Our tent, little shelter from the freezing wind

We leave Nairobi – gladly – by “Nissan” minibus bound for Nanyuki. The bus is so full (with its requisite 18 people) when we arrive at the bus station that I am doubtful we’ll ever get on but somehow space is made for us and our bags (which we have to buy seats for) and once we’re in, we’re off.
The road quality is surprisingly good and there are many interesting sights: bustling markets, policemen being trained on the grass in the middle of every roundabout and loud “Matatus” (bigger buses). The bus is cramped but our attention is held by the views. There are many women at work in the fields all standing with straight legs and bent backs. Lots of people ride bicycles or walk alongside the road. Every now and again we get stopped by the police at roadblocks. As soon as we have stopped we are waved on. Later we discover this is because vehicles that are unroadworthy are asked to pay an “unofficial” fine to the police. The truth is when there are “white men” in the bus, this practice is discouraged lest tourists get the wrong impression, so the policemen allow the bus to continue once they see the Western passengers. Probably one of the few times it is a good thing to have white men in your bus.

Crazy plants, halfway up Mt. Kenya

After three hours we arrive in Nanyuki. During the journey we unceremoniously cross the equator for the first time in my life (well, except for flying over it to get here…). At the bus station, although we know where the hotel is we are mobbed by at least ten mountain guides offering us hotels and trips up the mountain. It is extremely annoying – especially when they come inside the hotel with us. I feel like a huge fish caught and taken out of water to be brought in for sale. We discover later that there are so few tourists in Nanyuki at the moment that livelihoods depend on the dollars in our pockets – I guess I would act the same given the same circumstances. When we tell them all to go away, they sit in the hotel restaurant moodily and say they’ll wait for us – this does not help my temper! I guess this must be what it is like to be famous – with people waiting for your decisions all the time; how annoying.
We arrange for a room – which is tricky since there is surprisingly little English spoken here – and enjoy 10 minutes respite from the touts. Later, more composed, we make it clear we need some peace and quiet to decide what we want to do and I guess it then feels nice that we have them under control. We do need a guide because we want to climb Mt.Kenya (or at least get halfway). The waitress in the bar offers to help us and recommends “Captain Joe” who is a guide associated with the hotel. We have a long think about what we want from the mountain and decide that an ascent to the peak is out of the question because it takes 4 precious days. We summon Joe over and ask for his advice. All the other touts look on darkly. This is a turf war.

Joe shows off the plumage

Joe asks us if he can take us to his “office” which is actually his home (read hut), a short taxi ride away. It is a wooden shack in a terrace but is nice to get away from the crowds and interesting to see how these people live. We meet Margaret, Joe’s wife and baby Sammy and are asked to join in with a lunch of rice and vegetables. This softly, softly approach is far more likely to win me over than the hard sell. Joe explains we can do a two day walk with an overnight camp at “Old Moses Camp” and reach the viewpoint the second day at 4,200m. He will supply food and a porter to carry our bags and guides and cooks for us. At $38 per person per day it’s a lot more expensive than we expected. After some bargaining we get him down to $32 before saying we’ll try and shop around. The daily rate for a guide in the LP is £5 per day but Joe is (sensibly) offering an all-in price with some built-in profit. There are also park entry fees of $10 per person per day.
Back in the town the word has gone out that there is money in town. We visit the office of another pair of likely lads, this time less charming but offering $29 per day. We’ve agreed to meet Joe back in the bar at 4pm with a decision and going there is likely being the judge in MasterChef. All the various guides turn up at 4 and wait expectantly for our decision. As soon as money changes hands between Joe and us (we decided he’d won the deal at $30 per person per day), all the other contestants slink away. It’s a great relief to get it sorted out – basic market forces at work, I suppose – and remarkably no touts bother us again. They know.
Joe is a likable fellow with a big smile and we arrange to meet tomorrow morning. We relax with beers and a fine curry on the balcony of the hotel.

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