Google Maps, Tents and a Very Hungry Man: How Technology Lost Us in Mitunguu
Ladies and gentlemen, I love technology. A lot.
In fact, I work with technology almost every other day. I trust it. I defend it. I tell people technology is the future.
But after what happened to me last weekend, I have reached a painful conclusion:
Vitu zingine ni za wazungu tu.
And today, my exhibit number one is Google Maps.
You see, our now-infamous Mikocheni Base is more than just a place. It is a family. Apart from the occasional story za jaba, serious national debates that solve absolutely nothing, and other activities that cannot be properly documented for legal reasons, we also attend social gatherings together.
So last weekend, one of our own, Mr. Boniface Mutuma, AKA Tush, was having his dowry negotiations ceremony somewhere in Mitunguu, roughly 50 kilometres from our beloved Mikocheni Base.
Naturally, we had to show up.
That afternoon, I confidently told my childhood friend Ali that I was not going to touch my jaba until we reached the party.
Why?
Food.
My friends, I had already imagined the menu. Chapati. Pilau. Nyama. Stew. Maybe mukimo. Tea for those pretending to be disciplined. I was certain there would be enough food to feed an entire constituency.
So I deliberately refused to eat in town.
I wanted to arrive hungry.
Very hungry.
The kind of hunger that makes you greet the catering team before greeting the bride and groom.
Joke was on me.
Technology was waiting.
Enter the Superbike
Transport was not going to be a problem.
My friend Kamaa had given me his sports bike — one of those machines that makes people turn their heads and causes young men at shopping centres to suddenly start discussing horsepower despite owning bicycles.
Ladies also look.
Or at least that is what we tell ourselves.
So Ali and I left Makutano looking like two men with absolutely everything under control.
I was riding.
Ali was navigating.
Google Maps was in charge of our destiny.
That was our first mistake.
We cruised along Mati Road, enjoying ourselves, convinced that in a short while we would be seated somewhere in Mitunguu eating meat and congratulating Tush for successfully moving to the next stage of life.
Then Google Maps said we should leave the main road.
We obeyed.
After all, who are we to argue with satellites?
Soon we were on a dirt road.
Then another dirt road.
Then a smaller dirt road that looked like it had last seen serious traffic during the Moi administration.
Still, Google Maps kept giving instructions with the confidence of a person who had personally grown up in that village.
“Turn left.”
We turned left.
Nothing.
“Turn right.”
We turned right.
Dead end.
“Proceed straight.”
Straight to where, Google?
A shamba?
At some point, Ali and I began going around the same village so many times I suspect residents thought we were campaigning for MCA.
Twice we missed turns.
Three times we entered roads that led to nowhere.
We encountered dead ends with such consistency that I started wondering whether Google Maps had a personal disagreement with us.
Ladies and gentlemen, that afternoon I realised Google Maps may work very well in London, New York and Nairobi.
But somewhere deep in rural Kenya, where one road becomes two footpaths, a footpath becomes somebody's compound and somebody's compound becomes a maize plantation, technology begins to panic.
By around 5:30 p.m., we accepted defeat.
Google had lost us.
Properly.
Let Us Call Human Beings
Since artificial intelligence had failed, we decided to return to traditional African technology:
Calling somebody who knows the place.
We phoned friends who had already arrived at Tush's ceremony.
Surely human beings would save us.
The man on the other end listened carefully to our location and confidently announced:
“You are only six kilometres away.”
Six kilometres!
Our spirits returned immediately.
Six kilometres on a sports bike is nothing.
We were practically at the gate.
Or so we thought.
The phone directions started coming.
“Enda mbele kidogo.”
“How far?”
“Tu kidogo.”
Then:
“Ukifika hapo kuna njia inaingia.”
Which road?
“Hiyo tu utaona.”
My people, African directions require faith.
After about three kilometres, we finally spotted tents.
Now, anyone who understands Kenyan culture knows that tents in a rural compound usually mean one thing:
Party.
And because we were looking for a party, our brains immediately concluded:
We have arrived.
Victory!
The Grand Entrance
We approached that compound like guests of honour.
Remember, we were on a very conspicuous sports bike.
The machine entered the compound with enough drama to suggest either the chief guest had arrived or somebody from Nairobi had come with a government announcement.
And then something unexpected happened.
People clapped.
My people.
They clapped!
For a brief moment, I thought perhaps word had gone around that Felix and Ali had finally defeated Google Maps.
We parked.
I looked around.
Ali looked around.
I looked again.
Not one familiar face.
Not Tush.
Not our Mikocheni people.
Nobody.
I slowly turned to Ali.
He looked at me.
No words were necessary.
That look simply said:
Bro... tumecrash party ya wenyewe.
To this day, I do not know what function was taking place there.
A dowry ceremony?
A birthday?
A church fundraiser?
A graduation?
Perhaps they are still telling stories about two mysterious men who arrived on a sports bike, received applause and disappeared five minutes later.
African Hospitality Saves the Day
At this point, our confidence had reduced significantly.
Thankfully, a kind lady approached us with the warm hospitality Africans are famous for.
We admitted the truth.
“We are lost.”
After listening to the destination we were trying to reach, she gave us directions.
Then she said something that killed the remaining hope in our hearts.
She told us we would need to “put more effort.”
Put more effort?
Madam, we had already put effort.
We had put fuel.
We had put kilometres.
We had put Google Maps.
We had put phone calls.
We had even accidentally attended another family's function.
What other effort was remaining?
And darkness was approaching.
There we were, in an unfamiliar place, on a flashy sports bike, with daylight disappearing rapidly.
That is when common sense finally joined the journey.
We asked ourselves:
If we were this lost during daylight, what exactly was going to happen when darkness arrived?
Would we reach Tush's ceremony?
Or would we spend the night being given directions like:
“Pita ile miti mbili, then ukione ng'ombe imefungwa kwa avocado tree, turn left.”
No.
We surrendered.
Mission Aborted
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how technology defeated two grown men.
Hungry grown men.
We made a U-turn.
No chapati.
No pilau.
No nyama.
No dowry ceremony.
Just disappointment, dust and a sports bike that had now toured more of Mitunguu than some local politicians.
To our friend Tush, congratulations on your successful dowry negotiations.
We genuinely wanted to be there.
We tried.
Google Maps simply had other plans for our friendship.
There Is Always Bethany
Since we had missed the ceremony, there was only one reasonable way to process our grief.
We headed to a local place called Bethany.
There, we cooled our throats and frustrations with a locally made sugarcane-and-honey brew and began the long journey back to Mikocheni.
Hungry.
Tired.
But comforted by one important fact:
At least we tried.
And that, my friends, is how my weekend went.
Technology may be the future.
But next time somebody invites me to a rural function, forget Google Maps.
Send me a boda boda rider who knows the area.
That man will get me there.
About the Author
Felix Kinyua is a Meru-based freelance journalist, storyteller and technology enthusiast with a keen eye for the humour hidden in everyday Kenyan life. When he is not writing, chasing stories or experimenting with technology, he can often be found around Mikocheni Base exchanging stories with friends — and, after this particular adventure, seriously questioning whether Google Maps understands rural Meru.
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