Kenya (Part 2)
Kenya (Part 2)August 2004
Back in Dar Es Salaam on the Tanzania mainland, I caught a public minibus from the Port to the main Ubongo Bus Terminal, 8km out of town. As I jumped out, four ticket touts were onto me. “Where you going Mister? Arusha? Moshi? Tanga?” I checked out three bus companies with my entourage and found an 11.30am bus to Tanga, as far north as I could go in daylight. Buses do not run after dark in Tanzania. The best way to humour/deal with Tanzanians is to discuss football. As soon as I lied that I was from Manchester, I was friends with everyone. Once you are ‘adopted’, everyone leaves you alone. I stood and joked with a heavily built guy, apparently the ‘best boxer in town’. I squeezed his muscular biceps and we shadow boxed around the buses.
I was dog tired and slept most of the five and a half hour journey, retracing much of the highway I had covered before. As soon as we stopped anywhere, swarms of bread, fruit and nut sellers would surround us and yell out their products or climb on board and move down the aisle, jumping out at the next stop. Arriving in Tanga, the taxi drivers smothered me, but my hotel was a one minute walk away. $8 provided me with a lovely spacious en suite room with bathroom and fan. Tanga was an ordinary Tanzanian port town and I was the only tourist there. Once the locals got used to my shorts, they left me alone and it was nice to be off the tourist trail and see normal Tanzanian life. I entered a local café and didn’t understand the Swahili menu. I just pointed at something and took pot luck. Ugali Rost Mbuzi was either goat or beef stew (I wasn’t sure), cabbage, red beans and a maize mush all eaten with your hands. You grabbed a ball of the mush and then grabbed something else and stuffed it in your mouth. Tasted like shit, but you could eat it!
Before the 7.30am minibus left for Mombassa, I wandered around the early morning markets and spent the remainder of my Tanzanian shillings. The packed minibus followed a dusty coastal road past the usual thatched homesteads with banana plants and coconut plantations. Goats grazed in the front yards. Two hours later, we arrived at the Tanzanian border town of Horohoro and were processed quickly and approached by money changers offering Kenyan shillings 25% below the official rate. I still had plenty left from my initial stay. We motored through no man’s land to the Kenyan border at Lunga Lunga which was empty and we were quickly through.
A surfaced road took us into southern Mombassa. The streets were gridlocked with Matatus (public minibuses) and non stop animation. With a population of 653,000, Mombassa is Kenya’s largest city and port on the East African coast. To reach the city centre, we crossed on the Likoni ferry, a short 10 minute ride. It is free to pedestrians and hundreds of locals lined up on either side of the estuary with heaving markets around them. Dropped in the centre, I walked, unhassled to the find another matatu heading for Malindi, less than three hours north. There were lots of police checks on the way, to ensure the matatu wasn’t overcrowded. There were also lots of tourist resorts en route, Mombassa being the major ‘beach holiday’ package deal in Kenya.
After busy Mombassa, it was a relief to find a nice small seaside resort. Malindi has a typical Muslim centre with a line of tourist resorts down the coast. I walked just outside the centre to Ozi’s Guesthouse beside the Juma Mosque (which always had a 4.30am wakeup call) to get a nice, small, clean room with a fan with shared cold water facilities for £5 a night, including a decent breakfast and very friendly staff. This would be my home for the next week. There was a mosquito net above the bed, which I needed, because the mosquitoes were rampant at night. Unfortunately, there were a few holes and I would awake every morning with a variety of bites. One day, my arse looked like a pin cushion. When you read on mosquito repellent that it lasts ‘up to 8 hours’, take it from me, it doesn’t!
Malindi is the second largest coastal town in Kenya (but doesn’t feel that large). The Chinese had Malindi on their maps from as early as 1060, but it was properly founded by the Arabs in the 13th Century. In 1498, Vasco Da Gamba, (the famous Portuguese explorer) having rounded the Cape of Good Hope stopped off at various inlets up the coast. The Mombassa residents told him to ‘Piss Off’ but Malindi gave him a warmer reception and he set up a lighthouse here to guide other explorers. I could see the memorial from the guesthouse.
The tourists (80% Italian) tended to stick to their package resorts, only coming into town to buy souvenirs. I explored the town which had a Muslim feel; small shops, bicycle repair shops, tailors, cobblers and a few tiny Indian ‘supermarkets’. The streets were always lively. There seemed to be no bars. I became a regular at the local Indian café (Birani Dishes) which was always packed (always a good sign) for cheap, tasty food. Ironically, I finally found an outside local bar about 2 minutes from my guesthouse, next to the Malindi Souvenir Market which had a TV showing live English football and the Olympics. They always had a seat reserved for me when I rolled up, parched, at the end of every afternoon, to blow the froth off a few ‘Tusker’ beers, write the diary and check out the Olympics. I think the funniest thing I saw was the woman’s judo for the 75+ kilo women. Not so much a sport, rather a couple of fat, sweaty women, trying to remain standing before one of them fell on the other and flattened them.
Photo of Malindi Street Scene
Photo of Malindi Beach
I had come to Malindi to dive at the Malindi National Marine Park. I walked down the coastal road past the isolated resorts with security guards at the gates and found a Dive School at the Driftwood Resort. The season had only just started and there was little dive action because the sea was still rough and visibility was reduced. A sister dive school down the coast was diving the following day, so I caught a matatu down to Watumu to another plush resort. Steve, the South African owner took three of us for a dive around the coral of ‘Turtle Reef’, for a slow relaxing shallow dive of 10 metres. It was like a gardener taking you around his underwater garden. He knew where to find everything and I was able to see my first two octopuses (octopi?). The fish quantities were less than Zanzibar, but there was a beautiful shoal of large Arabian Sweet lips, the most I’ve ever seen on a dive. A blind shrimp poked its head out of its hole in the sand. Leaf fish, blue spotted stingray, crocodile fish, large rock cod, a porcupine puffer fish. Because of the tides, there was only one dive which lasted an hour.
I caught a matatu back to Gedi on the way home to check out the East African’s most famous historical ruins, and Kenya’s most important archaeological site. Populated in the late 13th Century with 2,500 people, the size of some of the buildings, especially the Great Mosque, suggests that it was a fairly wealthy town, set away from the coast in a tropical forest. Abandoned to the forests in the 16th Century (noone knows why, maybe a lack of water, because the place is full of deep wells), the Portuguese settlers missed it and it was only rediscovered in 1884 and has been ‘well preserved’. The main centre was originally surrounded by outer and inner defence walls, and the ruins remain amongst the towering and sometimes huge trees. Some of them grow over the walls like those at Angkor Wat in Cambodia (except that the site is miniscule to Cambodia’s brilliant ruins which you should all see; definitely one of the top five ruin complexes in the world).
Photo of Gedi Ruins
Photo of Tree over Wall at Gedi Ruins
Once, a couple of large tour groups had quickly been guided around the main points (one Kenyan man asked ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Norwich’… ‘Ah, Norwich Union Insurance Company’; it’s a small world), I had the ruins to myself in a perfect quiet ambience. Small monkeys darted around the trees. Coral rag and limestone was used to build the wealthier citizen’s homes; they even had toilets and baths which are still visible. The ‘Palace’ was the largest complex, but not that large. In an attempt to give names to the various buildings, the archaeologists named them after whatever they dug up, so there is the ‘House of Scissors’, House of the Oil Lamp’ etc (all stored in the new museum on the site where ‘Hugh G. Rection’ made a welcome return in the Visitors Book). Which leads me to believe that when they dig up our houses in 500 years time, there will be labels saying ‘House of the Lost TV Remote Control’, ‘House of the Discarded Pizza Box’, ‘House of the Pile of Ironing’ or in my case ‘House of the Empty Beer Bottles’. I enjoyed the solitude and it reminded me of visiting the smaller Mayan ruins in southern Mexico. I suppose its fame is just because it is so accessible to the tourist resorts which need an excuse for an excursion.
When I appeared at the Driftwood resort dive school the next day, there was no diving. Where can I dive? I asked and they said to try the Italian ‘Blue Fin’ Dive School next door at the posh ‘Tropical Resort’ (full of, what do you expect? Italians), which I did and spent the next four days diving with them. The half dozen Italian divers got a dive briefing in Italian and the friendly owner Renzo gave me one in English. Once again, my Instructor status gave me a lot of respect and they knew they could trust me. We crashed through the waves on a dive boat into the Malindi Marine Park and descended to the first site called ‘Turtles’. The Italians couldn’t dive to save their lives, having difficulty balancing in the strong currents, crashing into the coral, breaking it off and kicking up the seabed sand.
El Nino pretty much wiped out the wonderful coral beds here in 1998. They are growing back, but they won’t last if Italians continue to dive here. I was appalled. I had recently read that because of global warming, the majority of world wide coral will be dead within 30 years. It looks as if I will be part of the last generation of divers to see this spectacular underwater world. My advice is that if you fancy trying scuba diving (it’s a way of life. Note to Neil; I’m talking about you!), you’d better start soon.
No wonder the dive site was called ‘Turtle’. I counted 13 and was able to dive right up beside them. One had a front right flipper missing, probably eaten by a shark. There were giant puffer fish and a couple of octopus. First sightings of the black East African Angelfish, unique to the East African coast. As we made our ‘safety stop’ a couple of large Gamma Rays swam around (another first). They tend to hang around with the gigantic Whale Sharks (which the dive school had spotted the previous week), but had lost the party. It was my 125th Dive and I had spent over 90 hours underwater. It gets addictive (but not the fish spotting Bob!). As we motored off to the next site, four dolphins appeared at the surface.
The second dive at ‘Papa’ produced a huge shoal of metre long silver barracuda fish that swam by in their hundreds, a few metres away. I discovered a small hollow with seven enormous lobsters sheltering, their bodies were the length of my arm and their antennae were equally as long. Their huge claws stuck out with a ‘don’t even think about it pal’ attitude. There was another new sighting of a ‘Mantis Peacock’, a smaller snakelike Moray Eel without the huge ugly gaping mouth. Just before I ascended, a huge octopus swam out in the open with its long tentacles behind it. It made for a rock and then came out again. Oh for a camera! I was impressed! I was seeing so many new species on the East African coast. Back on board, I was complimented by Jinji, the guide “I can tell you are an instructor by the way you dive” and added “I want to become an Instructor, but it will take me 10 years to save up for the course.”
Keeping the next three day’s diving short of detail, I was able to dive the major sites at the National Marine Park. I often just dived with Renzo, the owner, in trying conditions; strong currents that dragged us back, swept us around like a washing machine, and left us hanging onto rocks to maintain progress. 10 turtles here, 5 turtles there (I saw over 50 in 4 days) and much of what I have described before. On one dive, we spotted the rare Thornback Boxfish; a well camouflaged and colourful, small 2” long fish with two small horns. It swam backwards slowly as Renzo attempted to photograph it. He had dived over 400 times in the last two years and had never seen one. He was over the moon and showed off his photos to everyone for the rest of the week.
I was allowed to look after myself (air) etc. Usually, worldwide, you ascend, for safety reasons, after you reach 50 bar (you start with 200). On one dive, I kept going, letting my air deplete… 40, 30 bar… I was down to 20 bar when I had difficulty breathing. Then my air suddenly gave out. Out of air, I was forced to rise to the surface immediately, without a ‘safety stop’ (to let the nitrogen out of your body). Such rapid ascents cause ‘The Bends’ and many divers die from the experience. I survived with no after effects, but it was a lesson learnt. At 20 bar… you are dead if you are far below, though I’m sure ‘Tusker’ beer counteracted the effects!. Two divers died off the UK from the same problem, the week after I made my mistake. I was getting too cocky, but I learnt from the experience.
On another dive, I saw the weird but spectacular sight of a huge brown rock cod that had attempted to swallow a puffer fish. In self defence, the puffer fish had expanded with its prickly scales to its maximum size and was stuck in the rock cod’s mouth. It looked like it had tried to swallow an enormous ostrich egg, half sticking out of its mouth. The juvenile was a goner. It would eventually die through suffocation. It was my first underwater ‘kill’. After 8 dives, I felt as if I had seen the best that East Africa had to offer underwater. We never saw a whale shark… but one day…
I caught a matatu down to Mombassa for the day. We went via Kilifi, a scenic river estuary and ex-pat hideaway. The long bridge across afforded excellent views of the picturesque (for Kenya) backdrops below. Mombassa looked very familiar. I walked through the Old Town (a minor version of Zanzibar’s Stone Town) and strolled down a coastal road full of official administration buildings in secure compounds and security guards shading from the ferocious sunshine. Huge trees of pink bougainvillea flowers hung down over the white walls. The coast was filled with large ragged brown cliffs with the sea crashing against them. Retracing my route, I found Jesus Fort, Mombassa’s and Kenya’s most famous historical monument. This imposing, golden yellow coloured edifice is the biggest tourist attraction around and dominates the harbour entrance.
Built by the Portuguese in 1593 to enforce their rule over the coastal Swahili people, it changed hands at least nine times in bloody sieges between 1631 and 1875. The fort had some ingenious elements in its design, including angular configurations to its vast walls which made it impossible to attack one wall without being a sitting duck to the soldiers on the opposite battlements. It was also built on coral foundations which made it impregnable from tunnelling.
It may have had a good design, but life must have been rough for the Portuguese settlers who were constantly harassed by Arab armies attempting to dominate the East African coast. The local guidebook told vivid stories of two year sieges where plague, hunger and drought wiped out most of the inhabitants and when they did finally surrender, the Arabs would execute all the survivors. Ironically, eventually, the Arabs would get bored, leave the Fort and the Portuguese would move back in until the Arabs got itchy feet again. Consequently, the original Portuguese stronghold contains a mish mash of adapted Arab buildings. From the towering walls, there was a splendid view over the harbour. In the late 18th Century, it became a prison until 1960 when it became a historical monument. The interior was full of western tour groups and groups of Kenyan school children in their lovely bright uniforms.
Photo of Mombassa’s Famous Horns
One method of the touts to get chatting is to walk up and say ‘Remember me from the bus when you arrived?’ (which of course you don’t). One tout did this in Mombassa. ‘When was this?’ I asked. ‘Yesterday’ he replied. For once I knew he was lying. After exploring the sweltering afternoon streets of the city centre, I walked past lots of beggars squatting on the pavements, to catch a matatu home and came across the sight of a completely naked black man going through the dustbins. Not something you see every day. Back to Malindi past the fields of sisal, goats and small hamlets.
Everyday, I would think about buying some souvenirs from the market across the road, but I couldn’t be arsed with the haggling and the prices seemed rather inflated. I had my eye on colourful 2 foot Maasai shields made from wood and fur. I had watched the Italians haggling them down to 2500 shillings (£17). I talked to Lawrence, the receptionist, who told me ‘I can get them for you at the local price’. He got me four splendid shields for 1000 shillings apiece and probably made a profit on the side. What a great idea to avoid all the haggling. I was very happy.
For my last day in Malindi, it was raining and overcast. About 30km northeast, lays a small hamlet called Marafa, whose only claim to fame is ‘Hell’s Kitchen’. Lawrence was adamant that I wouldn’t have enough time to visit it. ‘There is only one bus in and one bus out. If you miss it, you will miss your night bus to Nairobi and miss your flight. Besides with all the rain, the road will be impassable’. I always like a challenge!
A rickety old bus left Malindi at 9.30am. We all had to wear safety belts, designed for Kenyans and not fat English tourists. It was like having a tight rope across my chest. Just north of Malindi, we left the surfaced road and headed along a dusty orange track, up and down the hills, past infrequent homesteads. It was a real backwater. A group of tourists sped past in their 4 wheel land cruiser for their $30 half day excursion. The bus ride cost £0.60. Local women were picking tomatoes and carrying them in large yellow buckets on their heads. Cattle were herded down the track, chickens ran around and goats munched on anything they could find.
90 minutes later, we rolled into the quiet dusty hamlet where tomatoes were the only obvious thing on sale. I ignored the offers of local ‘guides’, asked directions and headed away from the village. Someone had set up a ‘viewing point’ of ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ for 200 shillings, but I walked on down the trail and eventually cut in 100m to find a free view of the local wonder. The Lonely Planet description was brief “This beautiful geological anomaly…over the millennia, wind and rain have eroded a ridge of sandstone into the most amazing set of gorges”. It was hardly that; yellow sandstone cliffs, beneath which was a depression with a series of red rocky outcrops and some paths around them. It was worth about 10 minutes and a photo.
En route, I had picked up an entourage of six local boys, on holiday from school who asked to have their photo taken. They led me around the edge trying to entice me down with ‘there are baboons down there’ (like I needed to see another baboon) and a ‘blowhole’ (how can there be a blowhole when there is no water around?). It wasn’t exactly Cappadocia in Turkey which takes some beating. It wasn’t even ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ in Hokkaido, Japan which at least has volcanic fumes emanating from it and giving it some atmosphere. It was just a ‘nothing place’ with an enticing name to attract a few tourists.
I decided to have a hike further along the trail with my entourage. We chatted about life in the village and they told me that they had a teacher from England (probably volunteer work). “We are very poor. Buy us shoes. Buy us a football” etc. When I indicated that I needed a pee, they politely walked on and waited. I don’t think they were used to finding a tourist doing the area on his own. They were nice kids and back at the village, I bought them a football. They were rather shocked when at a local water pump, I swallowed a pint of local water. “You don’t drink Coca Cola or Fanta?” they asked.
Sitting around waiting for the 1pm bus to leave, a matatu arrived and I jumped on board. They had a great idea; leave 10 minutes before the bus and pick up any passengers ahead of the bus. The conductor nervously looked behind to make sure the bus was out of sight before picking up anyone. He picked up three young girls who had been picking tomatoes and grabbed a handful from each in payment for the ride. Much faster than the bus, we arrived back in Malindi in half the time. I had a farewell meal at Birani Dishes and a beer at the bar and said goodbye to everyone. It had been nice to be a ‘regular’ in Malindi.
Maybe I spent too long in Malindi and should have headed first to the Muslim island of Lamu eight hours north, but it was probably another version of ‘Stone Town’ and I had come to Malindi for the diving which was excellent. My biggest problem was a lack of reading material. Lawrence dug up an excellent novel for me, but I was usually reduced to reading the 10 year collection of ‘International Rotary Magazines’ at the guesthouse. (Note to Don Coon; I hope you have the collection. I’ll be coming to Buffalo, New York just to make sure you do!).
Kenyan Conclusion; everyone should visit Kenya at least once in their lifetime, if only for the safaris. I felt that the Maasai Mara Nature Reserve with the wildebeest migration and array of uncountable beasts took some beating. I’d also recommend that rather than do a week of non-stop safaris, four days is enough and do another later before you become ‘animal fatigued’. I had done my other safari in Tanzania which was very different. Much of Kenya is the same endless collection of dusty towns and hamlets and it starts to look the same, though the Central Highlands where I climbed Mt Kenya is different. For some light relief, you have the coast and beaches (not brilliant). Mombassa is worth a day at most. The Kenyans are poor, but friendly. There is no dual pricing except for the National Park fees and safaris. The roads are very rough. You get bored by the incessant peanut sellers every time you stop. Half the country seems to be out of work. People it around looking for something to break up the monotonous days. The more energetic are trying their best to scrape a living; bicycle taxis, men pushing carts full of household goods, women selling fruit. The Indians seem to own all the shops.
On a package holiday, you will be isolated in comfortable non-descript resorts and see none of this unless you take excursions. You don’t have to. The country (except for Nairobi) is safe. The matatus are an experience, but you get to see the real Kenya outside the tourist ‘bubbles’. Local food, beer, sodas, accommodation and transport is very cheap. They are used to tourists but still stare at you off the beaten track. I can see why so many young westerners come here to do voluntary work, but the heat, dust, grime and inefficiency grind you down and after the obligatory safaris, and they all seemed pleased to leave. I found it more relaxed than say, India or Indonesia, but East Africa as a whole is a tiring travelling experience.
I had one last tiring travelling experience. The night bus to Nairobi left around 7pm. I had a front seat with a woman and baby next to me. The baby slept better than me, as we first visited Mombassa and then headed inland. Sometime in the night, we pulled into a busy restaurant full of coaches for supper.
We arrived in Nairobi around 5am in the worst part of town. The streets were in darkness, but locals were up early catching buses to work. I could have paid $10 for taxi ride to the airport, but decided to find a local bus. Lonely Planet was full of tales of tourists getting robbed on this bus or having their luggage stolen. I was now carrying a full backpack (full of Maasai shields), a packed daypack and my heavy sleeping bag. I was surprised at the number of policemen in pairs on the street. The city is obviously trying to clean up its act. Asking for directions, I finally found the No 34 bus and climbed aboard. The £0.30 ride took me all the way to the airport where I sat around for three hours watching the Olympics on TV. The plane was packed and they started to board an hour early. By luck, I had the only spare seat next to me. More beer, more movies and wonderful views over Africa which looked like an endless flat barren landscape of sand.
After six weeks on the run, I had had some wonderful experiences and memories, but I was also ready to return to normality. The trip had opened Africa up to me. It was a lot better than I expected and I knew I would return to explore other countries sooner than I had expected to in the future. Mainly because I had dropped 20 lbs on this trip and I drank beer and ate fried food and chips most days. My kind of diet!
Finally, all those important Road Kill Statistics: Kenya (on safari): 1 striped hyena, 1 gazelle, 1 zebra, 1 wildebeest Uganda: 3 chickens (1 direct hit), 2 goats, 1 dog (direct hit) Tanzania: 1 goat, 1 chicken (direct hit)
Travel - £9.73
Accommodation - £33.10
Food - £21.64
Other - £248.97 (including £187.77 diving)
Total - £313.44
Grand Total - £2237.74
