Waiting at the River

Two weeks ago, returning from Simanjiro, Gabriel and I had to wait at one of the bridges north of Lokisale.  Kiyah had sent me a text message the night before that Arusha was being clobbered by a storm.  She said it was in an incredible downpour with intimidating thunder and lightning.  I passed this news along to Gabriel and Isaya who remarked that it shouldn't affect our trip home the following day as the water will have passed through the riverbeds by the time we reach them. 

They were mistaken about this. 

Gabriel and I arrived at the flooded bridge around 11:30am.  By bridge I mean a concrete reinforced path in the shape of a U that lines the river bed and prevents erosion of the track.  There was one person sitting on the bank on our side of the river and two people crouched under a tree on the other side.  We pulled up to the bridge, parked, and turned off the engine.  We got out and surveyed the height and speed of the water.  You did not need to be an expert bush driver to know that it was not safe to cross.  It was a serious torrent.  You could have rafted the bridge for kicks.

I had heard a story recently of a land rover, full of people and gear that tried to cross a bridge during the strong flow following a rain event.   As they crossed, the water brushed them to the edge of the concrete and the tires slipped off.  The car flipped into the river and was carried downstream.  The people were lucky to get out and swim to shore and no one was seriously injured.  But all the gear was lost and the engine of the car needed to be totally rebuilt in addition to the considerable body work that it needed.  An incredible loss.  The following day the stream-bed was probably bone dry. 

So we sat, 50 ft. from the road that would take us home, for 4 hours, waiting for the water to subside.

 As time went by a small community of people piled up on each side of the river – largely segregated by gender as is customary.  I took a tally around 2:30pm and our number was over 130.  I was the lone whitey.  Probably ten or so vehicles on each side, mostly land rovers carrying 15 or so people each, some lories, a couple motorcycles, bikes - there were goats milling about as herd boys had come to see the gathering.  Mostly comprised of Maasai, as a group we were reasonably well armed with spears and short swords – if by some fantastical chance event our encampment had been engaged by some aggressive marauding band, we would have fared reasonably well.  As the shadows grew, people threw stones into the center of the flow to see how quickly downstream the splash would move.  Men took off their shoes, rolled up their pants and waded into the water to get a sense of how deep it was – poked at the water with their herd-sticks.  Women provided commentary which they seemed to distributed among themselves.  The sound of babbling voices and rushing water filled the air.  I fingered my guitar in the passenger seat to pass time and children came shyly but determined to the door of the land cruiser to take in me and my noise.  Gabriel and I snacked, talked, snacked, talked.  Got out of the car, walked around, got back in, tried to sleep.  It was like a delayed flight at an airport terminal, with people scattered, sitting, chatting, resolved to the situation – except we were sitting crowded into the shade beside a gushing train of water late afternoon on a beautiful sunny day.  Men placed stones on the bridge beside the water to measure it’s retreat.  On the other side of the bank, drivers invaded their storesof goods intended for villages further afield - pulled warm sodas from crates on their roofs and commerce commenced. 

At one point, a driver on the other side of the bank decided he was going to make a go for it.  He got into the car and fired it up, hurrying his passengers to the vehicle.  People on both sides of the bank perked and moved expectantly to the water’s edge to watch.  Loaded, he rolled to the water, paused… backed up as if to get a running start… then killed the engine.  Everyone groaned.  He stepped out of the car and seemed to explain to the mob that it was still too risky… seemingly uncomfortable with the attention he disappeared into the back of the crowd.  Perhaps an hour went by – maybe two.  Another young warrior hiked up his shuka and set off into the water towards the center of the bridge.  Nearly to the middle, the current piled on the upstream side of his legs soaking him above the knee, and he stopped.  A fall meant serious injury or even death – a likelihood confirmed even in Arusha with the aftermath of every major storm.  As the man headed back out of the river, Gabriel said, “I think we can go now.”  Shaken, I quickly scanned the crowd for deliberate movements, nodding heads, some indication that others we’re thinking the same thing.  Nothing.  People’s repose remained patient, fixed.  Gabriel turned the key and the sound of the engine called out to everyone – and yanked them from their distractions.  Without hesitation, Gabriel engaged the 4-wheel drive and put the vehicle into first.  But for the thundering sound of the engine as we charged toward the water – the scene was silent – I’m sure of it.  Even the birds stopped and took notice.  Huge tails of brown water, choked with the sediment of Mt Meru and its environs, were thrown up on either side of the car as we crashed into the belly of the current – and in a heartbeat – perhaps two – we were across.

Sound returned in the form of a great cheer as people threw their hands into the air and more than a few gregarious men bellowed out as if a goal had been scored.  For a moment, before everyone scurried to collect their things, to get to their seat, to get in line to cross the river, we were the center of everyone’s attention – like heroes.  I looked at Gabriel.  His face was expressionless.  “Holy shit, dude!” 
- tdb