hotel california

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It's best if I admit upfront that I adore cranky hotels, I can't abide the shiny 7 star palaces that are springing up anywhere you can plant a golf course. Well, I fell lucky on the north coast of Mombasa a couple of years ago. The hotel had an auto-reverse cassette deck, which provided piped music to every nook and cranny of the hotel. Unfortunately, a cassette was jammed in the machine, you have probably guessed already, but to spell it out, the cassette tape had a crinkle, or heaven knows, possibly a sellotaped join, and every 63 seconds (to be precise) the tape would switch and play the other side. So, while relaxing to the delights of Strauss' waltz 'The Blue Danube', Simon and Garfunkle would interrupt rudely with their rendition of 'Bridge over troubled water', every 63 seconds (to be precise) for my two weeks and probably for the remainder of the high season.

There's a stage in life (mid to late teens) we all go through, I call it the "Poetic", "Gothic" or "Bohemian" stage, where we are enchanted by the mysteries of meditation or sitting cross legged somewhere, doing something mystical like eating fish and chips. Well, on the second night, a young man, in his "Poetic" stage, decided to eat by the pool. Not in a conventional way, but with a small calor stove and shop-bought fish and rice.

All was going well, indeed, those of us indoors in the restaurant were beginning to look on with some envy, not least because our food was late, but also the young mans
girlfriend had arrived and with the swaying palm trees, a tropical breeze and romance in the air, we were becoming somewhat impressed by his enterprise. Well, at this juncture, to enrich, and fully appreciate the experience of eating under the stars, on such tropical shores, it is customary to sit cross legged. This task, in it's initial stage seemed to go well, the athletic young man descended effortlessly into the lotus position, and then inexplicably, possibly he had sat on large seed pod, but a slight jerk of the knee connected with the calor stove and sent the food tumbling into the swimming pool.

I'm not quite sure if this occurred during the "Simon and Garfunkle" or the "Johann Strauss" passage of music but reaction of the guests ranged from polite embarrassment to
outright guffaws, even the "prisoner" (Ali, read on ...) raised a smile.

Ali was a prisoner in the hotel, largely because he couldn't pay his bill. Nevertheless, the hotel gave him breakfast and lodgings but denied him access to his luggage and possessions, until his bill (presumably ever increasing) could be paid. This didn't stop Ali from approaching the other guests with his story of having a car breakers yard in Nairobi, which needed "a little capital injection", in his attempt to raise a quick buck
and make a rapid exit.

It's best if the hotel remains nameless, not for liable reasons, I just don't want everyone going there. So for that reason I call it the Hotel California. You can check
out any time you like, but you can never leave.

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