Mombassa to Mayole

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Kenya
Goodbye to the history saturated, back road, easygoing coastal towns of Tanzania. Entering Kenya I climbed up and away from the coast and soon declined back down to a different place. The coast around Mombassa is a long strip of highly developed beach resorts walled off from the shanty hustle of Kenyan urban life. Kind of typical of “Kenya is a great place to visit if you are a rich retired Italian couple” impression I was forming. Beach resorts, guided hikes and safaris, best take some domestic flights.

Note:
A perk of being a white in Africa is I can waltz into anywhere, or more specifically high caliber hotels. I just need to shed the slack jawed, confused and vulnerable look of the budget traveler and don the garb of a self assured, smug, imperious demeanor of the moneyed tourist. Need to use the toilette? Take a swim? Enjoy a beach compound? View packaged cultural activities or traditional dances? Flip through western magazines and local topical books? Just strut into the Hilton. Clothing is not an issue, regardless of your station in life us tourist in Africa all wear the uniform of sandals, fast dry safari pants, foolish sunhats and sun burnt skin.

I checked out the recommended Diana beach and it truly has the softest whitest sand and cleanest blue waters. One of the nicest beaches I have ever seen. I vegetated and played mind games with the beachboys/touts/hustlers for 2 days.
Mombassa
The Lonely Planet if I remember says something about “hot, sultry, sexy.” It was hot, that I know regarding the sultry and sexy I have no first hand experience. It had stories, specifically that of Fort Jesus, but after Dar Es Salaam, Zanzibar, and the Tanzanian coast the place seemed over hyped. Even when I went to the Fort I was unable to shake a self appointed and irritating “guide.” I gave up on the Fort and Mombassa as a hole. I have had enjoyed some quality beach time and this was starting to feel like just another congested abrasive Kenyan city.
I hoped a bus from the frying pan to the fire, Nairobi. Upper hill Campsite was close to the embassies and immigration offices and therefore a lot more convenient that staying with the folks in Kayole, 14 km out side of the centre. Upper Hill is a Lonely Planet recommend. So I know I could expect an establishment full of, and catering to Lonely Planeteer. I really enjoyed the few days I stayed as one could cut through all the cultural and linguistic barriers and have interesting conversations. The showers, toilettes, light bulbs, doors and locks all did what they were designed and installed to do. I shared the green grass with friendly dogs and cats. All this ringed by a stone wall with a heavy iron gate to keep Africa out. In Latin America it would stump me why people chose to stay in such places rather than find a regular “local” hotel and interact with the people of the country. Eating the same food, sleeping in the same beds, and dealing with some of the same crap and pleasures of life in the host country. I thought they were failing or even avoiding the very place they have flown to. I wasn’t in Argentina to search for Australians and Americans to shoot the shit with. I still ignore the 2-5 sleeping/eating establishments in a city of one million the L.P. deems appropriate for my demographic. But I concede that it was nice to relax in familiarity for a while. I am becoming less adaptable or Africa is harder to adapt to.
Nairobi to Isiolo
A great few days. The road runs north. Something it will do for a long time now. It then splits west and east both again meeting on the other side of Mt. Kenya. At the intersection the police station furnished me with a room, dinner and shower. Kenyan police have a terrible reputation but they do know how to take care of a hungry, exhausted, cycle tourist. Next morning for no particular reason I choice to cycle around the western side of Mt. Kenya. The road climbed to 2600m into country of wheat fields, pine forests, pastures and cool, smoky air. Smoky because the protected forested slopes of Mt. Kenya are being lit abaze to plea to God (gods? the spirits?) for rain. Kenya is about to begin a second year of drought. That land is absolutely able to feed the people but because of a combination of local ignorance, lack of infrastructure and wretched government administration people will likely begin to starve if rain doesn’t fall. I talked to one woman:
-do you think it will rain soon?
--yes.
-why?
--because Mt. Kenya is burning
-and what if it doesn’t rain, what then?
--Then we begin to starve, so it will rain, Mt. Kenya is on fire.

Late afternoon with Mt Kenya still on my right was quickly turning to evening. Dusk and dawn last about 15 minutes here. Its day, smoke a cigarette, its night. The sun drops from view and 12 hours latter it springs into the sky. Now its dark and I have to place to sleep. Times like these are great opportunities, but occasionally only for long sleepless insecure nights. Lucky night. I found myself in the company of Peterson and his family. His rural estate is a collection of tidy building constructed of wood planks, a nice change from the ubiquitous concrete hut. His land is fenced on a grassy hillside overlooking a creek, garden and stately Eucalyptus trees. This temperate greenery is rare for me. Further north, away from Mt Kenya and down I coasted back into the hot and dusty.
Isiolo
This town is that last settlement before the road turns to shit for a 500km barren stretch to the Ethiopian boarder. Isiolo is a dump with none to compare, the crotch of Kenya. I don’t think I enjoyed 5 minutes while I was there. I understand one can drive from Cairo to Cape Town on good tarmac with the exception of Isiolo north. I would have cycled it but for the apparent risk of banditry and if I got robbed, killed or kidnapped after so many warning I would feel pretty embarrassed. So 20 hours of my life were spent fending of beggars, thieves, con-men and touts. Every poor sod has to stop there so many (it seems like all) the locals to lazy to struggle for a living have chosen a easy and lucrative career of separating the tourists from there money. I finally consented to paying for a room after hours of hassle just so I could have a few hours of piece while I waited for the trucks to allegedly arrive at around 1 in the morning. Before retiring I asked the hotel staff to wake me when the trucks arrive as they park and load directly in front of the establishment. At 7 I woke, swore, and asked why I wasn’t woken. They told me that no trucks had come last night. I then asked the touts and they told me that unless I get “help” I will never get on a truck. I checked at the police check point and they said 6 trucks had passed last night. I couldn’t stand the place any longer I cycled out bandits or not.
60km up I rolled into the oddly named “Archers Post” got swarmed by “nice locals just wanting to help.” I got the bastards to guide me all the way to the cop shop where I explained my situation while they bickered amongst themselves over who saw me first. Bless the police. The chief constable told me that the elusive trucks do stop here and if I would like he would help me get on one. He then told the “brokers” to fuck off. Once these brokers see you they won’t let you out of there grasp because they don’t get a cent until they negotiate in the local language with the hotel, transport or whatever, and cut themselves a commission. If the room costs $10 they will tell you $20 and pocket the difference. Then they will ask or demand that you pay them a tip for all there help. And after paying the tip they’ll wine and plead as it is not enough. Scum, no one with a functioning brain needs to be guided to food, a bed, or even another guide. But it is often beyond my capacity to shed these parasites. Any who…I relaxed in the police compound and when the truck did appear only 2 hours later the officer insited that I take cans of corned beef, peach slices and juice crystals. I was so gratefull and managed to tackfully buy him a meal all though I owed him much more.
Truck, truck, truck
There it was on a dusty road surround by people some passengers, some vendors, most there apparently because there is nothing better to do than swam a truck. The going rate to Ethiopia I’ told is about 700 shillings the driver wanted 5000, I managed to get him down to 3000. Maybe not bad, considering, I think. Once the bike was strapped down the swamper said the driver wanted another 500 shillings….
Ok I am complaining too much
The journey of 20-30 hours has a reputation of been very uncomfortable, but I had a blast. Maybe it was because I was in a Pepsi truck and not a goat truck. There was a second mzungu (named Pavlo from Poland) along with Fanta, Pepsi, Coke and Sprite, small luggage a half dozen or so passengers and the odd goat. I really enjoyed having a companion. I also enjoyed the privileged and commanding view of the countryside. I wasn’t so exposed when entering villages, when stopped I could gaze down, detached and smug in my mobile castle at the desperate humanity 12 feet below. I enjoyed the manageable and small amount of passengers that were primarily rural folk occasionally dressed in costumes I assumed only existed in tourist propaganda. I spent the night sleeping on flats of soda kicking for leg room. Mayole was another uninteresting point on the map. The only virtue being the last town before Ethiopia and the only memories were drinking with Pavlo and picking out a live chicken to eat.

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Photos

ruins
ruins

wheat
Higher alti in Kenya

Mt. Kenya
As seen from the N W

Mt. Kenya
On fire

Johnson and family
1 day spent on there wooded estate

road sign
none to clear