Mists of the Serengeti(9)

“Rutema,” I replied.

“Get in. I’ll take you there.”

“How much?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“For you, same price as the dala dala.”

I hesitated. I wasn’t one to hop into a car with a stranger, let alone a stranger in a whole different part of the world.

Someone pinched my bum. It could have been the old woman trying to sell me the bracelets. I didn’t check. I hopped into Bahati’s car as a conductor with a megaphone blared something in my ear.

“You know Corinne from Nima House?” I said. “She told me to come see you.”

I have friends, buster, and they know where I am.

“I know Miss Corinne. She gave you good advice. I am an excellent driver.” Bahati made a sharp left, while I clutched the dashboard with white knuckles.

“You have no seat belts?” I reached for mine but came up empty-handed.

“No one wears seat belts around here.” He laughed. “Don’t worry. You are in good hands. I have an impeccable record. No accidents.”

I watched as two pedestrians swerved out of the way just in time to avoid being clipped by him.

“You didn’t tell me your name, Miss . . . ?” He left the question hanging.

“It’s Rodel.”

“Miss Rodel, you are lucky I found you or you would be on that.” He pointed to the dala dala overtaking us. “Most of these minivans are supposed to hold ten people. If there aren’t at least twenty, it isn’t a real dala. If you’re comfortable, it’s not a real dala. The driver has absolute authority. Never ask him to turn down the music. Never expect him to stop where you’re supposed to get off. Never make fun of all the pictures on his visor. Once you step out of the dala, you waive all your rights. He can run you over, take off with your other foot in his van, your luggage, your—”

“I get it. I’m better off with you.”

“Absolutely. And I offer many special packages. Packed lunch. Banana beer. Free African massage. No. Not that kind of massage, my friend. I mean this, see?” He glanced my way as we bounced over a pothole-riddled street. “African massage. Hehe. It’s good, no? You will leave me a review? I have a 4.5-star rating on—”

“Bahati?”

“Yes, Miss?”

“You talk too much.”

“No, Miss. I only give you important information. Today is a good day to go to Rutema. Tomorrow there is rain. The roads get very muddy. I am happy we are going today. Tomorrow I would have to charge you extra for a car wash. For Suzi, my car.” He thumped the steering wheel. “She likes to keep clean. But if you want to go tomorrow, that is okay, too. I have an umbrella in the trunk. It is from The Grand Tulip. Very big, very good. Oprah Winfrey used it. You will see the logo. The Grand Tulip logo, not Oprah’s. They gave it to me because—”

“Today is fine. Isn’t that where we’re headed?”

“Yes, yes. That is where I am taking you. You already told me. Did you forget? That’s okay. I have a good memory. But I don’t understand why you want to go there. There is nothing to see. If you ask me, you should go to . . .”

We passed bustling markets and colonial buildings that stood like stubborn, dusty historians among the modern shops. Bahati droned on as we left Amosha and followed a dirt road through small farms and traditional homesteads. He trailed off on a hill with sweeping views of the area and stopped the car.

“Look,” he said, pointing beyond the canyons, to the horizon.

Rising above the clouds, like an ethereal crown of glory against the jewel-blue sky, was the snow-capped dome of Kilimanjaro. I had imagined its vast splendor whenever Mo talked about it, but nothing had prepared me for my first sighting of its lofty, powdered peaks.

Bahati seemed to share my sense of awe. For a few moments, there was a lull in his commentary. He had no words to share with me, no litany of facts to impress me. We gazed at the surreal giant that loomed in the distance, towering majestically over the golden plains of the African Savannah.

“Why do you want to visit Rutema?” asked Bahati, once we were back on the road. “It is just a bunch of local homes and a few shops.”

“I’m looking for a friend of my sister’s.” I explained what had brought me to Amosha, and why I needed Gabriel’s help.

“I am sorry to hear about your sister. It was a terrible thing,” he said. “This man—Gabriel—you don’t know his last name?”

“No. Just that he and my sister worked together.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Rodel. We will find him.”

It was a simple reassurance, but I was grateful for it.

As we entered Rutema, barefoot children raced behind us on the dusty street, chanting, “Mzungu! Mzungu!”

“What are they saying?” I asked Bahati.

“Mzungu means a white person. They are not used to seeing many tourists around here.” He parked the jeep under a ficus tree. A group of grease-stained men were working on a tractor beneath it, muttering like surgeons around a patient. “I will ask them if they know Gabriel.”

The kids encircled our car as Bahati talked to the men. They gawked and giggled. “Scholastica, Scholastica!” they shouted, pointing at me.

I had no idea what that meant, but they disappeared when Bahati returned and shooed them away.