Voi, Mombasa, Watamu, Lamu, Mombasa, Voi.
Day 197:
One very peaceful and relaxing night later we woke up refreshed and ready to take on the world again! We did not have to go far, so there was no rush at all. After the normal morning coffee and breakfast ritual we went into the stylish room to have a nice hot shower again. It was slightly disappointing to be honest. The water was hot, which was not so important in the heat of the African morning, but the pressure was… well, none existent. I was pretty sure that they gave us a maintenance room to use as I could not honestly see how a customer paying lodge prices would be content with that. I wouldn’t.
Still, it was enough to wash the dust and dirt off us and after paying up for camping and the one beer I had the night before ($3 for the local beer… Ouch!) Maggie’s engine roared into life with the help of new battery and we set off down the dusty track back towards Voi. I heard the familiar knocking sound of a shock absorber without a bush at the top and had to laugh a little. I had replaced that damn thing so many times that I could do it with my eyes closed and it seemed as if quality spares was just not something that was possible to get! I had run out of spares as well, so skipped into a small spares shop in town to enquire about some parts.
The friendly man smiled and said something along the lines of finding a slightly odd, but worth wile replacement which I should try. This came in the form of an imported (From the UK I’ll have you know) shock absorber bush meant for Land Rovers. He assured me that more than half the Toyotas in the area were running on these bad boys and sensitive to the pre histories Land Cruiser/Land Rover rivalry he promised not to tell anyone if I did try them out. I bought four and replaced the busted one in the dusty street in front of the shop.
The magnificently smooth and new tar road took us ever east until we bumped into the coast and the city of Mombasa. There we had two options: Either head south towards the resort towns of Diani Beach and the infamous Forty Thieves beach bar, or head north to a little known place we had heard about called Edelweiss. This was not mentioned in any of our guide books or indicated on any of our maps, but there was a brochure up on the board at Jungle Junction with words of positive feedback scribbled onto it. It sounded just like our cup of tea, so we headed that way, skirting the city and avoiding the much publicised madness of traffic.
We reached Edelweiss, just more than 20km north of Mombasa before the lunch hour and were greeted by Olli, the owner. From the outside it did not resemble any camp site that we had ever come across but when we were directed through a small banana plantation which Maggie barely fit through, the yard opened up to a huge lawn with big shady trees dotted around. It was fantastically nice and we were the only people there. Olli introduced us to his wife who’s name I did not catch and then showed us heaven… a 20m long, 10 m wide, sparkling blue swimming pool in between the palm trees they had growing in the yard. It was at least 40 deg C in the shade, so even before contemplating anything else we jumped in the pool. This soon turned into the normal ritual of the afternoon. Every time our bodies were dry, we’d walk the seven meters from the nice and comfortable Banda to the edge of the pool and plunge in, staying there until we had cooled down.
In the late afternoon we decided to go for a walk on the close by beach. This was slightly easier said than done as our direct path was blocked by a huge resort hotel. We found a way around, a small alley way to the sand and spilled out onto a scene of low tide coral, sea weed and breakers about a kilometre off shore. It wasn’t exactly as I hoped it would be before we got there, but not totally unexpected. We had noticed that every guide book’s description of the Kenya coast had some reference to sea weed and coral. We walked past the obligatory curio market with shaking heads, saying “no thanks” more times than we could count and ended up right in front of the hotel that had blocked our way. There the beach was fairly quiet, but still offered no chance of actually swimming in the sea. Past the hotel we were approached by the ever present beach boys who immediately referred to me as “brother”, pissing me off in an instant. I had however learnt that in situations like that, confusion was the best tactic so I answered every carefully orchestrated question with another question, or an answer which made no sense at all.
Before heading around a headland into another bay which I could not clearly see, we decided to turn around. I was fairly certain of two things at that point: The one was that the three guys who were walking with us were harmless, but the second was that they were most definitely angling to sell us drugs. I played so stupid that they could hardly believe their misfortune. Close to the hotel we had walked past they abruptly stopped, greeted us and turned on their heels. It was as if we had come to an invisible boundary marking their territory and they were not allowed past it. Not that I minded off course.
Within seconds we were approached by two other people: One offering massages, pedicures, manicures and Henna tattoos and the other offering affordable safaris to the Masai Mara. It became abundantly clear to me that it was not possible to go for a quiet and relaxing stroll along the beach in the area and I surmised that the whole coast of Kenya would offer little difference. I did not really find that kind of beach and coral appealing anyway, so didn’t mind leaving it at all. We walked straight into the resort hotel, skipping the curio market and was stopped and questioned by the security guard. I simply told him that we were after a drink in the bar, which satisfied him enough to let us pass.
We were obviously not after a drink in the bar and walked straight through the resort and out the gate closest to humble accommodation. The guard on that side thought we were residents and I had to tell him that we were off to buy some fruit before he let us go. It was a little too much for me and I was very happy to be back at the relaxing atmosphere and welcoming pool of Edelweiss. I immediately jumped into the water to rinse off the salt and sweat I had accumulated and repeated the process well into the night and every time I felt a little too warm. It truly was a fantastic place to hang out.
Day 198:
Waking up to the sounds of birds and the friendly family dog coming to greet us was so nice that the decision to stay another day came without discussion. It would simply have been rude to leave without hanging by the pool for at least twelve hours without break.
So that’s pretty much what we did… The whole day…. And nothing more…
In the evening we made our dinner with great enthusiasm, celebrated our successful day of doing nothing with some wine and went to bed once the night had cooled down a little. Lying in bed I could hear three things: The sounds of the local bar, the sounds of the local night club and the sounds of the Mosque’s speakers every time there was prayer singing happening. The only thing that worried me slightly was the night club, as it seemed fairly close by and the speakers were definitely not at African volume yet. I was also pleasantly surprised at the subdued 80’s music it was playing and at some point I was convinced they were having a Karaoke night. It was all a little surreal and not that disturbing at all.
Needless to say that the speakers did reach the defining African volume at around 1am, protesting in blurred reverberation in a way that whatever it was broadcasting became nothing more than a hissing noise. I was very pleased when it all stopped around 2am.
Day 199:
At 4am the prayer singing started up again, but only lasted for about ten minutes. The singer had a really nice and soothing voice and although I did not understand a word of what was being broadcasted, I didn’t find it particularly disturbing. At 5am the local cell phone network’s marketing sms came through on the phone and by 8am the local Christian church had its turn to broadcast its chosen religion for the whole of Kenya east of the Rift Valley to hear. It had been a normal, standard Saturday night in an African village and I had to just take it in my stride, or try and remember not to stay near villages on weekends in future. The latter would have been difficult as we rarely knew what day it was. The thing that baffled me most was why every group of people from Muslim to Christian to pub crawler to dance junkie felt the resolute need to force their views and choice of sound onto the world by using the biggest loudest speakers money could buy. Surely you would still go to the Heaven your religion advertises by practicing it in a reserved and quiet way and surely it should be more important to feed your family that to own the biggest loud speakers in the world…
Edelweiss’s sparkling swimming pool offered welcome relief from the early morning conflict in my mind and as my body cooled down, so did my temper. The decision was made though; we would not spend another night in the village. We also did not have far to go at all, so we also decided to laze the morning away by the pool and leave only after lunch. We did have the savvy to pack the tent and everything else away while it was still cool enough to breathe outside. I could actually not believe how hot this place was and we were not even close to the Equator!
When we finally did hit the road, it was with wet hair and clothes from the swimming pool and Maggie’s air-conditioning was working over time. We had turned the fridge off while at Edelweiss to give the deep cycle battery a proper slow charge over night for a change. This also meant that the fridge was working very hard to get to our chosen running temperature. It was only an hour’s drive to Watamu, but we timed it well to arrive after the worst heat of the day.
Watamu for us hade two possible attractions: The first and obvious was the ancient ruins of Gede. These were made up of a city of presumably rich merchants which were dated to around 1399 due to the writing on a tomb by the entrance to the city. Our second was to find a suitable SCUBA diving outfit in Kenya. We started with the latter and after driving around town and seeing the size of the mansions and the shininess of the vehicles, and the fact that we were barely let into resorts looking dusty and like independent travellers should have confirmed our suspicions. The dive centre we did find had a standard price of Euro 45 per dive, using our own equipment… Yeh right buddy! We decided to wait to Egypt to dive as there we would not need any Vaseline to make life more comfortable after visiting the reception… if you catch my drift. (No pun intended there)
We looked into accommodation and found something that would have sufficed, but that didn’t really look that nice at all and then headed to the ruins. The cost of entrance was a fair $6 each and the guide we selected asked $6 for his hour and a half of expertise, which I also felt was fair. The ruins themselves were fantastically impressive! Although not as big in size as the Great Zimbabwe, this place dated from roughly the same area and the stories told by this guide pretty much co-insided with the stories told by our guide in Zimbabwe. It seemed that these were the guys who travelled south to Zimbabwe to trade their beads and porcelain for the Zimbabwe gold. They would then bring that back to Gede and trade the gold for more beads and porcelain from the merchant sailors from the east. The most mentionable thing about these fascinating ruins was the way their water system worked. The not only had the flow of water from one side of the city to the next sorted out in terms of drinking water, irrigation and sewage, but they also used what we now refer to as grey water for the sewage system. This water was lifted by bucket from the well, and then used by the Muslims to wash before going into the Mosque. They would discard this water into another well close by which will then naturally filter it through coral and earth and let it flow into the start of the system again. Genius!
The archaeologists who excavated parts of the cities and parts of the houses named the dwellings for what was found in them. You had places like: The house of two courts, the Dhow house, The Spanish scissors house and the Palace, belonging to the Sultan of the time. There was a public court; a woman’s court and a There were houses with door and windowless strong rooms and a place which was aptly named: The Bank. It was all extremely fascinating and really well preserved and presented. I saw the whole excursion as very much worth our while.
Once we had done the tour and learned about the place it was time to find a place to put our heads down. On the way to Watamu we saw a place advertising rooms and camping next to the main road and decided to head in that direction. This place was directly next to the Arabuko Sokoke National Park and boasted not only a fully functioning bar and restaurant, but also a really neat, pleasant and quiet camp site and cottages. The problem for us, as in so many camp sites in East Africa was that we could not actually get Maggie to the camp site. We ended up in the car park…again… but this time we did not mind that much. It was a peaceful environment with the proprietor giving us advice on the Lamu he had lived in for more than twenty years and the locals looking at us not as a primary source of income, but as something out of the ordinary which deserved a little respect for the adventure we had managed up to then.
After drinking his ice cold beer and pitching camp we got on with the task of cooking dinner, and everything else that was in our freezer as we had planned to turn the sucker off while enjoying island life. We had planned for this eventuality and thus had very little to dispose off. None the less, the samoosa sheets we had acquired in Nairobi got employed for the task and in no time we had some curry and mince samoosas, some bacon and banana samoosas and a couple of banana and chocolate samoosas for our desert that evening. By 22:00 we were done with baking and cooking and incredibly tired after the previous night’s lack of sleep, so we crawled into bed and fell asleep the instant our heads hit the pillows.
Day 200:
It had been a well deserved and very peaceful night and we woke up refreshed and ready to take on the world again. The showers were cold, but welcoming in the heat of the coast and after washing the night’s stickiness of us, we started heading north again. We past the town of Malindi which was commonly referred to as the Little Italy of East Africa. Every second building housed an Italian restaurant and the ones in between were either banks or Italian Tile shops. It was like we were transported out of Africa for that little bit and if it wasn’t for the Omni present fruit sellers on the corners of the streets, the mad Matatu and bus drivers or the suicidal Tuk-Tuk drivers, we could have easily believed that we had been “disapperated” to Italia…
Alas, as soon as we left the town boundaries to the north it was clear as the water was not that we were still in Kenya with the reminisce of tar serving as what the locals refer to as a “road”. This one was particularly interesting as someone, at some point, had tried to fix the pot holes. The result was that you would think that the holes had been fixed, judging from the difference in colour on the surface, only to realize too late to do anything about it that a brand new rubber eating monster had appeared just beyond the patch. Then again, just for fun and the confusion factor, there were stretches of perfectly new tarmac road where you could drive comfortably at any speed you chose to without the constant fear of breaking something on the car. They would never last of course and their ends would generally be unannounced and unceremonious. The result being that once you felt your kidneys jump around inside your body, you reliably knew that it was the end of the good road.
At some point the tar stopped completely. I much preferred bad dirt road to bad rat road and this one seemed to be made from crushed coral, compacted into mud. It was fairly rough, but the going was easy and we were only over taken by busses every ten minutes or so. What I found a little concerning at the time was the obvious and active increase in police presence in the area. The road blocks were more frequent and they actually stopped us at every one of them, in contrast to the rest of
Kenya where the police seemed uninterested in us. The second road block’s man asked me where our armed escort was. When I argued, as I had so many times before, that we had no spare seat and no place for an extra body to sit, he informed me that it was only advisable to have an escort and not compulsory. My honest feeling on the subject was that it would be hard to argue that you “came in peace” when you had a man with an AK47 in your midst. So against his advice, we soldiered on. No pun intended….
Our fourth stop saw a gathering of police officers around the vehicle which made me a little more nervous than the speculative bandits in the area. I was still not 100% comfortable with the authorities in Kenya due to the amount of horror stories we had been told about them. This man, clearly a high ranking officer as he had no uniform, wanted to see our passports. Usually that would be easy to deal with, but as our passports had been sent to our respective countries of citizenship to obtain the elusive Ethiopian Visas, it was slightly trickier. I explained this to Mr. FBI and offered our international drivers licences as proof of ID. Surprisingly, this satisfied him completely and after a lengthy chat about African politics and South African football we wished us safe travels and sent us on our way. I was quite relieved.
The end of the road for us was the Mokowe Ferry dock, the closest place to ancient town and island of Lamu. This was said to be what Zanzibar used to be like before all the tourists came along and we were both excited and apprehensive to see what that was all about. At the ferry dock we were greeted by Mohamed (every second person seemed to be called that in the area) This Mohamed had a business offering shady parking and security for Mzungu cars while their owners went to the islands. He had heard about him before and he did came recommended, so we did not look further than that and parked Maggie under is high thatched roof. He obviously understood the space issues with roof top tents and loaded roof racks and catered for it well. He even offered to position our solar panel to best catch the sun during the day. The fee for his efforts: A reasonable $3 a day.
Our next mission was to find a ferry to take us to the island. We were touted like you could not believe and offered anything from barges to speed boats and while declining every offer without considering we were desperately searching for the ticket office… which did not exist. Once we had given up on our search we had learnt that you had but two options to get to the islands: You could take a public boat, which appeared to be a big wooden Dhow with an inboard engine, stacked to the rafters with people and produce and taking about forty minutes to cross the channel while at least two people were constantly bailing water with old oil bottles that had been modified. The cost was a fixed rate of $0.50. For $1 you could share a speed boat (Read fibre glass tub with outboard engine) which seated eight and took ten minutes to get across without the need of bailing water. A no brainer then… we took the speed boat.
Once we were deposited at the Lamu Old Town jetty (Read concrete bit which reaches the water at high tide only) we were immediately approached by Ziwa, an elderly man with funky sun glasses and a reflective vest indicating that he was the chairman of the Lamu tourism organisation. We were pretty convinced that it was a self proclaimed position, but he definitely demanded respect from the young met and seemed to know every single person in that town by their first names. In a calm, non threatening and friendly way he explained that he was there to help us find a hotel, free of charge, and to offer us the various tourism activities his fair city had. We agreed that he could show us to Yumbe House, our chosen place of residence while on the island, thus escaping the eager offerings of the other touts around. On the Kenya coast they are apparently called Beach Boys, but I doubt if their music would ever make it big.
Yumbe house was a breathtakingly fantastic place! It was a converted traditional Swahili house built from coral… Yes, coral… It was five stories high and had roofs thatched from coconut leaves. The concrete floors were sparklingly clean, the communal areas were breezy and cool which was very important there and the rooms were spacious, clean, en suite and decorated with traditional Swahili furniture and grass mats on the floors. It had a leafy and generous courtyard offering refuge from the blistering sun at any time of day and thanks to the thickness of the walls, the dining area was a constant, comfortable temperature too. It was perfectly situated and well priced at $25 a room a night, including breakfast. We sign up for two days.
After checking in and paying it was Ziwa’s turn to peddle his wares. He told us about his city tour and full day dhow trips for fishing or snorkelling as well as some traditional villages and a dhow factory we could visit. Everything came at a price off course. The Lonely Planet published a Ksh 500 ($12) price tag for a dhow trip which Ziwa told us would cost Ksh 9 000 (Over $100) for a private hire. Apparently they had so many issues with tourists getting lost in the Mangroves and busted for smoking pot on the boats that they had to licence all tourist captains and obviously split the fee many ways to keep everyone happy. We opted to share a dhow with other people, but still had to fork out $50 for the pair of us. The tour of the city was charged at Ksh 2 000 ($25) but we though it would be worth it, so sign up for that as well.
With all activities planned and paid for, it was time to try out the effectiveness of the fan and the comfort of the Swahili bed in our room. The siesta lasted until 16:00 when Ziwa came by to collect us for our tour. It all seemed almost too good to be true. He told me that I was welcome to take as many photographs as I wanted, as long as I did not photograph police and that we were perfectly safe to walk around the town at any time of day or night. He kept telling us the reason for the safety was that the island consisted of 97% Muslims and I kept on wondering which hole we lived in around that day in September when the “safe Muslims” killed a few Americans… I knew that it was not fair to generalize like that, but then again, he started it! To be honest though, I did feel safe. This was not because of the religious practices in the 42 Mosques in the town or the fact that everyone seemed to be either going to Mosque or returning from Mosque 24/7, but it was because everyone on the island seemed to know each other by name and they were all friendly and happy and inviting in a charming sort of way.
Our town tour lasted about two hours. It was no way worth the $25 price tag as all Ziwa did was to follow the published walking tour of the Lonely Planet and talk to all his friends along the way. He gave us titbits of information about which Mosque had what importance and showed us the big houses that had been renovated and was then owned by foreigners from America and Spain and even talked about the castle belonging to the Sultan of Brunei on the island next to Lamu. We did get to interact with the locals a little bit and no seemed to mind so much that I was pointing my camera at them and we talked philosophy and politics for a little while as we waited for many of the island’s 3 000 donkeys to pass us by in the narrow streets. But, at the end of the day, we could have experience the same town in the same way and probably learned more about it by following the map and walking tour on page 307 of the Kenya Lonely Planet Guide.
We had decided not to bother with any catering equipment in our luggage, so once the sun had gone to bed we went in search of a suitable eating establishment. To my slight surprise I had to learn that the 97% Muslim population also did not consume stock or sell any for of alcohol on the island. I did find one fancy hotel selling beer at $2.50 a bottle, and had one before dinner. Their menu seemed expensive, so we opted for the Bush Gardens restaurant on the dock side instead. On our way there we were approached by a friendly young man who started his speech with: “Welcome to Lamu my friend…. How long have you been here…?” I was put off immediately and abruptly told him that he had nothing to on offer that I did not already have. He offered to escort us to where ever it was that we were going anyway and stopping in my tracks, I looked him in the eye and told him that all I really wanted was to be left alone. Slightly shocked he also stopped and slightly taken aback he said “sure man, but you should really try to be happy….” I felt suitably reprimanded for my rude behaviour and apologised immediately. He did leave us alone though, which was nice.
Dinner consisted of fresh fillet of Tuna, enough rice to feed a village in Somalia, a wagon load of vegetables and a beer mug of banana juice. Yip, the man sliced five bananas into a glass, added a couple of ice cubes and took a blender to it. It was like a meal on its own! After dinner we walked back to Yumbe in perfect safety and without a single beach boy approaching us. It was still unbelievably hot, so after a long cold shower I climbed onto the bed with wet torso and hair and turned the fan onto its highest setting. Sleep came quickly and comfortably.
Day 201:
The alarm woke us just before 7am and after another cold shower we headed down the flights of stairs to the breakfast table in the courtyard. Breakfast was served at 7:15 and c9onsisted of a huge plate of fresh fruit, scrambled eggs on toast and Coffee which had an interesting vanilla taste to it. It was formidable and delicious! Even before we had finished, our Dhow captain, Mohamed (Told you every second person was called Mohamed) arrived to escort us to his proud vessel. We met John and Liz, a retired Canadian couple who we were sharing the dhow with and followed the piper in single file through the narrow streets until we got to the docks. The tide was out, so the concrete steps were miles away from the water. We walked up to a dozen meters from the small dhow, waded in and climbed aboard. The crew consisted of captain Mohamed and a skinny young man who was obviously not important enough to be introduced to us.
At a guess I would say that the total length of the boat was about 15 feet, which was hardly the picture our beloved Ziwa had painted the day before. There was no shade, contrary to what Ziwa had said and there really wasn’t space for the six of us to sit comfortably, also not exactly what we had expected. Within minutes of setting off under power of 15 Yamaha horses we stopped in deeper water next to a dhow that was about three times the size. Both Catt and I got ready to change boast as we were convinced the bigger one was what the brochure had on it. Only Mohamed stopped us and sent his deck hand across to collect a piece of wood. This piece of wood was then expertly cut in two with a machete and with the help of two other peaces of wood, captain Mohamed constructed our shade. It was a cotton cloth covering the two thirds of the length of the boat and being held together by ropes made from coconut leaves. It was effective though.
Twenty minutes into our journey we arrived at a channel that linked the islands to the open ocean. We were still powering along and there was no inkling of using the sail that was dutifully rolled up and tied tight to the mast in front of us. I was miffed! It was obvious that Ziwa was the king of over promise and under deliver and that we were not the only Mzungus he had so blatantly ripped off with his long stories of expenses and licences. To top things off, Mohamed our trusty seaman was rolling the fattest joint I had ever seen! Along the channel we saw another dhow being long lined along as he did not have an outboard and we were almost rammed out the water by a 50 foot dhow with a big inboard engine.
Once we cleared the other side, things changed dramatically though. The mangroves gave way to clear blue ocean with a tiny swell and healthy breeze and Mohamed killed the Yamaha and instructed the deck hand to deploy the sail. All became silent apart from the ocean lapping at the sides of the sleek vessel and we both started really enjoying ourselves. We sailed close up to another tiny and uninhabited island and put down the anchor right on top of a coral reef. It was announced that we had reached our snorkelling spot. We were handed our snorkelling gear which consisted of old dirty masks and snorkels tied onto the wrong side with pieced of coconut leaf. Mohamed seemed proud of his knot skill, so I said nothing and spent the next fifteen minutes cleaning the gunk from the corners of the mask before carefully sliding into the water, avoiding contact with the coral.
The tide was high and the current strong. The visibility was fantastic though and the sea life prolific. I saw and identified a range of fish I had seen often while scuba diving and even a fairly rare Bird Wrasse swam across my nose. I was however very aware that I was not wearing a wet suite and knowing how rough and sharp coral is, I was a little uncomfortably being a meter above it in an environment where the waves determined my proximity. John managed to cut his foot open on some coral and because of the current we tired out within half an hour as well. It was fun, but short lived. I could not help but think that I would have enjoyed the fishing more, but Catt was less keen on that idea.
We lifted anchor and sailed over to the island of Manda Mtoto. This tiny island could be circumnavigated by foot in less than an hour and had a hot sandy beach of the kind you normally see in ship wreck movies. It was not entirely deserted as some fisherman had made a temporary camp on it, but they were glad to have some company. We went for a stroll and then a swim and then another stroll and a swim while the captain and the deck hand prepared our lunch. When it was ready we were called closer and after sustaining what felt like third degree burns on the soles of our feet from the insanely hot sand we sat down in the deep shade on a reed mat awaiting the food.
I was NOT disappointed! Once again there was a mountain of rice and a fantastic tomato based spicy sauce to go with it. The next thing that arrived was a whole rock cod, freshly caught and grilled on an open fire. The fish was about 40cm long and after I deboned the lot. The mountain of meat looked enough to feed at least a dozen hungry mouths. There were only four us eating from it. We managed well and just as I felt satisfied the fruit arrived. The plate had bananas, papaya, passion fruits and oranges on which I have to humbly admit we were unable to finish. Our trusty captain was not going hungry either as I saw the two lobster tails he cooked from himself and the other two he obviously saved for a later date.
While we were having lunch a bunch of people in uniform arrived on our deserted island. They were from an American military base and came to play some mid day football on the hot sand. I was amazed that anyone could move that much and that fast outside of the soothing water and less surprised when the football game ended within ten minutes of starting. The lot of them dove into the cool water and stayed there until well after we sailed away.
The journey back to Lamu old town was even more pleasant that the outbound journey. We used the sail much more often and the Captain had obviously had enough weed in him to slow him to the speed of a lazy sea cucumber. The sail bellowed out from the wind and the streamlined craft cleft through the clear blue water like it was floating through the air. We reached the channel and motored through that and set sail again on the other side. By the time we reached the Old Town port the tide was high and we managed to moor right on the concrete steps, allowing us to get to dry land without getting our feet wet. A last “asante sana” to Mohamed marked the end of a fantastic day out on the Indian Ocean.
It was past 16:00 by the time we had reached our cool and comfortable lodgings and after washing the salt water off us, Catt insisted on doing the “shopping” thing. I had given up on explaining that every shop we had seen since we set foot on Zanzibar had had exactly the same things and mostly at exactly the same prices. I had also given up on trying arguing that she should do the shopping thing without me so that she could take her time and so that I would not be in the way. So we went shopping… again… Browsing really, as I had no intention of opening my wallet and Catt was yet to replace her wallet that she lost a couple of weeks before. The shops did indeed have mostly the same wares as all the other shops I had been dragged into and indeed at the same prices. The best thing about Lamu for me was that there was only one street with shops on and it took no longer than 40 minutes to complete the exercise and it was still so hot that a cold beer was the only thing that made sense. This time we walked to the roof top bar of another fancy hotel and sat looking out over the harbour and sea while sipping on the cold beverages. The harbour was still a bustle of activity and the sailing dhows were still coming in by the dozen. The slow public boats were loading up to take their punters to the main land and the beach boys were still around touting whichever Mzungu dared set foot in the area. It was, to be fair, a pretty standard late afternoon on an African/Muslim/historical island and it was fantastic to be there to witness it.
For dinner we decided to spoil ourselves for a change. We selected yet another fancy hotel’s restaurant and both ordered fish… again. Once again it was better than words can describe. The waiter explained that a fisherman had to show the chef that the fish is still alive before the hotel would buy it, so every fish they cooked for dinner had not been out of the sea for more than three hours. I could believe it. Our chosen dish was Red Snapper, what ever that may look like, and it was white and fluffy and phenomenally tasty and filling. Not so filling that I could not fit in another Tusker Lager and not too filling for Catt to squeeze in a bowl of ice cream for desert. The bill totalled less that $30 and with that happy news we walked back to Yumbe, following the dark but safe alleys through the ancient Swahili houses.
Day 202:
Every day on the island seemed to end with a cold shower and every following day seemed to start with the same ritual. This day was no different. We woke up just before 7:00 and it was already piping hot outside! The shower was welcoming and sitting in the breakfast area with wet hair and slightly damp bodies was still very comfortable. Breakfast was the same as the day before and after a second cup of the strange coffee we set off towards the harbour in search of transport back to Maggie.
Once again I had to smile at the efficiency of informal transport in Africa. We were about a hundred meters away from the nearest boat when the first captain asked us which direction we were heading in. By the time we had reached the boats, we had a choice of five locations and at least double the amount of boats. There was a slow boat heading in the direction that we wanted, but it was only half full. We had already established that they would not sail unless the seats were filled. Within seconds there was a speed boat that had only two seats left and we jumped on board after confirming the price. This delivered us back at the port where we had left the car within fifteen minutes of us walking out of Yumbe house. It was an insanely efficient way to travel.
Mohamed the first met us by the car, assured us that everything was in order and while I paid him the agreed fee, Catt started opening bags to find the keys. Once Mohamed had left I opened the door and put my camera bag inside, got into the driver seat and looked towards Catt with some confusion. She was still searching her hand bag for the car keys. It did not take long to find them and when she got in she looked at me all concerned asking how I managed to get into the locked car. Realizing that we had forgotten to lock the car while we went to an island for a few days was almost comical! Ziwa was obviously right in the end. Everything was perfectly safe and as we had left it. As we started up Mohamed walked over and offered us Diesel and a car wash, which we both declined, smiling and happy seconds before bouncing down the dusty track towards the south.
The road was not nearly as bad as I had remembered it and it took relatively little time to reach our friendly policeman without he uniform. He recognized us by name, greeted us with a firm handshake and resumed the conversation we had had two days before. It seemed like quite a secluded police outpost and I did wander what such an obviously educated man had done to deserve that posting. He was also obviously starved for conversation as he engaged us for about twenty minutes while the busses and trucks passed us. At some point I offered to park in the shade and make some tea to go with our conversation, but he smilingly declined, wished us safe travels and sent us on our way. I was not nearly as nervous around him as with our first encounter, but I was still a little unsure of the safety of the area. I managed to catch up to one of the busses and started following that through the villages and Mangroves and open flood planes until we passed the last road block where the man asked us about an armed escort on our way north.
We passed Malindi, described to us as the Mini Naples of the world, stopped for some fresh vegetables and fruit close to Gede ruins and arrived on the outskirts of Mombasa by mid afternoon. It had been a very successful travelling day! The local butcher sold us some beef fillet for about $6 a kilogram and with food stores replenished we went in search of the recommended Mombasa Backpackers. Their poster on the notice boars at Yumbe house advertised there location as being one street block far and directly behind the butcher we were at, which seemed simple enough. At first we drove down the wrong street, but on our return up the next street along we spotted the picture definition of backpackers, so stopped to ask directions. The friendly ladies pointed us to a house less than a hundred meters behind us. There was no signage, no indication that if offered accommodation, but as soon as we stopped in front of the large metal gates, a Masai man opened them and showed us where to park.
We were only after a place to stop over, so facilities did not matter too much to us. I could immediately see that we were in for another night of car park parking. The house was a mansion though! It was three stories tall and had wide open living areas, a nice big bar area and massive TV screen in an ample lounge. The patio was inhabited by the typical traveller attracted to Backpackers lodges and came complete with the resident drunk who was sitting with two beers in his hands and obviously slightly inebriated. To my surprise I learnt that he was the owner… of the business, not the house. The house had a huge For Sale sign at the front which was why I guessed they had not put up signage. Through bloodshot eyes he told us that they were renting it while looking for a bigger place. I wasn’t convinced, but their price for camping was almost nothing, so we decided to cook our fillet in the car park and stay out of everyone’s way.
While the fire was burning away I made a trip to the kitchen to find some water for washing our newly purchased vegetables. As soon as I walked into the front door the all too familiar sweet smell of the funny green tobacco hit me straight on. I wandered through the bar to see no less than four patrons, as well as the owner and his partner “skinning up” and they all seemed stoned enough to pass out any second. The lounge had three inhabitants and they were already fast asleep in front of the 42” LCD screen. The cook was the only compos mentis person around and we had a quick chat before I had to return to the outside world of fresh air in fear of getting stoned myself.
Now… that fillet… While Catt made a massively interesting and huge salad consisting of every conceivable thing you can put into a salad, I briefly introduced the dead cow to the heat of the coals and then took it away before spoiling it. It was just warm through and given half a chance it would have probably tried to snack on the salad itself. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the best beef I had tasted since leaving the great pastures of South Africa. In fact, it was better than most steaks I had had for as long as I could remember, but calling it the best steak I had ever had may be a slight exaggeration. Suffice to say that I could not remember ever having steak better than that. Saving some for the next day’s lunch was a concept that flew out the window without argument and after licking my lips and fingers and even the plate it had been on I wished that I cooked the other half as well. I vowed to save it for a special occasion.
Day 203:
The stoners must have passed out long before we went to bed as it ended up being a brilliantly quiet night, offering a light rain to cool to air and fantastic rest for our weary bodies. The place was as quiet as a church on Monday morning when we got up. Trying not to disturb anyone, we packed away the tent and the rest of our stuff before going for a shower. It was still so hot that neither one of us were interested in opening the hot tap to find out if hot water existed, but what did take me by complete surprise was that the water from the taps were salty. Even the water in the kitchen sink was salty. That explained the mountain of empty beer bottles outside the kitchen door I though.
Not wanting to face any more weird surprises in the house of fun, we left the money in the bar tab book and headed out just after 8:00. A quick stop at a roadside welder to fix one of the exhaust supports… again… saw us ready to travel, but we decided to see one or two sites in Mombasa first. The strangely named Fort Jesus, built by the Portuguese in 1593 to enforce their rule of the Swahilis of the East Africa coast was reportedly the biggest tourist attraction in Mombasa. We had heard about it from our guide at Gede as well as Ziwa on Lamu, so decided to investigate that first. We were shown a parking spot next a bank by a man who was either very drunk, or very stoned and just as I was explaining that we really did not want him to wash the car, a friendly, well dressed man pointed out the slightly hidden, but guarded and free museum car park. We moved Maggie there.
Peter Toller was the man in question and he was a registered safari and tourism guide, working the scene in downtown Mombasa in between wildlife safari trips. He was well spoken, obviously knowledgeable and came straight to the point: He would guide us through the ruins, and then through Mombasa Old Town, a world heritage sight like Lamu Old town for a fee of $25. The trip would take around three hours with the ending being a traditional Swahili coffee house. I immediately took a liking in him, so agreed to his services, trying not to think about our disastrous Lamu town tour for the same price.
From the outset I could see that this was going to be different. Peter told us about the history of the fort and how the Portuguese never managed to hold onto it for long. In fact, it changed hands no less than nine times between 1631 and 1875 when it was finally under British control. The ingenious design of the fort meant that no enemy could attack one wall without being open targets for the defending force from another vantage point. There were ruins of old barracks, some restorations of old Portuguese wall paintings and a clever passage cut out of the coral to give the fort access to the sea. The old harbour had coral sides and a natural twenty meter drop of into a central channel. As late as the 1990’s someone discovered a buried skeleton in the fort’s confines which was later determined to be older than 300 years and from Christian (So Portuguese) origin.
A quick walk through the museum itself marked the end our Fort tour and shortly after we spilled out onto the cool streets of Mombasa Old Town. Peter, like Ziwa, seemed to know everyone by name. He pointed out buildings of significance and introduced us to the local tradesman and shop keepers. With Peter by our sides no one bothered us with touting and no one seemed to care about the big camera I was pointing at them while clicking away. The most impressive shop we went into belonged to a traditional Swahili wood carver. If I had the money, and a container, and owned a house, we would have furnished the whole thing from that one store. It was breathtaking stuff! The friendly proprietor took his time to show us around and explain the pieces and customary meaning of them. Apparently, when a Swahili man gets married, he has to present his new bride with four pieces of furniture: A bed (Obviously), a corner dressing table, a coffee table and a wooden chest for her secret things. These were all carved from Mangrove and Teak with beautiful patterns and precious metal decorations. Catt had a scary twinkle in her eye, so we had to leave.
After visiting the old harbour itself, we walked down a narrow street to the Coffee house. We cleverly selected the room with cushions on the floor where you had to leave your shoes outside as we rightly guessed that it would be the coolest in temperature. Catt ordered a Masala Chai. This spicy tea contains: Cardamom, Cinnamon, Black Pepper, Ginger and Cloves. Peter and I both ordered Swahili Coffee, which on arrival seemed to be little different to the tea, but tasty none the less. The conversation around the low table was however the most interesting of the afternoon. Peter explained how the Somalia Pirates plagued the coast of Kenya to the point of Cruise ships not stopping in Mombasa any longer. Those same Somalis apparently bought all the biggest houses and most expensive properties along the coast as well, driving the prices so high that locals could not afford them any longer. I had to laugh at this and explain to him that we had the same problems around Cape Town in South Africa. Not the piracy, but the wealthy foreigners ruining the housing market for the local buyers.
I carefully asked him about the unrest after the last election in Kenya in 2007. He bluntly and bravely stated that the current president, in his opinion, stole the elections and should not be in power at all. He did go on to explain the positive way in which the new constitution had been received by all Kenyans and how the government was making tangible headway in getting rid of corrupt politicians and officials. He also told us that the best investment in Kenya at the time would have been to buy as much land as you could on Lamu Island. Plans had been approved to build a new and modern harbour there and the end of a massive oil pipeline linking the oil fields of Northern Uganda and Southern Sudan to their closest port. That explained the influx of foreign property owners we were told about by Ziwa.
It was a very interesting conversation in deed, but after more than three hours spent in Peter’s company, it was time to hit the road again. He walked us right to the door of Maggie, bade us safe travels and waved as we drove away. I felt really pleased about spending the money and the time with someone as knowledgeable as that and wished that we could have had the same experiences in Lamu. Driving through the streets of Mombasa we noticed, if possible, an even more aggressive driving style than in Nairobi, but managed to survive the few kilometres to the Mombasa/Nairobi hi-way in a relatively short time.
The sheer amount of trucks on the road were mind boggling, but then again, one had to remember that this was the major port for Kenya, Uganda, Southern Sudan and the eastern DRC. The plus side was also that the drivers of the trucks were as lawless as the Matatu drivers and the police presence non existent, so it wasn’t as if they were slowing us down much. We had decided to return to the Red elephant Lodge by Voi for a stop over and arrived in between the bamboo and palm trees next to the inviting swimming pool just before 16:00.
As it was getting dark, our friendly Askari who had engaged us in conversation the previous time we stayed there came around to say hallo. He also said that there were Elephants at the water hole and offered to show us. I was very keen to see these Elephants covered in the blood red dust of the area, so we happily followed him to the other side of the lodge. There was an electrified fence between us and the herd, but we ended up standing within 50 meters from them, amazed at the bizarre colour they had adapted. The family had a few young animals as well and one tiny little clumsy baby was, according to our new friend and in pronto guide, only two days old. It was still hairy and seemed almost blind and completely unfamiliar with the use of its trunk and legs. The askari walked right up to the fence and held his hand high above his head for a young bull to see. It was if they were communicating and after kicking up some dust and a little ear flapping, the bull walked off in search of more water. We watched the herd until it was too dark to see them before returning to our camp. It was an absolutely, stunningly unexpected treat and we loved all of it!
If I had to do it all again:
Staying in or near an African village on a weekend is a mistake and we should really learn that lesson now. Edelweiss was great in the week, but that last noisy night spoilt it for me.
The town tour on Lamu was just not worth it. The place is so small and compact and friendly and well sign posted, that there is simply no need for a guide. When we were sold on the idea of the tour, we had had no time to check things out by ourselves, so my advice would be not to commit to any activities before spending at least one afternoon walking around and exploring by yourself. Oh, and if you want some booze, take it with you. Hotels have fridges in the rooms, but if you want to buy any kind of alcohol on the island, get ready to be ripped off!
Mombasa Backpackers had a handy location and really cheap price for us, but if you adverse to the dope smoking culture, best seek alternative accommodation.
Yip, that’s about it. The rest was brilliant, slightly off the major tourist track and highly recommended!
