We left for Habaswein from Garissa in late afternoon with a car stocked full of water and fresh fruit. You know Garissa is behind you after leaving all black asphalt. The make-shift road is made of sand tracks gutted by bus, lorry and car tires. And the roads are always “busy” – tall buses precariously bouncing along the sand tracks, always about to tip over. Lorries leaving clouds of gray smoke behind them as they churn into Garissa to drop their wares. Most other cars you pass are stamped with the logo of an NGO or local government body.
Within the first twenty minutes, we have stopped to hand out water to two little girls. They must both be under thirteen and watch me with wary eyes. The youngest one is not wearing a headscarf, her red flowered dress flapping in the wind and her head covered by thick wiry black hair. They must be taking care of animals nearby, but not close enough to walk into town. Gedi tells me: “We are handing out water to vulnerable girls.” Always disconcerting hearing development speak in a real situation. While perhaps vulnerable, the girls are most likely fine – their family living off the road nearby.
An hour into the drive, we stop so Gedi and Hassan can pray. I walk over to the watering hole, a large expanse of water where camels are drinking in turn. Pastoralists are living near the watering hole, their makeshift homes set up under the few trees. I take a few pictures of the water, but I am soon stopped by a Somali local. He gets into an argument with Gedi, who later explains that most people in the region listen to the Somali BBC broadcast and have developed the idea that – since the American invasion of the Middle East – most wazungu are spies, soldiers or something similar.
Otherwise, the drive is uneventful. The road turns from thick red sand to pale gray and pastel. The countryside is greener than the last time when I traveled during the peak of the 2009 drought. The low bushes have green leaves. Occasionally, there are patches of grass growing out of the hot sand. The road is in equally bad shape as before, but now with a hint of previous rain where mud has dried into walls shaped by tire tracks.
When the sun sets in the evening, it is a hot red ball dropping from the sky. The sun never sets faster than in Eastern Africa. If you look away, you miss risking the climax as the sun falls behind the horizon and leaves streaks of pink and red in the dimming sky. Another jeep races us on a parallel road, kicking up clouds of dust.
We stop in Abakore, about three hours from Garissa, to meet with local point persons. It’s about 8 p.m. and the sun has set. The sky is now a myriad of stars splattered on black. The chai restaurant we always frequent is run by a mama and her many children. She’s the most successful woman in town and her children are clearly ambitious and well-educated. The oldest daughter speaks clear English and will start business courses at a nearby college in May. The mama’s restaurant is also powered by solar power, boasting two of the few light bulbs in town. Other restaurants are open, picnic tables with tea thermoses flickering under paraffin lanterns.
We drink hot cups of sweat tea and wait for arrangements to be made. We need to find out where the pastoral family we have come to talk to, Gurunley, is staying. We also walk over to Abakore Primary School to meet with the headmaster to clear a visit in the morning. There is a lot of protocol in visiting these regions as you do not want to step on anyone’s feet. We successively bump into the local chief and other elder figures. Our visit concluded we drive another hour to Habaswein, a nearby town with decent lodging, for a good night of sleep.