Mombasa
KENYA
It's a Port Town
By AARON
Friday, February 25, 2011
During our travels, Lyndi and I have had the pleasure of staying in many a “port town” along our travels: La Ceiba, Bluefields, Punta Arenas, Guayaquil, etc.; and our general consensus is this – port towns suck. With the exception of Cartagena, Colombia, port towns seem to attract
the seediest of the seedy – the salty sailors on leave, the dock workers whistling at you while you walk by, the prostitutes, and the overall permeation of some sort of dirt and grime that clings to the streets and back alleys
Enter Mombasa.
Arriving in Nairobi on our overnight flight from Cairo on Egypt Air, Lyndi and I were taken via taxi from the airport to the bus area, where many a bus with painted insignias like “Simba (Lion painted on)”, “Modernbus (New-wave streaky lines painted on)” and “TSS Express (“TSS Express” painted on the side. Way to be daring and inventive TSS)” wait and vie for your golden ticket to the magical east coast town of mystery.
Seeing as it was 5am in one of the most dangerous capital cities in Eastern Africa, we quickly decided on “Modern Bus”, and despite the gigolo-style clothing our ticket-seller/bus-pimp wore, we ended up being quite pleased and after 8 hours we found ourselves in the port town that dreams are made of.
After a long flight and layover from Rome, and an 8 hour bus ride, we decided to stay for 2 nights and spend a full day in Mombasa before heading north to our main destination on the Swahili Coast- Lamu. So with backpacks on backs, we trudged through the traffic of cars and tuk-tuk’s on the street (only to be usurped by the traffic of people on the sidewalks) and went in search of a hostel. After we were turned down at our 3rd hotel, we started to wonder: What is so popular about this town? Why are all the rooms sold out? Who would even want to stay in this town voluntarily?
We were then rescued by “New London House”, which in no way was “New” or “London”. Nope, this place was actually run by a Muslim guy (which the majority of the town is Muslim, due to the Arab culture arriving in Eastern Africa millenia ago for trade), who for the low price of $10USD gave us a room with its own private bathroom. Closely resembling the rooms on Khao San Road in Bangkok as Lyndi described to me, we reminded ourselves that it was only for two nights, took a long needed shower with the cockroaches, and decided to head out and get at beer.
Even harder than finding a place to stay was finding a place that had beer. Again, being a largely Muslim community, beer or any alcohol at that is a rare commodity and hard to find. We eventually found a place thanks to the Lonely Planet and grabbed a tuk-tuk to Bella Vista, which seems to stand as its own separate island, different from the rest of the city.
Hip-hop music seemed to drown out the gargling chants coming from all the mosques in the city, and traditional Muslim garb was replaced with jeans and t-shirts. Even though the food and beers were a bit pricey, Lyndi and I felt as if we deserved this treat and stayed for a couple of beers before heading back and calling it a night.
The next morning we decided to see why all the hotel rooms supposedly had no space. We started at the supermarket and got a few items on our list, and then headed to Old Town, where there is a Portuguese fort that you can visit, and a couple of streets that are apparently quite interesting. After walking around a bit, we found ourselves in Old Town, and also found the other tourists. Most likely en route to Lamu as well, we all bided our time in this town by slowly walking from shop to shop, while receiving and replying in the universal African/Swahili/Gringo greeting of “Jambo!” with the locals.
Lyndi, very excited to visit the local fort since there’s stuff to read and it concerns history, had her dreams dashed like the numerous bugs on our “Modern Bus” windshield when she found out that entrance was going to cost around $12USD. Per person. For a fort. A small fort at that. So cameras in hand and disheartened, we trudged down the street, and decided to lift our spirits by visiting the local spice market!
Sadly though, it turned out to just be a market, with about 2 stands that actually sold spice and definitely catered to tourists as we were “escorted” through the 10 stall area by an “expert” who assured us that because he was Muslim, he could not lie and therefore had to give us the local price. I couldn’t help but laugh inside as each price he told us received snickers and grins from the locals all around. We were, however, astounded at his local knowledge as he showed us such rare Mombasa commodities as “cinnamon”, and “tomatoes”, and something that resembled an onion. Wait, it was an onion.
I would like to also extend a personal “thank you” to our helper Mohammed, who also navigated us through the square letting us know to “take a left here”, and “now take a left here”. Without him, I may have made a fatal mistake, and taken a right and ran unswervingly into a stand selling tomatoes, onions and cinnamon.
Overwhelmed by our in-depth cultural experience, we bid our spice market sage adieu, apologizing for not giving him any money for his “tour”, and decided that we needed a nap.
But not before I was solicited by a prostitute 2 feet from the entrance to our hotel. Yep, what port town would be complete without its local supply of pros? After our nap, Lyndi and I headed in search of another pub, and were quite surprised when we found a bar below a hotel that offered beer and 80s videos on the TV. Again, existing as its own private nirvana amongst streets riddled with traffic and grime and local vendors yelling “kuja kuja, ohhhh kuja kuja” (Swahili for ‘come here’) we were awarded our little bit of succor in this bar while on the outside, Mombasa, the epicenter of awesomeness, went on unaware.
As we woke up the next morning at 7am and departed on TSS Express to Lamu (Lyndi will tell the tales of their role in sucky buses) I reflected on the past 36 hours spent in this town of mystery and wonder. Was it the traffic and overwhelming hordes of people I would miss most? Or maybe one day I would find myself missing the ever present loudspeakers, blaring from every mosque with the sweet sound of someone seemingly making up a song as he went along. I also thought about Mohammed in the spice market, and if we would have still been lost had it not been for his GPS-like sense of direction.
Farewell navigator of the markets. Farewell prostitutes outside of our hotel. And farewell port towns, until our paths meet again, as I’m sure they will.
