I am struck daily as to what has become normal to me. Things that would make other people’s eyes pop out in shock, no longer phase me. A woman carrying a box of eggs on her head. Normal. A man dodging traffic on a bike that looks like it is taped together. Normal. Driving on the sidewalk. Normal. An election where the lead candidate is wanted by the International Criminal Court. Normal. Four people on a motor bike and a duck. Normal. Fifty live chickens strapped on top of a bus. Normal.
I am stuck in Samburu. Sitting under an acacia tree with five Samburu women. I am on my way to Nanyuki, a little town on the edge of Mt. Kenya. The planes here are like buses, we stop at an airstrip, drop people, then move to the next. We stopped at the first airstrip and were delayed taking off because giraffe were on the runway. Normal. We land in Samburu, a hot, dry area, scattered with scrub and acacia trees, home to the Samburu people. We drop some tourists, pick some others up, and the plane will not start. The young pilots are looking at the manual and I am thinking ‘this is not good.’ After a few phone calls, flipping of the manual, they confirm that we cannot take off. They say an emergency plane will come from Nairobi. ‘Yeah right’ I think, ‘we’ll be spending the better part of the day in Samburu.’ Normal.
I grab a bottle of water, my binos, a book and find a rock to sit on next to the Samburu ladies under an acacia tree. There is not a human structure in sight. We are literally in the middle of nowhere. Normal. This does not strike me as odd in any way. The women are decorated in incredible coloured beads, the youngest girl’s neck is completely covered with stacks of large beaded necklaces the size of records. Normal. They are here by the airstrip trying to sell jewellery and carvings to tourists leaving and arriving. There is probably a max of two flights a day given it is high tourist season. They were packed up and ready to go when we were trying to take off, but now, they are back under the tree, just sitting, watching. Their homes are far, they walk a distance to sell a bracelet or two. They have woven satchels that are made of recycled plastic within which they carry their goods. The eldest lady who is lying sideways as if she is modelling a bikini in a swim wear photo shoot, gets up, stretches the bag on the ground and offers me a seat.
It is hot. About 90 degrees. The shade is lovely and the penetrating silence delicious. I have not sat quietly like this for some time. I have been moving—Joburg, Nairobi, Arusha, Addis. I am soaking in the silence. One Samburu girl starts singing quietly. People pay money to hear songs like hers but here we are, under the tree. They are not pushing their jewellery at all. In fact they have not even dumped them out of their bags. We are their entertainment. They wait to see what happens.
A plane arrives. Landing from the east. One of the passengers with us has to catch a 3.30 flight out of Nairobi, so we all grab our bags and run to the plane. I have a zillion beaded bracelets, but I want to buy something from the elderly women who gave me her seat. She has a silver bracelet on her arm. I ask for the same. She offers me the one on her arm, I insist no. She reaches into her bag and pulls one out. It is basically tin, but it is a week’s meal for her family. I buy one from her and one from the young girl, 300 Kenya Shillings, less than four dollars. Kwaheri (goodbye) and I run to the plane. The engine starts. Meanwhile the mechanic is at the old plane with the two pilots. As our engine starts, we look over and he is telling us to cut the engine by motioning his hand across his throat. Oh boy, now what? Once the engine is off, the mechanic comes over; he has fixed the old plane. Yup. Classic. Those going to Nanyuki run to the old plane, those to Nairobi stay on the new plane.
The Samburu ladies still sitting under the tree watch as we run back and forth between planes with our bags, cracking a sweat. Silly Mazungus (white people) they must be thinking. But all of this is normal, standard; regular; natural.
Normal I suppose is just what you are used to. I am driving in Nairobi last week. A matatu (the mini-vans that provide public transport) is in front of me. He starts rolling backwards on the hill towards me. A couple guys jump out of the vehicle, yes, while it’s moving. I now can’t see what is happening because the exhaust spewing out of his tail pipe is as black as the night and has encompassed my entire windshield. They pull rocks out, put them behind the tires, it rolls right over them. The vehicle is now sideways on the road. Meanwhile, life continues, cars go by and soon enough I am driving on the sidewalk, around the matatu, and carry on as if nothing has happened. Normal.
How far does one have to go to not adjust and find things abnormal?
Riding a camel. Normal.
