Getting INTO Kenya

We pulled up to the border with Kenya late in the afternoon. The road became all fenced off and the bus pulled up into this area that was big enough to be a sizable town by Kenyan/Tanzanian standards (but all within the fencing) and everybody got out.

Now there was absolutely no explanation given of what we were supposed to do. This was the only part of the trip I was nervous about because I had no idea what to expect, I didn’t want to get myself detained at the border or to miss my bus and be stranded in the middle of no man’s land.

My fears were justified.

I followed the passengers from my bus to the Tanzanian exit point building (not that it was clearly labeled for you to know that) and stood in line to have someone take things from me and stamp things without a word and then nod at the next person in line. OK, well that was easy enough. But why do I still have another form in my hand that they did not seem the least bit interested in?

I walk back outside. My bus is nowhere in sight. It is gone. I don’t panic because I know there are plenty of people from my bus still in line. Half a dozen men are waiting for me to come out of the building they watched me walk into and are looking expectantly for the confused look on my face.

“You need help Madame?” I am very careful to always keep walking, never make eye contact, and use my pleasant and not the least bit frazzled voice.

“Where is my bus?” I ask them and they tell me that it already “went across” and that they would take me there. Since I have no idea where “across” is and they are already walking, I follow their general direction like that is where I was going all along, continuing to use my pleasant voice and never actually looking at them. That is way too much contact when you don’t know what is going on and you are in a potentially vulnerable situation. You keep the control, and when you never bother to look at them, as horrible as it is, you are in charge because they are the ones fighting for your attention and you aren’t fully giving it. I’m getting a lot smarter about these things.

The whole time I am wondering if they are leading me off somewhere to rape and rob me, but there is absolutely no one else around for the time being and I never stay in one spot if I don’t know what is going on because they can smell your confusion and you’ll soon be surrounded by any and every person wanting to take advantage of you. It’s better to keep moving and act like you know what is going on.

As soon as we are out of sight of the Tanzania building, the constant “you need visa? you need Kenyan shillings, Madame?” begins and does not stop. Before I know it I am surrounded by a bubble of ten men all telling me that I need to change my Tanzanian over into Kenyan because I can’t pay for my visa with American dollars, but don’t worry, because they take American and they’ll give me a good price.

Confused, yes. Stupid, no. I had brought along an extra $50 with me especially for the border crossing because I knew that was how much a visa would cost. Even if I hadn’t known that – the US dollar is like kryptonite in most of the rest of the world. No one in their right mind would not take a US dollar because the value of the currency is so much greater than most others, with Kenya and Tanzania being no exceptions. My US dollars can get me anything and everything I want, legal or otherwise. If I was out on the road in a vehicle pulled over by the police, it would be a pretty brief stop if I pulled out a few dollars.

So I continue with my pleasant voice, tell them no thank you repeatedly, and quicken my pace when I actually see something resembling a road block that I assume to be the border. There is a man in a little hut alongside it, looking fairly official, so I head straight for him. I still had half a football field to go with my entourage, however, who got more desperate, louder, and meaner the closer I got to the line. They are on the Tanzanian side and can’t get across without filling out the paperwork that everyone else has to. They quickly go from being my best friends and selflessly showing me, the poor mzungu Marekani where my bus has disappeared to, to telling me what an amazing deal they will cut me in the exchange, to telling me I am killing them by not doing business with them in a tone of voice so full of loathing and hatred it’s difficult to describe. I actually wish the average American could experience it so they could for just a moment understand how the rest of the world perceives our wealth and standing in relation to their suffering. It’s not pretty.

As I step up to the border, the at least ten men who had been surrounding me for my speed walk into unknown directions peel off from the crowd and start wandering back to the gates to target the next mzungu coming through. The border man sits there and laughs at me. He just leans back in his chair and watches the whole procession to the border like it’s his own personal afternoon entertainment. When I finally reach him, all he says is not to exchange money on the street. Thanks. When I ask him where the heck I am supposed to go and what I am supposed to do with the form I am still holding on to, he tells me to follow another person from my bus who has straggled up to the gate a ways behind me (the processing line was really slow so no one was coming out at the same time) rather than explaining anything. There is no such thing as customer service in either of these two countries, believe me.

This young lady takes pity on me and brings me to another building (also not marked) where I somehow manage to get a visa and make it back out alive and legally able to be in Kenya. Of course right away I am completely surrounded by Masaai women selling crafts. Because I am white I am required to buy them, and they are nothing short of hostile for my lack of interest. They follow me all the way to the bus, which I have finally spotted, screaming at me and shoving bracelets in my face the entire way. When I get to the bus, a staffer (without saying a word or really looking at me he was so bored by the whole thing) grabs me by the arm and shoves me into the bus even though no one else is boarding, just to get his mzungu charge away from the evil saleswomen. Someone really needs to teach them the concept of “you catch more bees with honey” because when you approach someone to sell them something and you are already visibly angry, they are not going to be too inclined to do business with you. The tribal women are aggressive. I think it comes from long hard lives of surviving one thing after another.

Four hours later I arrived in Nairobi under the cover of darkness to find no one there waiting for me. My luggage was taken out of the bus before I got off, and the staff kept telling me my bags were inside and physically grabbing my shoulders and turning me to point me in that direction despite the fact that I saw one of my bags being led off in another direction on a cart. They were practically patting the nice dumb little white girl on the head for my stupidity of not understanding that I should just go inside and sit down like a good girl. After fishing my bag out of someone else’s trunk (overeager fathers everywhere apparently snatch up all luggage in sight when picking up their daughters from the bus station) and narrowly avoiding a confrontation with that family (believe me, I would have won – there was no more messing with me at this point in the day) I placed it with my other piece of luggage inside to find it soaked inside and out as if someone had dumped a bucket of water over it, and both bags opened and gone through. Nothing was stolen but they could have at least zipped it back up for heavens sake.

I had to find a pay phone to call who was supposed to be collecting me. The pay phone turned out to be some opportunist employee’s cell phone that she charged me 500 Tanzanian per minute to use. My host was already on his way, so I watched the waning minutes of a World Cup game in which the US lost badly to the Czech Republic until he showed up and rescued me from the world of buses.