'40miles of road' (sung twice)

“40 miles of bad road, when the time is right the world will explode; I’m just trying to get as far away from myself as I can” Lyrics by Bob Dylan As it happens, the road wasn’t all that bad, but it was 40miles and knowing that, these lyrics stuck in my head as I pedaled along, dodging the occasional pothole, shouting the occasional ‘Salama’ and looking around at the lush vegetation. But that was today. Yesterday, I finally managed to make my escape from Mombasa. I had spent my last evening playing a second game of chess with Jahbari (the right spelling now) on the rooftop of the Ramadan amongst half-built walls, drying washing, and a bright half-moon whilst overlooking the roofs of the city and looking down toward the estuary. It didn’t do my throat much good, but how often do you get the chance to do something like that? [I lost incidentally, so he and I are going to have to meet-up one day for a deciding game]. Getting out in the morning was, despite my preparations the previous night, actually very hard. First, get your touring bike and 30kilograms of luggage down two flights of narrow stairs. Okay, so it’s impossible. Dismantle everything, carry it down and pack it downstairs amongst an interested crowd. After that I was already sweating profusely, and it was only 7am. Then, try and get 45kilogram bike across two lanes of Mombasa rush-hour traffic, and a rather high pavement in the middle. Despite checking the pressure the night before there was not enough air in the back tyre, making it rather like trying to ride a large, live and uncooperative snake. Eventually, with some air from the pump, and some hot air from a few irritated matatu drivers I got across and could actually start pedaling north. Before getting to the bridge over the estuary I was knocked-off the bike by a matatu; but it happened so slowly that no damage was done other than to get some dust and dirt on my gear – probably a good thing – and I just threw my hands in the air at the matatu driver with an exasperated grin and he responded in kind. I was going the right way for the traffic, although it was still quite busy for the first hour before it started slacking off. (I should add at this point that not having much traffic coming from behind you is not as much of an advantage as it might be in other countries because drivers coming from the opposite direction are then more likely to pull homicidal overtaking manoeuvres.) After that first difficult hour, which also included my make-shift repair to my bike computer failing only 13km’s out, things went smoothly with a couple of patches of beautiful road and no traffic other than bicycles. Although I suspect it is this lush most of the time, the landscape is currently incredibly green and tropical with the rainy season having only recently ended. It really is just another world altogether, with pristine land and the kind of rural subsistence agriculture that sustains so many of the worlds poor. I arrived in Kilifi by 11am, which was encouraging because it meant that I could have done the full slog to Malindi if need be. Kilifi is not in my guide book – unsurprisingly really, since most people go straight through it to Malindi – and so I had no idea where to look for accommodation. In the end I took a slightly expensive option of the ‘Makuti Villa’ which turned out to be reasonable value, particularly because they did a decent breakfast, had massive rooms (not good for trying to hunt-down mosquitoes, but there were so many that would have been folly anyway) and best of all a huge, sparkling blue pool. Other than a Nigerian businessman I was the only one there. He also allowed me to see first-hand the oft-referred to African ‘big man’ syndrome. The way some of the locals were fawning over this guy was a little nauseating, but I’ve never been in a situation where I have needed to do that so I will refrain from making any judgement on this matter for the moment. They have some South African soapies here, which seem quite popular.I noticed too that even many of the poorer people in the big cities have satellite television; something that never fails to distress me, although I can’t quite put my finger on why. You may in fact have even seen Kilifi in the news recently if you’ve been following it closely – I wouldn’t blame you if you hadn’t though. That’s where the Kenyan parliamentarians went to discuss an aspect of some new constitutional draft, which seems to have caused much outrage – partly because they are apparently always swanning-off to coastal resorts to do what they are actually supposed to be doing anyway, and also because of the substance of the reforms themselves (though it’s still not clear to me what these actually are). Apparently there were clashes with police about this yesterday either in Mombasa or Nairobi, but of a quite minor nature. Anyway, the ride today was not quite as easy for some reason even though the distance was about the same (40miles) and the road quality not much different either. Incidentally, I managed to fix the bike PC again but when I reset it, it switched to miles – hence the aptness of the Bob Dylan lyrics. People’s reactions vary from person to person, and so I have begun greeting somewhat more selectively then before if only just to conserve some energy for myself… I took a few more stops today, including at the offices of the Sokoke Forest Reserve where I asked about camping and bird-watching. It is a little pricey for my liking: $10 just to enter the forest and $8/night for camping with no facilities whatsoever (all you get is ground!), so I am still thinking about whether to go on my way back. I did have a rather good lunch at the ‘cafeteria’ there of four largish chapattis (fast becoming my preferred source of carbohydrate) and a spinach-like leaf who’s name escaped me but is very much like South African morogo. The teenagers who served me thought I was absolutely nuts to have cycled from Mombasa, and even though I told them I was supposed to be going to South Africa I don’t think they would have believed me if they understood. That is the interesting thing. Although bicycles are very much a key source of transport here, it is primarily for short distances whether loaded or not. Until I realized this I had been somewhat surprised at people’s surprise… Despite having a guide-book I still ended-up with a barely budget option here in Malindi, but so long as it’s in budget I’m not going to get too uptight about scouring the town for cheap accommodation (which I did do for about 45minutes first). As it happened there was a cloud-burst just as I got all my stuff inside so in that sense my timing was good. Tomorrow is definitely going to be a rest day, since I’m already feeling quite tired and I have to suss-out the situation regarding the roads to Lamu, including a chat with the local police, before I decide whether to head-up there or explore the Malindi area prior to heading back down south Admin. - I know some people had trouble joining, and I have noticed that some people who joined apparently soon after I left only being added (via Google’s own systems) to the list now. So, if you have joined but are not getting the emails either: 1. Be patient, your call may be answered 2. Email me and I’ll sort it out. - Just to say again that neither the blog nor group are interactive so if you want to get hold of me you can ‘email the owner’ of the group, or rather just write to sean.muller@gmail.com My health has improved (long may it last) although naturally my muscles have taken something of a pounding – my biceps actually seem to have bruised from the exertion of lifting the loaded bike on the occasions when I have had to. Kwa heri (‘bye’/‘farewell’) for now

Death rattle

Twisting one way, then the other, it made no difference; all you could hear was a rasping wheeze. The taps in the Ramadan sounded their last death rattle as i waited expectantly, soapily, underneath the shower. The place was never up to much – well, at R25/night what can one expect? – but not having any water is still a significant deterioration from putting-up with cold water in dodgy showers, and even dodgier toilets which I had been prepared to do. Now I don’t even have any dodgy water to purify(my dad said I could, and he’s a water engineer so he better be right)! So this morning I took my first ‘African shower’ with a bucket of water – perfectly effective, hakuna matata (yes, it does really mean ‘no problem’). It’s more the general hand-washing, toilet-flushing hygiene that now takes so much effort it becomes really draining.

Fortunately I have made something of a recovery; my temperature is back down, nose unblocked and throat less agitated. I still feel like a rather resilient lump of jelly but that could be due to anything, from the heat to the Lariam. Jabari is also at the Ramadan – we share a common desire for cheap lodgings – and told me today that when he saw me two days ago he was wondering whether I would make it to Tanzania, never mind SA. In fact, with double-bags under my eyes, a week’s worth of stubble, feverish eyes and – what my grandfather once referred to as – a ‘lean, hungry look’ I think I am one of the dodgiest characters I have seen in Mombasa so far… Certainly more of an ‘mfungwa’ than a ‘fundi’ [see an earlier post].

Nevertheless, the loss of running water is the final straw. I have come to the conclusion that I have been caught in Mombasa’s sticky web and the more I struggle the more I become ensnared, never to escape. So I have two options: make one huge effort and get the hell out of here, or try and ease myself out over a couple of weeks. No guesses at which one I’m taking.

A few notes on culture

As you may know, or have gathered, the Kenyan coast is predominantly Muslim. This of course means that there are quite a few cultural differences over and above the more geographical ones. So here are a few things I have noted:

- People really do look down on you if you wear shorts (even – especially? – if you are 6’4), so I only wear full-length pants (with convenient zippers for the heat)

- Laundry services, at the Ramadan at least, do not extend to socks or underwear of men; DIY
- Chai (tea) is a big deal here, and I have won many friendly remarks and comments by prowling the streets with my silver, insulated camping mug to get tea after I have been shopping. (I have no problem playing the ‘wacky but amiable mzungu’ card to the fullest)

- Toilet habits. Toilet paper here, is not big. Instead there is a bucket of water and a jug. Me, I went to the supermarket and bought toilet paper – call me stubborn.

- Muslim society may be more ‘conservative’ in some ways, but perhaps not as much as people think. The imam mentioned the word ‘menopause’ (the only English word he used in fact) in his lecture the other day, which is more daring than anything I ever heard in my brief forced sojourns to church. And on that subject, contrary to what one might read in some places, the supermarket I go to has an entire shelf conspicuously devoted to tampons so there you go…

- Although the latest call to prayer has not finished much later than 7:30pm, the earliest has been at 4:30am…but my attitude is that it comes with the territory.

- Bicycles. Okay, this is more a Kenyan than a Muslim thing but it’s certainly falls under the broad scope of ‘culture’. First thing, I did get my bike in the end without any problems. It gets many admiring glances and although I found this rather disturbing at first – like when you see a greedy child eyeing your piece of chocolate cake – I think it has more positives than negatives. Just cycling from the train station I generally found that here cyclists get treated as if they have a right to be on the road – viva! – and there is some residual enthusiasm for a white guy on a bike. There a re also lots of bike ‘shops’ here, including the one where I bought myself a really cool “2 ¼’ Steel Dome Chromium Plated Bell” made by the Shanghai Bicycle Corporation for R7 – and which I have unfortunately had to mount upside down because of the little space on my handlebars.


Lastly, I dragged myself out of my room to do some real tourism and visit Fort Jesus, which both the Portuguese and Omani Arabs used at various times to control the region. It is quite impressive, with good views over the Old City of Mombasa and the other side of the estuary. There were ten-times more mzungus there than I have seen in the past four days in my part of the city. Speaking of which, I have taken exception to being called mzungu – no surprise actually, this goes back to nursery school – but perhaps I’ll address that issue another time. There were also some crows in the trees which seemed to be interspersing their ‘craaak’s with ‘Allaaah’s; but given my current state I wouldn’t put any money on it.

Looking at the maps of the coast at the Fort, Kilifi looks a long way away. Then again, Stellenbosch looks far from Cape Town. It’s all perspective. Mind over matter, mind over matter…. Or is that matter over mind? Whatever.