On the road to Tanzania, Masai tribesman herds flock

We have to leave early today because we want to get to Arusha in Tanzania. In the bus station we follow what’s rapidly becoming a familiar protocol of squeezing into a packed Nissan and somehow finding seats spare we have to pay for to put our bags on. Once we’re underway the journey is good – authentic, loud music blaring out and cramped conditions made better by stunning scenery.
Back in Nairobi (unfortunately) the streets are just as unpleasant as before with fleeting appearances from touts who’ve already tried us once and failed. This doesn’t stop them reacquainting themselves knowingly. After a map reading error which nearly takes us to a bad part of town, we end up at the Stanley Hotel where we hear they run daily tourist buses to Arusha. Since it is such a long way this is definitely the preferred option.
Getting the tickets though may as well be a piece of scripted theatre taken out of the Lonely Planet. The book says the cost of the bus is 1000/= but that the hotel will try to charge $30 for non-residents and that you should be able to negotiate. Sure enough the manager tells us the bus-trip costs $30. We say that’s too much; he winces and then drops (significantly) to 1200/= plus a “tax” at the border. We make as if to leave (the other option is a Nissan to the border then another one on the other side – not great) but all of a sudden, surprise, surprise we reach end game and he offers us 1000/= for the lot, no tax. Why a respectable bus company has to go through this ridiculous posturing is beyond me but the guy is philosophical, “when you come back to Kenya a rich man, you will pay me $30, while you are students now you pay 1000/=”, he says. It’s kind of a future investment he’s making, it seems. Or maybe he’s telling me that I’ll pay for my cheek at claiming to be a student later.
Whatever, we get our tickets and get on the bus. I then go walking off for what seems like miles to get two cokes and a bag of chips – we’re starving and there’s a 5 hour epic ahead. We leave on time and I marvel at how, without any obvious planning, all the seats are full and yet no one who wanted to come along has been turned away. The scenery is great – the size of these countries cannot be described. It is warm and the surroundings are beautiful.

Bush land

At the border with Tanzania we have to get all our baggage off the bus and have it searched. After a bit of standing around waiting, watching Masai tribesmen walk through the border seemingly unchallenged, we’re back on the bus and away. Tanzania is much more barren and on a larger scale again. On the horizon as far as the eye can see are dark hills and in the middle, a vast expanse of bush – scrub land with trees and termite mounds. Every now and again there are tribesmen minding a few goats or cattle. This is the real, harsh Africa. It is awe inspiring. I try to take some photos but the bus is travelling too quickly.
At one point there are 10 giraffe just at the side of the road – amazing. The sun sets beautifully, very impressive sights and colours. It then rains very hard and we come across a river crossing where the tarmac has been entirely washed away by a mud slide and a jeep buried up to its arches in mud. I am busy happily imagining us camping in the bush for the night but no, after some discussion and a stroll to check out the Jeep’s misfortune, the driver just drives off into the bush and around the gap.
Another hour in the dark and we are in Arusha. They drop us at the “Novotel” where there is a huge group of touts waiting to meet us – oh joy. Luckily the bus company has a driver who offers to take us to any hotel we choose at no extra cost – bargain. We choose the Robannyson Hotel which is okay but turns out to be an unfinished building site – with no running water, sheets or curtains… We have a nice meal and get approached by two safari touts in the space of 20 minutes. We put them off until tomorrow and, even though the hotel staff are apologetic about the conditions, we vow to move hotels asap.

Red Hot Poker – beautiful plant, sore head

Lamenting the fact that I left my waterproof at home by mistake, we pack our bag for the mountain and leave the rest of the kit at the hotel. The driver turns up late but by 10am we are away. Joe and our porter, a rather straggly looking man, are with us. There are other guides and their “victims” in the bus with us – including John, a slow-speaking Irish chap who will be cold if he carries on wearing his shorts.
After half an hour we reach the park gates. It is misty, overcast and cold. Although today’s walk is only 9km, it involves a height rise from 2635m at the gates to 3300m at the camp and I later realise this altitude/pressure difference is not to be underestimated. Joe carries our pack and the porter has another rucksack full of equipment and two carrier bags full of food. I’ve never been even this high up before and altitude sickness is a real problem. The walk is through forest initially, on a muddy track and seems easy enough. Nevertheless both Lizzie and I have pounding headaches when we reach the collection of huts that is Old Moses Camp at about 3pm. It offers basic accommodation and we need every bit of it – the weather is brutally cold…
Still can’t see the peak. We set up our tent – yes we’re camping – and have some much needed soup and fruit. We sleep to acclimatise and then later, at dusk, get the first view of the beautiful mountain. The sky is clear and the clouds are below us. First photos of the trip. Shivering in all the clothes I brought with me. Dinner is spent with some other tourists – some Australians and a girl from Mexico – and involves a bizarre “cookery contest” on the part of our guides, each trying to out do the other with the meals they produce. Now it really is like MasterChef. Given the equipment and conditions (over an open fire) they have available, the food is absolutely brilliant and very tasty. I am starving but Lizzie is still feeling sick.

View out of the tent, have altitude sickness

The night’s sleep is acceptable but generally uncomfortable with the cold and on lumpy ground. We are woken at 5.45am for breakfast and to start the walk higher. It is fabulously clear now and there is a beautiful sunrise. Hot, sweet tea does a good job of waking us up but my appetite has gone; Lizzie hungry. We set off on a four-hour steep climb to 4,200m. Breathing is laboured even at this altitude and the headaches of yesterday soon return – that’s why it is important to spend 4 days doing the full ascent, so the body can acclimatize. The landscape is beautiful and although it is actually cloudy when we reach the viewpoint it is satisfying to know we made it – higher than I’ve ever been. After some hot tea we return to the camp. Lizzie is actually sick this time and lunch is too much to manage for me. We rest and then head down to get off the hill before the rain sets in. In fact it beats us to the gate and by the time we get there, having seen baboons and even elephant droppings on the way, we are absolutely soaked but exhausted and happy.
We are glad we did not agree to do the full ascent – without warmer clothing and proper preparation, a night about 4000m would have simply been mind over matter survival and not particularly enjoyable. The path is now a torrent of clay and getting a lift back to Nanyuki turns out to be a sobering but finally comical experience. We get in a Landrover belonging to one of Joe’s mates and have to push start it first. Then, because it is raining so heavily – like you wouldn’t believe – the road is just a river and very rutted. We skid uncontrollably down the steep bits and spend most of the time at 30° to the track. Inside the truck it is extremely difficult to hang on and we are just thrown about from side to side, almost rolling on several occasions.
Lizzie confesses later that she considered proposing to me in the back when she thought we were about to die. I’m still not sure whether that was a compliment or not. We stall in the ruts frequently and have to get out in the rain and push. This is a laugh itself because we get drenched by the spray from the wheels and have to stand ankle deep in mud to reach. Each time it just about starts but is soon stalled at the next steep section. It becomes more and more amusing, wet and muddy. By the end we are just running behind the car, splashing through soaking clay and laughing. Bargain end to the trip and with plenty of good, thick oxygen in the air, nothing seems so bad after all.
With the nasty business of tipping out of the way (£5 for the porter and £10 for Joe who’s become a bit of a friend – quite a good earner for them, this trip) and with spare clothes on we relax back at the hotel. Later we give Joe a letter of recommendation for the business and offer him some hospitality back home because he is coming to Wales in April to work with a school he has had dealings with. He has the spring in his step, when he finally says goodbye, of a man who has earned over £100 for two days work in a country where that wouldn’t be a bad monthly paycheck.

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.

Ready for Nai-robbery?

We already have several stories to tell of this place and its only day two. I think we both feel very unprepared for this, our holiday to Africa and a little out of place here. Three weeks is not long to make a backpacking trip a success and there is a pressure on us to settle in quickly. I try to blame the stress I feel during the first few days’ experiences on the mind-altering Larium I am taking for Malaria but the reality is that I was not mentally prepared for everything Nairobi has flung at me thus far. I hope we have done the settling in now and can begin to enjoy. Let the story begin…
We arrive in Nairobi about 10pm on Sunday night and manage to secure an easy taxi ride into the centre and a small hotel. The roads inside the city are unbelievably badly maintained and have enormous potholes. The Abbey Hotel is fine for our purposes despite a large number of beggars outside. The reception staff are courteous if a little disinterested. After a cold shower to cool off we are all smiles after our introduction to the place.
In the morning we take a simple breakfast of fruit and fried eggs and bread and then venture out into the streets. The weather is overcast and cloudy but very muggy. Most people don’t pay us much attention, this is a bustling city going about its business but we get quite a few touts offering to sell us safaris. They are often persistent even after saying no several times. I find them very annoying when they offer to “help” you find the bank or bus station you are looking for with the eventual aim of securing your time in their safari shop. I get easily side-tracked by them and can’t think straight when I’m trying to put them off all the time. You feel like a convict on the run rather than a tourist.
We are clearly a very small minority as whites in Nairobi – it’s a humbling experience – I spot only four other white faces all day. After changing some money – waiting for our receipts in a tiny glass cubicle – and escaping the clutches of a very persistent tout, we head back towards the hotel for a rest. We want to get some bus tickets to Nanyuki so we can climb Mt. Kenya but need a breather already from the hassle.
On the way I buy a map of Mt. Kenya and begin a fateful conversation in the street with a charming man called Peter… He says he is a teacher and asks lots of questions about the UK from an intelligent standpoint. Lizzie joins in and he seems quite the gentleman. He says he doesn’t want to talk on the street because it looks like he is selling us something. “Why don’t we go for a coffee?”, he says. It seems like an ideal opportunity to find out a bit about Kenyan life so Lizzie and I, aware of the potential for danger, agree to go to a little café nearby.
We enjoy a coffee and a half hour chat on the Kenyan educational system and its comparison to England. He seems intrigued to hear our views and is charming and genuine. Then he breaks the pattern slightly by confiding in us that he is actually a teacher from the Sudan and he is in exile from there because he led a student revolt. He tells us he is trying to reach his uncle in Zambia. Alarm bells are already ringing in my head and it’s definitely time to get out of his way. He asks if he can have our address to let us know how he gets on – I give him a false one on a piece of paper – and also for money towards his journey. I feel sorry for the guy, even though I don’t really believe what he says is true, so I pay for the coffees and give him about £5 in Kenyan shillings. I figure I’m comparatively rich and can afford to help a man out – he’s gone to a whole lot of effort to secure a begging opportunity. I hand over the money rather awkwardly and, keen to escape, we leave.
I am disappointed that such an apparently genuine exchange turned into a request for money but it was an interesting way to spend a morning. As we leave the restaurant a couple of men in suits, one carrying an oddly-pink mobile phone, stop us and say they are from the Kenyan police. “Who is that man you are talking to and how does he know you?”, the main man says. At the bottom of the stairs are two more men, one shows us an identity badge and arrests Peter, the guy we were talking to. The first two ask us to return to the restaurant. We are both terrified that we seem to have been framed for something we haven’t done and could be in a lot of trouble. Stories you hear back home about apparently innocent Europeans being arrested in “drug” carrying cases in third world countries flash through the mind. My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry.
They are courteous at first and explain that provided we co-operate, we’ll be fine. They tell us that Peter is a suspected Sudanese terrorist, that he has been exiled from Sudan and that he has been found holding cash, fake US dollars, travellers cheques which don’t belong to him and some cocaine. Apparently his photo was in the newspapers and the restaurant owner called the police when he saw Peter come in. They claim they need to check our passports and that our travellers cheques aren’t the same as the ones Peter has. At this point the restaurant is full of strangers watching us and we are alone at a table with two men who are smooth talking but who are already turning quite aggressive and demanding.
When I begin to question how or why they want to see or take our travellers cheques they shout at me and tell me I will be in big trouble if I don’t co-operate and they will call a car to arrest us and take us to the police station. In my mind are two things: the need to co-operate and demonstrate my innocence if these really are policemen and the need to keep an eye on my money at all times if they’re not. We ask to see identity cards but they become more and more aggressive. They tell us to write down our names and how much cash we have on a piece of paper. They try and divide us by saying one of us can go but the other must be arrested. There is an awful moment when the main guy holds all of my travellers cheques in his hand. The story gets more and more ridiculous until we begin to understand this is a very complex scam. I think Lizzie reaches that point before me – I’m still trying to prove my innocence. When Lizzie and I finally push hard to be taken to the British Embassy to sort this out, they become very defensive and all of a sudden it is obvious that we’ve won. Our troubles fade away as quickly as the men do and Lizzie and I run out of the café shaken.
We came extremely close to handing over most of our money because they scared us into trying to clear our names. It is a complex and well-executed scam and clearly would work in cases where the tourists were even more stupid than us. Back at the hotel we collapse and I spend a lot of time nervously worrying that they might try and come after us – they have our names, our hotel and how much money we are carrying. It does not add up to a relaxing afternoon but Lizzie manages to fall asleep.
Later after an acceptable meal at nearby “Malindi Dishes” (where glue-sniffing beggar boys bang on the glass front to get our attention and effectively prevent any proper enjoyment of the meal), we end up in the hotel bar. We sink a few beers and talk about the day’s interesting and rather nerve-wracking experience. A guy sitting on his own next to us introduces himself as a teacher called Harry…
With that sinking feeling that we’re about to go round the loop, I am pleasantly surprised that he turns out to be genuine this time and extremely well spoken and intelligent. We have a great conversation about racism (here and at home), about education and health in Kenya. After building some trust we even tell him our story of the day and he is appalled to hear of these “super-conmen” and hopes that he can be a better ambassador for Kenya. He is. I am inspired by him in many ways; I could not talk so coherently about my own country’s history, economic and political situation even in English, let alone in a second language. Harry’s father has four wives – very enviable, although Lizzie disagrees unless she could be wife one (the matron) or four (the newest and favourite). Polygamy is common in Kenya because apparently there are three women to every man on average in Kenya – for various unspecified reasons although I always thought the trend towards female infanticide in heavily agricultural developing countries would make a majority of males more likely. Probably all the young men get killed in farming accidents or by working in dangerous factories.
It is very interesting to have my faith restored in the Kenyan people and to hear about the struggles of daily life for a teacher out in the sticks in Kenya. Harry has one wife and a new baby and says although it means he has to leave his Lake Victoria roots behind, he is happy to embrace a monogamous, more Western lifestyle with fewer children. Although, he says, he teaches “contraception” at an all-girls school and lots of them confide in him, fancy him and would like to become his wife number 2.
After one too many beers for me and, I think, him, we retire amicably and exchange email addresses.