Jared and Dianne

I have a deep love for night buses, its like a nights accomodation and a bus ticket in one but when the holes in the road make it resemble a giant cheese grater its not so much fun. Luckily the rough road only extended for just over an hour so for the most part I got some decent sleep.

After collecting our thoughts and finding a central hotel we walked to Fort Jesus. Centuries old and made primarily from coral it is an imposing monument built along the Mombassan coast line. We bought the guide book which filled us in on the rich history of the building and its features. The sizzling Mombassan heat was draining but the character of Fort Jesus implored us to spend at least an hour or two within its walls.

We picked up some soft drinks from the vendor outside and sat with a couple of locals whilst we drank them. One of them was an avid Man. U. supporter who I tried to wind up. His friends caught on to what I was doing and had a little laugh.

Just outside Fort Jesus was the old town, we began to walk through but it was pale in comparison to the rich character of Zanzibar Town. In the end we found an air conditioned internet cafe where we passed an hour. I ate some typical Swahili food for lunch and then walked back to the room where we wanted to grab somethings. Instead we grabbed three hours of sleep. When we finally dragged ourselves out of bed we went and bought some bus tickets to Lamu. Lacking any energy we sat on the roof of our hotel for the rest of the night; drinking and eating.

Having learnt a lot about short trip matatu fares over the past few days the voyage from the lake to Naivasha town cost one fifth of what we had paid in the opposite direction. Before jumping onto a Nairobi bound matatu we walked around town and took care of a few small things in the process.

Nairobi's reputation preceded itself so I decided to familiarise myself with our map of Nairobi before we arrived. Back in Naivasha we had made the decision to stay out in the suburb of Karen, primarily because I was asked to visit Karen Blixen's house by my uncle Bob, who as a 50 something, blokey, Australian farmer has an unhealthy obsession with "Out of Africa". The buses to Karen left from the opposite side of the city to where we arrived so we passed through the heart of the city on our way there. In the middle I felt like I was, for the first time since arriving in Africa 4 months earlier, in a developed city. The streets were clean, the buildings modern, there were pedestrian walkways and all varieties of luxury facilities. Despite having come to Africa because it was so different from Australia we were drawn in by one of the many cafes that appeared to be popular with the city's middle class.

After lunch we finished crossing the CBD and found a bus with a printed sign reading "Karen" in the window. We passed the Nairobi National Park before disembarking at my request about 1km too early. We walked down the wrong road for way too long before being turned away by a security at the gates of the university we had accidentally walked to. Jumping to my own defence only half the roads were actually marked on the map. I was tired and hot but after a little dummy spit and some soothing words from Dianne (these came after her first ones which where critical and precipitated my cranky crack) we walked back to the main road. This was the moment where we became familiar with the pimped out Nairobi matatu scene. The windows are tinted darker than Guinness but once the doors open you fall straight down the rabbit hole. The seats, roof and most other surfaces are covered chesterfield style, bling is draped from anything capable of hanging a chain, the sound system seems capable of making the car bounce and there is at least one TV screening DVDs of hip hop film clips. Even if you can understand the language you can't hear the conductor. Our "ghetto" ride dropped us at the Karen shopping centre where European chains like Mango gave away the fact that we had entered the wealthy, expat dominated part of the country.

It looked like a good sized walk to get to our chosen camp site but due to minimal public transport it was that or a taxi. The direct route was not marked on our map but we were sure that the two roads that looked like they came together off the map would do so. A couple of kilometres later we found that they didn't, well not that we could see. By the time that we got back to the shopping centre we had already walked close to double figures with our packs and opted for the first unnecessary taxi ride of our trip. The book had noted that the camp site was in a quite area but where we were dropped was the back of beyond not to mention expensive, so after all that we had been through to get there we left straight after knocking back an ice cold coke.

We where relatively near Karen Blixen's house so we lugged our bags for another few kilometres until we got there. We were met by an entry five times what we had expected so we didn't go inside but to see the grounds was free so I took a few photos for my uncle. For those that have seen Out of Africa it is weird to see this house in the outskirts of the capital city, her then acreage is now a suburb in its own right.

We caught a city bus from Karen Blixen's old driveway back to the main road. I shouldn't have been so surprised to see that even the local bus had a DVD player. After two more short hops we arrived at a more agreeable camp site. We pitched the tent, cleaned ourselves up, grabbed a beer and put on our best jeans and flip flops. After relaxing for a while and playing with the resident cats we took some matatus to a restaurant called "Carnivore". A fancy looking place renowned for serving mounds of meat and not much else. According to the guide book it had been voted into the top fifty restaurants in the world a few times in years gone. Unfortunately the real draw of the restaurant, exotic game meats, were off the menu. Still I ate no less than ten varieties of carne including ostrich and crocodile. In the middle of the table was a triple decker lazy susan which was burdened with a variety of small salads and a different sauce for each meat. By the time we had left I was bursting at the seams. It was a long walk back to the main road with me stopping every 50 metres to crouch down and hold back my vomit, at least I got more value from my dinner than Di. We made it back to camp just after 9pm, which, due to safety concerns we had been told was the cut-off time for walking and taking public transport.

The next morning we made our way to the main gates of Nairobi National Park. We had hoped to hitch a ride with some self-driven tourists but there were scarcely any in Kenya and certainly none where we were. We didn´t take long to abandon the idea. Instead we opted to return on a Sunday when there was a free bus. As a subsitutute we visited the Nature Walk which was actually a poor zoo. We were shown around by an intern who seemed to know less than the signs and took the tour at her speed, not ours. The enclosures were shitty but there were some pretty unique animals inside including pigmy hippos, albino zebras and a white rhino. The guide was curt and a hinderance on our visit. We had probably not even finished half the circuit when she started to bring up money and tell us how rich we were. Despite all of this we gave her a tip which equates to half a days wages for a lot of Kenyans. She was dissapointed and angry, we felt confused and awkward. She looked like she may cry but not knowing what to do we walked away. Despite her show of emotion my guilt was running low, she was going to college, well fed and better dressed than the over 95% of Kenyans.

We caught the most bouncing matatu yet into downtown Nairobi. After booking some tickets for a night bus to Mombassa we dropped off our bags and lapped up civilisation.

We asked the matatu driver how much it would cost to Eldoret. We laughed out loud when he responed 400 each. That was what we had expected to pay for 2. Three-fifty he asked, a little unsure. When we refused again he asked us how much we wanted to pay. 400 for two. He was taken a back. He started to go through the spiel about fuel prices, maintenance etc. Not interested we started to unload our bags. Eventually he conceded to 250. Still not accepting another driver came over and repeated the spiel about rising prices (inflation is around 12% in Kenya). Eventually we agreed and took our place in the van. I asked the guy in fron how much it should cost, he replied 300. I was amazed that two mzungus had actually managed to get a discount on a matatu. He started collecting money on the way and we paid him the full 300.

When we reached the intersection with route 104, the main highway that runs across Western Kenya, we were transfered to another matatu which drove us all the way to Eldoret. On our way there we saw our first reminder of the post election violence. A sprawling refugee camp on the side of the road. It contained thousands of tents, each bearing the symbol of the Red Cross. The occupants had been living in these makeshift (albeit well-organised) camps for months already. Most of their homes had been burnt to the ground and many of their family members had been murdered by their own neighbours.

We were contemplating staying the night in Eldoret until we reached its suburbs. It was unappealing from the get-go. Because it was the centre of the post-election violence or for other reasons it had a depressing feel the moment we passed the welcome sign. Not wanting to judge a book by its cover I was still willing to give it ago until we reached the matatu stand. Within 2 minutes of unloading someone had already attempted to steal our bags and pick my pockets. We could still achieve what we wanted to in town and get away without spending a night. All we had come for was the cheese factory that rated a mention in the Lonely Planet. Before we even reached the gates the smell was overpowering. I even considered giving it a miss, but we had detoured just to come here. Inside there was a small retail distribution window with a menu stuck beside it. We had only eaten cheese once or twice since coming to Africa so we ordered Brie and Cheddar. He laughed when we asked for the Brie, we somewhat ambitiously substituted it with Camembert, he laughed again. Eventually we found a couple of cheeses they did have, both tasted like cheddar. We produced some money to pay but instead we were given a piece of paper which had our order and the prices written out in full. We took this to another window where a lady wrote two A4 page receipts, each with a carbon copy. We paid her then took these reeipts back to the original window and received the goods. The process was ludicrous but at least we had our cheese. In the order we had also included some ice cream. Sitting on our bags we ate it in the middle of the driveway. It was so good they I went back to order more, casting aside my guilt about the three over-sized receipts that would be written out for a 75 cent item.

Having studied the layout of the taxi stand on arrival we managed to avoid most of the touts and thieves on our way to the correct vehicle. Bound for Nakuru it filled up quickly.

Nakuru was a strong contrast to Eldoret, in our eyes anyway. More developed, more friendly but most noticeably; more at ease. There were several safe looking drinking venues around and loads of restaurants that promised to serve dishes other than chicken and chips dripping with oil. We found a hotel with a rooftop that overlooked Lake Nakuru National Park. The park is known for having a solid rhino population but is even more renowned for the hundreds of thousands of flamingos that live in the lake. I remembered seeing a documentary when I was a kid and we had come to Nakuru in the hope that this was the place. The view the top of the hotel may have been misleading but I couldn't see that many flamingos, coupled with the park fees we chose not to visit.

Nakuru was on the way to our next stop, Naivasha but we didn't want to pass through without doing anything. We hired a taxi to take us to the top of a crater just out of town. From the crater rim we could see down to the very bottom of the caldera. The floor was covered in shrubs, the only vegetation which could grow in the rocky, sulpher infused ground. It was the epitome of the great Rift Valley. There was a viewing platform that offered no real advantage but we climbed it just because it was there. The taxi driver told us he was afraid of it because of the height, I climbed down after only a few seconds at the top because it shook like a maraca in the hands of a Spaniard.

We were dropped at the taxi stand in town. We caught the next matatu heading for Nakuru but paid to go only as far as Lake Elementeita. We had packed the cheese and some crackers near the top of the bag to make it easy for a quick lunch stopover. Also known to host several hundred flamingos but without the entry fee it seemed worthy of at least a one hour break. We called the driver to stop near the lake shore but as is often common he assumed we didn't know what we were talking about. We asked him to stop a couple of times but they just continued on. Resigned to miss out I sunk back into bus mode just before the driver pulled over. He gestured towards the sign reading Lake Elementeita Lodge. With minimal words we told him that we had wanted to stop back there. Not 2km from the lake at the drive way to some overpriced lodge. He drove on to Naivasha and we never paid the difference in fares.

Naivasha town was as described in the book. An agricultural backwater. We paid some scammers too much for our tickets out to the Lakeside. The campsite we chose was called Fisherman's. It was set up brilliantly, there were acres of soft grass to camp on and a massive restaurant/communal area for relaxing. An electric fence designed to stop hippos stretched along the front of the perimeter. Like everywhere else we had been in Kenya it was void of tourists. Fortunately for most of the people in the area the main source of incoming is the flower growing industry that hogs the available waterfront, not tourism.

Happy to have grass under our feet and the tent set up for more than a couple of nights we kicked back in the restaurant with our cheese and biscuits. We added some homemade pickles and a bottle of wine which we bought from the establishment to complete the extravagance. Including a couple of beers and our dinners the bill turned out a whopper.

The guy that had checked us in asked if we were interested in doing some rock climbing in Hells' Gate National Park. Neither of us had climbed since Thailand and the thought appealed greatly. The price was reasonable so we put down a deposit. My knee had been causing me problem over the past couple of days so we elected to climb in two days time.

We were told that the climbing and our riding tour of the park was possible in one day so that left us with a day of nothing, not that we were concerned in such a beautiful area. The monkeys that clambered through the trees around the grounds couldn't keep us amused all day and our pockets couldn't maintain eating at the campground all the time either. The nearest town wasn't far away so we made tracks for that. To our surprise there was an internet cafe. It was too early for lunch so I blogged for about an hour. A couple of doors down was a local eatery. No surprises they served only ugali, chips and chicken. At least it was cheap.

We had just started walking home when the heavens opened up. We took refuge in the internet cafe. Seeing that we weren't doing anything, the attendant asked if I would teach a student how to use the computer. Why not, I sat down for an hour and taught him the most basic computer skills possible. When his lesson was over the youth in charge of the internet cafe asked if would like to go back to his house. With no reason to say no we took a matatu to his house 10 minutes later. He paid for our fares but i insisted on paying him back. His name was Francis, he lived with his family in the KenGen compound. A group of houses provided for employees by the sole generator of Kenya's electricity. A couple of times we had been into people's houses before. As often as not they were awkward occasions. Poor English and/or a hint towards sponsorship usually made things uncomfortable. This visit was not the same. His father was a chemical engineer at the nearby geothermal plant and his mother was trained in computers. They were both very well spoken. It was particularly refreshing to speak to an East African woman who was so well rounded and not in the physical sense as most of them are. We were served some food and spared the usual repetitive banter. After eating we were shown around the outside of the house. The family grew all of there own vegetables and even some fruit. There was not a patch of wasted ground. The pride of their yard was the apple tree. In Kenya apples are the most expensive fruit and are almost impossible to grow. After our tour we were forced to say good bye when the light started to fade and the clouds which had cleared earlier rolled in again. Of course we still didn't get away for nearly half an hour as we hadn't allowed for the mandatory swapping of email addresses and taking of photos with every different permutation of visitors and family members.

That night Francis called at dinner to check that we had made it home ok and again at 11 to say he was going to bed. The early warning signs of another African stalker.

Our guide came to meet us right on time in the morning. A welcome sign of professionalism considering we were going to be in their hands on the rock face. We collected our bikes from the front gate and rode off towards the park. It was no more than 7km to the gates. When we got there we were met with some unexpected park fees for our guide and the bikes but they weren't too bad. We had to hang around for near an hour because our other guide had forgotten to bring one of the ropes and it turned out that he was bikeless.

Our climbing destination was a pillar called fischers tower. It is 45 metres tall and looks like a giant cubist sculpture. Every face of the columns is made up of flat edges that mould togethor to form a surface that resembles the fuselage of a stealth bomber.

The first climb we did took us only half way up the tower. It was pretty easy which was good for a warm up. On the Australian scale it would have been around a 14. Next the other guide man who we had realised was the real climbing instructor lead a route up to the top. After he had summited I climbed up behind him and collected his cams. In parts the climb mutated into a small chimney and for the rest it was open faced. At the top I was given a safety line so I could drop the rope back down to Di. While she prepared herself I took advantage of my position to take in the 360 degree panorama. The park was broken into two levels. The canyon which we were in and the surrounding high lands. The canyon varied in depth between 70 and 300 metres. The vertical walls were a beautiful dark red and dominated 90 percent f the horizon. The floor of the canyon was coloured brown by the dust and dead grass. I thought I could make out a few antelope in the distance but I couldn'e be sure. When Di began to climb my focus shifted to her. I knew she was competent enough to climb the route as long as she didn't let herself worry about the tricky overhang that jutted out around half way up. Amiably she pushed past it and reahced the top with gasping lungs. Our guide asked if we wanted to climb the more difficult route which looked more like a slab climb that anything else. I hooked into the rope and was lowered down the new route. Unlike the previous climbs this one was void of any cracks or jugs. Luckily my shoes were a good fit because this one was all about the feet. I followed the folds of a chimney all the way to the top. It would probably only rate a 19 in Australia but I was acutely aware of my dwindling strength when I came out puffing at the top. Dianne elected to miss the third climb despite my encouraging her to give it a go. I was asked if I wanted to climb the 70m, two pitch face nearby. I was tempted but it was going to cost extra, it would also have meant being caught in the afternoon rains and the grade looked a little too easy to be worthwhile so I decided against it.

We were both lowered to the bottom before our guide abseiled his way down. As we ate our packed lunch at the base of the tower we were met by a courageous rock hyrax. Clearly habitutated to people the cute little critter slowly drew up the courage to take the food that was offered to him straight from our guide's hands. When we had finished up we said farewell to the rock clibing guide and were left with just our middle man. We took to the slightly sandy roads on our bikes. The park is known to contain cheetas, leopards and hyenas but according to our guide they are rarely seen. Instead we encountered antelopes, warthogs and giraffes on our way to Hell's Gate gorge.

Once we had reached the mouth of the gorge we took a short break. A rare African entrepreneur had set up a drinks stand, who, via Dianne made a fair profit on a bottle of coke. The sky near the horizon was darkening so we didn't dwell to long. We walked the final few metres to the canyon and dropped down inside. It was only few metres wide but the walls rose up to 20m at points. The floor dropped one or two metres quite reguarly making it impassable to the older group of tourists who had to follow the path. An old pipe which used to carry fresh water to a nearby Maaii camp had rusted in the sulphuric water was left exposed and served to destroy the ambience somewhat. Along the way there were many streams of wtaer which trickled dow the canyon walls. Some were cool water and others were too hot to leave your hand in. The hot ones were easy to identify as they created the right environment to support algae, which in hot water's presence clung to the walls and floor.

The canyon continued on for a long way, right down to some thermal hot springs at the bottom. Very appealing in a Canadian hot spring they weren't so appealing in the middle of an African dry spell. We climbed out one of the few exit points of the canyon after spending about 20 minutes inside. We looked back down from the top but were encouraged on by the first drops of rain. for us the first drops were the also the last until late in the afternoon. We returned home following the same route we had arrived on.

It would have been easy to push for Nairobi the same day but that was far from our minds. One more day in this serentiy before pushing on towards the city with one of the worst reputations in all of Africa seemed sensible.

There wasn't much left we could do in Mbale. The ATM wasn't going to suddenly accept our cards and Commonwealth Bank wasn't going to start helping. Keen to get moving again we went to the bank and changed over the money we had reserved for Kenyan visas. We paid off our hotel bill and caught a matatu to Tororo. There we tried the ATMs again. Waiting in line was more suspenseful than a horror movie screening. I had actually been hopeful but like all great thrillers the build up was just a ploy, we left empty handed.

Using the Internet, we found the number for Visa. Di called them up and discovered something called Emergency Cash, essentially a money transfer from your own account but Visa takes care of the details. It was an expensive procedure but unavoidable. We sent ourselves just enough money to get into Kenya. The transfer was probably instantaneous but we took a lunch break to give it time to come through. We collected our payout from the nearest bank and caught a matatu to Busia, the border town.

The rain came down thick and heavy for the last 10 minutes of the journey. Our bags were on the roof, without their waterproof covers. When we arrived in Busia I jumped straight on top of the van and grabbed the bags down but they were already wet halfway through. The street turned from dirt to a river in minutes. We took a break in a cafe and waited for the rain to ease.

It was after five when we showed ourselves again. As we walked to the border we were accosted by dozens of money exchangers. Like usual we changed money with the street guys as they offer a better rate. We changed the little money we had over and crossed the border. We piled into a matatu bound for Kisumu at the other side. When I went to pay for the matatu I realised I had been fleeced. The money changers had made things a little confusing and in the process they'd changed a couple of 1000 shilling notes for 100s. I was pissed that someone had taken us for the last of our money but more annoyed at myself for falling for it, it's not exactly a new trick.

A man that had already been getting on my nerves, harassing us and calling us Americans for a gag continued to bait me. I let him carry on despite my desire to wring his little neck. One thing he said stuck by me for the next few days: "What this country needs is another major uprising". He was referring to the post election violence. I wondered if things were really back to normal or did he express the views of other citizens, after all many of the other passengers had just laughed when he said this.

It was around 9pm when we arrived at the Kisumu bus station. Doing our best to avoid the touts we found a tuk-tuk that gave us a fair price. During the negotiations he had been fixed on a higher price. We said, with seriousness that we were going to walk then. He dropped his price and we left. On the way to a possible hotel he asked why we were going to walk, we could be robbed. I said at this point we have nothing to lose. When he said except your life I realised that we were going to have to be more cautious in Kenya. The first hotel we tried was full and the second beyond our means. We could see two more from where we stood. They weren't far so we decided to walk. The first of these was also full but the security guard accompanied us to the other one, they had a vacancy.

In the morning, dreading the prospect of another money transfer we walked to the ATM with our fingers crossed. I typed in my PIN and waited, a few seconds later the joyous sound of flap, flap, flap came from the internal money counter. The transaction was approved and we were back in business.

Nothing was really keeping us in Kisumu but being Kenya's third largest city we couldn't pass straight through. We walked the streets aimlessly. The riches of Kenya, or their mirage anyway, were present in nearly every aspect of the city. The streets were well paved, the roundabout landscaped and the people well dressed. When lunch time came around we strolled down to the lake front where numerous restaurants resided inside open, shed like structures. Each of them sold exactly the same thing for the same price. Freshly cooked tilapia straight from the lake. Ignoring the pleas of other shop owners we went into the first door. The atmosphere inside was really enjoyable. I had ugali (a maize based staple), spinach and fish stew (with a whole fish). For entertainment we watched the local car and truck wash. People drove into the lake via a slippery, muddy track, had their cars washed in dirty lake water and drove away no cleaner than when they arrived.

I had really enjoyed my lunch in Kisumu but there wasn't much else to keep us there. Without much ado we caught a matatu to Kakamega. A dusty little town renowned for not much at all, we used it simply as a launching pad for Kakamega Forest. One thing that did set Kakamega apart was the friendliness of the people; they were helpful and even more remarkably they weren't pushy. When we were walking the streets in search of a hotel I got my first glimpse at the other side of Kenya. There were as many street kids in this little town as I had seen in all of Uganda. They were drinking a thick, brown liquid from 150ml bottles. I assumed it to be cheap alcohol until I saw one fill his from the litter ladened gutter. It was a pitiful sight. I am not sure why but there were no girls amongst them. I wondered if their fate was better or worse.

Kakamega was void of entertainment and healthy food. We tried to back up our photos but like everywhere else we had been before, we were limited to old computers without USB 2.0. The fluctuations of the transfer timer suggested that the process would take between 23 and 143 hours.

The hotel staffed moved us to another bedroom in the morning. They maintained it was much better but I couldn't see a difference. Not wanting to offend we moved anyway. I could hear some unsettled chickens outside the door so I went to investigate. There was a pile of about 50 chickens and a man brandishing a knife. Systematically he severed their heads and dropped them into a large bucket whilst the others watched on. It was no surprise really, the front to our hotel was a chicken shop. I couldn't help but feel a little for the chickens who knew their fate but were powerless to stop it. Regardless I probably ate one later.

We hoped to finish our walks in the forest by the time the afternoon rains came so we got away pretty early. A matatu dropped us no more than 1km from the park gates. The entry fee was a hefty 20 USD, it turns out even forests in Kenya are under control of the park authorities. We began walking down the main road reading the signs that marked the walking paths that peeled off here and there. We stopped to check out some particularly playful velvet and colobus monkeys.

We came to a major junction in the road, left to the waterfalls and right to the lookout hill. According to our map it was possible to do a circuit which incorporated both. At around 10km this suited us fine. We took the left hand path. Rather than cutting through the lushness of the forest it skirted around the outside. We passed by the rangers' station and continued in the direction of the waterfalls. As the signs had dried up and we had not taken a step under the canopy of trees for a couple of kilometres we assumed ourselves to be lost. We asked a couple of farmers how to get to the falls. In perfect English they described the route we needed to take, we had been going the right direction all along. The falls were no more than a creek washing over a 1m drop but the way the light shone into the water was beautiful enough to compensate.

None of the trails were marked on our map, well not accurately anyway so we took the most major looking option. We followed the creek down a little valley for more than a couple of hours. We were considering turning back when we came across another path that was not marked on our map. At least it was going in the right direction. It took us to a major road which no doubt lead back towards the gate. Regardless of the route it took the road was exposed and dusty. We returned to the start of a path we had encountered just a few hundred metres back. We followed that for another hour or so through semi-forested grounds until the path disintegrated into a series of mud bogs. Taking any which pointed in roughly the right direction we eventually came back out near the falls. Di was tired and I wasn't far behind so when the opportunity to visit the hill lookout arose we passed it up. Back at the main gate we stole a glance at the maps that they had for sale. We could see exactly where we had been. It hadn't been a long walk, around 15km but the state of some of the tracks amplified that figure in our heads. We had beaten the rain. A matatu picked us up before the skies even threatened to unleash.

Tired of wasting nights away I convinced Di that we should go out for a drink. We went to a little drinking hole across the road and ordered a couple of beverages. Immediately I regretted being there. We were the only clients in the whole place that didn't have glassed over eyes and Di was the only female who wasn't a hooker. I couldn't even finish my horrible black concoction passed off as Guinness. We made a quick retreat and decided to avoid such places in the future.