Time was racing, and we connected fast. After our quick visit to Thika, we’re now planning a trip to Keroka to visit Kaely’s grandparents.
We decide to rent a Prado, and Kaely finds an agency online. But we’re cutting it close, booking the car just the day before our trip. When it arrives at our place in Emely, I’m a bit nervous—I haven’t driven in a while, and never on the left-hand side of the road. The Prado is an older model, and as I try to get a feel for it in the parking lot, it stalls and won’t restart. Turns out, they delivered it with literally zero gas—not even enough to reach the nearest station. I’m furious.
The driver sorts out some fuel, but we’re expected to pay for it. Seriously? Several warning lights are glowing on the dashboard, but he brushes it off with a casual, “That’s okay.” This isn’t the kind of service you’d get in Europe, but we’re not in Europe. He drives us to a gas station, we fill the tank, and head back to park. It’s dark now, and maybe it’s just my aging eyesight, but the night feels heavier than it should.
The next morning, we’re up early for the roughly four-hour drive to Keroka, aiming to arrive by lunch. Packing is chaotic, and we realize the car has no navigation system—not even Google Car integration. This thing is ancient. As we set off, I notice the headlights aren’t working. I check: the parking lights function, but that’s it. Great. The sun won’t rise for another hour or two, and we’re navigating busy city streets with people darting across four-lane roads like it’s nothing. My focus is razor-sharp, but it’s exhausting.
Once the sun comes up, my mood shifts. The landscape is breathtaking—vivid, intense colors that seem to leap out at you. Rolling valleys and mountains give way to flat plains, everything cloaked in vibrant green. It’s a feast for the eyes.
Traffic thickens as we leave a small town, and I get distracted checking Google Maps for directions. My foot eases off the brake, and we roll into the truck in front of us, hitting a massive metal bar. The truck doesn’t even flinch—the driver probably didn’t notice—but our Prado is a mess. The hood is crumpled, the front end a disaster. I pull over to assess the damage, my mind racing. A crowd gathers, but Kaely springs into action like a pro, calling the rental agency. They advise us to get it roughly fixed and avoid involving the police, since the truck is unscathed and the driver oblivious.
We find a nearby repair shop, and while they work on the car, we grab breakfast at a kibanda next door. The mandazi is delicious, and I notice we’re getting a bit of preferential treatment—better plates, faster service. It’s a small perk in a chaotic morning. The repair is done quickly, but I can see how beat-up this car already was; our crash just added to its scars. We try to get the headlights fixed, but no luck. Time’s ticking, and we’re already behind schedule, so we press on.
The speed bumps are relentless—I swear I’ve never encountered so many in my life. They’re a constant test of my patience and driving skills. As we near Maasai Mara, we hit a steep, drawn-out hill. Even our powerful Prado struggles to climb it, but the extra overtaking lanes help us pass sluggish trucks. At the top, there’s a rest area packed with people. A guy in a mechanic’s suit flags us down, motioning to pop the hood. I comply, and he dramatically pulls the cap off the water tank, claiming the car’s overheating and needs immediate repairs because of “steam.” My instincts kick in—this is a blatant scam. I shut it down and we drive on.
As we approach Kisii land, the landscape shifts again. The colors grow even more saturated, the scenery more rural, and it feels like we’re stepping into a painting. Kaely’s face lights up—she’s starting to feel at home. The roads, though, get rougher, and we’re stopped multiple times: once for a routine check, once by someone fishing for “lunch money,” and once by one of her uncles, which adds a warm, familiar touch to the journey.
Finally, we reach Keroka. We stop to buy the expected gifts before heading out of town on rugged, earthen roads. My off-road driving skills come in handy here. Kids spot us and barely glance at Kaely, instead waving and shouting, “Mzungu, Mzungu!” at me. I’m pretty sure most of them have never seen a white person before. Their smiles are infectious, and despite the chaos of the trip, my heart feels full.
