The Three Rastafarians

by Nicolle Gunson (Canada)

A leap into the unknown Kenya

Two years prior, I had met them for the first time. Each morning on my long walk to work, there they were. Three men, sitting beside their stand, selling beautiful hand-carved figures and woven bracelets. We would say a quick hello, sometimes have a short conversation, but nothing more. When I had come back to Nanyuki again, I was happily surprised to see them still in the exact same spot, and even more surprised that they had remembered me. This sparked our long-awaited formal introduction – their names were Sam, Tom and Henry. Each wore bright turbans, and incredible beaded dreadlocks. They warmly welcomed me back to Kenya, and asked if I was interested in joining them on a hike that Friday. I trusted the men but practicing caution of the unknown, I had opted to invite a few friends along. A small matatu blasting heavy beats pulled over to pick us up on the side of the dusty road that early morning, and we could see the three Rastafarians baring excited smiles, sat in the front with their heads sticking out the windows. It was a bumpy ride when we got in. They took us twenty minutes out of the town and into the jungle, where the driver dropped us off at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant surrounded by – interestingly enough – horses and baboons. We hopped out and the driver took off, leaving us alone with the three men. Sam was the oldest, and therefore he often took the role of leadership. He carried a walking stick and, as we followed a small path just behind the restaurant, he began to tell us about the history of the Rastafari religion. A small speaker attached to the backpack of the youngest and ever-so quiet, Tom, played reggae softly as he lit a joint. I soon observed on this long hike that these men each smoked nearly three joints an hour. It was a cloudy day, so the sun was gentle on our skin. The path we followed took us up and through vast farmlands, where at times we shimmied through hundreds of watusi cattle, their menacing horns pointing at our shins as they grazed peacefully. Henry, who was cheeky and always singing to the music, would unfailingly point out giant spider nests hanging from tree branches, just to spook me for a laugh. An hour and a half in, the path continued on around a bend, but Sam stopped us and turned toward the jungle bush. He then unsheathed a machete that was hanging from his belt, which I had been curious about for a while now. He passed it to Tom, who began to whack through the vegetation. I exchanged funny looks with my friends, but we followed them down a steep hill on the newly made path as it was a tad bit too late to turn back now. Half climbing, half slipping down, our journey revealed a gorgeous hidden waterfall with a calm pool of warm water, smooth stones making up its beach. We were absolutely amazed. A river flowed away from the pool where a very old and broken wire bridge struggled to hang above it. The stone cliff wall beside the waterfall bore carvings who belonged to the Mau Mau warriors, Sam explained. We managed to cross the rickety bridge and climb to the top of the waterfall, where we spent the afternoon resting in the water and telling each other stories. It was about five o'clock by the time we had made it back to the restaurant and the clouds had grew angrier as we had made our descent. But luck happened to be on our side as, just as we entered the building for dinner, lightning cracked and triggered a torrential downpour. Sam, Tom and Henry returned me to my home in one piece and, in thanks, my friends and I had invited them over for the following Friday and made them a massive feast of homemade Polish food. We ate outside on the front yard over a picnic blanket, enjoying the feel of the mighty African sun. This random, unique adventure I had encountered had turned into one of the best days of my life.