Kenya 2024

Africa Underway – Trouble On The Streets Of Nairobi

Nairobi, Tuesday 7am. Darkness lifts as we progress slowly through passport control and baggage reclaim, then out into the melee of taxis, buses and safari jeeps clamouring for passengers or waiting for someone to spot their name on a board and head out under the big morning sky.

The expressway from airport to city is a racetrack of vehicles constantly changing lanes and squeezing through gaps which are barely there. Alongside and parallel, huge numbers of people make their way on foot to their workplace, giving the industrial quarter the look of an African Lowry painting, stick figures jostling through crowds in every direction. We are met at our one-nighter hotel with beaming smiles which light up faces and give an extra sparkle to already friendly eyes; then to our delight a small fee buys us early check-in and includes an amazing breakfast of honey roast pumpkin, mango pickle, spicy chicken wings and biryani. This is a welcome to Kenya to warm the heart as well as the stomach. 

It isn’t long before the tone of the day takes a significant change, though, and our first 24 in Nairobi turns into something entirely different. Enquiring whether the concierge can supply a city centre map, we are greeted with the response that today is not a good day to be leaving the hotel unless you’re leaving the city altogether: armed soldiers are already filling the streets in anticipation of violent anti-Government protests, and our blunt advice is to not venture out at all unless it’s by taxi. 

Sure enough, when we look down just a short while later from the hotel rooftop, tear gas canisters are being fired by police and army alike, pungent smoke is drifting up from the streets and the sound of an angry mob echoes from the lofty walls of the city buildings. Government enforcers armed with rifles, sticks and shields charge at the scattering protesters, regularly firing tear gas right into the heart of the crowd. We’re safe on the roof, but even up here our eyes, noses and throats sting if the breeze carries the gas in our direction.

Tension and violence come in waves and in partnership. Watching from our rooftop vantage point is incongruously calm given the violence unfolding below, we are voyeurs of someone else’s conflict, taken aback yet able to escape the gas and serenely order a plate of samosas while gunfire still echoes through the streets just yards away.

The battle is joined by hulking Police water cannons driving back the crowds with jets of water dyed pink which simultaneously floods and stains the streets, successfully dividing and conquering the crowds. But they are not dispersed easily and the confrontation carries on for most of the day, now and again peaking with noise as rounds of live ammunition are fired into the air, joining the loud crack of tear gas guns as tensions threaten to boil over into something even worse. Sirens wail, voices rise and fall in angry unison. Young protesters goad the soldiers, then run from the inevitable retaliation, seeking refuge around corners before returning for more of the same.

Kenyan TV is beaming live coverage from the streets below: we learn later that there has been a fatality in protests in another town, indicating that, despite all we see, Nairobi is perhaps not the eye of today’s storm.

We knew before arriving here that there had been protests recently, but today has been an unexpected, for us at least, resurrection of violent conflict. The first day of our long journey through Africa has been…shall we say….different.

As you would expect, we choose to take our evening meal in the safety of the hotel restaurant, and once again the bizarrely incongruous nature of the day is all too evident: the convivial atmosphere of a restaurant full of visitors from afar at complete odds with the scenes which have been unfolding outside. It’s almost as if we’ve been watching newsreels – yet of course it’s been very real. Staff still smile sweetly, their eyes once again sparkling, yet a few yards from the door their kid brother may just be embroiled in the wars of the street.

The depth of anti Government and anti President feeling is palpable, particularly amongst those youngsters styling themselves as the Kenyan Gen Z, and it’s therefore hard to believe that these tensions will be extinguished any time soon. It’s probably a good thing that we are moving on from the city quickly. In the end, it has to be a first for us – the first 24 hours of a trip spent without ever leaving our lodgings. Next morning it’s a 6am breakfast, ready to be collected for the start of our 7-day safari, and after a short visit to the operators’ office to part with a large wad of American dollars which has been a worry to carry around, we join our travelling companions for the next few days and head out of town.

Our driver points out a certain group of policemen, saying that they are the ones to avoid. “Argue with them and they shoot you. Live ammunition. Those guys are happy to kill their own people”. I guess we’ve been warned.

It’s rained heavily overnight, pools of rainwater mingle with the pink dye from yesterday and at the same time conceal potholes in the streets. As our safari minibus hits the road, city gives way to ramshackle shanty town suburbs, then soon we are on our way out through the greenery, climbing steep highways where heavy trucks labour to make the gradient. The troubled streets of Nairobi are behind us.

Ninety minutes or so later we are on a road clinging precariously to the side of the mountain: this is the cusp of the Great Rift Valley, an incredible natural phenomenon which stretches 9,600 kilometres from Mozambique to the Red Sea. When we call in at a vantage point though, the whole scene is shrouded in dense cloud which hugs the valley below and completely hides what is undoubtedly a fantastic sight on a clear day. Can’t win ‘em all, we suppose.

Eventually, beyond the busy town of Narok, we leave the good roads and commence a 2-hour stretch along boneshaking dirt roads, the scenes before us becoming picture book Africa. We aren’t even on safari yet – not officially anyway – but already the sights are unfolding. Over to our right, a pair of ostriches feed in the grasses and within a few more yards a pair of zebras casually cross the track in front of the bus; next, majestic giraffes graze from the branches of trees unfazed by our presence. Exotic wildlife is already showing itself and we’re still only on our way.

Yes, those troubled streets of Nairobi are well behind us now. We’re on our way to the Masai Mara.

Safari Stage One: Into The Maasai Mara

Our base for the first two nights of the safari adventure is Jambo Mara Lodge, where we are greeted by staff bearing those heartwarming smiles which are already becoming very familiar since our arrival in Kenya, and then by baboons swinging from the trees immediately outside our window. Every now and again a playful one leaps from the tree and pitter patters across our tin roof as if to warn us that this is the territory of the animals and not of mankind.

The approach through the Maasai Mara to Jambo has brought us through tiny villages which bear ever more recognisable features of the Maasai people, until in the last few settlements every adult male seems to be clad in the familiar deep red and black chequered blanket/robe of the tribe. One of the tallest races on Earth, most of them look to be well over six feet tall and roughly the same physique as the staff which they all carry. Little wonder that they’re able to jump so high.

A late lunch precedes our first foray out into the plains, following dusty tracks through grasslands and copses for an introductory 90-minute safari – and if this 90 minutes is the shape of things to come then we are in for a whole host of treats. Elephants, zebras, warthogs, impala and gazelles all make an appearance; water buffalo stare inquisitively at us as we do the same back to them, but for sheer numbers it’s the wildebeeste which take the crown. An amazing introduction.

Back at the Lodge, falling asleep takes time: we have an unashamedly childlike excitement about us as we anticipate the joy of the next few days.

Day 2 is a pre-dawn start, joining again our travelling companions for the first few days here: Delia, Jenny and Annette from Switzerland, Jose from Colombia and Ashlan from Delhi. Oh, and our expert driver and guide Stanley, who quickly activates the CB radio which even at 6:30am is already alive with guides sharing information on the whereabouts of the big five, and others.

We wonder how each guide is able to respond to such a trigger – the Maasai Mara is almost 600 square miles in size and is latticed with mostly indistinguishable dirt tracks and grassy trails through which the jeeps and minivans make their way. I mean, it’s not like one ranger can say “drive down Main Street, turn right at the lights and then take the third turning on the left by the pub and you’ll find a lion”….is it!? 

It’s not long before we have a magnificent encounter with an elephant family, which is an early indicator of the tone for the day. There’s really no point firing off a list of everything we saw, better that we just litter this post with some of Michaela’s very many wonderful photographs, but it’s fair to say that the sheer number and variety of animals to be seen here is nothing short of magnificent.

Do we have a highlight from today? There are many, but our first ever sighting of a leopard has got to be a candidate. But then again, it’s been a day packed with highlights.

Stage Two: Maasai Mara To Lake Nakuru

We’re not always one hundred per cent certain about visits to tribal villages, it’s sometimes a thin line between an authentic experience and something touristy and exploitative, and it’s hard to tell the difference beforehand. Whichever, the bottom line is that the time honoured customs of the local people will be being impacted one way or another by the influx of tourist money, there’s no getting away from that. But here, in a new country and deep into the Maasai Mara, our desire to learn more of their culture outweighs the doubts and we commit to an early morning sortie.

As it turns out, it’s not touristy, it’s definitely not fake, and we do indeed learn a great deal about Maasai tribal history, culture and customs. We are walked the twenty minutes or so from the Lodge to the village by tribesmen Ben and Patrick (well that’s what they say their names are), to a scattered array of traditional dwellings, a muddy compound housing a sizeable cowherd, and a clearing in the centre where the men in Maasai dress perform a dance of welcome.

Anthony, a son of the village chief, tells us that every single male in the village has the same grandfather – and the total population of the village is around 200. Busy grandfather. Maasai culture permits polygamy, but for obvious reasons the wives, who are all committed by arranged marriage (“love comes later” says Anthony), must come from a different village. Life for the woman then isn’t easy: her next job is to build the family home, literally build it, by hand from scratch, assisted only by any female friends she can call on for help. From that point, she does everything in the home for the rest of her days.

The men only have to tend the animals – but then those guys have by that time already been through a set of extreme experiences as part of Maasai custom. Public circumcision, performed by a village elder with a knife and without anaesthetic, is one of them. The menfolk watch closely as the boy – aged 15, mind you, so not a toddler – has to undergo the ordeal without showing the slightest sign of pain or anguish. Any such reaction, even a curling of a toe or a tensing of the hands, is perceived to be cowardly and the boy will be ostracised by the village and deemed unworthy of adult male Maasai status.

How does a young boy prepare for this horror? By having burning sticks placed on his body and searing the skin, over and over, until he learns to take it without showing pain. Anthony proudly shows us the multiple scars on his legs which he “earned” as part of the process. After the circumcision ordeal, the boy is sent off into the bush with fellow adolescents and a single village elder, where the group learn the survival skills of the tribe, only returning to the village three whole years later, now deemed to be a “proper” adult Maasai male. The thing is, their village may well have been flattened and relocated elsewhere by then, because decay of, and termite infestation to, the cow dung walled houses means that each village only has a maximum lifespan of 9 years before the dwellings start to crumble. The village chief decides on the new location and, yeah you’ve guessed it, the women have to build the new houses.

We’re back on the road after our village visit, leaving the Maasai Mara behind and heading north with our five companions and driver-guide Stanley, onwards towards the equator, passing now and again through chaotic market towns bursting with everyday life. 

Our en route call is at Lake Nayvasha where we take what Stanley calls a boat safari. The lake teems with birds – ibis, egrets, herons and pelicans wading and feeding in the waters, fish eagles swooping from above to grab fish, and impossibly colourful woodland birds seeking food among the trees, while pied kingfishers speed from perch to perch like mini fighter jets. It’s a birdwatcher’s dream of a place.

Hippos lounge in the cool waters, snouts appearing intermittently above the surface, while water bucks wade out into the beds of water hyacinth and feast on its verdant leaves. Not just a birdwatcher’s dream but pretty good for hippo lovers too.

We finally make our next base as darkness is falling. We are now at Lake Nakuru, north of the town of the same name and only around fifteen miles from the equator, the scent of damp vegetation filling the evening air. Heavy rain blighted part of today’s journey and it’s clear that it’s fallen here too. Somewhere out there in the darkness there are splendid views of the lake, but they’re going to have to wait until morning, they’re tucked away for the night now.

Our second safari destination awaits.

Stage Three: Lake Nakuru to Amboseli

Early starts are par for the course when you’re on safari, so by the time we hit Saturday the alarm is going off at 5:15am for the fourth morning in a row and is going to carry on doing so for a few days yet. A dense mist lies over the lake, obscuring most of it from view, and a heavy dew hangs in liquid baubles from plants bent over by the weight. Birds sing and baboons talk: wildlife doesn’t need an alarm clock.

When we chose the itinerary for our safari week, we opted for the one which would take us to five of Kenya’s great safari regions, an option which is currently proving to be both a blessing and a curse. A curse because we underestimated the distances involved and there are some long journeys; a blessing because it’s already obvious that each region will have its distinct characteristics and no two will be the same. 

It’s also a slightly strange feeling having such little time at these very attractive safari lodges, it’s pretty much a case of check in-shower-eat-sleep-eat-check out, except of course on the few occasions when it’s a two night stay, when the only difference is that “early game drive” replaces “check out”. This is never more evident than at Lake Nakuru, where we check in after dark and leave before the morning mist has cleared. The Lodge is obviously splendid, the views are reportedly fantastic, but we see little of either.

However, the game drives are utterly thrilling experiences with sighting after sighting to get the pulse racing. Nakuru is roughly 15 miles from the Equator, the closest overnight stay that we have experienced so far on our travels, and really does bring home the variety element of the different areas, dense greenery surrounding the large lake. And it’s here that we see the rhino – in fact we see both the black and white rhino, meaning we’ve already completed the so-called Big Five early on Day 4.

As it happens Day 4 turns out to be the longest day, and longest journey, of the week, with a lengthy morning game drive followed by a fairly gruelling 8-hour slog across country to Amboseli. We are amazed and a bit concerned for our driver-guide Stanley : by the time he’s picked up our group members from different lodges, completed the game drive and driven to Amboseli, he’s been at the wheel for 14 hours with only a couple of short breaks. That’s demanding, not to mention potentially dangerous. He does long days yet his infectious enthusiasm never seems to wane.

During the course of the long journey, we lose Ashlan from Delhi who heads off on to a different tour, so now there are six. Our base near the village of Kimana, and Amboseli as a whole, are dominated by fabulous views of Kilimanjaro. Tonight it’s obscured by the clouds of dusk, but we are told the views will be great tomorrow.

Sunday morning. It’s still dark as we take our now customary early breakfast, so the mighty mountain still plays hide and seek. Amboseli awaits, and at this point we have no inkling of the exciting day which lies ahead, only the park itself knows those secrets for now. Kilimanjaro is to prove to be far from Amboseli’s only surprise.

Stage Four: Amboseli And A Missing Mountain 

To enter Amboseli via the Kimana Gate is to drive into a dust bowl. Huge plumes follow each safari truck, every animal movement is followed by the same giveaway and by the time the first hour of our first game drive has passed, our mouths taste of nothing but dry dust. But the dustbowl is but one element, there is more to learn about unique Amboseli, a set of characteristics which set it apart from Kenya’s other safari regions.

For a start there are four separate habitats: the dry dusty plain, a freshwater lake, a salt water lake and an extensive swamp. What really makes Amboseli unique though is the conduct of the animals – we’ve all heard of the great migrations in the animal kingdom, but here in Amboseli it is a twice daily event. Each afternoon, the wind intensifies, creating hundreds of mini tornadoes and dust devils which whip across the plain in upward spirals of dust. That wind will be too strong and the dust it carries too damaging for the animals to withstand through the night.

And so, a couple of hours before dusk, a huge migration begins, as elephants, buffalo, zebras and pretty much everything else, heads away from the open plains to reach the relative security of the tree cover under which they spend each night. But the swamp is both a necessity and a lifeblood with its fresh water and lush green fodder, so around 10am the return journey begins as everything and everyone in the animal kingdom makes its way back, ambling in droves back along the paths they walked just yesterday. It’s a dream for guides and visitors alike, so predictable is the timing.

After witnessing the long line of elephants et al determinedly heading for the water, we visit Amboseli’s lakes, where the bird life is again spectacular, flamingos displaying pale pink plumage, pelicans mingling with majestic herons as we lose count of how many different species we see. 

We take a picnic lunch at the top of a solitary hill which gives magnificent panoramic views across the plains. Colourful birds move in to steal crumbs whenever the chance arises, beautifully sheen plumage glinting in the sunshine. As we leave this enchanted place, Stanley motions towards the bank of cloud to our right.

“Kilimanjaro is over there”, he says with a sheepish grin. We still haven’t seen it.

A short time later there’s activity on the CB radio and Stanley hits the throttle to head to where another guide has spotted a lone cheetah. Our first glimpse sees the cheetah poised, head aloft and nose to the breeze – this cat is hungry. She moves, stealthily and in staggered movements. Safari jeeps and trucks have gathered as guides get the call – and then it dawns on us, the cheetah is using the vehicles as a shield, stalking her prey from behind the manmade barricade. Suddenly she springs, that renowned acceleration plain to see as she races across the track and through the scrub, powering towards a terrified gazelle which makes a break for cover.

The cheetah is there in seconds, the two animals clash, a cloud of dust explodes into the air. When it clears, both animals are gone from view. The other gazelles and numerous zebras stare fixedly at the point in the bush where they disappeared, but all is quiet. We will never know if hunter caught prey, but wow this particular thrill was most definitely in the chase. Fantastic.

As if Amboseli hasn’t already thrilled us, later in the afternoon we see another side of the cheetah: the beautiful, moving sight of the mother leading her five defenceless cubs through the dangers of the African plain, guarding them against predators, keeping them safe. Their little faces, viewed through our binoculars, are as cute as domestic kittens. Mother, ever alert, is on her guard, parental defences well and truly alerted.

Thrilled and exhilarated by what has been an amazing day of sightings, we head back to the lodge as dusk darkens those clouds which still hide Kilimanjaro. And it’s all change in terms of our “safari family” now, as we bid farewell to the three Swiss girls who head next to Tanzania, and to Jose who must return to his duties in the Colombian Army. For the next two days, and the last two destinations, it’s just Stanley, Michaela and me.

Breakfast consumed and caffeine injected, we leave Amboseli just a little later than normal, at 7am on Monday morning. Stanley is as bright and chirpy as ever, eager to get on the road and show us more of his beloved Kenya. Will we finally catch a glimpse of Kilimanjaro?

“It’s over there, behind the mist”, says Stanley, his grin now more wry than sheepish.

Amboseli had given us some absolutely fabulous, unforgettable sights, but Kilimanjaro, unfortunately, wasn’t one of them.

Safari Final Stage: Tsavo West & Tsavo East

In the previous posts from our safari week we have mentioned the differences between each region, a fact which is once again very evident as soon as we pass through the gates and enter Tsavo West. For the most part, the shrubbery of Tsavo West is more dense and greater in height, so animal spotting here is much more a case of good luck rather than scanning the plains through binoculars. 

Moreover, it is far less visited here, so any CB radio contact between guides is far more sparse. In a way, all this adds to the thrill of a sighting, each encounter being a rather more private affair than in previous locations. The dense shrubbery is split in half by another characteristic not seen in the other regions: an extensive, deep black lava field. The remnants of a 19th century eruption, the vast area of black rock is even now only occasionally decorated by solitary green trees – the rest lies barren. Perfectly moulded waves mark the points where the molten lava cooled and petrified.

The River Tsavo, which rises from springs on Kilimanjaro and goes on to provide the entire water supply for the city of Mombasa, cuts a crystal clear swathe through Tsavo West. A short walk along its banks reveals wallowing hippos, menacing crocodiles and an unbelievably rich fish supply including many bright blue tilapia. These waters must be incredibly pure.

After a night at Ngulia Lodge in the West, we move on from there, through the bustling town of Voi and into Tsavo East. On the way, Stanley points out our first sighting of Kenya’s national bird, the impossibly colourful lilac breasted roller, which is stunning enough when perched, then in flight opens up a wingspan of dazzling electric blue. It’s a beautiful bird.

As we enter Tsavo East, Stanley’s ever present enthusiasm starts to bubble over and he gets a fit of endearing schoolboy giggles.

“Look!”, he shouts through his chuckles, “red elephants! They are so funny”. He just can’t stop giggling. Sure enough, there they are – bright red elephants. The earth in Tsavo East is a rich red-orange, and as we all know, elephants love to shower themselves with dust. So deep is the colouring of their earth and dust shower that the elephants wander around in their colourful cloak all day, until finally they bathe at the waterhole. And then cover themselves in red dust once more. Red elephants indeed, who’d a thought it.

Our second day in Tsavo East brings a magical evening encounter with eight lions, four mothers and four young. From a restful position, they move off towards the bush, ambling past within just a few feet of our vehicle. (Note – quite a few vehicles have gathered here, not every guide conducting themselves as ethically as we would like – more on that later).

Our final safari lodge is, as Ngulia was, perched on a hillside, providing wonderful panoramic views of the vast plains, so huge and flat that the horizon seems as far away as if looking out to sea. It also means we have a wonderful viewing platform for the elephants visiting the waterholes below, young and old mingling and competing for drinking space. Watching elephants for a length of time is absolutely joyous: there is no doubting the family concepts within the herd, nor the fact that the young ones play games – you can really see them having fun. Watch them interacting for just a few minutes and you are left with an overwhelming feeling of happiness. If watching elephants doesn’t give you a warm glow, you ain’t got a heart.

For our last full day – Safari Day 8 – we take only dawn and dusk safaris, leaving us with seven hours downtime at the lodge. It’s the very first piece of downtime – and “us time” – since we left Nairobi and it feels very welcome, undoubtedly enhanced by just sitting watching those elephants at play. It’s great to relax for a few hours.

The end of our last safari day has something up its sleeve. Evenings here are gorgeous: the sun turns deep orange as it slips down towards the hills, casting a new shade on the already orange earth. The colour is beautiful, warm and deep, and for about twenty minutes before sundown the whole area is bathed in a hue we don’t think we’ve ever seen before anywhere in the world. It’s spellbinding, it’s haunting and it’s enchanting.

And if you’re lucky, a red elephant wanders into this amazing colour, just when you have your camera to hand. Of all Michaela’s wonderful pics so far, this is probably my favourite: 

Blogger’s Note: If there is such a thing as an eagle eyed blog reader, and any such person is surely a rarity, they may have noticed that our 7-day safari reached Day 8. Our original plan was to return to Nairobi for one night and then travel by train to Mombasa, but in failing to properly study the geographical implications of the safari itinerary, we hadn’t realised that Tsavo East is less than 30 minutes drive from Voi. Voi is a stop two thirds of the way along our rail journey, so we purloined Stanley for an extra day, grabbed our welcome downtime (and an extra night) at the Lodge and caught the same train four hours down the line. Made sense huh?

From The Plains To The Sea: Arrival In Diani & Reflections On Safari 

We’ve been in Stanley’s company for over a week, our different lives thousands of miles apart thrown together by circumstance, and saying goodbye at Voi train station feels disproportionately poignant. 

“You going home today after your long week, Stanley?”

“Oh no, don’t remind me of that” he says, “it means that I won’t ever see you again”. For a brief moment he actually appears to be welling up. It must be dust in his eye, surely.

Stanley has been a good guy. He talks to the animals out of the minibus window, tells us what he thinks the animals are thinking, and, when he spots a dead bird seemingly killed by a safari vehicle, he gets out, cradles the corpse in his hands and carefully places it behind a bush. He clearly cares.

It has to be said though that not everything in the world of safari is as ethically sound as we would like it to be. Most sightings are fine, and are viewed from a distance, but if a call comes in to say there is a sighting close to the track, vehicles appear from everywhere and crowd the animals, sometimes causing visible distress. On those occasions, we weren’t entirely comfortable with what we were doing. Thankfully such incidents were the exception rather than the norm.

One safari lodge has adopted the policy, for the benefit of eager tourists, of hanging meat on a rack at 5pm and, as reliable as clockwork, a leopard climbs the frame and devours the meat, ignoring the “real” prey of young buffalo just yards away at the waterhole, who in turn are not fearful of the leopard’s attack. That absolutely cannot be right, and when we tell Stanley that we disapprove, he warms to us palpably. Unsurprisingly he disapproves too.

The lodges, by the way, are welcoming and comfortable homesteads, well run and with engaging staff, but they are by definition international: catering for international guests and reflecting such in the cuisine and ambience. It’s not authentic Africa inside these compounds but they are still relaxing places to stay. Indeed, as we settle down with a beer on one of our first nights, it’s not the throb of tribal drumbeat on the sound system, nor is it latter day African pop – no, it’s Fleetwood Mac, Madonna and, of all things, Rick Astley.

The train to Mombasa is punctual and comfortable if a little modest on the speedometer. A taxi through the city, a ferry belching fumes across the sea inlet and a taxi along the A14 coast road bring us to our next destination, Diani. From the taxi window through Mombasa it’s clear that the Muslim influence is much greater there, though in the hectic looking old town we see churches of several other denominations too. 

Waking on our first morning in Diani, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, the Indian Ocean and its beaches are just a short walk away behind the trees. There’s a sense of unwinding even before we begin to explore. It doesn’t take long for us to know that we like Diani, it’s one of those laid back, slightly ramshackle beach towns where tourism has arrived without changing too much about the village. Diani is lean-to huts selling clothing and artwork rather than high rise hotels, and rustic beach bars with slow “African time” service rather than something trying to imitate Starbucks.

Apparently some stretches of this coast have been developed a bit more, but our section of Diani has clearly not gone down that route. We are reminded of villages in Vietnam or Cambodia, of Cirali in Turkey, and of the quieter Thai islands. 

Everybody speaks to us, everybody has time, everything is slow paced. A call of “Jambo” and a fist bump from virtually everyone in the village greet us on our first walk along the beach road, we’ve had twenty odd conversations before we’ve even made it to our first beer. Yes sure half of them want to sell us something, but there’s no pestering, and by our second day it’s just a genuine “jambo” and no selling – plus, they remember our names from yesterday.

“Jambo Michaela, how are you today? Welcome again, where you going today?”. Mind you, we’re fairly recognisable here, for obvious reasons.

Johnson, Benson, Jamelia the waitress, Zaccaria the night gateman, Amos the boat trip man, Marriette who does laundry…..oh, and a guy called Philip who arranges onward transport. We’ve only been here a little over 24 hours and we’ve already been introduced to half the village. 

A great little laid back village next to the Indian Ocean, huge white sand beaches, rustic bars where conversation is valued, ultra friendly people, tuk-tuks everywhere for a quid a time….and everything just a bit on the ramshackle side. Absolutely our cup of tea. We think we’re gonna like it here.

Diani Time: Mishaps & Monkey Business 

Sometimes you know you’ve just had a stroke of luck.

Our apartment in Diani is small but has a lovely outdoor space, in fact the “outdoor lounge” is as big as the interior. Today is boat trip day, Amos the boat trip man (who by the way calls himself Amos The Great) is picking us up at 7:30 so we’re awake early and just getting our stuff together. I’m at one end of the apartment with my back to the door, Michaela is tidying up the bed when I turn around to talk to her and come face to face with, right behind me in the doorway and about to enter the apartment, a house thief in the shape of a monkey.

Now, we all know monkeys will grab and steal anything, and at this moment with preparations for the day underway there is, lying around: cash, a Bank card, two pairs of spectacles in cases, two iPhones and the key to the apartment. Had I not turned around at that moment and scared the little devil away, any of those items could have been whipped away in an instant and been gone forever. Which would have been a bit of a disaster.

We got away with one there. Lesson learned re vigilance.

The boat trip is a curate’s egg of a day, mishaps at start and beginning bookending a serene slow journey on a wooden dhow, out beyond the islands to the open sea where we swim in the deep, view coral below and briefly witness a couple of dolphins doing their best to tease photographers giving momentary glimpses of their lithe bodies then submerging once again before anyone gets the zoom lens tuned in. Wasini Island, a coral island being rapidly eroded by ever more turbulent seas, is our venue for a late lunch break where a couple of local guys follow up the fish and cassava with probably the most lame show of gymnastics and juggling we’ve ever seen. Their tip bucket remains unsurprisingly empty.

As for the mishaps, the dhow is so ridiculously oversubscribed that passengers are perched on every available piece of wood. Michaela, on the end of a bench, has her entire body weight on just one buttock while the other hangs precariously in mid air. Inevitably, the boat fails the inspection by harbour police and around a dozen passengers are ordered off. The creaking dhow is finally cast off after the anticipated delay of finding a second vessel to accommodate those expelled.

The day is then for the most part really enjoyable, until departure from Wasini Island brings about mishap number two. These seafaring geniuses crewing the boat seem to have overlooked the fact that the Indian Ocean is tidal, leaving all of us stranded on the coral beyond the reach of even the smallest craft. Consequently, we all have to wade across about 200 yards of calf-deep water beneath which there is a coral sea bed capable of piercing the feet like any number of bee stings, until we reach a little wooden punt manned by a short guy manically waving his arms every which what a way. This overworked individual is so irate at being given the unwanted job of ferrying stranded tourists that he rants in Swahili constantly throughout each shuttle to the mother ship….errr…dhow, and then thrusts a tip bucket under the noses of all of us. It too remains empty.

Despite the hilariously bad bits the crew are immensely likeable and we warm to them hugely. On the final leg of the run back, they launch into an impromptu rendition of “Hakuna Matata” and other appropriate songs which provides entertainment infinitely better than their floppy gymnast and butterfingered juggler colleagues back on Wasini.

We’ve settled nicely into Diani. After our original assessment that the village is relatively unspoilt, we have in fact realised that there is a greater outside influence than we at first thought, but those lodges and hotels which do exist are low rise and all but invisible, tucked amongst the baobabs and palms between the coast road and the beach. There is an expat community here too, seemingly mostly German and Dutch, a surprising number of whom appear to be paired off with a considerably younger local. We judge no one.

Restaurant menus are interesting as a result of these clashes of culture. Each one, no matter how international the choices, has a Swahili food section with an array of local dishes – it’s as easy to have pizza as it is ng’ombe nazi karanga. At Swahili Pot the menu is exclusively local; at many the fish and seafood is deliciously fresh and cheap – in fact we would say that the grilled octopus at La Gusta is as good as grilled octopus could ever get.

Diani basks in the constant murmur which is the sound of the Indian Ocean rolling over the coral reef a few hundred yards offshore. The regular phut-phut of tuk-tuks on the coast road is always underscored by the unchanging rumble of the sea which fills every quiet moment. Land side of the reef, the milky ocean waters lap the huge white beaches where coconut sellers and Maasai men laden with trinkets for sale will regularly sidle over for a chat.

Long stretches of soft white sand backed by lush green palm trees will now and again be interrupted by rocky coral, and in places heaps of drying seaweed lay in the sun where the last high tide left them, but the rest is classic Indian Ocean beach. A short tuk-tuk ride north of the village centre brings us to Kongo Beach, where the paradise look is further enhanced by the curling mouth of the Kongo River meandering from the mangroves through sandy banks to meet the sea right on the beach. Brackish lagoons form here on each ebb tide.

And then there’s the people. So far we are finding Kenyans hugely amiable, full of smiles and loving to chat: we already know a lot of people by name and Amos The Great is by no means the only one. In fact, Baraka at the Funky Monkey Bar, who for some reason gets a fit of the giggles each time we walk in to his establishment, has asked us to let him know in advance the next time we’re headed there as he has something special lined up. Lord knows what that might be.

Young Maasai men regularly approach us on the beach, offering trinkets and hand made jewellery for sale. In the Maasai village at the start of this trip, we were told that, after the circumcision thing, the adolescent boys went off into the bush for three years to learn survival skills. We’re now starting to wonder whether what they really do for those three years is sell bracelets to holidaymakers rather than survive in the wild. Maybe that’s disingenuous.

Thursday morning, July has become August and overnight rain has turned our outdoor lounge into a paddling pool. We probably don’t need to worry about the monkeys so much today….

Beneath The Surface: An Alternative Diani

“You sit here Papa”, someone said on one of our first nights in Kenya, “Mama you sit this side with the lovely view”.

It’s become a theme – for those who don’t call us by name we are universally addressed as Mama and Papa, which is apparently the normal moniker for an adult couple in Swahili English. They are genuinely surprised to learn that in our world you only use such names for your parents. If there is a single word which we hear more than “Papa”, “pole pole” or “hakuna matata” when we get into conversation here, it’s “corruption”. Mistrust is rife.

La Gusta is an excellent beach bar to the south of our base in Diani, a little bit more settled than most of the rustic bars here with its decent tables, cushions on the seats and even a wooden stage where on one night we witness a half decent soul band perform. Well, decent if you ignore the distorted sound system, anyway. They even reserve us the table with the best ocean view when we call in for a light lunch and casually say we’ll return after dark. On top of that, it’s also the place where on Wednesday lunchtime we eat the best grilled octopus in the history of the universe.

Walking past 48 hours later and expecting to be called in for a drink by the friendly staff, we find that La Gusta is…gone. We don’t mean closed down, we mean destroyed. All supporting wooden pillars have been chopped away, the roof has collapsed on to the tables, the planks from the wooden stage are being tossed around on the incoming tide. The place is a complete wreck. There is no sign of the booze which filled the well stocked bar.

Was it the strong wind, a high tide? Neither. We are told by one of our village friends – we won’t name him – that it is far more likely that somebody somewhere didn’t pay a bill, or didn’t pay extortion money, the result being a visit during the night by a gang armed with axes and chainsaws. A wooden construction like La Gusta can be destroyed in minutes regardless of how sophisticated it is.

“So someone pays a gang to just go in and destroy?”, we ask.

“Yes”, he says, “and the gang has a name. They are called the police. They most likely took all the alcohol too”.

“………..…”

More than a little shocked, our minds go back to the taxi ride from Mombasa to Diani. As we approached the ferry point, our driver had some advice.

“Listen my friends”, he said, “be careful of the police. They are not friendly. When they see white people, they see money. If they stop us, don’t tell them this is a taxi. Tell them I am your friend or your host and I fetched you from the airport. Otherwise you will have to open your wallet and they will take what they want”.

As it happens, we didn’t get stopped. 

“OK we can relax now”, he said as we departed the suburbs.

“Is it the same in England, if you get stopped by the police you have to hand over your money?”

He seems genuinely surprised by our answer and intimates that maybe we don’t know how lucky we are.

One of our friends in a bar – we won’t name him – tells us a lot about the Kenya beneath the surface which maybe most visitors don’t see, and if you’ve read, and believe, that lack of integration of the different tribes is history, then think again. He hails from the west where, he says, most people work hard farming the land, toil long hours for meagre reward, and eat a starch-heavy diet to fuel their labours. He found it hard to settle here on the coast where, in his opinion, the people from the different tribes are lightweight and lazy and think that “driving around in a tuk-tuk and sleeping half the day” is hard work. It took him ages to adapt to the gentler diet of such lightweights.

As he talks, two things fall into place.

“Have you noticed how many young black men like to be with the older white ladies, and how many young black girls here go with old white men?”

We had, as it happens.

“Just for money, for easy life. Those people are all from the lazy tribes. Where I come from they would get no respect. Money for doing nothing does not make good person”.

And the second thing to fall into place? Those street demonstrations aka riots we saw back in Nairobi. The President is, of course, from a particular tribe….and every one of his appointees in any powerful and/or money making position, is from the same tribe. With at least eleven different tribes represented in Kenyan society, it’s perhaps no wonder that there is pent up opposition.

The man in the bar is not the only one to speak of the lingering differences in tribal culture. We learn that members of certain tribes are forbidden to marry someone from a rival tribe, that it is difficult to land a decent job if the employers are from a different tribe, and, intriguingly, that everybody here can identify the tribe of any other person even at first sight.

It’s worth pointing out that we’ve effectively received all of these stories second hand, whereas our first hand experience of the people of Kenya has been more than great: unfailingly welcoming, chatty, and above all full of smiles and always ready to engage. Making strong eye contact is an important element of conversation and one which has made us feel both welcome and settled here.

So we’ll end this post on a happy note. One of our regular calls here has been The Funky Monkey Bar, which employs one of the many people of Diani whom we feel we have befriended – a young lad named Baraka who beams each time we walk in through the door of the bar. When he learns that we will soon be moving on, he asks us if we will meet him outside of work when he finishes his Saturday afternoon shift.

The reason for this, it turns out, is that he has bought us gifts, hoping that they will always remind us of Diani, and of a smiley little guy named Baraka. Mine is a carved wooden lion inscribed with my name, Michaela’s is a beautifully decorated and colourful sarong.

Gifts from Baraka

We’re probably as speechless when he presents us with these gifts as we were when the story of La Gusta unfolded. But for an infinitely happier reason.

 
CLOSING NOTE: It’s time to clear the apartment, check all the cupboards and drawers, load up the backpacks and get on the move. Diani has been a lovely chill time, kind of a mini holiday in a long spell of adventure, but we’re ready to move on now and see more of what Africa has in store. Eleven days in one place is a very long time for us and our feet are itching. Our next stop is a 48-hour stay in Mombasa before we head to a new country about which we knew very little before we started our research for this trip. Mombasa, and then…..Malawi…

Last Call In Kenya: Mombasa, Its History And Its Surprises

We start our Monday without a clear idea of how we’ll get back to Mombasa from Diani but we’re pretty confident that it won’t be complicated. As it turns out, it couldn’t be easier: Uber, rumoured to be sketchy in terms of reliability, works fine and there’s a driver just four minutes away, the quoted rate is unbelievably cheap, traffic is light even at the ferry point and we are in our hotel reception in Mombasa at the ridiculously early time of 10:30am. And just when we think serendipity is done for the day, our room is ready, we’re able to check in straight away, and we’re out exploring our new base at least two hours earlier than we thought we would be.

And what a pleasant surprise our first foray into Mombasa is – last time we were so unexpectedly delighted by a city it was Tangier on our Mediterranean trip last summer. The old town district of Mombasa, which houses most of the city’s interesting and appealing buildings, is sited on the island originally known as Kizingo but now universally referred to as Mombasa Island. Connected to the mainland to the north by the Nyali Bridge and to the south by the Likoni Ferry via which we entered the city, the old town is home to many colonial buildings of disparate styles, former Government seats and embassies, and the famous and thriving Mombasa port.

Mombasa’s atmospheric streets reflect its many diverse influences: once part of the Omani Empire when Mombasa was a major slave trade port, taken several times by the Portuguese, lost and won by them in any number of bloody battles, then later the first capital city of British East Africa. Its strategic position on the Indian Ocean coast enabled the establishment of a thriving port and a prosperous city, thanks in no small part to the equally lucrative trades in slaves and ivory. Immigrants and influences came from afar at different points in history: Arabic and Muslim, Middle Eastern traders, many thousands of Indian workers brought in by the British to build the Kenya-Uganda Railway, the British themselves, plus of course descendants of both the Portuguese invaders and the West African slaves.

The result is a whole collection of interesting structures in different styles, connected by a maze of atmospheric tiny streets winding between them. Look up to see wooden “Zanzibar balconies”, the elegant style of the Portuguese, or unusual minarets on ancient mosques; look lower to see ornately carved heavy wooden doors, crumbling tenement buildings with uneven doorsteps and line upon line of washing.

Ambling along Ndia Kuu Road, the historic narrow alley through the heart of the old town, we pass skilled sculptors working on wooden statuettes, basket weavers concentrating on the job in hand and alley cats eyeing up the cuts hanging on metal hooks in the butchers’ doorways. Peep down any side alley to our right along Sir Mbarak Hinnawy Road and the view is backdropped by a fleeting glimpse of the vivid blue ocean.

One moment the call of the muezzin brings an aura of the Arabic world, then turn a corner and we could be in Delhi or Kolkata as tuk-tuk drivers vie for business amid the heady scent of cumin. Then as we reach the waterfront and the giant sweeping bay reveals gleaming modern structures across the water, we could be in any classy Mediterranean port city. Yet this is Kenya, this is Africa, and one of the continent’s most famous cities.

Just imagine the combination of those disparate influences on the cuisine. After three weeks in Kenya we are yet to have a bad meal – barely even had an ordinary one – but here in Mombasa, chicken shawarma, mutton curries, deep fried fish and biryanis sit right alongside Swahili stews with ugali on menus which simply shout diversity. And just as I think my tastebuds can’t be taken any closer to nirvana, somebody gives me a Swahili coffee – deep, dark and rich, and heavy with ginger and cardamom. Seriously, this is coffee heaven.

Along the main road from our hotel and in the opposite direction to the heart of the old town, the entry to the historic district is framed by giant replica tusks which both encase the road and form the “m” of Mombasa. Replaced and extended in recent times, the original signature tusks were constructed to welcome Elizabeth II on her famous yet ill fated tour of 1952. 

“You’ll need your wits about you”, “be careful, it’s not just the animals which are dangerous” and the like, were common pieces of advice for us as we embarked upon this journey through Africa – our blogging friend Jude at Traveltalk has been at the forefront of that sound advice. In the tuk-tuk back to our hotel after dinner, we get hit by motor bike robbers, those who approach at speed from behind, unseen, come alongside the tuk-tuk and in an instant snatch a passenger’s bag and race off. Fortunately Michaela has followed the advice – the bag is over two shoulders and sits on the seat between us with her hand firmly on it. Consequently the brazen would-be robbers succeed in only breaking the bag strap and disappear down the road with nothing but a sense of failure. A further strong reminder for us to remain 360 aware at all times.

Within the old town and dominating a vantage point above the sea, Fort Jesus is a relic of Mombasa’s history of disputed ownership. Built in the 16th century during Portuguese rule, the fort was captured and recaptured no less than nine times in its first three hundred years, indicative of the importance of this lucrative port positioned strategically along various trade routes. The Omanis ousted the Portuguese on numerous occasions and held the port for the longest time in total, finally relinquishing control to Britain in 1895.

Nowadays the only invasion of the impressive remains is by schoolchildren – there is a large number of different school outings here today, hundreds of uniformed youngsters noisily exploring the fort and its intriguing history, just as we do exactly the same thing in the uniform not of school but of visitors from the west.

Back among those narrow atmospheric lanes the landmark buildings are everywhere: here the first American embassy in Kenya (called, perhaps inevitably, the White House), there Government Square where there is an ancient cube shaped building which was Mombasa’s first post office, constructed to enable the Indian railway workers to wire money to their families back home.

The arrival of the British and their Indian workforce called for an increase in services in old Mombasa, heralding amongst other things Kenya’s first hotel, The Africa, which opened its doors for business in 1901. What was once the hotel lobby is now a mini museum charting the history of the hotel and the construction of the railway with wonderful photographs from that bygone era. A complaints book from the time features gripes, mainly from Brits, of “cramped dirty streets smelling of fried food and curry”, which of course we find amusing on several levels.

Last word on Mombasa, maybe last word on Kenya. Inside the creaking wood of the Africa Hotel is a banner stating that in fairly recent elections, a constitution was drawn up, ostensibly to guarantee that all tribes and ethnic groups were represented in Kenyan Government. According to the banner, that pledge has been hijacked by greedy politicians who have ridden roughshod through its fundamental principles and acceded to an unwelcome autocracy. The final line of the banner gives the stark warning that the result of all this is a Kenyan society which is now “a time bomb ticking” (sic).

In our three weeks here we have heard enough to validate that rather daunting claim, despite our fulfilling experiences of this compelling country and its people. With the protests aka riots in Nairobi, the excitement and thrill of safari, followed by the chill spot with undercurrents which was Diani and now the edgy joy of Mombasa, Kenya has been nothing if not varied…

…..The scorching sun beats down on the dusty streets, humidity ramping up as the clouds of afternoon bring some fluffy cover to the previously azure sky. As I creep into the Jahazi Cafe and grab one last Swahili coffee, Michaela sidles into the craft shop opposite to buy a camel leather bag to replace the one broken by the would-be robber. The girl in the cafe asks how long we’ve been married, and for the secret of lasting love. When I jokingly tell her that I’d marry anyone who can make coffee like she does, she giggles uncontrollably and hides her face behind her hands. At the same time Michaela is exchanging warm goodbyes with the craftsman who made her new bag, all smiles and hakuna matata. It’s somehow fitting that in spite of the troubles which have surfaced on a number of occasions during our time in Kenya, one of our final memories will be of rewarding engagement with its lovely people. It will be our abiding treasure of Kenya.