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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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-)
