On Safari

Maasai Mara

I stand on hallowed ground. Teddy Roosevelt, Ernest Hemingway and Gary Cooper have stood here before me. I am in the Maasai Mara having landed a few minutes before from Nairobi. I clamber onto the rugged open-sided Cruiser and we head to the Karen Blixen Camp. Located in the Mara North Conservancy (home to the famous Leopard Gorge), the sense of stepping back in time is heightened when forty five minutes later we pull into the camp grounds. Rachel Davies the relief camp manager is on hand to receive me. The embodiment of the perfect hostess, she immediately puts one at ease. In my luxurious tent, I meet another first: on the dresser is a personal welcome letter to the camp. The tent itself (one of 22) is a luxurious en-suite setup with an open sky shower at the back. Sepia tones and shades of green predominate. It is like stepping into an old print albeit with all modern conveniences at hand. Going Green The Karen Blixen camp is set along the banks of the Mara River with the Oloololo escarpment looming opposite. Lunch on the camp lawns is a game viewer’s dream. Less than twenty metres away is a family of hippos, half-submerged. At the far river bank three Maasai giraffe come down to drink, performing their usual leg splits. Later a noisy clan of olive baboons comes down to the river, sending a little group of the gentle Grant’s gazelles scampering away. An elephant on the slopes of the escarpment reaches up into a tree, the fore limbs on the trunk, to pull down a bunch of twigs. Even Rachel admits this is a first for her. I decide to tour the camp in the afternoon and go for a game drive later. Rachel graciously shows me around the expansive site. The reforestation project (where they plant more than 10 000 indigenous trees a year) is nothing short of amazing. The exclusive use of generators for lighting and the use of gas burners for heating water minimises the camp’s carbon footprint.

Into the Wild

The afternoon passes quickly and the game drive is a short one. In the distance a pair of warthogs, tails flagpole-straight are in full flight. A herd of Grant’s gazelles, their little tails penduluming furiously, stop their grazing to watch as we cruise by. Early on the morning of the 26th of November I meet up with Fredrick Emacar, the private silver safari guide. I also meet Jorgen and his wife Anne, the Danish couple who will be my travelling companions for the next few days, and John, also from Denmark. Today we will have breakfast in the bush. We drive to the spot and Jorgen is certain that he has seen the terrain in the movie ‘Out of Africa’. Fred confirms that this was indeed one of the shooting locations. A sudden squall threatens to ruin the party and sure enough the rain comes. We huddle in the car to wait it out and half an hour later it clears. We embark on the game drive shortly after. The Mara plains are expansive with huge escarpments. Everywhere there is evidence of the elephant’s passage. Medium sized trees broken in half, the bark peeled off. We get firsthand experience of this when we spot a herd in the distance and on approaching we find them in a sparse copse uprooting and breaking off branches. This is to get at the nutrients in the bark and freshly denuded trunk. One elephant lies asleep on its side while the others feed. Driving on we see a pride of lions in a thicket and my neck hairs are instantly erect. Two hundred metres away a Maasai herdsman grazes his herd. We approach two buffalo and one of them is instantly on its feet staring at us. The cardinal rule is not to disturb the animals so we move on passing along the way, two stout hyenas, one asleep and one sitting up, probably on the lookout for danger. Throughout the drive we see many herds of the ubiquitous Wildebeests with their top-heavy lope. These are Mara residents and do not take part in the world-famous crossing into the Serengeti. We head back to camp for lunch. The day is galloping by and Amboseli awaits us this very afternoon. Amboseli I meet James Davies, the chief pilot of Severin Air Safaris at the airstrip on the afternoon of the 26th. We have checked out of the Karen Blixen Camp after a short but memorable stay. James is an affable, South African-trained pilot with an easy, friendly manner. Behind him on the sidelines of the airstrip is a Cessna Caravan, gleaming white in the hot sun. The custom-made craft is the last word in luxury. Comfortably sitting eight passengers, the leather seats can swivel creating a roundtable effect. Headphones allow everyone onboard to communicate easily. There is an under-belly cargo pod where our baggage is stored. Severin Air Safaris pride themselves on ‘making your journey as exceptional as the destination’. It proves to be no idle boast. We fly low over the Mara heading towards Amboseli. Elephants on the move, giraffes standing still and smaller game crisscross the plains. It is certainly a novel experience for everyone onboard and a unique way of viewing game. We fly over Lake Amboseli, dry this season, and in the distance we can see Lake Natron and its faithful sentinel Mt Ol Donyo Lengai. The eruptions of this same mountain caused a lot of grief in Kenya almost three years ago; earth tremors kept many awake waiting for the ‘big one’ that happily never came. We land in Amboseli a short while later and drive into Satao Elerai camp, set in its own private conservancy, just as dusk falls. A quick shower and we settle down to dinner.

Pachyderm parade

Early on the 27th I step out of my tent and Mt Kilimanjaro looms up, impossibly big and majestic. On your own private veranda, viewing Africa’s most romanticized mountain. I tear myself away and we head for the Amboseli National Park. En-route we spot several Maasai giraffe who lope away easily at our approach. Once inside the park we spot a herd of elephants in the distance, trekking towards us. We wait to watch them cross the road. A quarter of an hour later they are distinctly visible. At least 400 elephants file past taking little heed of us. They are escorted on the sidelines by white cattle egrets which feed on the grasshoppers that are thrown up by the passing of the jumbos. It is remarkable to relate that animals weighing over five tonnes have such soft footfalls. If the wildebeest is king of the Mara, then surely the elephant is the rightful landlord of Amboseli. We watch spellbound until the last elephant crosses the road. An unlikely trio of a lone wildebeest, gazelle and eland stand transfixed. We are clearly not the only ones in awe. We move on and farther down the road a flock of crown birds peck at the marshes. Farther on the carcass of a buffalo lies not thirty metres from the road. Fred does not think it is a fresh kill. A little way off two lions keep guard. It has been an incredible morning and we head back to camp suitably impressed.

Sundowner in the Bush

After lunch we are informed that we will have a sundowner in the wild. A half an hour’s drive away we arrive to find the place already set up with chairs and low tables, and the distinctive Maasai wraparound is thoughtfully provided to ward off the later chill. Richard the barman proves to be no mean hand at whipping up that uniquely Kenyan drink called Dawa (Swahili for medicine). A little vodka, lime and lemon wedges, honey and crushed ice never tasted so good. There is easy banter as the evening closes with champagne. On the way back to the camp we do a night game drive with a spotter on the open roof. My eyesight is notoriously weak at night so I lean back and let the conversation wash over me all the way back to Elerai. Tsavo West We fly low over Amboseli looking out for game and the elephants and giraffes don’t disappoint. The view of Kilimanjaro is obscured by the haze but the lesser mountains are clearly visible. Flying in to Tsavo West National Park the landscape is markedly different from the Amboseli. This is very hilly terrain and it is much greener than either the Mara or the Amboseli. We land outside the gate of Tsavo West National Park and it is noticeably hotter. On the ground the hills are even more imposing and the terrain quite bushy. We drive into the Severin Safari Camp. I am welcomed by Juergen and Manja the managers. This is a bird watcher’s paradise and the plethora of our winged friends is amazing. I am later taken on a guided tour of the camp by Manja. Everything here is run with clockwork precision. Later in the evening my companions and I meet up for dinner and it’s a night of amusing anecdotes. Anne recounts how she once danced with Ringo Starr unaware that he was one of the Beatles, and how she once persuaded the imperious Orson Welles to give her an interview in a restaurant in old Yugoslavia. Whereupon the waiters fled in terror fearing the wrath of the great man. James tells of one time in Botswana when elephants had blocked the runway preventing a brother aviator from landing. James, whose plane was already on the apron, had to start up his plane and taxi to the elephants revving his engines to dislodge them from the airstrip! Jorgen tells us that self-important people in Denmark are always reminded that the last shirt has no pocket. And so it goes. It’s been a beautiful evening at the Severin Safari Camp. Good food, great company and it’s over all too soon. The following morning we start early for the game drive. We easily view elephants and the Maasai giraffe here. The shy and diminutive dik dik darts in and out of the shrubbery. We drive back to camp in time for lunch. It is a relaxed afternoon and most guests opt for a cooling swim in the pristine pool. We later pay a visit to the famous Mzima springs. These are underground springs which rise above the ground. The water is sparkling clean and is a major source of Mombasa’s drinking water. Two machine-gun toting female rangers are part of the Park security around the springs. The evening sundowner at Poacher’s Lookout is a relaxing affair and we wind down the day with champagne.

Tsavo East

We fly out to Tsavo East National Park on our last leg of our safari. It is a short hop and we are in the Tsavo East airstrip in no time. And there’s a welcome twist to the refreshments we are offered on arrival. Tasty vegetable samosas and crispy, fresh spring rolls are appetisingly laid out on the tray. They go down really well with the fresh juice. Tsavo East has very red soil. The major difference between the two Tsavos is that here the terrain is largely flat and the soil is a deep red. Kudus cross the road ahead at a dead run. Here too we meet the Maasai giraffe. Here even the jumbos are a deep red hue. The evergreen Shepherd tree stands proud among dry shrubs. We check into Satao Camp, Tsavo in time for a sumptuous buffet lunch. The luxurious tents overlook the busiest waterhole I’ve seen so far. Eland, Zebra, Gazelle, Impala, Water buck, Dik Dik and Antelope all make our acquaintance. Later in the afternoon a tower of giraffes stroll around ignoring the heavy grunts of the hippos. Time is flying incredibly fast now and I am one sundowner away from bidding farewell to the bush. The site of this sundowner is under a big acacia tree. We drink our dawas and champagne, totally at peace with the world. Fredrick suggests a six a.m. game drive. Six o’clock on the nose we drive away leisurely and we are met by the welcome sight of four lions by the roadside. Two couples actually; each on either side of the road. Twenty minutes later and we would have missed the show. One of the males is mane-less and Fred assures us this is their natural habitat. The dominant male gives us a free demonstration on how to mark off one’s territory before all four wander off. Definitely a fitting climax to an unforgettable seven-day bush safari. The Cessna Caravan awaits us when we finally check out of Satao Camp. We get to see the terrain and spot game from the air as James flies low when in the Park. This is it. We are heading to Diani. The Ukunda airstrip comes up to meet us barely thirty minutes later. I stand on the hot tarmac, bidding farewell to my new-found friends and finally head into the building to confirm my flight home.

The Speakeasy

Speakeasy: an establishment that illegally sells alcoholic beverages.

As the Mututho law continues to bite, the Prohibition era in the United States of America comes to mind. Often referred to as the Noble Experiment, it was the culmination of decades of pressure from the Temperance movement that had earlier pushed for moderation in alcohol intake. The 18th Amendment to the US constitution was ratified in 1920. It prohibited the manufacture and sale of alcoholic beverages. Then, as now, alcohol was blamed for many of society’s ills. Speakeasies sprouted in practically every State in the Union. Gangsters cashed in on the high demand for alcohol and one Al Capone rose to prominence as a bootlegger in the early twenties. The anti-Prohibition movement came into being almost immediately arguing that the consumption of alcohol was not a matter for the Constitution. When the promised Utopia, envisioned by the Temperance movement, failed to materialize it paved the way for the 21st Amendment of 1933 which repealed the 18th Amendment, effectively making alcohol legal once again. This marked the only time in US history that an Amendment has been repealed.

The middle class bar

The Alcoholic Drinks Control Act 2010, better known as the Mututho Law, is in its infancy. Though not as sweeping as the American Prohibition of the twenties it is nevertheless viewed as draconian in nature both by those who imbibe and by those who sell the beverages. It is thought that Mr. Mututho, the Naivasha legislator who sponsored the bill, had in mind the ‘lower class’ drinker who indulges in what is known in the local parlance as “illegal brews.” Indeed the Bill came craftily disguised as a tool to legalize chang’aa, sanitizing its production and controlling its distribution and eventual sale. By the time the middle class caught on to the fact their drinking hours were to be severely curtailed, the President had already signed the Bill into law. Mr. Mututho comes from a region notorious for both the manufacture and consumption of dubious alcoholic drinks. Nobody can fault his intentions. That the Act is being implemented selectively is a loophole that the MP either overlooked or deliberately ignored since his target transgressors are already severely hit. I once in a while frequent a hostelry in one of Nairobi’s suburbs. The clientele is middle class and above; at least two pilots, a doctor, a bottled-water magnate, a telecommunications engineer and other local glitterati are regulars. The Mututho laws are a passing curiosity here: nobody over drinks or dances on the tables. And certainly nobody cares to drink before 2pm on a weekday. If occasionally people drink after 11pm it never degenerates into early morning sprees. It is a decent outlet that regulates itself admirably. There are probably scores of others like it scattered throughout the country. The Law is definitely aware of this establishment and others like it and could be said to be turning turn a blind eye. Other places, of equal and perhaps better appointment, whose clientele is maybe not that ‘elevated’ find themselves bearing the full brunt of the law. Is this selective application of the law fair? Of course it isn’t. The Police are not stupid though and know when to let well enough alone.

The Kenyan Speakeasy

The middle class establishments facing the unwelcome attentions of the law are mainly located in Eastlands and other peri-urban areas. Typically the affected customers tend to be young professionals and university students. If ever there was a market for the speakeasy, this is it. The bar at least provides a regulating environment; it is a public place and sets a minimum standard of behavior that everyone is bound to. Speakeasies on the other hand tend to be private houses and with the regulating influence of the ‘pub’ removed and inhibitions cast aside, what goes on in these establishments is anyone’s guess. And your guess right now is probably not too far from the truth.

The Solution

The Mututho Law requires an amendment that will allow middle-class establishments more flexible hours of operation. The danger involved in observing these restrictive hours is manifestly greater than any good derived from the new law. Bars should be graded according to class. If you want to have a beer at midday you should be prepared to pay a premium in a high-class establishment or wait for Mututho compliant hours. If you are a patron of a middle class bar it is more than likely that you are never available before 5pm anyway.

The Man About to Die

It is twelve thirty-one, on a cold June afternoon. The handsome, middle-aged man with suspiciously jet-black hair has forty eight minutes to live. He of course does not know this. Though naturally fey, as befits his race, he is sufficiently educated to suppress any feelings of unease, and even ascribe them to indigestion. Dangling from his left hand is a green, plastic paper bag. This receptacle serves the low-income sector as a hold-all: anything from cow offal to mitumba clothes are ferried by means of this handy bag.

Sergeant Kibet has been in Nairobi for the past one year. Growing up in the North Rift he has always been gentle of disposition. However one year behind Nairobi Police lines would turn a Mother Teresa into a rabid anti-establishment rebel. And Sgt Kibet is no Mother Teresa. Before joining the Force he had engaged in a spot of cattle rustling which saw his close friend and cousin Kiptoo dead at twenty four, from the arrows of angry homesteaders. The sergeant is on the afternoon beat somewhere in the larger Ngong area. By his side is Corporal Mutiso, a rookie of barely three weeks, fresh out of Kiganjo. The heft of the brand new AK47 is still exciting to the young man from Kitui, who, tired from tilling the unyielding Ukambani soil, decided To Serve. His grandfather, a famous and potent wizard, had given his blessings and even prophesied that the young man would one day bring fame to his anonymous village.

The man about to die barely notices the approaching officers. We cannot divine whence his thoughts lie, although we can be fairly certain that he is not thinking of the three by six plot of ground that will be his permanent home, a week hence. In the plastic bag that almost scrapes the ground nestles a roasted goat’s head. He has been suffering form an annoying head cold. A friend, savvy in these things, had recommended the soup of a roasted goat’s head liberally seasoned with herbs. It is the last advice the middle-aged man will ever take. Or need.

The Sergeant is the first to speak. ‘Mzee! What is that you’re carrying?’ ‘Ni kichwa, afande’ the doomed one answers. It is a head, afande. ‘A head!’ the Sergeant roars, ‘and where are you taking it?’ ‘To boil it, afande, for soup.’ The corporal watches the exchange, slightly bored by it all. He is footsore and hungry and just ahead is a man roasting chitterlings on an open brazier. The man about to die is mildly irritated by this exchange. The fifty shillings in his pocket will sort out this little contretemps. He places the plastic bag on the ground and digs in his back left trouser pocket and displays the banknote. The Sergeant suddenly snaps. A twelvemonth living like an inmate has taken its toll. He yells at the Corporal: shoot this man! Huyu ni mungiki, fiatua risasi! Corporal Mutiso, startled into action, pumps his entire magazine into the chest of the doomed man. The man on the ground has time for only one incongruous thought. It is from the immortal Friedrich Schiller from his ‘The Maid of Orleans’: Against stupidity, the gods themselves battle in vain.

The next day The Daily Maneno carries this single column in its inside pages: Police yesterday foiled a carefully planned oathing ceremony for the proscribed Mungiki sect. The master mind, believed to be in his early forties was gunned down when he drew a homemade gun and threatened the officers. A goat’s head, white cockerel feathers and a pouch of tobacco were recovered from the man’s effects. Two accomplices escaped but the Police expect to make arrests soon.

Feeling Mombasa

The pre-dawners know it; the keen edge of the cutting, morning air. Today is no different. But it is, somehow. Today, though I am in a cold corner of Karen, right next to a very swampy jungle, I am feeling Mombasa. I am the only person I know who forgets to carry any money. The conductor smiles when I tell him I’m short ten shillings. I hold out the forty shillings I have rummaged from my pockets and he takes it. With a smile! Traffic is not much of an issue at this time so we make the NCBD in no time. It is six thirty in the morning and my breakfast joint is already full. But none of the window seats, which I favour, are taken. The soup is particularly thick and the egg coating on the kebab is extra fluffy. Today truly, though I am in Nairobi, I am feeling Mombasa. I work mainly from cyber cafes, with all their attendant issues, and no day is ever without its problems: down time, power failures, slow networks or simply viruses that eat up your work and corrupt your precious files. My favourite of these cyber cafes is an establishment located on the seventh floor of one of the older buildings in Nairobi. It is relatively clean, has friendly staff and they issue one with headphones to tune out the world or to listen to Bob Marley and pretend to be working. But it too is not immune to the aforementioned problems. Today the attendant is all smiles. I figure he must have had a good night. My favourite machine (number 10) is untenanted. It is, almost literally, a breeze so far. An easy couple of hours writing an article like this one and an unspecified amount of time listening to Bob, it is noon. I find this the best time to have lunch, rather than at one o’clock. One is normally not as ravenous as one is at one o’clock, so the tendency to overeat is largely absent. The Kenchic downstairs is your typical chips outlet. The fries today are particularly tasty. Though I am a potato junkie, I can tell a good spud from a bad one. And it seems today they have a complimentary salad. Something has definitely changed today, because though this is Nairobi, everybody is feeling Mombasa! An extra hour answering mail and I break off. I walk to Mugambi’s which is a converted shed turned bookshop just outside the NCBD and there he is cracking his faintly chauvinistic jokes and sending two male customers into paroxysms of choking laughter. Half a dozen minutes into browsing through the stacked piles I come across the collected stories of Jorge Luis Borges. I had long given up looking for this volume. Even the clued up booksellers had no idea who Borges was. NO, I had to frequently explain, I’m Not looking for Gabriel Garcia Marquez, good as he is, I’m looking for Borges. Losing battle each time for eight years and counting. And now, right here, I have the book in my hands. I pay for it with a shaking hand and Mugambi wants to know whether yesterday’s hangover hasn’t left my head yet. I smile back and leave with what to me is the Holy Grail in my pocket. Yeah. It may look like Nairobi today, but friends, even the town itself is feeling Mombasa!

Easter south of the border

Adieu Nairobi

I am at the bus station at 6 am. Departure for Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania is slated for 6.30 am. It never hurts to be early, though. This is my first trip south of the border and I idly wonder if the fabled politeness of our southern neighbours is not a tad exaggerated. A lady steward distributes a packed breakfast consisting of a boiled egg, a really dry chapatti, folded four times, a wedge of marble cake and a vegetable samosa. Even at this early hour getting out of the NCBD is a nightmare. The driver, a portly individual with a permanently furrowed brow, proves to be unabashedly foul-mouthed. He hoots, screeches and curses his way out of the city centre and on to Mombasa road and thankfully we are soon on our way. From Athi River the road is unfamiliar but banners and shop fronts inform me of the progress, on to Kitengela and farther on to unfamiliar place names.

Battle for the airwaves

Namanga, the border town, is surprisingly quick to attain. 1300 hours, and the immigration formalities out-of-the-way, we exit Kenya. One of the bus crew moves around offering Tanzanian currency at the rate of 17:1 in favour of the Kenyan shilling. Nearly everyone takes him up on his offer. Safaricom stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the international frontier and one hour into Tanzania we are still with the ‘better option’. Shortly thereafter, Vodacom announces its presence with its brand appearing a notch above that of Safaricom on the mobile phone screen. I later learn that there is an arrangement between the two, the finer points of which elude me. More surprising perhaps is Celtel’s overture, also appearing on the screen, to switch to their network. Travelling long distances by bus is never easy, what with the limited leg room, bumpy roads and blasphemous drivers. The inevitable breakdown occurs in Moshi – something about a burst water pipe. The driver and his relief however manage to quickly patch it up and we are on the road again. We get several bathroom breaks but, surprisingly, no lunch break. The bus picks up passengers along the way whose fare the driver gleefully pockets. The irony is not lost on me. These are Tanzanians being served on their own roads by Kenyan buses.

Into Dar

2200 hrs and we are in Dar Es Salaam. Sixteen hours on the road is punishing by any reckoning. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not in Mombasa; the heat, humidity, the unmistakable tang of the ocean on the night air. Dar and Mombasa are truly twin sisters. This closeness is accentuated come daylight when Kiswahili, the lingua franca of both, is spoken by one and all. I disembark from the bus and I look for the nearest hotel. The edifice shows it is fairly new. At least the linen will be clean. No disappointments there. Up and early, Saturday morning and I’m through with my Dar business by 4 p.m. Ndola, Zambia is my ultimate destination. I travel by day as much as I can. Incredibly there is no bus to the Zambian border on Sundays, so I book a Monday seat. Ndola is in the copper belt. It is also bizarrely the home of the Zambia Oil Refinery, located, as it is, well into the interior, practically on Congo’s eastern border, within sniffing distance of Lubumbashi. Refineries as a rule are located near the coast where the ‘crude’ is processed on arrival. But Zambia is landlocked so that, I guess, explains that. Monday morning the bus for the Zambian border leaves Dar. At least there is a 30 minute lunch break. Long-distance travellers live for these breaks. Fries rule supreme, the ubiquitous mishkakis, the unfortunate chicken whose destiny it is to be fried and eaten with peri peri sauce and the usual nondescript pastries. The journey is largely without incident although the usual altercation between crew and irascible passenger is inevitable. Insults here are subtle and one has open admiration for the easy mastery of the Kiswahili language that practically everyone displays.

Disappointment in Tunduma

We check into Tunduma on the Tanzanian-Zambian border at 2030hrs after a 14 hour trip from Dar. Incredibly the crew informs us that there will be a 24 hour layover. Absolute madness. This means we will leave on Tuesday evening! This is a disturbing setback for one to whom time has literally become money. Sitting astride the Tanzanian Zambian border, Tunduma is a town roughly the size of Westlands, albeit with considerably less bustle and does a thriving business in money changing and housing travellers in transit.The itinerant money changers are still up. I decline their entreaties and head for the nearest available ‘lodge’. Three flashy cars are parked in the yard. I take this as good sign and walk in. A brown, plump lady of indeterminate age chirpily informs me that all singles are taken. This is a running racket throughout Tanzania where foreigners are shamelessly duped into paying for double rooms even when they are obviously travelling alone. I really have no fight left in me. I am tired and it is late and I risk not getting a room at all if I demur. Business in border towns tends to be brisk. I am therefore obliged to pay for a double I do not need. The room is not too clean, the walls quietly moulding. A torn mosquito net hangs above the bed. This ‘hotel’ is exceeded in filth only by a hostelry in the southern French city of Marseille that it was my unhappy lot to tenant. Glorying in a grandiose name, the bathroom ceiling was caving in and at night came the unmistakable scurrying of rodents. I pray I will not encounter the same here. Not to put too fine a point on it both of these establishments would rate negative stars, if such were awarded. Being handed a towel whose consistency closely resembles that of wood is not my idea of hospitality. The bathroom, with an Indian style toilet taking pride of place, is surprisingly clean. And there is hot water! I quickly shower and I’m out looking for dinner. The small eateries here are unbranded. I waste no time in dispatching my fries and mishkakis. Back in my room fatigue has the upper hand and a dreamless night later I’m woken up at dawn by the bustle in the street. This is one place I will happily be rid off.

Rude welcome to Zambia

Tuesday evening and we cross over to Nikonde, Tunduma’s Zambian twin sister, where the bus is already waiting. The custom formalities are quite straightforward for the passengers. The bus is however overloaded with farm produce which has somehow materialized during the night. The aisles are packed to the roof and accessing the seats proves to be an alpinist’s feat. Female passengers protest in vain. The Zambian authorities are however adamant that the bus is going nowhere until all the sacks are offloaded and inspected. I cannot afford further delays and even though I have paid the full fare to Ndola, I opt to look for alternative means. I easily find a Zambian bus filling up with border traders making their way back to Zambia’s interior. The language spoken in the bus, Bemba, is surprisingly familiar. It certainly closely resembles several central Kenyan dialects. I stumble upon a quarrel in full bloom. Two young men, barely out of their teens, freely exchange insults. They are eventually calmed down by a lady friend. It is an ugly welcome to Zambia. The laid-back Tanzanian way of life, a mere two hundred metres away, evaporates like snow wraiths in thaw. I’ve always believed that the best way to judge a country is to gauge the anger levels. And Zambians are an angry lot. Unemployment is at an all-time high. Stress levels are correspondingly stratospheric. Recourse to cheap liquor appears to be the favoured method of consolation. The journey to Ndola is largely without incident. The police checks are pretty thorough though. There is none of the ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ attitude of Tanzanian officers. The outskirts of Ndola are a watered-down version of Nairobi’s Industrial Area. The central business district could be any moderately large Kenyan town. I approach a friendly looking security guard outside a forex bureau. It is mid-morning and the fellow is already drunk! That explained his happiness! A taxi driver beckons and I obligingly walk towards him. I need a reasonably priced room, I explain. My business is with the refinery the following day. A five-minute drive and I’m standing outside what appears to be an apartment block. But no, it is indeed an hotel. The reception is crowded with very brown, very fat and obviously very up-to-no-good ladies. I can be unapproachable of mien and I’m shown to my room in silence. The window gives out to a rubbish dump that seems to bother nobody but me. I enquire why the bathtub is full of water and I’m casually informed that there has been a two-week long shortage of water. I am furious that this information was withheld when I was checking in and I demand a refund. There is nothing like prolonged fatigue and I am mulish now. I need my fifty thousand kwacha back. Seeing no way out the receptionist summons the manager and after a minute-long staccato of Bemba this personage faces me. Apologies out-of-the-way, he offers to drive me to their sister hotel just of town. A ‘tonier’ establishment, I can have a bungalow at no extra cost. It certainly pays to stiffen your back. The pickup has seen better days but it is clean. The conversation is desultory. The contrite Zambian and the pissed-off Kenyan. The bungalows, numbering eight, are set out kraal fashion leaving the yard free for parking. The house will do. I have a notoriously weak stomach and decide to leave any culinary experiments for a more leisurely visit. The resident duka has an adequate supply of baked beans and bread. I’ve dined on worse. Morning comes swiftly. My sleep-starved body protests at any excursions. But needs must.

Grilling at the Refinery

On the approach to the refinery I am surprised to spot Kenyan registered tankers parked about a hundred metres from the gate. Five Kenyans of Somali origin are sprawled around a tree in the open, a meko gas cooker mute testimony to their long stay here. I naturally say hello though they do not seem too enthusiastic to see me. The security guard at the gate is an urbane chap with a wit matched only by his knowledge of regional affairs. He glances at my name and nationality in his record book and he dimples. So, he wants to know: why were we Kenyans fighting each other recently? Is it because we wanted independence? Or perhaps it was an outside aggressor that he had somehow missed? And on and on he goes as I squirm in the hot sun. It seemed ridiculous back home and the distance certainly does not improve matters. I spend an hour in the refinery and I’m impressed at the professionalism and courtesy that I am shown. Clearly all is not lost for Zambia. I make arrangements to leave that same evening retracing my steps to Tanzania. At the main bus station in Ndola the buses are incredibly luxurious. Seeing people drunk during the day, wandering around shoe-less and with holes in their trousers is disturbing. All those years: this is Kaunda’s legacy?

Back to Tanzania: which way home?

The luxury bus is a godsend. And it is an express to Dar. We leave at 8pm. Asleep most of the way except for the customs stop, we make Dar the following day in time for lunch. It is a good thing that I do like fries. On long journeys, when it comes to food, stick to what you know. Dar is easy to get around. I go back to the same hotel I’d slept in. It is cheap and, more importantly, clean. I wake up uncertain as to my next step. My business is done. I could spend one more night in Dar and take the Nairobi bound bus in the morning, or I could take a boat to Zanzibar and thence to Mombasa. The 16 hour journey to Nairobi by bus is daunting: a bone-jarring, unending nightmare. I decide to explore the Zanzibari option. The wharf is located near the ‘Old Post Office’. A mere five-minute ride by dala dala, my bag shouldered, I am immediately accosted by a motley crew of brokers, conmen and pickpockets. I am already aware that on presenting myself at the ticket counter I will immediately be labelled a foreigner and charged an exorbitant dollar rate for the Zanzibar crossing. My Kiswahili is excellent but I would never pass for a native. My inquiries are inconclusive. Getting to Zanzibar is not a problem. Getting to Mombasa from Zanzibar may indeed pose a problem. Nobody seems to know whether there is a shuttle boat. I decide to risk it anyway. Kenyans (and Ugandans for that matter) are treated as foreigners by the boat companies and where a Tanzanian would pay Tshs 18500 a Kenyan would be obliged to fork over USD 40 for the one hundred-minute crossing to the Spice Islands. Departure time is 4 pm. It is now 1pm. A colourfully dressed lady is hawking delicious looking fried calamari. I resist the temptation and settle for fresh mangoes. I am spellbound by the Sea bus as she majestically sails in. This is definitely a high point in my life. The sea is an unparalleled blue. My lifelong love affair with all things maritime is clearly not ending anytime soon. We are a mixed lot. There are the closely bunched European tourists with brand new backpacks and starched khaki shorts. Two impossibly pretty girls with huge sunglasses and very tight trousers, smoking what are evidently expensive cigarettes. The usual quota of bui bui clad women. Two Angolans, clearly miffed, loudly complain in English on how difficult it is to find someone who speaks that tongue in Tanzania. Half a dozen Indians, travelling en famille, converse in staccato Gujarati. The majority of the ‘crossers’ are of course Tanzanians on everyday business trips. The Sea bus is pleasantly clean. Strike one for Private Enterprise. It is a one and a half-hour journey and I opt to sit out on the deck. The seas are choppy and the steward distributes sick bags for those queasy of stomach. The trip is uneventful; the television screens in the cabin are showing the incomprehensibly popular Prison Break. It is easier to endure the spray outside than sit through pretty boy Scofield doing a ‘Sorbibor’.

Zanzibar!

We land at 630pm and a helpful lady Customs officer tells me nope, there are no boats to Mombasa from Zanzibar but I might get one from Pemba. There, she assures me, I will get a boat touching on the Kenyan coastline. Our neighbours have been extremely kind but I simply cannot wait to get home. Disconcerted to learn that the trip is an all night one, I surrender my fate to the gods, deposit my bag with the girls at the boat company and head off to look for food. I would like to see Zanzibar in all its fabled glory but Time will not allow. Another time, maybe. Hunger assuaged, I realize I am extremely dirty and probably not smelling of roses. I am turned away at two guest houses. The receptionists find it unusual that all I want is use of their shower or bath to remove the grime. They insist on my paying the full rate which is an exorbitant USD 35. This of course I politely decline. I approach a very Swahili-looking lodge. The young man behind the counter says I can use their shower for Tshs 20000. Which is still steep. We haggle down to Tshs 10000 and I’m handed a towel, slippers and a sweet-smelling soap. Bliss. Later I join a crowd of Zanzibaris around a kahawa tungu vendor. Tiny cups of potent, black coffee, eavesdropping on the locals shooting the breeze and it is soon time to go. Refreshed I head for the wharf. The scene is straight out of a movie set: the crowded gangway, the bustle, the pushing and shoving as loaders scurry to and fro. That’s an unwritten rule everywhere: cargo first, passengers last. I join the shorter queue only to realise five minutes later that it is ladies only. I hastily join the longer male queue amid smiles from the men. The good ship Serengeti looks big and old. Once inside it proves to be jetliner-comfortable. I am not aware that we have left Zanzibar until I look out the porthole and realise we are at sea. Most of my co-travellers, obvious veterans of the passage, lapse into slumber. A group of kanzud and fezzed men engage in animated conversation on, of all things, politics in the Congo. And very well-informed they are too. The foggy television screen is showing what looks like Rambo, fighting and winning the Vietnam War all by himself. For how long will the Americans rehash this thing? Round about midnight it is lights out and everyone succumbs. A few measure their length along the aisles. This would be unthinkable back home in Kenya where image is everything. My neighbour is loudly sucking on a sweet which irritates me no end. Mercifully he devours the thing in minutes. An intrepid fellow, he locates a socket immediately behind our seats and plugs in his mobile phone. This he proceeds to check every three minutes or so.

Pemba! A verdant paradise

A quarter to six, dawn at sea, we dock at the Pemba quay. Cargo, as always, takes precedence. Half an hour later the passengers rush the door creating an unnecessary crush. In answer to my question I am informed that there is no boat today. But there’s hope. At the other end of Pemba there is a small town called Wete and there apparently boats do routinely leave for Mombasa. That will come later. I spot a small market a mere fifty yards from the wharf. It is only 630 am and the market is bustling. Who said the Waswahili are lazy? AND it is Sunday. I count seven rickety tables laden with various edibles. An old man mans his; two thermos flasks and several cups tell their own story. The other tables bear an assortment of fresh fruits and dried molluscs. Everyone is super busy: from the ship loaders to the touts and sugarcane juice man. The reason for this is made clear the following day. All the hustle and bustle was courtesy of the docking of the Serengeti. Enquiries at a nearby shop elicit the reply that to get a boat to Mombasa, I have to take a vehicle to Wete which just happens to be on the other side of the island. The bulk of the matatus are converted trucks and passengers sit facing each other. The minibus is in excellent mechanical order. The one hour ride is generally smooth and the roads are in pretty good shape. If there was one word to describe Pemba, that word would be green. The shrubs and grass come up to the asphalt, the trees loom barely three metres away. The effect is almost predatory; a ravenous jungle devouring everything in its path. Wete proves to be your proverbial sleepy town. A three-minute walk from the bus station and I am greeted by the welcome sight of a big grey boat. A disturbingly large number of people in these parts spend a large proportion of their time lounging the whole day – and a good part of the evening too. The Wete pier is no different. Four bearded young men are in the shade of a palm tree. Incredibly the discussion is centred on the merits and demerits of English premier league teams. They inform me that the Tanga boat left that very morning, next trip in seven days. Mombasa? Mombasa is by Jahazi. That is dhow to you and me. The weather is apparently too inclement to attempt it. I’m informed that two people drowned two weeks earlier attempting the crossing. The dhow, a rickety assemblage of pieces of timber held together by faith and bits of rope, is beached a few yards away. It is unthinkable that people risk their lives crossing the tempestuous ocean in a craft that you could demolish in five minutes using a garden hammer. My options are dwindling. I could go back to Zanzibar and thence to Dar. On the way back to Mkoani, the Pemba landing pier, I notice a large banner announcing the departure of the Sepideh boat for Dar on the morrow. It is my lucky day.

The Man Who Was Busy

I board the aging dala dala which quickly fills up and we head back to Mkoani, the Pemba landing pier. I notice a large banner announcing the departure of the Sepideh boat for Dar on the morrow. I cannot believe my luck. My fellow passengers, exchange pleasantries as is the custom everywhere in Africa. A plump lady in Swahili dress requests the driver to stop; she needs credit for her phone. And he does! In Nairobi she would have been laughed at or ignored. Suddenly, metres ahead, a woman appears waving frantically. The vehicle brakes beside her. She calls out towards the tin-roofed mud house behind her. A distressed looking man runs out, arms extended, holding a boy of maybe eight or nine. The little body is rigid and it is clear that he is in the clutches of an epileptic fit. We quickly create space for the unfortunate duo. The driver needs no urging to the nearest hospital. The stricken father is moaning deep in his throat. Meanwhile the boy has started to convulse and the veins stand out on his neck. The jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically. The good-natured banter forgotten, we all will the boy to hold on; the hospital is surely nearby. An ordinary looking fellow, wearing a brown muffler loudly demands why the dala dala has taken a detour. Don’t we know he is pressed for time? Any diversions will have to wait until he has been dropped off at his destination. This outrage leaves everyone dumbfounded. A thick-set, white-bearded man calls out-front to the driver to stop. At an unseen signal he and the conductor grab a-hold of the pompous one who is heaved onto the tarmac where he falls flat on his face. The vehicle is already moving when he gingerly gets to his feet. Angry people actually do shake their fists! No one pays him any mind. The hospital is right ahead. Father, son clutched to breast, is now out running to the ward. The last we see of them, they disappear round a corner an orderly running alongside. As for the man who was busy, from what seed did he spawn?

Unwinding at Jondeni

We arrive at the pier and I jump off the minibus to the amused glances of the other passengers. Though we leave on the morrow, booking is in progress. The clerk at the desk requires only my name. A brief temptation to give a fictitious Swahili one briefly crosses my mind. For that I would have to pay Tshs 30 000 instead of the USD 54 that my real name will cost me. The temptation is only fleeting, though. No matter how elastic your principles, when away from home, however strong the temptation to bend the rules may be, don’t. Unjust laws may merit no observance but it may take you six months in the cooler before you get to explain that to the judge. To be lumped together with Americans and Japanese and asked to pay an enhanced rate for services smacks not only of discrimination but of exploitation too. I pay the dollars. We will leave for Dar in the morning, dropping off Zanzibari passengers en route. I’m starving but my immediate problem right now isn’t food. I’m in sore need of a bath, some shuteye and a change of clothes. I enquire from a friendly shopkeeper who informs me that Jondeni Guest House is a brisk ten-minute walk from the market place, up a slightly sloping hill. The heavy blanket of heat is pleasantly mitigated by a delicious breeze. It is now 12.30pm. I head off in the direction indicated and I am soon greeted by a white-washed stone structure overlooking a cove that is heavily overgrown with vines of indeterminate species. It is ominously quiet. I walk to the back and there find a middle-aged, bearded man. By his side is a young girl, evidently his daughter. A blackboard, chalk and duster tell their story. The welcome that I am accorded is nothing short of Royal. I am quickly seated in the gazebo, a glass of cold mango juice, evidently on the house, at my elbow. Even before the man determines what my business is! It doesn’t take an Einstein though. My luggage, gummed-up eyes and sweat-soaked shirt tell their tale. This single action of this stranger redeems the whole of mankind. I state my business. The available accommodation is beyond my means. Not that it is exorbitant, by no means. I’m precariously low on funds, far from home. I state what I can afford and Ali, who I later discover is the owner and manager, accepts it without demur. May Allah enlarge his territories. The room is Spartan by any reckoning. It is clearly a budget set-up catering for Lonely Planet-style tourists. Ablutions dispensed with, my exhausted body caves in and I am woken up at 8pm by voices outside my window. I snack on my tinned pilchards, shower once again, and join mine host and his other guests at the gazebo. There is a party of one old man and six women. The man is German, as is his wife. Three Americans, one Canadian and a Swede complete the party. The Canadian hogs the single hammock that I had had my eye on earlier. I sit facing the cove, watching the occasional lights of a passing boat. The conversation is animated. I am a naturally reticent person and I keep my own counsel. I however shamelessly eavesdrop. The usual tourist hobby horses of bad water and dangerous food are relentlessly flogged. On the list of shame are appended Kenya, Namibia, Mexico and South Africa. Zanzibar and Pemba are very carefully not mentioned. After Ali is all ears. Perhaps not surprisingly the conversation turns to Kenya. And to The Shame that is now euphemistically referred to as PEV. Incredulous ‘who’d a thought’ comments fly to and fro. Their analysis is largely spot-on, even for someone as apolitical as me. It is refreshing to hear a dispassionate take on events whose ripples evidently swirled around the world. It is late and the mosquitoes are on a feeding frenzy. I decide to turn in and read for an hour. I am awoken at midnight by loud noises on the tin roof. A violent sea storm, unforgiving in its fury, has made land fall. I banish all intruding thoughts of tsunamis. Sleep is no longer possible so I get up to read again. The little guest house is almost uprooted from its foundations but it grimly holds its own. Alarmed voices outside tell me this is no ordinary occurrence. The tempest rages on until about an hour or so before dawn. The damage is minimal, though. Certainly nothing that a hammer and a clutch of nails will not fix. I bid my gracious host goodbye and I am at the jetty at ten.

Homeward bound

The Sea bus gently sways at its moorings. A European in gleaming white ducks supervises operations. I am informed that he is the captain and the vessels are in fact owned by Indian businessmen. We leave on schedule. The sea is choppy, remnants of yester night’s rage. The Sepideh is a huge sea bus boasting two decks. I make my way to the top deck and soon we lose sight of land. We call at Zanzibar, dropping off the traders. The trip to Dar is a little bumpy and fatigue notwithstanding I think to myself I that I wouldn’t mind piloting one of these things for a living. The sea has many moods, few of them benevolent. In the parlance of mariners she is known as the Grey Widow Maker. The lure is strong though. I’m obliged to spend one more night in Dar and I leave early the following morning for Nairobi, the Mecca of East Africa woefully lacking in the magic of the last ten days.