In the Belly of the Elephant (33 page)

No, not a moth—such a quiet, fragile creature. I was more like those geese I used to watch whenever we went fishing on the Blackfoot Reservoir. They flew overhead in a V with great honking noises, as if debating whether or not to land. Wings spread wide, they skimmed the water, banked up over the lake, then banked to circle again. I knew they wanted to land, to rest and eat the grasses along the bank, to drink away their thirst from so many hours of flying. But for some reason, the geese kept banking, circling the lake, swooping, then rising again, as if spooked by their own reflections.

I had become one of those geese.

A coil sprang at the center of my belly—a momentary cocoon of sadness that unfolded into a fluttering in my chest. Good work, a lasting relationship, belonging, even family—I couldn’t go looking for them anymore than I could go looking for happiness. They were not the journey’s end; they were the bonuses, the by-products of finding something I could only hold in my heart, of finding
Ubungqotsho!
Good work, love, belonging, and family were the fruits of living life with innocence, confidence, and passion.

There is a story the Zulu people tell about a woman called Unanana-Bosele, who willfully built her house in the middle of the road, trusting to ubungqotsho!

I shook my head, pressed my hand against the fluttering that turned to a thumping in my chest. No, I didn’t have to
find
Ubungqotsho—it had always been tucked into the folds of my heart. My journey was to learn to
trust
it.

For, really, Wagadu is not of stone, not of wood, not of earth. Wagadu is the strength that lives in the hearts of men.

Out the plane window, moonlight shone—a silver wash on the surface of the clouds. A dizzying sense of liberation shivered along my arms, an unfolding and spreading of enormous wings. I flew outside the confines of the stuffy plane, free, alone. The night air buffeted my arms and legs, blew fresh and cold against my skin. I soared between the clouds, through the billowy canyons, upward into the high darkness, toward the full moon.

Chapter 32

Mombassa!

August/Ramadan

There were places to stay, the fancy places, the big hotels, where people found luxury and comfort and ended up missing the very place they came to see. Then there were the smaller places, the ones that charged less money, were less comfortable, but where the color of the country, the noise and the people filled the hallways and spilled onto the sidewalks and the streets outside.

Walking down the stairs of the People’s Hotel in Mombassa, I knew I was in the right place.

Fresh from four days on the beach in Malindi, sunburned and rested, I sang hello to the proprietor who stood behind a high desk. “
Jambo!
”

“Good morning,
Bibi
!” The proprietor smiled. His long robe and skullcap of white cotton and his prominent nose were all Arabic. But his high forehead and full lips reflected the Bantu tribe that inhabited the savanna lands of central Kenya and Tanzania. His skin, milk chocolate in color, was Arab and African. These two races had coexisted and blended since the seventh century when monsoon winds pushed Arab
dhows
south through the Indian Ocean to the eastern coasts of Africa.

I stepped out of the People’s Hotel and onto the streets of Mombassa. Mombassa! A storybook name, like Timbuktu, that promised mystery and adventure. People chatted and called to each other in Kiswahili—the Bantu language named by the Arabs, meaning “people of the coast.”

Balconies carved in ornate designs jutted out like misshapen noses on the faces of the buildings. Blue and green shutters framed windows that bisected all three stories from end to end. Riots of pink and orange bougainvillea hung from terraces. I breathed in the morning and filled my lungs with sea air and the scent of flowers. Palm trees fluttered their leaves against an impossibly blue sky. Mombassa!

At the end of the street, I entered a coffee shop through a bright red door. An Indian woman in a gold-trimmed sari greeted me with a smile. Tricia waved from a table near the window.

Two coffee cups on saucers, a porcelain pitcher of steaming milk, a bowl of sugar, and two plates piled with flat
chapatis
and triangular
samosas
posed on the table as if set for a picture in an ethnic cookbook.

“It’s amazing what food can do for the spirit.” Tricia tore a
chapati
in half and took a bite.

I sat and poured myself a cup of coffee. After two years of Nescafé, the perfume of freshly ground coffee picked days before in the highlands of Kenya nearly sent me into a swoon. And the milk was fresh, not powdered or out of a can. That Indian café on a corner in Mombassa was my second glimpse of paradise.

The first had been the past four days in Malindi. A beach of white sand stretched along an ocean of aquamarine and deep blue. Waves frothed over a coral reef halfway to a horizon so wide it bowed. I had spent most of my time in the shade of a palm tree in my bikini and T-shirt, my long hair thick with humidity and sea salt. We had passed our days swimming, snorkeling, drinking chai in the afternoons and beer in the evenings at the tiny beach bar of our three-dollar-a-night motel.

Steam from my coffee tickled my nose. “Let’s stay here forever.”

“I love this place.” Tricia talked through a mouthful of potato-filled
samosa
. “It’s like being in India, Africa, and some Arab country all rolled into one.” She flipped open the guidebook and I laughed.

“What?”

I shook my head and sipped my coffee, feeling happier than I had in I couldn’t remember when.

“Says here,” she smoothed a page open and pressed her finger down the center spine. “‘In 1896, the Imperial British East Africa Company imported thirty-three thousand Indians to build the railroad.’ Like the Chinese in America. ‘The Indians stayed and set themselves up as merchants, entrepreneurs, and tradesmen.’”

We had booked two seats on the train from Mombassa to Nairobi for the next day.

“Last night, I dreamed I was flying.” I stirred cream clouds into my coffee. “You know, just me, arms outstretched, flying. I haven’t had that dream since our boat trip up the Gambia River.” I bit into a
chapati
, a heavy, flat bread that tasted of butter and warmth, full stomachs, and India. “I wish I could just travel forever. Start in Zanzibar and travel up the coast to Egypt. Become a permanent bum.”

“We
are
going to Egypt!” Tricia said. “I can’t wait to see the Valley of the Kings and Queens.”

“King Tut’s Tomb!”

We squealed and clicked our coffee cups together.
Clink.
I had promised Tricia we would travel to Egypt and Greece together whether I took the Somalia job or not.

“But, first, gosh, we have to go on
safari
with Bob.”

“Life is tough.”

“When does he get here, again?”

Tricia took a blue American Express telegram out of her pocket. “He’ll be here next week. Monday afternoon, British Airways via London.”

“It’ll be good to see Bob.”

“Yeah, I’ve missed him.”

“I hope he doesn’t freak out.” Bob hadn’t done a lot of traveling and had never been to Africa.

“I think I’ll take him back to Malindi then up to Lamu.” Tricia poured herself more coffee. “That might be a good time for you to go to Somalia.” She lifted one shoulder. “If that’s what you’re going to do.”

“I thought I’d book my ticket today. Stay maybe three, four days. That should give you enough time to get reacquainted with Bob.”

One side of her mouth lifted. “Think you’ll take the job?”

“I have to see the place first, find out more about it.” Though I cringed at the thought of another year in a 110-degree desert city. “It’d be a good career move.” I stuffed a piece of
samosa
into my mouth.

“Just make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons.”

I stopped chewing. Waited for the inevitable.

Tricia cradled her coffee cup in her hands and glanced out the window, then back at me. “You were so disappointed about Rob, now you’ve just left Jack. Be careful you’re not going up there looking for a relationship, or an easy excuse not to go home.”

Boom. Fist to the stomach. Finger to the sore spot. She was so good at that.

My cheeks burned. “Look, just because I’m twenty-nine and have no relationship and no job doesn’t mean I can’t go home.” I closed my mouth.

“Exactly.”

I stared into my coffee. A sigh bubbled to my surface. Something tethered way down on the bottom floated into my throat and rested on my tongue—the bitter taste of my parents’ expectations. Still there, even after all these years away.

When Rain did not come, the animals became worried and went to Elephant. Elephant said, “I will call Vulture, the most potent of all rainmakers.”

“It would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?” Tricia went on, merciless in her well-intentioned attack. “Take this job in Somalia, automatic expatriate support group, housing, a car, insurance. It’s a nice little package.”

Elephant called Vulture and commanded her to cast lots and make rain.

“This is a bad thing?”

But Vulture was Rain’s servant, and knew about the quarrel the two mighty ones had had.

“You’re just putting off the inevitable. You have to go home at some point.”

“Why?”

Tricia blinked at me, as though I had spoken a foreign language. “Because our great-grandparents pushed wooden carts across the plains so you and I could be Mormons if we wanted to…”

“But neither one of us are Mormons!”

She swatted at me. “You know what I mean! We’ve built and rebuilt there for over 100 years.”

I saw Hamidou standing on Sambonaye’s hill.
Because it is their place
.

I looked away, out the window to the palm trees and all the color along the street. “When it’s time for me to go home, I’ll know.”

Tricia sighed and refilled her coffee cup. Out the café window, people walked by. The sun shone yellow on the whitewashed walls. A pink bougainvillea was so bright it hurt my eyes. Taxis and bicycles passed. Clumps of tourists in khaki pants and sun hats moved in and out of shops. Window signs advertised clothing, gems, and inland
safari
trips.

I booked my ticket to Somalia early that afternoon, just before all hell broke loose.

Chapter 33

Coup

August/Ramadan

Early that afternoon, we drank hot
chai
in an open-air kiosk near the curio market at the end of
Ndia Kuu
Street. A proverb was written in Swahili on the kiosk wall
: The big ones eat the small ones.
The scent of cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves rose on fingers of steam and held hands with the sugary smell of fresh pastries. We nibbled on
jalebis
, a sweet fried bread in the shape of a pretzel, and
samosas
stuffed with rice, honey, and nuts.

The curio market hummed with the voices of tourists and shopkeepers bartering for goods. Then, someone shouted. Heads turned and people paused. A radio blared martial music. The shopkeeper in the nearest stall turned on his radio as several women rushed past. People came together in clumps and leaned in to listen. I joined a group of tourists near the closest stall.

A deep voice with a slight British accent reported a coup by the Kenyan Air Force against President Daniel Arap Moi. There were riots and looting in the streets of Nairobi. A tourist had been killed near the Hilton hotel.

Tricia’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit!”

The groups of people quickly became a crowd. People spoke in rapid, animated tones, shaking heads and pressing their lips with their fingertips. Several of the stall owners gathered their goods and closed up shop.

I grabbed Tricia’s arm and led her to the street, where I hailed a taxi. A rusty British model pulled up to the curb and we got in.

“People’s Hotel, please.”

The taxi driver, an older man with grizzled white hair, pulled into traffic. He turned the volume up on his radio. The same calm British voice announced that all buses and trains in the country would be canceled until further notice.

The taxi swerved to avoid a wooden cart piled high with green bananas. We drove along a wide avenue and passed beneath an arch of concrete elephant tusks, their tips crisscrossing some thirty feet above us. At the People’s Hotel, I paid the driver, and we exited onto the street.

People crowded the street corner, listening to a radio. A man with the light brown skin and dark circled eyes of the Indian middle class scurried about, bringing the wares from his outside tables into his store. A woman in a sari spoke to him in quiet tones. He nodded, dragged the wooden tables inside and pulled down a grate from ceiling to floor, locking up with a decisive
click
.

Inside the People’s Hotel, men milled about, talking in loud voices. Little boys ran in and out the front door, and tourists bunched together with worried faces. We weaved our way through the crowds and slipped into the hotel’s lounge.

Ceiling to floor windows covered one wall, framing a double-door that opened onto the street. A fan rotated at a lazy pace in the center of a high ceiling. We found a small table near a window and ordered two cold Tuskers.

“The best thing to do when there’s a coup is to find a beer and sit tight.” I remembered the coup attempt in Dori and had a sudden desire to have Drabo there at the table with us. “There’s sure to be a curfew.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking beer, eating sandwiches, and playing cards. Toward evening, the radio announced that the coup attempt had been thwarted by troops loyal to Moi. Still, the looting in Nairobi continued. The radio voice urged the population to remain indoors until the looting was under control.

Tricia read a book. I ordered another Tusker and looked out the window at the shuttered shops and empty streets. Palm trees swayed above the buildings, and the day turned to dusk. Even paradise had its bad days.