In the Belly of the Elephant

by Susan Corbett

  “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.

  Chapter 34

  Pink Elephants

  August/Ramadan

  Two days later, the looting stopped in Nairobi, and the trains started running again. The second-class cabin of the Mombassa to Nairobi train faced east. Out the wide window, savannah grasses and prickly plants of the Tsavu Plain flashed by in bursts of yellow and purple. Farther out toward the horizon, thorn trees dotted the savannah, their branches capped with wigs of thorny brush.

  Between the trees, a giraffe galloped in slow, elegant motion. I pointed and bounced in my seat. A herd of Thompson gazelle raised dai
nty heads to watch the train—a beast that roared and belched smoke as it followed its tracks across the plain.

  I clasped my hands and pressed against the bubble inside my chest. Here they were, in flesh and blood—the descendants of the ghosts who only existed in the heat waves of Upper Volta. In Kenya, they teamed across the land, animal life rich in diversity and numbers.

  Tricia sat across from me on the padded seat, scowling as she read the local newspaper, The Nation. Four other WT’s shared the cabin with us, chatting in Italian and German over a card game. All together, we smelled like something close to a barnyard.

  I nudged Tricia’s knee and motioned her to follow me into the corridor, where we walked with wide steps, keeping rhythm with the side-to-side motion of the train. Passing through two cars of second-class cabins and a third-class stretch of uncomfortable looking seats, we came to the restaurant car.

  White linen cloths covered small tables set up against wood-paneled walls. A square window graced each table. Through the windows, clouds billowed pink against a blue sky.

  We snagged the last available table and ordered two beers. A pair of elderly British ladies in hats and gloves drank tea across from us.

  I perched my elbows on the table and rested my chin in my hands. “Isn’t this great?”

  “Yeah, great.” Tricia had become nervous and withdrawn since the coup attempt. The crease had once again taking up residence between her eyes.

  “Stop worrying, Trish. Bob’ll come. The airport will reopen any day now.”

  Our beers arrived. I took a swig and looked out the window. Damned if I was going to let Tricia’s cloudy mood dampen my own.

  Out on the plain, a baobab tree stood alone. It looked out of place, as if God had pulled it from the outskirts of Dori and jabbed it into this ground, upside down in an alien place surrounded by grasses, trees, and rivers. The familiar old tree reached into my heart and plucked it.

  I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay in Africa! Then I saw them.

  “Look, look!” I pointed out the window.

  A herd of four cow elephants and two calves lifted their trunks and poured cascades of red dirt over their backs.

  “Elephants! They look pink in this light. Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  “Pink elephants,” Tricia said.

  The train left the herd behind, and we settled back into our chairs.

  I sighed. “I could stay here forever.”

  Tricia shook her head.

  “What?”

  “You’re chasing ghosts.”

  “What do you know about ghosts?”

  “You see only the good of Africa and only the bad back home.” With her index finger, she jabbed the picture of a tank on the front page of The Nation. “Look at this! These past few days. There’s violence here! Soldiers shooting people, rioting, looting. Governments overthrown!”

  “People shoot each other in the States all the time, Tricia. Only there, they hardly ever have a reason! They do it for fun!”

  “Maybe so,” Tricia lowered her voice. “But we don’t have a coup every time somebody decides they don’t like what the government is doing. We don’t get thrown in jail for speaking out against the president. And we don’t have soldiers standing in every airport and on every street corner with machine guns!”

  We stopped talking as the waiter and several Kenyans walked by.

  “Do you know what I think?” Tricia’s eyes followed two more people who passed then darted back to me. “This freedom you love so much in Africa is just your way of being in-between. In-between your own country and this one, a foot in both, not really in either.” She raised her hand to indicate the Africans in the car. “You don’t share the risks they do. You’ve said so yourself, you can get on a plane anytime you want and fly away from the heat, the starvation, the violence. Just the way you flew away from us, to get away from all the things you didn’t like, didn’t agree with. It’s so much easier being in-between, isn’t it? No commitments, no real risks. This is your precious freedom, Susan. But, you know what? It’s an illusion, this freedom of yours.” She flipped her wrist toward the window. “It’s as much an illusion as those pink elephants.”

  A fluttering started at the edges of my stomach. A bell rang inside my head. “Those elephants were real.”

  “But they’re not pink!”

  The conversation inside the restaurant car surged and dropped in and out of the clicking of the train wheels.

  “Every place you go is just as good and just as bad as the last place you left.” Tricia glared at me for a few seconds, then sighed and rested her head in her hand. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  I sat for a long time, staring out the window, pondering Tricia’s words. A sliver of molten gold poured onto the horizon to the east. The western sky still held the last light of sunset as a full moon rose. The moon shimmered and inched higher to sit for a moment on the line that connected earth to sky.

  Long after dark, I walked back to the cabin. Tricia slept on the upper bunk. Our berth mates were off somewhere and the cabin was quiet. I hoisted my pack onto the upper berth opposite Tricia’s and climbed up. The click-clack of the wheels and the rocking motion of the train soothed me into sleep.

  Out the airport’s glass windows, the lake shimmers in the sun. A boat floats next to a dock. A tall figure stands in shadow under the eves of the boat. I press my face against the window and wonder why I am trying to catch a plane when I don’t know where it’s going and I don’t have a ticket.

  Chapter 35

  Nairobi

  August/Ramadan

  Sunlight skipped the front edge of the train, angled a pencil-thin ray through the window, and landed on my bunk in a round little button of brightness. I rolled onto my stomach. Out past the whir of high grass, dark green bushes trailed over hills. These were the tea and coffee plantations of the high country. On the opposite bunk, Tricia woke with a yawn and a groan.

  I slid off the top, nearly stepping onto the sleeping face of one of the German guys who was wrapped around the Italian woman on the bunk below. Tricia followed. We tiptoed out the sliding door into the corridor, then duck-walked our way to the restaurant car.

  During a breakfast of strong coffee, milk, and buttered rolls with marmalade, stories hopped like crickets from table to table. People passed rumors about gutted stores, barricaded hotels, arrests, and several hundred dead. The chatter followed us out of the restaurant car, along the rows of seats, back to our cabin. We shared the stories with our bunkmates as the train sped closer to Nairobi.

  People with furrowed brows and pinched lips passed by outside our cabin. Tricia stopped talking and turned toward the window. In the distance, the buildings of Nairobi rose up off of the plains like giant bean stalks. A steward passed our berth, announcing the train’s arrival into Nairobi. Soon the wheels screeched and whined to a stop. The air smelled sour.

  Suddenly, the corridor was filled with people elbowing their way to the doors. We clutched our backpacks to our chests and wedged our way into the crowd, which swept us down the train steps and out into a sea of shouting people. Everyone scurried to get somewhere else.

  Soldiers with guns stood guard at all the entrances and exits. Tricia grabbed onto the back of my T-shirt, and we snaked our way through the crowd past groups of tourists that moved as single organisms. Ticket sellers, baggage attendants, and traveling Kenyans hurried about with tight faces. At the edge of the platform, we found a young boy selling newspapers.

  Tricia tugged my shirt. “Do you have a couple of shillings?”

  I dug into my pocket and handed over a few coins. Tricia took a paper from the boy and scowled at the front page. The headline reported three hundred dead from the attempted coup and riots.

  We exited the train station through a high, wrought iron fence flanked by grim-faced soldiers. After several attempts to wave down a taxi, one finally pulled up to the curb. We scrambled into the backseat. The taxi immediately pulled away into traffic.r />
  “Jambo, bwana.” I was surprised to find myself out of breath. “Where can we catch a matatu for Mt. Kenya?”

  The taxi drive glanced over his shoulder. “That would be the matatu station near the city market.” He shifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “You want to go there?”

  “Yes, we want to get to out of Nairobi as quickly as possible and go to Mt. Kenya.” Sweat trickled from my armpits down my sides.

  “Maybe we should rest up here and check out the general situation first.” Tricia peered out the taxi window to the empty streets. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to…”

  “We really want to get to Mt. Kenya,” I said to the taxi driver. “Can we get a matatu today?”

  The driver nodded to his windshield. “Yes, many people are leaving the city, but…”

  “Maybe the buses will be overbooked, Susan.” Tricia’s face had paled a shade or two. “Maybe we ought to stay put.”

  “Where do you want to stay?” I said. “The Hilton?”

  “Yeah, but maybe it’s too dangerous to be out.”

  I shook my head and leaned forward. “Is the station far?”

  The taxi driver whistled under his breath. “I can take you to within a block or two.” He looked at me out of the corner of one eye.

  “Asanti sana.” I sat back, noticing a twitch in the driver’s cheek muscle. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.

  He drove the taxi east on Haile Selassie Avenue then turned north onto the Uhuru Highway. I wondered briefly if the avenue was named after Lieutenant Uhuru from Star Trek. Probably the other way around. I wiped my palms on my pants.

  We passed an abandoned tank parked half-off, half-on a street corner.

  Tricia’s turned to me with wide eyes and mouthed, “Shit!”

  The Kenyatta International Conference Center towered against a sky of deep blue and brilliant white. Lines of purple jacaranda and red flamboyant trees stood guard along the avenues.

  Tricia jerked and reached across the backseat to grab my arm as we passed several shops with broken windows. The taxi driver white-knuckled the steering wheel, turned, and slowed. Broken glass, overturned shop tables, and clothing littered the street.