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Published: February 17th 2006
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On the overnight train from Nairobi to Mombasa, we felt as if we’d stepped back to the days of British colonialism—black waiters in pristine white uniforms serving three-course meals to a car full of European travelers, while hundreds of Africans fought for elbow room on the crowded benches of third class. Supposedly the train once even featured a seat in the front from which men in khaki safari suits could shoot at passing game. But this time around, perhaps in a small belated act of retribution, the resources being plundered were our own: one of Randy’s bags was stolen out of our bunk while we were at breakfast. There was nothing of terrible importance—calculator, headlamp, rain poncho, among a dozen other practical things—and maybe the new owners will put them to better use.
The coast of Kenya, with a thousand-year-old Swahili culture, turned out to be far more interesting than modern Nairobi. Hidden among the winding cobblestone streets of Mombasa’s old town were carved wooden doors covered in Arabic scripture, Muslim women veiled head to toe in black, and glimpses of the turquoise bay. Outside of old town the streets were bustling with pedestrians, fruit carts, minibuses, and impromptu sidewalk
shops. Women in brightly patterned sarongs sold bananas and mangoes from huge plates balanced atop their heads; boys hawked trays full of peanuts, biscuits, and hard-boiled eggs. We dined on fresh coconuts, samosas, and other street cuisine, some of which was unidentifiable to our American palates.
Mombasa, like the rest of the coast, is so hot and humid that hotels don’t bother with hot showers; they invest instead in ceiling fans and mosquito nets. But no matter what you do, sweat is always involved. You walk down the street, you sweat. You read a newspaper, you sweat. You wake up in the morning after sweating all night, go to take a cold shower, come out…and sweat. It was about this time that Randy’s deodorant ran out and he decided to “go natural,” which proved useful as it enlarged our personal space back to Western standards.
Seeking refuge from the heat, we visited the nearest public beach, a 30 minute matatu ride north. Randy swam in the bath-warm water among small wooden fishing boats, and Jenny joined a bout of beach soccer with the local boys. Playing in the sand and surf was easy she says; the hard part
was figuring out who was on what team.
After Mombasa we headed north along the coast by speeding matatu, hopping from one town to the next: Nyali, Kilifi, Malindi. Each place had (excuse this gross generalization) about the same feel as Mombasa—more beach here, less coconut there. Our destination was Lamu, an island steeped in Islamic tradition, more Swahili culture, and, inevitably, tourism. The “ferry” to the island was a rickety wooden boat stuffed with 100 people, all of whom got splashed each time the boat hit a wave. There were two guys whose sole duty was to bail out the leaky bottom with plastic buckets, four or five gallons at a time, so we didn’t sink. The motor putted along until the last hundred meters when the gas ran out. The bailing boys ditched the buckets to search for the spare fuel while everyone nervously eyed the water level slowly rising. But eventually we made it to shore, more than a little wet.
The main town of Lamu isn’t all that big—though it’s easy to get lost since none of the streets have names and they never connect in ways you’d expect. Most roads are no more
than a few feet wide, with tall buildings looming on either side. The chief means of transportation through the crooked narrow streets is donkeys: they carry construction materials, haul crops, and serve as four-legged taxis. There are very few vehicles on the island; the streets are far too small.
A brief two days were enough for us to get lost in winding Swahili streets while distracted by the intricately carved doorways; fall asleep (and wake up) to the sounds of mosques; walk halfway around the island to a beach that was 12 kilometers of pure white sand (but besieged by a ferocious wind); drink several fruit juices per day; and generally enjoy ourselves.
It was hard to tear ourselves away from the island, just to travel for 24 hours straight to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. But we promised to meet friends there, and we still had a handful of countries to see. So we leave you now with some (arguably) Swahili words of (arguable) wisdom: If a donkey kicks you, and you kick it back, you’re both donkeys.
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Justin Carter
non-member comment
neat.
you guys are infinitely awesome for doing this. aly and i are forever jealous.