These Days, These Trails, These Tales

The sky opened up and watery fists punched holes in the mountain road. How long did it last? Five minutes? Ten? The serene Kenyan landscape we'd been hiking through disappeared. We laughed at our luck as we climbed into the matatu, a large van used for public transport. Five minutes earlier and the rain would have caught us on the canyon ridge, and we would have been battling a disappearing mountain; now only the matatu was. The dirt road had half-eroded away.
The driver began to delicately weave the van between gaping holes in the road; his nimble fingers confident on the steering wheel. Others clutched at their backpacks, eyeing the flowing water. My breath made patterns around my nose print on the window, as I craned to witness how close our tires were to the edge.
The car paused as it came upon a flat stretch where a group of people gathered around another unfortunate truck. Its nose was in the ditch and the back mud-caked wheel was still spinning.
As we slowed, our van lurched. Limbs flailed, trying to prevent gravity, but no luck. A moment later the van was in the ditch. In another moment we were standing outside scratching our heads. Mud squirmed into my sandals and through my toes, suctioning me to the earth.
If this had happened in the US I’d sigh and wait patiently for a tow truck. A man would arrive in fifteen minutes. I’d smile and call him my savior. I’d give him my insurance card and drive away. But outside Kisumu, Kenya? There was no number to call, no organization that sends someone else to fix your problem. You deal with it. But that doesn’t mean you deal with it alone.
Local men, with mud up to their knees beckoned to us from the site of the first mud-bogged car. “You take rope”, one man instructed. The unspoken agreement was clear. You help us, we’ll help you. As the men pushed the cab from behind, we tugged on the rope attached to the bumper.
“Moja, mbili, tatu!” sang out the men.
My foot slid out from under me and my backside landed in the mud. Marveling at the situation, I scrambled up by the second count.
“Moja, mbili, tatu!” On one side of the truck, sweat soaked Kenyans rocked the truck back and forth. At their backs, woman and children lined the curb, with bemused faces eying us foreigners. Children swatted flies and bounced on their toes. To the right, twelve western travelers; our light clothing and skin was dotted with sludge, brand name shoes unrecognizable. We grunted with effort as we all fought the same mud.