I thought at first that there had to be a circus in town, or maybe it was this year’s Mombasa-Male-Model Pageant. Within a minute of first seeing the sea soaking the Mombasa sand, Black Adonis appeared from nowhere, walking the beach and flexing his muscles (seemingly to himself). Then, nonchalantly launching himself onto his hands, he proceeded to execute an extended hand-walk past myself, Ruth and Hasua. On the opposite bank of the small inlet next to Pirate Beach there was another guy doing fake Kung Fu moves in the sand, occasionally falling over when attempting a particularly ambitious roundhouse kick. Then a Rasta with impressive dreadlocks came jogging past. Then another.
It was only when Ruth went for a little splash, and was casually approached by another Adonis wannabe, that I realized this was no warm up for any kind of competition. No, this was the warm up to finding a ‘john’, a customer. Bodies on show; I was witnessing the ritual of a male prostitution parade, in full swing.
Being my first time here, I only heard later that Mombasa is famed for its ‘beach boys’ – guys who look out for lone-travelling European (men and) women willing to spend their Euros for the privilege of attentive male ‘company’. Later on, I realized the full extent of this. I now know that Mombasa must be heaven for sex tourists of any persuasion. It really dawned on me as Ruth and I sat eating
mahamri (the Coast version of the
mandazi) at the small local restaurant. An obese German lady came walking past, her ‘company’ politely carrying her beach bag. She was smiiiiiiiiiiiiling and chatting to him in German. Note: the job of the Mombasa male
malaya is taken seriously. Quite a few of the guys speak more than a smattering of two or three European languages!
The Mombasa
malaya chicks, too, are not shy. It would have been obvious to anyone that I was in Mombasa with Ruth and was not ‘looking for company’, yet just about every young girl who passed me (whether Ruth was with me or not), ‘hit’ on me in some way or another. Some were blatantly open in their quest. Others, a bit more subtle. And over the next two days we saw one particular young thing at least three times as she trawled the high class beach hotels and bars. Pretty girls, no doubt, but in another country one might land up with a statutory rape charge if you were to take things beyond a casual drink or two. Some of the girls are well dressed in casual chic: quality beach attire, slipslops and good sunglasses. Others, however, are as out of place as an Angel in Nairobi (see earlier blog, “Kwa Malaya na Malaika”) … Like the 30-something Luo chick that got hold of the mzungu in the room next door. At ten in the morning she emerged in a TIGHT, purple, one-piece mini-skirt number, with stockings (!), and pendant earrings that would have been the main attraction at a Coronation Ball (if they weren’t fake). Shrieking for support, her stilettos sank suddenly into the sand.
We came to Mombasa on an overnight bus. At 800 bob (R80 at the current exchange rate) it’s value that’s hard to beat for a 800km journey. You can get super-luxury bussing at 1000 bob, but for a night journey the aircon isn’t really necessary. The T.S.S. service is good and we made excellent time on the occasionally rutted road. The driver, a strikingly handsome Coastarian Swahili, chewed miraa voraciously throughout the journey, as did his flight engineer, seated just next to me. They were both miraa chewers of the silent variety (see earlier blog, “Miraa miraa on the Floor”) and not a word passed between them during the eight hours we were on the road. Only once did I hear the flight engineer’s voice when he said
“twende” (let’s go) at the driver’s request for an assessment of oncoming traffic as we pulled out of our only refreshment stop.
Much of the land mass between Nairobi and Mombasa comprises the Tsavo National Park and aside from one small town (Voi), the road is almost entirely bushveld. Unlike in Nairobi, where the only form of wildlife is the White Elephant, the bus headlights regularly caught the form of zebra and wildebeest grazing at the side of the road (we had the front-most seats on the bus, next to the driver). Just after crossing a small bridge near Voi, we briefly caught sight of a baby hippo with its ass just skimming the roadside. I guess Tsavo doesn’t have much of a perimeter fence …
I’m told the road to Mombasa is a lot better than it was. As in Nairobi, the Chinese are doing their thing for African development - in exchange for massive tracts of land and trade concessions! Kenya’s roads are indeed getting better. But at an exorbitant price not yet realized! A story for another time perhaps …
The most striking non-wildlife feature of the nocturnal journey was the number of truck stops along the way, and their respective populations. Literally hundreds of trucks line the roads at night and I would seriously hate to drive the Mombasa road on an ordinary weekday! Most of the road is single-lane in both directions and the delays caused by the huge, lumbering form of the container truck must be hard to handle. The style of driving is, however, very polite and considerate in contrast to the Place of Clear Waters (sic), Nairobi.
The bus got into Mombasa early, just as the sun was rising. By time we had alighted, men (mainly) were emerging from the small mosque next to the bus stop, wearing the loose-fitting male version of the kanga (the ‘leso’), and the ornately decorated Muslim head-dress (the ‘kofir’). It was around 6.30am when I called Hasua and woke her, asking where we should go to find the hotel she had got for us. Sleepily, and with her usual verbal exuberance, she said “I will come”, and promptly hung up.
Waiting for Hasua’s imminent arrival, Ruth and I enjoyed a Swahili breakfast of
mahamri,
chapatti, and
chai. Unlike the
mandazi you get in Nairobi, which tends to be a little doughy and ‘tough’ at times, the
mahamri at the bus station restaurant were entirely different. Puffed up like a quarter-size Italian calzone, and with a thin layer of crisp dough making up each side of the ball, it was delicately spiced with what, I don’t know. But the
chai (read ‘spiced tea’) was perhaps the best cup I have tasted. Not just spiced with
‘tangawizi’ (ginger), there seemed to be traces of cardamom and other things infused within. It was genuinely delicious, and refreshing, as the morning started already to heat up.
Opposite us sat the perfunctory ‘village moaner’, bitching about this and that, in Arabic, as the staff around him chuckled at his interminable banter. Soon he was joined by a few others – perhaps just from mosque – and breakfast began. They, too, ate
mahamri and
chapatti. One of them started an early-morning meat feast consisting of beef strips with whole chilies spilling over the sides of his plate. Conversation in Arabic was brisk and loud. Contributions were from all over the floor.
Other than Ruth, and what was obviously another Kenyan ‘visitor’ to Mombasa, there were no other women in the place. We had obviously found ourselves in a largely male preserve. Everyone had ‘shinyface’ (of humidity, not miraa). We were there for a half hour when Hasua appeared, looking strikingly beautiful in the black abaya of the modest Muslim woman. She joined us for a quick cup of chai and within minutes we three were safe in a three-wheeler
tuk-tuk, journeying up the north coast.
To The Big Tree on Pirate Beach.
It was still very early for the regular staff to make an appearance. So we took our time and sat at the
makuti (palm frond) bar on the sand. It must have been a spring high tide because the beach was about a metre wide and the water almost lapped the wall of the bar where we sat. By six that evening the water was so far out that boats were stranded on the sand, 700m or more from the distant water. But at 7am, it was hot already. The sun burnt and the water was as warm as a baby’s bath. Little flat-bottomed boats were anchored everywhere, bearing British, Italian and Australian flags next to the Kenya counterpart. On the beach, small stands were being erected for the display of swimming costumes (for hire) and for rubber tubing of various sizes, with which to float if you do not know how to swim (which is common in Kenya).
Doing a short jog on the beach was a young woman, obviously Kenyan and professional looking, with a bag that looked like it was actually genuine leather (but I could be wrong). After doing two lengths of a 50m jog, she stopped her extreme workout and entered the water, wading out to where the small swell was just forming. To her left, some 400m away, a guy was swimming lazily across the shoreline. About ten minutes later, he got to where she was. A brief conversation ensued and after a minute or two it looked like they were having quite a lot of fun together. I smiled, as only an mzungu in a strange land can; knowingly.
When the day staff arrived, we checked in, paid our KSH5000 (R500) for two nights stay and enjoyed a small rest from the bus journey. The hotel ‘room’ comprised one half of a large beach bungalow, situated about 50m from the beach. The room itself was huge and the bathroom similarly so. With a high ceiling, and suitably tiled, the fanned room was cool respite from the already-searing heat outside. There was no ‘hot’ water, but quickly I noted that a hot shower in Mombasa would be ridiculous to even contemplate. The water from the shower was like the water from the sea … tepid (and similarly salty!).
During our first day, we didn’t do much. We lazed on the beach and at the
makuti bar. We chatted to young female
malaya and watched the passing parade of young male
malaya (obviously prohibited from plying their trade on-premises). We ate at the small restaurant up the road and listened to the Kiswahili spoken as it is at Coast (way different from Nairobi Kiswahili). And just about everywhere guys were chewing miraa.
In the early evening we went with Hasua to a bar called Cheers (with signage 'borrowed' from the set of Kirstie Allie’s sitcom of the same name) where we chewed a little miraa and watched young Coastarians playing pool and eating
nyama choma. Later that night we went to a huge nightclub on the north coast road called Bomba. A sprawling place with thatched roof and no sidewalls, it is obviously a popular meeting place for Coastarians of all persuasions. With a huge dance floor, great sound and lighting, it gave me a definite feel of what is known locally as
“Mombasa Raha” (Mombasa Fun). But after a grueling day of sun and seawater, we were tired and left around 1am. Hasua, being the
devout Muslim that she is, gravitated towards the bar. Word has it that she emerged at sunrise.
On Day 2, we woke to a stunning sunrise permeating through a haze that disguised the intensity of the rays. Needless to say, I got myself a little pink-faced and by 11am I knew I had been fooled by nature into thinking the radiation was not all that damaging. By lunchtime, even Ruth’s skin was showing a clear tan line (difficult for someone of part-Sudanese descent!). We decided to take it easy with the exposure and took up Hasua’s offer of a guided tour of Mombasa.
Well, it was not so much a tour of Mombasa as a tour of Mombasa’s more exclusive spots. And they are plenty. From the estuary where the restaurant patrons were all red-faced wazungu, to a glimpse of the grounds of the Mombasa Serena, looking like it was dressed for the remake of a Tarzan movie. I would have preferred a more ‘local’ insight into Mombasa but I guess this type of sightseeing is what most people of lighter skin prefer.
Coming from the heart of Niali (where the Serena is situated) we ate lunch at a ‘local’ Swahili diner situated behind the incessant row of
mitumba (second-hand) shoe and clothing stalls and tourist stalls. Business at the diner was bustling and for 200 bob (R20) we all ate! I chose the
pilau rice – a Swahili speciality - consisting of spiced rice, sprinkled with strips of beef, and accompanied by ‘soup’ (read ‘gravy’) on the side. Ruth ate the same while Hasua ate chicken pieces and samoosas.
From here, onwards downtown.
The Portuguese built Fort Jesus in the mid 16th Century. This, of course, after the Arabs from Oman had been trading with the people of Mombasa for a few hundred years already! The Fort overlooks the entrance to Mombasa’s harbour and provides a very good vantage point from which to spot the Huns as they arrive. The Huns have been vanquished but meantime Fort Jesus itself has been invaded by tour-touts who give you the ‘guided experience’, whether you want it or not. Twice I had to quite forcefully tell the (obviously non-Coastarian) tour guides that I didn’t actually WANT the tour and REALLY preferred showing myself around; I was quite capable of reading the information about Fort Jesus posted on the walls (which they were reciting back, badly). Any question I posed – before getting thoroughly pissed off – got a stock response that did not actually answer my query. It’s a small Fort. The visit did not take long.
From the open promenade at the Fort’s entrance, you get a glimpse of what Mombasa once was. The Old Town peeks at you from around a corner. While Hasua’s nephew was yet to return from showing off the car he was driving for the day, we took the opportunity to explore Old Town,
kidogo tu (just a little). It is quite special and very – nay, extremely – reminiscent of the older, Malay parts of Cape Town. The same architecture, the same people, the same street life. The only difference is perhaps that the drug trade is not so apparent here as in Cape Town (although heroin addiction IS taking a major toll in Mombasa). The first building you come to has been the subject of a preservation battle for some time and features the most amazing carved Swahili door that must be, like, 400 years old! As you pass, the people of Old Town are warm and friendly, and not at all concerned by the presence of strangers in their special enclave. It is a lived-in part of town. It’s not a museum. But it is clearly quite special.
The last stop for the day was the Florida nightclub. Obviously, it was not ‘open’ but I had heard about it … Like Bomba, it is also ‘open-plan’,
sans outside walls. Like Fort Jesus, it faces the water and also looks onto the entrance of the port. I didn’t witness it just then but I believe when ships come into port it is quite something to see – the looming bulk of a cargo or passenger carrier, passing a few hundred metres from the dance floor!
By time I was done seeing the club we were exhausted from the travel and the high levels of thermonuclear radiation. We went back to the hotel. Ruth and I planned to go for a drink at the
makuti bar later in the evening but, as sun and seawater would have it, we passed out until the morning. We woke to another spectacular sunrise and a tide that was hundreds of meters out. There wasn’t a lot of time before needing to get on the bus back to Nairobi. We ate coconut each on the beach, took a warm bath in the sea, and then a slightly cooler shower, and packed for departure.
Back at the bus station we found a bustling cameo of life in Mombasa.
Tuk-tuks everywhere. Swahili women, out and about, laughing and having fun, selling coconuts,
mitumba, and just about anything that one can purchase. Hawkers selling
maji baridi (cold water) to passengers through the window of the bus. Kids riding bicycles on the busy streets. This is the Mombasa I would like to see more of. Maybe, just maybe, I will be able to spend a little more time in the ‘real’ Mombasa in a future not too far away.
But, hey, the beach was great. I have sorely missed splashing around in the sea. The Mombasa experience was enlightening and I really needed the break. I want to see more of Mombasa. And next time, maybe I’ll even go up the coast a little, to Malindi, where the
malaya speak more Italian than Kiswahili and where the
mahamri don’t just look like calzone, they are!
Until next time.
Amani na mapenzi,
B-)
