Traveling North

It was an arduous journey that seemed to span several days. As the bus bounced along the dirt roads north of Malindi, taking on armed security as we creeped closer towards the Somali border, my bum was crammed into the aisle on an upturned Coca Cola crate, the space between the seats either side of me marginally smaller than my seemingly child-bearing hips.

But several hours later, the masses poured out of the bus, and into the boats that ferry visitors over to the main island of Lamu, in the eponymous archipelago. Engine oil is washing about our feet as the lush green mangrove islands sit on the calm edge of the Indian Ocean.

And there began a whole new pace of life. Not a single car runs on the island - donkeys being the only form of transport, aside from the bare-feet that ply the cobbled streets.

Far from the madding crowd.

Old Town Mombasa

Whilst Congowea market has a distinctly African flavour, Mombasa’s old-town is something different. There is a much more arab flavour to East Africa’s port, with the Swahili culture adding a very nice twist, particularly whilst enjoying a coffee in a little café tucked away in the back-streets.

Walking the streets at dusk during Ramadan, people prepare to break the day’s fast with their Iftar meal. An echo of France—a painted wall advertising “Épices + Thé + Café”—reminds me of last year during Ramadan, when I was walking the outskirts of Paris in a very Maghreb neighbourhood, en route to the climbing wall in Pantin. Things have changed.

Mombasa Markets

African markets are a far cry from the Middle Eastern souqs I have been accustomed to. They’re so, um, green. Sukumawiki a go-go.

Mombasa

It’s been nearly five months since I last saw the sea up in Alexandria, the Mediterranean joining the Middle East to Europe. Mombasa is the gateway to East Africa, from the Arab peninsula, India and the Far East; the Indian Ocean lapping the Swahili coast, which itself is a fusion of Africa, Arab traders and India.

South of Mombasa, the Likona ferry tirelessly carries passengers from the island to the mainland. Crossing the bridge to the north, beaches form the shoreline, where swathes of Kenyans bathe in the ocean. I was there with a Kenyan friend, who was keen to go in the sea, but joined the masses around us in venturing out only with the aid of a “floater” - a giant black rubber ring. Many of these people, living right on the coast, cannot swim. I join a costaud Kenyan guy in trying to teach them, struggling to remember how I learned as a child.

The Overnighter to Mombasa

Pulling out of Nairobi night had already descended and so as the train skirted around the Nairobi National Park, we, the passengers, were oblivious to it as we supped on bottles of Tusker.

Woken at dawn to the sound of the coach-master ringing the breakfast bell, acacia trees and the occasional baobab tree floated past the window in the savannah of the Tsavo National Park, small huts occasionally dotting the horizon.

As we approached the Swahili coast, people started to appear by the sides of the tracks, waving at the train that passes through their lands every other day. Passengers were leaning out of the windows watching the landscape unfold. The waves then turned to up-turned hands, asking for money — ”twenty shillings” — or food, as the train slowly crept past villages. Children running alongside the carriages, chasing the train, or their hopes of a little subsistence.

Arriving into Mombasa, the humidity hits, as men were eager to ply their trade, pulling hand-drawn carts to discharge the train.