows impatient with Mike's driving and orders him to pull over. "Don't worry. I'm a pilot," he assures us.
Paul drives at speeds I would have thought impossible on such a poorly maintained road. The speedometer tops 140 km/h on a road not fit for even half that, He swerves his way around potholes and passes slowpokes regardless of oncoming traffic. We experience several near misses with trucks and buses. "Holy shit!" I scream. This feels surreal like out of a 1950's hot-rod movie. A big part of me wants to believe that everything will turn out okay and that Paul knows what he's doing.
I recognize where we are, about 5 minutes from town at normal speeds. But this isn't good enough for Paul. Now, he overtakes slow traffic to the left via the shoulder! (Kenyans drive on the left).
After another insanely fast shoulder pass, we get back onto the road only to bang a pothole. Something goes wrong and we lose control this time, heading into the grassy ditch on the side of the road. My seat in the back is missing a safety belt. I hold on for dear life and tense my muscles bracing for impact. I feel as though I am about to learn a painful lesson. Thoughts race through my mind: is my traveler's health insurance going to cover me? Will I break any bones? Will we go into the nearby trees? Will my body be ejected from the vehicle? Will I be left permanently disfigured? The car is now sliding sideways and I brace for a rollover wondering how best to position myself for this terrifying turn of events. How strong is the car's steel? Will parts of me be crushed? We slide sideways and time seems to stand still. Then, bang! We hit somebody, possibly a child, the impact is blunt and loud. Paul regains control of the vehicle and amazingly gets it back onto the road. We keep driving
"You hit someone!" I yell. Everyone else is quiet. Are we just going to pretend like this never happened?
A minute later, we pull off the road, into the driveway of a high school along the main road (I later find out this is where one of Paul's parents works) and stop before the gates. Drivers of cars and mutatus who saw the accident have now surrounded us with their vehicles. They have gotten out and are surrounding our car in anger, punching and kicking the body. For a moment, I fear that being a passenger in the offending car, I myself will subject to some form of vigilante justice. Paul is dragged out of the car. His face maintains that same calm and collective expression I saw when I first met him. A few men give me loud and hard smacks across the face. With each blow, Paul blinks but does not flinch. A crowd gathers, including a bunch of students on the other side of the gate.
By now, we have all gotten out of the car. I see the rear view mirror on the left has been completely knocked off. The tire on the left has also blown, probably from a pothole; we must have been driving on the rim for awhile. Luckily, I do not see any block on the bumper. A man looks at me, shakes his head and softly says, "life is precious."
A security guard has grabbed Paul and is taking him inside the gates. Mike asks me to walk his girlfriend back to my place. I am quiet and shaken. If she feels likewise, it doesn't show. As the scene by the gates took place in Kikuyu, she translates some of what unfolded to me. Paul maintained that he lost control because his tire blew (not because he was driving like a maniac) and claims he didn't spot at the scene because he was not aware of hitting anyone.
Today, I talked to Mike, who put a positive spin on events. We did indeed strike a child but he says they suffered only a broken arm and that Paul's parents, who am I told are well known in the community, will cover all the medical expenses. After Mike's girlfriend and I had left, a police investigator arrived and questioned Mike and Paul. They told the story about losing control and not having noticed that someone was struck. The officer was paid an "incentive" by Paul's parents to just leave it at that and not dig any deeper into the matter.
