Kenya: Legally Crossing the Border
The red mud road bears more resemblance to ski moguls than to a drivable surface. We're back in the military truck, slip-sliding to the Suam border point.
How is it going to work to get a Uganda exit stamp and a Kenya entry when we're approaching from the Kenya side? I have lots of time to wonder– with the road this rain-slicked, the drive is two hours.
As everywhere, people walk down the side of the road. They carry bags, logs, hoes on their heads. Their flip-flop clad feet sink in the mud.
In villages, the red clay muck is ankle deep. A lucky few wear black rubber boots, but there are also some women in spotless skirts somehow wending about in dress shoes.
Almost every building evokes a religion: the Blessed Saloon will do your hair. Praise God Hotel is a small eatery. Trucks' mudflaps are inscribed with Christian slogans.
The road typically has one rounded high side and one sloppy, rutted low side. Locals call advice through the window on which side to pick through any given spot. They've been watching trucks get stuck and rev out again all morning, so the advice is good.
We're in a high-clearance 4WD military truck, and we're slipping confidently all over the road. But somehow there are also cheap sedans and heavily loaded motorcycles also making this voyage. The bikers keep their legs out to balance-walk like toddlers on first walk-a-bikes.
"He is accelerating too much," confides our driver as he watches a truck get stuck. It's raining again.
We pass a crammed-full matatu stickered: "TIME KEEPER WAIT FOR ME". Our driver makes steady progress, not pausing when he slips into a ditch but rather driving with us sideways on its edge, curving through slop around stuck big trucks.
The sun comes out as we reach the Suam border. I'm glad we're with the military: our driver jumps out and claps hands with the identically attired border officials. He comes back and tells us he's explained our situation. We can just go across the border to get our exit stamps from Uganda, come back to this side to get stamped in.
The mud is slick and slippery. I hold my hands out for balance, rain-damp passport in my pocket. The river between the two countries has grown wide on its descent down Elgon's slope, much bigger than where we hopped across it in the caldera. Someone is doing laundry on the sunny bank.
I step on the islands of mud across the car bridge with the broken railing. Just uphill on the other side is the Ugandan customs office.
The man behind the counter is relaxed and alone. He's watching TV loudly on a big screen behind us, so we pass him our passports mutely. We can't hear his questions, so eventually he turns on mute. "Where are you going?"
"Kenya."
He takes our photos and fingerprints, stamps in our books. I marvel at the beautiful, clean stamp as we walk back out of the building.
We slip again down the red mud hill and across the bridge, tiptoeing carefully to the Kenyan office. They're waiting, and greet us. We do the interview, photos, fingerprints again. Stamp, stamp, legally crossed.
Karibu, welcome to Kenya! We've made it officially to the third and final country of our trip.
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