“Take care for the tree,” a boy calls out calmly as a gnarled branch whooshes inches from my head.

Good thing he gave me time to duck, I say to myself, readjusting my position on top of the truck so the next tree doesn’t cut it so close. In the ink black of this midnight desert, the waning moon and our lorry’s thin headlights offer feeble warning of the bumps and branches on the way. The best I can do is lay low and keep myself braced for the worst.

Amidst the rattle of tires and steel, I hear a familiar thud.

“Cow down,” I shout to Randy, who’s also attempting to stay horizontal atop the metal frame. We turn our heads to the bed below, where a herd of cattle is packed in like an Escher drawing, nose to tail and horn to hip. A disembodied light bobs in the darkness—our headlamp on loan to the cattle wrestler whose sole job on the trek is to coax fallen cows back to their feet by twisting their tails and hitting their faces with sticks. Occasionally one tipping cow creates a domino effect among the rest, resulting in big dog piles that take hours to detangle.

I check my watch: 11:53pm. My mind spins tired circles. How long have we been driving—thirteen, fourteen hours? How far is Isiolo from here? Where the hell is here?

My thoughts are interrupted by another thump from below.

It’s been a long ride for everyone.

When we crossed into Kenya this morning, I’d been confident, ready to rough it—after six weeks in Ethiopia, I figured tourist-riddled East Africa would be manageable enough. Goodbye Amharic, tongue of linguistic somersaults; hello Kiswahili, subject of my last university language class.

At the border, I felt grateful that we had missed the only bus to Nairobi but were just in time to hitch a ride on the next lorry heading south. Ethiopian buses were collections of scrap metal fashioned into finely tuned torture machines, complete with loud music on repeat, stifling heat, butt-busting bumps, and people getting sick in little plastic baggies. Lorries offered sacks of grains and sugar on which to spread out, panoramic views of the passing landscape, and a fine wind.

I had visions of watching the deserts of Northern Kenya roll by from the comfort of a tarp-shaded seat, with Randy and bags full of maize as my only companions. Corn, I reasoned, doesn’t get carsick.

That optimism lasted all of ten minutes, from the time we paid the truck owner to the moment the truck itself pulled around the bend. Any hope of luxury was dashed against the hides of twenty cows crammed in the lorry bed and a skeleton roof of thin metal bars that criss-crossed above the herd.

The owner pointed to the top, where a narrow tarp was draped across part of the frame and two spare tires were tied between the bars.

“You sit there.”  Read More...