So let me tell ya about this loaf of bread I bought.
There's a baker in Eldoret town that sells some of the best bread I've ever eaten: It's freshly baked, whole wheat, and nearly impossible for me to keep uneaten for more than a couple days. I can't even eat it with anything else because I don't want to spoil the tastiness of this bread.
So I bought a loaf of this a couple weeks ago. It was a dark, ominous Saturday afternoon, with a heavy mist in the air from all the rains that had been falling for the last several days. I was in town to pick up a couple of my students from a week long girls-empowerment camp the Peace Corps sets up, and had to make sure they got home all right. I meet them for lunch, do some errands and whatnot, and after picking up my bread I go to meet them at the matatu stage.
When I arrive there, I find there isn't a matatu, destined for my hometown Ndalat, filling up like usual. This is a little weird. I sit down on a bench next to a little kid, who proceeds to give me the usual "holy shit you are really white" look. I flash my disarming "I promise I don't eat little kids" smile and offer him some of my bread, which I begun to munch on while waiting for our ride. He happily accepts and begins to share in the awesomeness that is freshly baked bread.
My students arrive just in time to catch what is apparently the last matatu heading toward our town (it was filling at a different spot than usual) and coincidentally there are only two seats left. The conductors tell me there are no more matatus going after this, as the roads have gotten really bad from the rain. At this time its 3 o clock in the afternoon, and I've never heard of this before; the road must be really bad. It isn't paved, so when it rains hard it becomes a mudslide. I tell my students to take those seats and I'll figure out how to get home.
After they get on their way, one of the conductors that knows me tells me he knows how I can get home: a private car that is heading that way. He takes me up to the driver who seems normal enough, and while he wants a higher price, I explain to him that I'm a teacher that is volunteering for no money and can't afford more than the normal matatu price. [anytime I'm talking to someone at this point, it's typically in my broken Kiswahili] He reluctantly agrees to this, and as I enter the car I find the same kid who I gave some bread to, along with his mother.
We go on our merry way for a couple kilometres until -SNAP- one of the rear tires breaks CLEAN off the axle. Didn't even know that was a thing! The driver and I get out, look at the wheel, look at the axle, look at each other, and communicate without a word "there's no way in hell we are fixin this." Oh, and he spent our fare on petrol already, so we are out of luck there too.
I hang out a bit and luckily hitch a ride with someone else that was driving that way (cars traveling along that road are rare) and he even knew our driver, and offered to give me a ride. Along the way, as I answer his questions, tell him who I am, and offer him some bread as thanks, he discovers he's only going about half-way to my destination. I tell him it's cool, just take me as far as you can and I'll figure it out.
The centre I end up being dropped off at is affectionately called "soco" which means "market," although it is only a small collection of huts and shops. At this point, there's a sizeable group of people huddled under the little shelter that is there, also waiting for transportation further down the road, and it begins to rain again. The rain on top of everything adds a comical tone to what might otherwise be a bad day. There's a certain point for me where things stop being bad and actually become funny with how things get worse and worse, and this is that point. I'm no longer worried now; I'll probably have to spend the night with a stranger in this village, because all the matatus are turning around when they arrive here, out of fear for the dangerous road ahead, and it's too far for me to hike. Then I think "Peace Corps!" and chuckle a bit, knowing it'll all work out.
As I hang out hoping for something to happen, a couple other kids come to me, also seeming to wait for a ride. I share some more of my bread, which has decidedly become my dinner, as it is now about 6:30 pm. Their father sees this and comes over to greet me. After a bit of talking, we discover he actually doesn't live that far from me, and he thinks he's worked out a private car that is going in the same general direction as us. He says it'll be tough, and I'll have to walk a few kilometres from his house to get to mine, but we can make it. I happily agree to accompany him.
When the station wagon from the 19th century arrives, we manage to fit a whopping 3 men, 7 women, and 5 children inside of there. I sit in the emptied-out trunkspace - well, I don't sit actually, I squat like I'm in a latrine. There is so little space I can't actually sit down, so imagine taking a roller coaster while squatting, and all you have to hold onto is the back of the seat in front of you. Woo!
After 8 hours of this (or maybe it was only 20 min, hard to tell in that painful state) we get stuck in a stream of rainwater that crosses the road. I'm quite glad to get out and stretch my legs, as at this point my thighs are protesting and my arms are burning with the effort of trying to hold up my weight. The women I have to climb over warn me the water is deep and I think "no problem, I've got my waterproof hiking boots on today" until I step outside and SPLOOSH, it's about 2 feet deep. Welp, my socks and boots are soaked now, no going back now! The other men and I push the car out like the badasses most Kenyan men are and we go along our merry way again.
We go along for another 7 years of torture for my hamstrings, getting stuck in the mud a few more times, having to push our way out each time. The last time was the worst, and even with the help from another 5 local men, we weren't able to move the car at first. I'm still not sure why the women and children don't get out of the car while we push, but I'm not about to be the one to tell em to move it. So eventually someone realizes we need to push at the same time if we wanna do this, and is we give that one, solid heave up this muddy hill, I slip and fall into the mud. But the car moved! We were good! I get back in the car with the kids in the back with me and they proceed to give me the "who the hell is this white guy" look. Kenyans generally assume white people are rich and don't lower themselves down to things like manual labor and uncleanliness, so seeing me covered in mud after hauling the car several kilometres was quite a shock for them. That's me, breaking down those cultural barriers whatever I do.
We get to the family's house around 7:30 or 8:00, and it's dark now, so we trek it through the bush for a bit. I swear, Kenyans have night vision. They were only using a little light to keep me from falling flat on my face again. Our little caravan of 5 kids, their father and a weird white dude gets to their house after a bit of hiking, and the father welcomes me inside for tea and roasted maize to rest before he escorts me home. He talks about his work and takes great pride in his family, with his grand total of 7 kids. Initially the kids and wife let the two of us alone to speak, probably thinking I'm some sort of important guest, but I ask them to join us and talk a bit. I give the family the rest of the half-eaten loaf of bread, telling them how grateful I was for the help. I knew without it I would have been hopeless trying to find my way in the dark. They accepted it with the kind of gratitude you would never imagine for a half-eaten loaf of bread, and I return home.
As we walk in the night, I notice the father carrying a big stick. "What's that for?" I ask. "Oh, just coyotes," he says.
