Lamu Day Three

My tail and I decided to visit Matandoni, which is another town on Lamu island. I saw someone with a basket the day before and asked where it came from and my tail told me ‘Matandoni, I can take you’. I don’t know how many other towns there are in this area, so when he suggested we go there, I thought why not. I asked how far it was, and like a true village person, he said not far.
We met at eight in the morning, had breakfast and then set off.
My leg was still acting up from the walk to the beach the day before, so along the way I asked about hiring a donkey, but we couldn’t find any to take us. So we walked. I turned into Grumpy Smurf, as our ‘not far’ turned out to be quite a distance, which I should have realized it would. My map said that Matandoni was about 6 km away. 6km, I figured was a little bit more than the Queen’s Park Savannah in Port of Spain, where I occasionally exercised. It seemed easily do-able. What the guidebook neglected to say is that it was 6 km through sand and under blazing midday sun. There was no road – why did I even think there would be? So even though the walk was across fairly flat land it was torture for me. My hip felt like it had fallen out of place.
While we were walking I was so bad humoured that all the while I grumbled to myself ‘why didn’t I just go to the beach’, ‘what the hell are we supposed to see in Matandoni anyway’, I wondered if our long walk would even be worth the effort.
Eventually after about two and a half hours we arrived there. Gitau (my tail) informed someone in the village what we were there to do and they led us through some streets and put us to sit in a shed with some baskets and left us. We waited for a long time, watching some children play just outside the shed. Finally an old man came to greet us in broken English. “You are great man, you are chief of village, you are happy to meet woman” I realized he had confused you with I. He was a very pleasant man, very happy to meet us, and of course realizing that I was about to leave some money in the village even happier.
We sat and negotiated, and the old man wheeled and dealed until I left 1,000 shillings with him, in exchange for which I had some baskets and a mat. Somehow I left feeling that I had been taken advantage of. Maybe I wasn’t, but after walking two and a half hours, you assume that you’re going to get some bargains, which I didn’t. The price of the baskets and mats was only fair. I had gotten better prices in Tanzania. I was wondering how on earth I was going to be able to make this into a good business deal. Oh well.
Now how would we get out of that God forsaken place? We had walked so far and there was not even a beach at the end of all that. They had a mud beach, not even black sand, gooey mud with tiny crabs. The tide was out so far that the boats were left stuck in the mud. Our options of getting out were not easy. Could we hire a donkey I asked? No one wanted to send their donkey, because how would it get back? What about a dhow? Our helpful translator, who had appeared with the old man, said in an American accent. ‘We ken get one fiy you for about 1500 shillings (about US$20), okay?’ He had to be crazy. Now I started to get upset. I didn’t want to walk back. Fifteen hundred shillings was actually a lot of money here – three nights accommodation. Possibly the bus fare to Nairobi etc. I didn’t want to squander it on taking a dhow back to the other side of the island. Besides I felt I was being taken advantage of again. Nobody here would spend that kind of money to go anywhere. Why should I? Now of course that I put things into perspective and think that my taxi from JFK to my aunt’s apartment in Manhattan costed $50, I guess 20 doesn’t sound so bad, but it’s the principle of exploitation that upsets me, not the actual cost. Our accented guide started to realize how unhappy I was, because I kept muttering to Gitau about how bad the prices were, and we had walked so far etc. etc. so said ‘Never mind, we gonna do some good business, we gonna work something out!’ He put us to sit on a bench and went off to look for a dhow captain to ferry us back. Gitau and I sat and waited, in our boredom we took a few pictures of ourselves, of some children, and we waited. Eventually somebody came back and picked up my bag and told us to follow him. Our guy appeared just behind and said ‘I got one for 400, s’okay?’ Well I guess I could work with that. But that of course just reinforced (at least in my mind) that I was being exploited.
So we walked to the boat.
The dhow journey back, made up for all my bad humour for the entire day. It was a peaceful, quiet sailing trip, about 30 - 40 minutes to a point where the ferries leave for Lamu. The dhow is similar to the pirogue – a simple fishing boat with a large diamond shaped sail. Some dhows have engines, ours did not. We sailed through the mangroves, sometimes with too little wind, sometimes with too much and the wind would fill the sails and cause the boat to almost tip over. I can actually swim okay, my only worry was that if the boat tipped, my camera would go into the water and I would lose – yet again precious photographs. I didn’t even worry about crocodiles, but I didn’t think there were any. They left us at the ferry, after which we took a normal priced ride (50 Ksh) back to Lamu.

Lamu Day Two

I came to Lamu to be alone. I don’t know why I insist on being alone while on vacation. I’m a funny creature, when I’m alone I think I need someone to share this with, when there is someone I want my space.
One of the ills of tourism (at least in my view) is that it creates a space for the ‘beach bum’, the gigolo, the hustler, the male escort for the woman who travels alone. Of course the same exists for the men too, but I actually find the beach bum stands out more.
Today I stopped to say good morning to someone who I bought some exquisite (but inflated) coconut handicraft from, and I acquired a tail for the day. Well this morning I thought, ‘oh well, I didn’t really where I was going anyway, so what harm?’ by this evening (I write at 7:45 p.m. and I just amputated my tail) I wanted to scream!
I sat and chatted with my coconut craft colleague and some friends of his for quite some time this morning, which must have been when I could be accused of sending the wrong signals. I made the mistake of asking where I could get some yogurt to buy. A seemingly innocent question. The answer of course was more complicated than could be anticipated, this being Ramadan. You see here on Lamu no one is comfortable eating in public during Ramadan, which also means no one will sell you any food. My plan was to buy my yogurt and head for the beach where I would spend the day do some strategizing for my business and my store, until I could eat a decent meal at a nice restaurant in the evening. So when I asked where I could get some yogurt and expected to be directed to the place, I was wrong. Getting my breakfast would prove to be akin to buying drugs, a process that as an outsider could not be easily done. I needed a guide.
This guide lead me down some winding streets around and around till finally we came to a business that was closed, we had to go to the backdoor and knock very quietly till finally someone came to the second floor window. We had to shout out what we wanted and eventually some came down and brought the yogurt. I complicated the process further because my plan was to buy two yogurts, one to eat now and one for the road. When the yogurt was brought downstairs and I realized it was homemade, I sent back one, which meant that they had to make new change for me. When the change came down, I asked for a spoon, and of course the runner had to go up again. He brought down a metal spoon. Of course I’m from a plastic society, so I looked in shock at the spoon, as we were on the street. They had handed me the yogurt and locked the door. What was I to do with the spoon? I looked at my tail, Gitau, and asked ‘now what do I with this spoon?’ ‘We’ll bring it back later’ he replied. Talk about trust.
I now needed to rely on my tail to put me back onto a familiar path. He led up some streets and down some others, pointing various things along the way. ‘Drat!’ I thought, ‘now I have a guide, I’m going to have to pay this guy!’. So I asked him to lead me back to the path so I could walk on my own. ‘Hakuna matata’ he assured me. ‘By the way do you want to sit and eat?’ I didn’t mind. He went up to a compound and knocked on the door and we walked in. The compound was a traditional ‘barrack style’ yard, everyone was seated outside under a tree, while two women were preparing some food. We sat while I ate. What I thought would take 30 minutes ended up taking about four hours! I ate, they bought me a beer, I started discussing some very deep issues with a good looking and intelligent teacher of Swahili, and I think my guide was trying to get a free lunch for us. Maybe the women knew better and decided to cook even more slowly than ever, because we left at 2:30 and the food was far from ready, or maybe that was just Ramadan and the food was to eat after the fast was broken, that I doubt a little because we ate and drank while they were preparing food, everyone including the two Muslim men who stopped by dressed in skirts and kofias (skull caps), and they drank beer too! Behind closed doors anything goes.
The talk was interesting; everything was fine, until they all started to get a little drunk. I don’t drink enough to get drunk, so it’s always a problem for me to be in an environment with heavy drinkers. The scandalous woman cutting the potatoes started to talk more loudly and move her hands more freely as she spoke (with knife in one hand!). By 2:30 I really had had enough, there was no free food that would make me sit for another minute!
We got up and continued our walk to the beach – the long way. I guess that part of the day was okay, but I was HUNGRY! He was suggesting that we pass back to see how the food had progressed. I wasn’t really interested. I had planned to treat myself to dinner that night, and was starting to get upset, you mean I’ll have to treat this bum too? Anyway we walked and walked and walked. Actually to the next town and back. Really there was no other way to go as Lamu Island has no cars. On the way back we stopped at a small shop where I was finally able to get some food, not the shrimp I was dreaming of, but oh well. Not before all of my aches and pains started to appear, first my bad hip then my ankle. I had reached a point where I really could be alone. We were then met by some friend of his who had managed to inveigle 100 shillings out of me this morning. He sat at our table and started to talk about how African he was, and so pleased to meet his African sister and blah blah blah. As it got dark he managed to get another 70 shillings out of me to buy his drink. If you want to get me mad, ask me to buy a drunk alcohol! I know it seems small, especially since men buy each other drinks all the time, but I have such difficulty buying cigarettes and alcohol for people. It’s the moralist in me!
Anyway to cut a long story short, I got fed up. He walked me back to the hotel. It was already dark. I never had my shrimp. He wanted to show me where he lived, but could I leave my bag at the hotel. I said I might as well come one time. Then ok. He continued to lead me down some winding streets till we reached out by the beach. Oh I just live around the other side of the beach. Maybe it was true, but I was definitely not in the mood, and to besides it was dark, my leg was acting up, and he was a little drunk, and no I don’t want to smoke a joint or sit on the beach and watch the waves. So I politely asked him to take me back. ‘Oh no Latifah, what are you thinking? I didn’t have anything bad in mind. I just want to show you where I live.’ Yeah whatever. I wasn’t upset, just a little grumpy because I never got my shrimp (well maybe I got another kind because he was very short!) and never got any time alone. Oh well….

To Lamu

I have always been one to pick the most remote spot on the map of any country and decide I want to go there! In Brazil I wanted to go to Oiapoque (though never made it), in Trinidad I chose to go to Toco, Cedros and Moruga, in Uganda I went to Kissoro, in Kenya I chose to go to Lamu.
Lamu is Kenya’s oldest inhabited tows, and is supposed to have changed little over the centuries. Access is exclusively by boat from the mainland, though there is an airstrip on a neighbouring island. There is reportedly one car on the island belonging to the District Commissioner. The streets are narrow and winding. People walk or use donkeys. Sounds like my kind of challenge.
I first heard of Lamu three years ago while in Tanzania, during its annual Swahili festival. I find Swahili culture fascinating and saw a very good documentary on the festival on Tanzanian TV. Last year while in Kenya again I had considered going to Lamu but chose to go to Ghana instead (and yes, I went to the most remote spot there too). This year I passed through Kenya to go to a conference in Zambia and decided it was now or never.
I had to weigh several options. Kenya must be the most exciting place to visit in Africa; there is so much to do. Masai Mara park? Karen Blixen museum? Mount Meru hike? A trip across the border to Ngorongoro or Serengeti? Cultural villages? The beaches around Mombasa? I said no to all, and chose to go to the remote village of Lamu.
So now I write from this remote island near to Somalia. I survived the trip!
My safari began almost by chance. Though I had the idea of coming here all along, I really had some business to do in Nairobi, and wasn’t sure how long that would take, so my plans had to be very flexible. My supplier, Richard, and I had a very good meeting on Wednesday and he asked what I was doing on Thursday, if I wanted to go to the town where the work was done, Kisii. Of course! Those of you who know me, know that I need no second offer. So we made plans to meet the following day. I informed my hostess that I’d be traveling and packed my bags. My plan was to go to Kisii, then on my return visit Mombasa, another Kenyan city that I’d never visited before, then come back to Nairobi to collect my things.
In the middle of the night I get a text message from Richard. ‘Can’t take you to Kisii tomorrow, maybe you should go directly to Mombasa and then we’ll go when you come back.’ So in the morning I was on the bus to Mombasa, all the while wondering ‘what am I going to do in Mombasa?’
The ride was LONG. About 8 – 9 hours. The landscape was beautiful as it always is in this region, if not a little monotonous. The dryness, thorn bushes and baobab trees can only keep us interested for so long! However there were some colubus monkeys along the roadway just before the city of Voi to provide some interest.
The heavens opened about an hour before we arrived in Mombasa. I steupsed as I remembered looking twice at the umbrella then actually taking it out of my bag! So I arrived in Mombasa, which on an ordinary day is probably a pleasant city, to pouring rain, and in some places knee high flood waters. I was not pleased. To make matters worse I ended up with a phenomenal taxi bill (almost the cost of my bus ticket!) because the taxi had to take me to the bus station, and then two hotels. The first because I decided I did not want to stay in Mombasa and was trying to get on the next bus, and two hotels because the first was full.
I ended up staying at Berachah, a clean but simple place with a restaurant inside. Very important on a rainy night.
The following morning my expensive taxi came back for me and drove me about two blocks to the bus stand! At night I couldn’t work out the distance! I was lucky enough to get the last ticket. We boarded on time, but somehow no one could get the bus started! We left an hour late.
Being Ramadhan and given that we are along the East African coast, Islam is everywhere. So when I was just about to turn on my IPod, the loud speakers began to blare what could only have been the sermon for the day in Swahili and Arabic. This continued for about 3 hours! Then they switched from the evangelizing gentleman to a woman, giving her sermon, also in Swahili, among the few words I picked out were something about ‘sketi transparenti’ (transparent skirts), I’m glad I couldn’t understand it because I suddenly became conscious of the fact I was one of only two women in the bus with an uncovered head, and I was the only one in short sleeves.
Ramadhan probably was not such a good time to go to Lamu!
My expensive driver promised me the trip was five hours. I don’t know if his Swahili time is different to everyone else’s but it took eight hours. An interesting trip through a vast and empty landscape. The highlights of this trip were seeing hippos bathing in a pond, baboons running across the roadway, prehistoric palm trees that looked like they came out of The Flintstones, exotic ladies selling milk at Garsen junction wearing only khangas and beads and silver jewellery and finally realizing that the two army men we picked weren’t just hitching a ride, they actually were our armed escort to protect us from Somali bandits!
When the bus finally stopped I looked around and was disappointed, where were the beautiful coconut trees like what one saw along the coast in Tanzania (or in Cedros!)? We were surrounded by mangroves it looked like we were going to Caroni. The ferry to take us to the island also reminded me of Caroni, and my trips to the Amazon and the Pantanal in Brazil. Anyway as we drew nearer to land, things seemed to look up, and now as I write this almost four hours after landing, I think I’ll stay an extra night!
What has convinced me? It’s a simple place with nice people (though the ubiquitous beach bums can be annoying), good food, reasonable prices, wonderful architecture and there seems to be a beach with coconut trees nearby – hope the weather changes. I may spend my time writing, taking photographs (I lost my photographs of Zanzibar) or on the beach. Then I’ll go back to Nairobi collect my things, ship them off and go back home.
Would I come back to Lamu? Who knows, it’s a long grueling journey – even for a knockabout traveler like me, but of course I like the challenge and maybe next time I might want to go even further.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles 1 & 2

Planes, Trains and Automobiles 1
I’m on the bus to Mombasa, and surprise surprise, we are back to normalcy, a world where fares are marked and you pay what you see. No negotiation required. On the bus to Kabale, every passenger paid a different price. Your price depended on your begotiation skills. My skills were fair so I paid 18,000 Uganda shillings. The woman next to me was more efficient so she paid 15 thousand. In Mbarara, two hours from our destination, they unceremoniously put us all out and into a matatu. I was upset and launched my angry tirade against the conductor.
‘Kondukta’, I complained in my best East African accent, ‘you people are dishonest! You overcharge me to my destination, now instead of taking me there, you put me into a taxi and leave me!’
‘Madam’ the conductor said, ‘we will pay for the taxi, but you were lucky! Look!’ he showed me the other tickets, ‘You were not overcharged! Look! All these people paid more than you!’

Planes, Trains and Automobiles 2
Another surprise in Nairobi, buses with seatbelts, air-conditioning and a seating plan!

Planes are old news for me. I don’t care about what’s outside the window. Except for my flights over the Sahara – by day and by night, the landscape is normally not that exciting. On buses though I give up the aisle and scramble to the window to look at the changing landscape.
My window seats have afforded me views of
Giraffes in Arusha, monkeys and baboons in Uganda and Kenya, gazelles in Swaziland, endless bucks while driving through a national park in Uganda, as well as the changing landscape breathtakingly spectacular mountain views along the way to Kissoro and Kabale near Rwanda, prehistoric trees along the coast in Kenya, evidence of the Rift Valley in Tanzania, Kenya and even Uganda, and finally the varied cultures expressed through changes in architecture and even clothing on the line outside.
For me it’s not the destination, but the journey that is exciting.