South coast vistas - Kilifi county
Kenya
We're in Malindi in no time. We stop off at some non descript café to rehydrate. A lone coca cola umbrella shields us from the sun at the matatu stage where we wait for Mama Anna to meet us. A small group of primary school children wearing neat little muslim kofias mill around our spot hoping we’ll buy them sponge cake displayed temptingly in a wooden cabinet at the front of the café. A few sleepy matatu conductors lean on the hot metal of their empty vehicles in the scorching mid afternoon sun. The heat is palpable. Nothing is new there though. Nonetheless something is different in Malindi, I notice it straight away and it’s more than just a feeling. It’s ghostly quiet. The usual swathe of passengers is absent. And most notably there are very few white faces in town. Half the market stalls have closed, their owners migrating to greener pastures inland, maybe to family owned shambas. Many Malindi dwellers orginally moved from other regions and have had the good sense to uproute themselves again.
Mama Anna.
We’re greeted warmly and wholeheartedly by our Mama. “Jamieeeee!” she beams and embraces me. She receives Rashid in the same fashion. “Jamie you must be a very good person to organise this. I thought Rashid would never visit me in Malindi again!”. I agree that this is quite the unlikely reunion. We laugh together and bask in a fleeting moment of shared joy which breaks up the monotony of the lives of three earnest and hard working individuals. We pull up plastic chairs outside Anne’s MPESA and snack shop in the matatu stage and disrupt the flow of customers as we get chatting. It’s not long before Anna is giving us the low down on Malindi’s sinking ship of a tourist industry and general issues of a political nature. “These big NGOs and the Kenyan government are up to something, they have their own interests. Now there’s no VSO in Malindi and no tourists. Foreign governments tell their people it’s dangerous here so nobody comes”. Anna never makes a serious or heartfelt statement without bursting in to laughter shortly afterwards. “You know, we Africans when we see a mzungu (white person) we can’t help but think he’s rich. Even though he might have saved up for ten years to have a holiday here” she exclaims loudly between bursts of laughter, “so be careful. You’re just a young boy trying to get by, but they might try to squeeze you like a lemon 
OLD HAUNTS AND MORE REUNION.
Rashid and I hop on a motorbike and head to town to revisit some old haunts, including Scorpio villas beach, Malindi beach pier and the old Indian neighbourhood. We take lunch at the first café I stumbled upon over a year ago when exploring these same streets. Nothing has changed except for the absence of tourists and the concurrent lack of beach boys claiming to be the ‘captain’ and trying to sell shark tooth necklaces and poundland quality sunglasses. Very little sparks feelings of nostalgia for me either, despite all the great memories I have of the people I worked and socialised with here. At times I ask myself why I bothered coming back. Is it owing to my obsessive nature? Wanting a still frame of a period of my life I enjoyed so much. A soon laugh off these notions. Rashid is with me after all and we soon realise that were it not for each other, neither of us would have thought about visiting.
Muyeye.
My real second home: the maze of tin roofed houses, mosques and minature dukas that is Muyeye village, just a stone’s through from a neat little neighbourhood of gated and guarded Italian villas. Anna’s place is exactly how I recall it down to the last detail. The only difference being the lack of tenants and her closed up shop. I’m greeted by Anna’s neighbour Bibi Grace who appears to be a frail and dotty old lady on first encounters but who is in fact quite the opposite. She is as sharp as a knife and speaks very good English. As always she is sitting on a tiny stool in front of a thin curtain which divides Muyeye from her living room, groaning about Kenya’s misfortunes and pausing a long while to observe her new guests. I picture the same candle lit living room with no ceiling and a view of the night sky from inside. I’m taken aback to discover a sparkling new tin roof, recently installed electricity and a big flat screen TV at the back. Grace shows off this new setup by inviting Rashid and I to watch a film. The signal is intermittent as the aerial- or a rather flimsy piece of wire protruding from the TV- only stretches half way up the back window towards the ceiling.
More reunions.
We take the time to visit most of our old friends and acquaintances in Muyeye, in some instances being met gleefully by those not expecting to see us, but rather nonchalantly by others. We receive a typically Kenyan reception at Mama Veronica’s house. We step in to a spacious living room whose paint job could easily be the aftermath of an explosion at a Dulux paint factory, where we are greeted lazily by Mama Veronica and the usual crowd of tired mum’s and well mannered children who are transfixed on the TV: the centre piece of the house and framed by an elaborate array of plastic flowers in a grand wooden cabinet. Mama Veronica looks warn out. She offers us soda. Sidi- the teenage daughter of one of the mamas- hurries off to the shop to buy a huge bottle of fanta. We all slouch on big sofas glued to a totally bizzare Nigerian movie about family disputes and witchcraft. That is as exciting as our evening gets. Now, if when i mention African village life, this conjures up images in your mind of crowds of people covering their privates with palm leaves, dancing around, beating drums and chanting by firelight, you’ll be bitterly disappointed when you visit Kenya.
SUNDAY 22ND MARCH.
Rashid departs for his home in Msambweni in the morning. We agree to meet up again in Msambweni on Tuesday. I head to Muyeye Catholic church with Anna and John and enjoy the lively sounds of the church choir. A revitalising ensemble of deep baritones and high pitched female vocals, with the occasional tribal cries thrown in. A world away from the dry, enduring Catholic services of UK churches, although the processings and bible readings are much the same.
Visiting a friend in hospital.
Later on John and I jump on a bike and head to Malindi general hospital to visit a young friend of John’s who is suffering various complications of sickle cell anaemia. Visiting hours at the hospital are hectic. We enter a general ward crammed with beds with very little in the way of privacy. John’s friend is sitting on his bed looking sprightly but certainly jaded by his experience. He is surrounded by concerned family and friends spanning at least three generations. John offers me a seat on the bed, and I sit awkwardly surrounded by visitors. I distract myself from this uncomfortable position as I observe a patient lying in a bed adjacent. He is a young man- perhaps in his mid twenties- stiff with pain and groggy from drugs. He wears a bandage around his head and has a large cut on his shoulder. He is inundated with visitors: two rasta men with sunglasses and long dreadlocks, women in bright kitenges, old people and young children. Perhaps the entire population of his neighbourhood. One of the rastas is peeling bananas and feeding him chunks, whilst a young lady pours bottled water in to his mouth. A plastic saline drip bag is hooked on to the wall above this young man’s bed. A tube runs in to his wrist beneath a bandage. This unfortunate patient was knocked off his motorbike and has suffered head injuries. John comments on the deadly combination of young and poorly trained drivers, badly serviced bikes, lack of helmets and rough road surfaces. “It’s a small miracle we don’t see more accidents in Malindi. These young guys are not educated and are basically clueless”. While it’s interesting to be a fly on the wall in Malindi hospital, I can’t help but feel relieved to be excused from this young chap’s bedside. I head to the beach with haste to breathe in the first gulp up of sea air I’ve had in four weeks of travelling. I try and fail to locate a good spot on the beach to go jogging. All stretches are jam packed with Kenyan tourists. Lads playing beach football and girls taking selfies on an Indian ocean backdrop. In the evening the three of us bike to a part of town I never previously had the opportunity to visit, but nonetheless an area indistinguishable from everywhere else by night. Here we’re invited for a very German dinner by a Kenyan couple who have worked in the catering industry for german holiday apartments on the coast. Beef goulash, mashed potato and plenty of wine are on the menu. Long prayers are recited in Swahili before and after sitting down to eat. Later on vodka and bitter soda are poured generously, well in to the late evening, and stories told in deep Swahili are completely lost on me as I relax in to a stupor.
Old habits and moving on.
I feel oddly incapable of being independent in this all too familiar host home setting and it soon becomes stifling. The unrelenting humidity never lets up and I sweat in my sleep, waking up with soaked bed sheets. On more than one occasion I’m subjected to the fiercely opinionated views of certain individuals who attempt to back me in to a corner on certain moral issues. I have only ever encountered such self righteousness and rigidity of opinions in east Africa, and I confess to feeling tired and deflated after such encounters. For the sake of privacy of those concerned I won’t elaborate here. Let it suffice to say that my passion for exploring culture and ideologies in east Africa has worn thin in these few days in Muyeye, although it has since been strengthened. As much as I enjoy the food and the hospitality of Malindi in the company of my companions, I am happy to hit the road again and to reestablish my independence, as well as to leave the mad heat behind.
MONDAY, 23RD MARCH.
GEDE HEALTH CENTRE.
There are non violent protests at Malindi matatu stage on my day of departure. A huge swathe of people run through the streets brandishing tree branches and beating the tin walls of market stalls. The government is trying to raise the costs of renting market stalls four-fold. Mama Anna decides to close her shop in anticipation of these protests turning sour: “they will tear my shop apart. All the shop keepers in town have kept their shops closed today”. By now I have come to realise that Anne exaggerates a little, but is on the ball when it comes to current affairs. She is necessarily very sinical about all institutions- politicians, police and tourst boards alike. Her descriptions of the shenanigans of these parties never lack a comical value. “When a matatu driver sees a traffic police man he looks for a turning, because he knows the policeman will find any reason- fictitious or not- to fine him if he continues straight”. I somehow manage to pick up a matatu heading out of town amidst the disruption of the protests. I take a detour to Gede to visit my old colleagues at the dispensary. The first person I meet is the familiar face of a tall skinny man called Simiu who has the combined strength and endurance of a weight lifter and ultra-marathon runner. He has AIDS and has stabilised his illness through adhering to an anti-retroviral drug regime. He has dedicated his life to supporting others in his position by volunteering his skills as an adherence counsellor and community health worker. This man deserves far more recognition than he is likely to recieve, but would never expected it or resent a lack of it. I meet various other colleagues who are both suprised and glad to see me. A new counselling and screening centre has opened at Gede and is now fully functional. I’m glad to see some visible progress. I take lunch at a new café next to the dispensary with various health workers and other staff. These moments are fleeting but definitely worthwhile. An old friend Karisa walks me to the matatu stage and tells me about his recent marriage to his long standing lady, and about his various home agricultural projects, none of which has really taken off. I remember clearly how much of a struggle it had been in my time as a volunteer to engage the community in these small projects. I was fighting a losing battle. Karisa and I part ways at the matatu stage and I board the ‘express’ shuttle to Mombassa via Kilifi. A haggered looking driver promises a non-stop service. I count at least ten roadside passenger pick-up and drop-offs between Malindi and Kilifi which is the approximate half way point. Luckily I wasn’t that optimistic to begin with.
Week 5 - Mombassa, Wasini island, Msambweni and Mwaembe village
Mon 23rd March
Malindi to Mombassa.
I stop off in Mombasa for one night at my old haunt: the friendly guesthouse above the Indian restaurant in downtown. Rashid rings to cancel our meeting. He tells me he is obliged to attend a three week scout camp with his students. Another Kenyan colleague of mine Imelda informs me she’s on her way to town to meet me but she never shows. At first I feel defalted and a little used. I cover Rashid’s costs to the last shilling throughout our time in Malindi, even giving him his bus fair home. I have to remind myself where I am in the world and the implications of being a white man here. I also recall very clearly how nonchalant and noncommittal Kenyans can be when it comes to making plans and arrangements. So instead of dwelling on the details I revert to my independent traveller mindset and consult my guidebook for inspiration. I flick through and stumble on a section about a island on the south coast at the Tanzanian boarder called Wasini which according to the writer is a little piece of paradise.
Tuesday 24th March
Wasini Island, Kwale county, south coast.
I enjoy a local meal or two at a roadside ‘mama ntilie’ shack-come-cafe ('mama ntilie’ translates roughly as 'mama feed me more’) at the Malindi bus stand in Mombassa before finally making my mind up and heading south via Likoni- the infamous Mombassa ferry which bridges the gap between Mombassa island and the main land.
Likoni.
The matatu stage on the mainland at Likoni is as grotty as they come. Sticky floors, greasy barbecued meat outlets and scruffy, suspicious looking characters hanging about. I feel safe enough though. To date I’ve successfully singled out at least four or five genuine passengers in a crowd of scruff bags at every bus station I’ve had the joy of passing through, London Victoria and Cardiff notwithstanding! On this particular journey I’m seated opposite a mild mannered and sweet Tanzanian couple and their chubby baby. We share snacks and water throughout the journey. I tear off pieces of chapati from a stack of five or so which are still warm from the stove and have been folded up to fit in a minature carrier bag. The bus stops regularly to load and unload some really heavy duty luggage including huge sacks of potatoes and a stack of woven crab traps as tall as a house. I hear the sounds of foot steps overhead as men clamber around strapping luggage to a roof rack of questionable strength and reliability. The coast becomes increasingly unkempt and rural as we head south. Palm trees bend in all directions and even the houses in small villages and settlements have few if any straight edges. The bus takes a right turn off the tarmac road and on to a winding dirt path which passes through countless tiny villages and surrounding plantations of maize and beans. At this time of year rain falls heavily and frequently, creating a semi-marshland environment in places where water has collected.
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| Serene beaches and hidden mangrove on Wasini island - Kwale county Kenya |
Shimoni.
The bus finally pulls up in Shimoni at the very end of the line. Straight away I’m hounded by a group of men claiming to be ‘captains’ offering me a 'good price’ for a boat ride across the small stretch of water to Wasini island. By now my Swahili is sufficient to get me pretty reasonable discounts in these situations. But it’s always more of an effort than should be necessary. Tourism has made a nuisance of the people working on the coast. The constant cries of 'my friend’ and 'my brother where you go’ from passers by and people sitting idle outside cafés, has the tendency to chip away at one’s patience. There’s little hope of a peaceful moment unless you’ve paid big bucks for a secluded apartment on a private beach. Whilst money can buy a pass to uninterrupted relaxation, it cannot buy new friendships or spontaneous adventures. I’ve found these experiences to be free for the most part, with a generous sprinkling of nuisance mzungu gawpers thrown in.
Wasini island.
On first impressions this island meets my expectations. The place is serene and its people are for the most part genuine. The owner of the lodge I stay at called Abdula is a gruff no nonsense fellow who chain smokes and makes endless phone calls to ensure his business runs as smoothly as possible. He spots a muzungu on a budget and we negotiate a very fair price for accommodation and food. The evening meals turn out to be a banquet. One evening I’m joined at the dinner table by three young german travellers and a host of hard grafting men who ferry dishes back and forth from a modest kitchen to prepare us a feast of seafood including the tastiest seaweed I’ve ever tried. I settle in to this secluded lifestyle very quickly and I spend the following three days moving at the pace of the island and recovering from the noise and heat of Mombasa.
WEDNESDAY, 25TH MARCH.
MKWIRO VILLAGE.
I walk through deep mangrove forest and along palm lined paths to reach unfrequented
villages on the opposite side of the island, where for the first time I have the opportunity to converse with people who don’t speak English. After a long walk and a few wrong turns I arrive in the fishing village of Mkwiro where I take a rest from the midday heat in a food shack and enjoy a staple of chapati and beans. The lady running this food outlet, referring to herself as ‘Mwanamvua’ ('baby rain’ or something to that effect) busily rolls out and fries chapatis by hand as she tells me about the struggles of making ends meet in the chapati and bean industry. “I make enough money for today to eat and buy a few extras. Then tomorrow it starts all over again”. I sit in this tiny shack for longer than most people would normally stop off on a lunch break. Mwanamvua is a hilarious and intriguing lady with many an interesting perspective on mzungu life and tourism. I bask in shallow rock pools where the water is hot enough to boil rice, then swim in a calm and pristine Indian ocean. Sleepy fishermen in Muslim kofia hats rest in the shade of wooden boats. There is one beachside tourist resort which is completely empty. I’m accompanied by a young chap who is chilled to the point of being half asleep. He patiently shows me around this tiny yet vibrant community and I get to meet many of his friends and family. Many women are hard at work washing clothes and frying potato snacks outside their homes. Later in the day I head back to base, confident enough in my navigation skills to traverse the island’s interior in under two hours. I stumble across a group of young guys practicing football drills on a large sandy plain. I feel obliged to join in a really fast paced and sweaty game of team A vs team B ball possession. I know when it’s my time to throw in the towel though and it’s not long before I realise just how mediocre I am at football!
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| Right to left: Abdulla, the owner of Wasini Lodge with his young apprentice who is always smiling and is never without an errand to keep him occupied. I’m the only guest on the first night and these two run around non stop cooking, preparing rooms and cleaning the lodge ready for the arrival of more guest. A very personable duo with more than just money fuelling their enthusiasm for business. I felt at home here. |
THURSDAY 26TH MARCH.
SNORKELING AND DOLPHIN SIGHTINGS.
Allow me at least one or two touristy treats once in a while. Abdula gives me a generous discount on a tour of Wasini marine park. I join a group of german tourists who have driven out of resorts in Dasani to reach Shimoni. We each cough up $25 for park entrance fees at a very smart looking park office and then head out on to the oceans for snorkeling in some beautifully isolated coral reefs. We’re fortunate to drive right along the path of a group of playful dolphins who jump in and out of the water, disappearing for a while, before making a suprise reappearance right up close. A magnificent experience. I’m joined for dinner by a young german man with a striking resemblance to Harry Potter in the earlier films. He has been volunteering in a rural community in southern Ethiopia. We are very excited to be able to share our tales of this county and to reminisce on good times and difficult times spent exploring it.
No tourists.
Wasini is not dissimilar to Malindi on the tourism front. People just aren’t heading to the coast these days, for security reasons perhaps, or maybe because they have greener pastures, or whiter beaches, in their sights. Either way, I feel like a special guest, not least because I’m travelling alone with a working knowledge of the mother tongue of coastal residents. Sometimes it is worth going against the grain.
Views from Wasini lodge by day and by dusk
FRIDAY 27 MARCH.
MSAMWBENI.
I fly along the same dirt path from Shimoni to the crossroads, this time on the back of a souped up motorbike driven by a Tanzanian boy with a need for speed. Bongo flava music blasts from a speaker set between the handle bars. This Tanzanian chap, wearing his cap on back to front and sporting riding gloves, has what Tanzanians frequently refer to as ‘swags’. In other words, an inborn and natural cooleness which many have tried and failed to emulate. A bus bound for Mombassa pulls up beside us offering me a lift. The conductor tries to fool me in to thinking there are free seats on board but I look a little closer and conclude I’d be squatting on a wheel arch for a few hours. Upon declining the offer my Tanzanian friend bumps fists with me. “Nipe tano! Poa poa”. Legend. I have a glimpse of what I’ve been missing here in Kenya. Tanzanians are on the whole more laid back and more concerned about having a good time than getting a lot of work done. If I can stereotype. This culture brings it’s own economical problems, but it also makes for incredible travelling. I set down for some chai in the shack to rival all budget roadside food shacks, whilst I wait for a matatu to fill up with people. I’m on board a rattling tin shed of a matatu and in no time I’m Mombassa bound again…except I’m not. The matatu slows in Msambweni town, or rather the collection of villages which make up the Msambweni constituency. This is Rashid’s territory. So it must be cool. I decide in a moment of recklessness to hop off and to see what this place has to offer. And I’m glad I made this decision because Msambweni is brimming with opportunities for off the beaten track exploring. I approach two trustworthy and idle looking ladies sitting at the front of a nick nack shop and ask whether there is any decent accommodation in town. The ladies usher over another idle man who readily shows me the way to a makuti covered hotel and bar beside the tarmac road a kilometer back in the direction of Shimoni. It goes by the misleading name of Paradise Lodgem Ok so it’s scruffy, hot and mosquito ridden, and congolese music rambles on all through the night. But it’s a roof over my head and a base from which to explore the surrounding villages and beaches. I dump my bags and make a quick turn around. The nearest beach can be reached from a gravel path which starts at the back of the hotel and makes for a convenient shortcut to the beach through Mwaembe village.
27th - 28th March.
Mwaembe village.
The gravel path intersecting the busy community of Mwaembe village makes for a very interesting late afternoon stroll. Shambani (on the farm) A shirtless farmer hollas from afar from his maize field, intrigued by my presence in his village. He’s seen Red Cross volunteers get lost on the same road and says he wouldn’t like to see another newcomer have the same problem. I pay Athman future visits to find out more about his livelihood activities and his family. He’s a man of two wives: one lives with him on his farm in Mwaembe, whilst the other lives at his second home in Mombasa town. He is a man at ease. “I am satisfied in that way, now all I need to do is work and I’m fine”. He leans on his jembe (digging tool) to catch his breath, having just ploughed an entire hectare of land. I congratulate him on his efforts, to which he remarks “hard work? Not at all. A man himself decides whether or not his work is difficult. He becomes accustomed. He might have a very expensive lady in the city, but he is happy spending on her because he loves her”. His older brother Ashraf has lived and worked in Exeter for two years and is intrigued by the social and cultural differences between Kenya and the UK. He tells me “you can sit next to someone on a bus all the way from London to Exeter and not say a word to one another. Not one word. Unless something out of the ordinary occurs, like the bus breaks down. Then you might start up a conversation!”. His younger brother looks shocked “so what do you do for the whole journey then?”. “You read a book for example” Ashraf replies, turning his attention to me. “Privacy is very important for you [English people]. You only socialise within certain groups like sports clubs and in your class at university”. He looks very serious, but then his frown turns to a wide smile. “I like that though, you have your space but you have your people as well”. Ashraf gives me a ride down to the beach on a huge machine of a motorbike. Nothing like the sewing machines on wheels which the pikipiki drivers operate.
Shambani - Mwaembe - top left: Athman on his maize field. He has just started planting seeds; top right: Athman and his older brother Ashraf taking shade under a tree on the farm; bottom: Athman next to his very own coconut tree.
Mwanamvua at her chapatti and beans outlet in Mkwiro village, Wasini Island, Kwale county Kenya.
Exercise and acrobatics.
I utilise a long stretch of pure white sand to go for run. I meet a fellow sportsman doing press ups in the sand. He is an athletic man in his early twenties called Mazur. “I have a gym at the back of a building just up from the beach. There’s a rollar, weights…”. Sure enough just around the corner Mazur has a fully fitted homemade gym. It really is homemade. Weights have been hewn from concrete cinder blocks and attached to metal poles. The roller is a simple cylinder of hard wood fitted loosely with a rubber wheel. This gym is a little rough around the edges but it serves its purpose. We have a quick workout to an audience of children who stare in awe. Mazur shows off some of his acrobatics, balancing on his head without using his hands. He aspires to be a professional acrobat and to perform at tourist resorts, weddings and other functions. “An older friend of mine has gone to India to travel as an acrobat”. I have high hopes for this young athlete. I didn’t bring my camera but would like to have documented this scene.
Pause to reflect.
On the way back to the hotel I stop off for chai and andazi on a veranda packed with muslim men enjoying some time away from thier wives and children. A lady pours tea at lighting pace whilst the men chew the fat together lazily in the evening light. The heat of the day has subsided, my body is spent from exercise and I fall in to a relaxed state. Socialising in this style in east Africa is great. It’s simple, unpretentious and it opens doors to meeting and conversing with people living very honest and modest lifestyles all across the region. One hears open political views and personal stories of trials, tribulations and successes. No Kenyan citizen is too shy to voice their reservations concerning the integrity of their government and it’s subordinates. I’m always humbled to see people striving for small gains and persuing innovative livelihood projects in a setting where opportunities are scarce and even sustaining a family is a daily challenge. Even more intriguing are the many similarities which exist between the daily lives and the persuits of people here on the African continent and those of normal hardworking citizens back in the UK. Their daily struggles are for the most part the same, except in extreme instances where water security, famine and disease are a serious factor. Many Kenyans will seldom have encountered these issues, but will instead be fretting about how they will afford their next electricity bill or whether they will be made redundant at the end of the month.
SUNDAY 29TH MARCH.
LOITOKITOK ROUND TWO.
Back on the road again, this time travelling all the way from Msambweni on the south coast to Loitokitok on the boarder with Tanzania. It’s a long and tiring journey involving various cronky matatus, ferries, tuktuks and buses. I board the ‘Bus Car’ service from Mombassa to Emali, which I quickly realise is a mistake. The conductor is an Indian man who cares only about cramming on as many passengers as possible to maximise on income. The driver stops to pick up passengers all along the Mombassa road to Emali. Fortunately I have a reclining seat and ample legroom at the front and I’m sat next to a talkative and informed graduate from Nairobi who gives me all the low down on partying in the capital. We exchange details. If I visit Nairobi again I’ll have someone to show me how the young generation lets loose in this metropolis.
LOITOKITOK LIFE INSIGHTS.
I spend the next three days unwinding in Loitokitok with Aliphya the UK team leader and our host Mama Helen. I lead a snail like pace of life, conducting some sort of informal anthropological study during daytime hours by socialising in run down food shacks with a mixed crowd of descent hard working locals, Maasai and the odd drunkard (photo posts to follow). One day I take a long walk through the hills and shambas at the foot of Mt Kilimanjaro and I’m invited to carry out some sweaty work loading corn on to a truck bound for Nairobi. The local farming community is very hospitable and obviously very used to seeing white faces on their land. I almost intentionally get myself lost in a maze of forest paths and corn fields and have a fun time asking for directions and doing my best to interpret hazy replies including “over there right at the top of the field there is another field and you’ll see a path on your right. Go along that path and you’ll see another field”. One old bibi sits on a straw mat at the edge of a seemingly endless field of sunflowers, sorting sunflower seeds meticulously. “hiya baba, karibu” she raises a hand respectfully as I pass by her workplace. She is totally unphased by my presence, it is as though I’ve been doing this walk every day for a year. I make it back to town eventually and meet up with the VSO team to celebrate the 21st birthday of a Kenyan volunteer called Samuel who attempts to hide the date of this milestone from his peers. No event celebrated with cake is likely to get past these folk though. Somehow they catch on. Samuel is startled by a room full of volunteers who yell ‘suprise’ as he appears from behind a curtain. A heart shaped shop-bought sponge cake recieves a generous coating of tinned jam and sugar coated bourbon biscuits. We sing “kata caki tule” at full volume and then scoff this bizzare confection together in a cafe next to the VSO offices. A bored looking waitress eyes us from a table in the corner probably wondering if we plan on purchasing anything here. The social is short lived though because all the volunteers have strict 6pm curfews. They disperse rapidly at 5:30 across town to their respective host homes.
On the farm: I’m invited to lend a hand in stacking sacks of corn on a truck bound for markets in Nairobi. It’s more tiring than it looks. I have to squat and pivot on the spot to pick piles of corn from a hessian sack and to slam the corn in gaps of the right size, to form a space saving lattice which eventually fills the entire van. This is a team of hard working young men who start at 6am and work right up until sunset. They are in good spirits though, probably because they seldom encounter a muzungu who is ready to get stuck in with their work.
I stop off for a chai at a cafe with no signage and certainly no printed menu. I meet the owner Daniel, his wife and his one year old child (pictured bottom). A quick rest stop turns in to a two hour long chat about Daniels musical pursuits (he is a gospel singer at his local church) and about my travels in Ethiopia. He is fascinated by my tales of Tigrai churches set high up in the cliffs in northern Ethiopia. I get to taste the local speciality Githeri (beans and maize in soup) and I ask Daniel how he manages to have such a wide selection of piping hot and tasty dishes readily available on his menu (which he has committed to memory): my photographs of the kitchen and his assistant chef yield some answers.
Unplanned treks in Loitokitok and surrounds
NYUMBANI KWA MAMA HELEN.
Mama Helen treats her guests splendidly as always. We eat like kings and recieve a generous offer to explore nearby Amboseli and Tsavo game reserves at local rates (I promise to return to Kenya in the future to take her up on this offer). Mama Helen’s siser Lucy is a kimaasai speaking lady working as a ranger in Amboseli national park. She offers to put me up in her home and to explore the park whilst she is on duty. Yep, it really is all about who you know on this continent. These two ladies understand the plight of a European wanting to explore their country under the guise of a resident. This prospect looks more realistic by the day.
Nyumbani kwa Madam Yvonne.
On my last evening in town Yvonne invites Aliphya and I to dinner at her place. A real treat. We feast on fresh fish from lake Meru transported from neighbouring Tanzania and the ubiquitous staple of maize meal (ugali). We’re joined by a young lad who is volunteering for the Kenyan Red Cross in a nearby town. He is visiting the Loitokitok office to take part in a blood donation scheme. Mama Helen later tells us a sorrowful story about an event she witnessed when working as a nurse in Loitokitok. “We were caring for a mother in labour who ruptured her uterus. There was blood everywhere, enough to fill these buckets (she points to a stack of buckets in her kitchen). The doctors just took their time discussing what to do, whilst this lady was dying. They didn’t have the right blood type to give this mother a transfusion. We nurses wanted to shake the doctors and to say, ‘look this lady is dying and you’re not doing anything’. She died after giving birth to a healthy baby”. Aliphya and I lose our apetites upon hearing these vivid descriptions at the breakfast table. “I don’t understand why some people are resistant to the idea of giving blood” Mama Helen concludes. After dinner we share tales of comical and downright cringe worthy encounters we’ve had with admirers in east Africa. Yvonne tries to control a giggling attack as she recalls being sent mysterious valentines cards from a lovestruck student whilst schooling in Nairobi. “One strange boy sent me a card saying 'you’re the only haragwe (bean) in my Githeri (local maize dish)’. I thought to myself wow, how does this boy ever think he’s going to seduce a lady with these terrible lines”. Yvonne remembers a female UK volunteer at the start of the program in Loitokitok who would only travel to and from the office before sunrise and after sunset, just so she could avoid wolf whistles and advances from local men in town. This is perhaps a bit extreme. The current UK females are as tough as old boots and would surely laugh off most of these annoying but for the most part harmless encounters. Aliphya has also been the subject of tragic and heart felt admissions of love by strangers in Nairobi, where she was born and raised in a working class neighbourhood. From what I can gather, life was tough in the city for Aliphya and her family. They later moved away to the coast in search of a more peaceful living environment. We say our goodbyes and call our trusty VSO approved motorbike driver to drop us back at Mama Helen’s home. The next day I’m back on the road, fed, watered and prepared for the challenges which lie ahead. My first hurdle is crossing the boarder with Tanzania, which is a 10 minute car drive from Loitokitok town.
