A funny blog

Hi all-- I needed to share this... its an incredible blog to sum up my experience...

Crater Lake and Mount Longonot

After my day at Hell’s Gate, I decided to spend the next day exploring around Lake Naivasha, specifically, Green Crater Lake. The bike ride was a hefty 19 km one way and my butt was sore from the gravel roads of Hell’s Gate. Compiled with the lack of pressure in the bicycle’s tires made the 19 kms a bit more difficult.  When the hills became too much of a challenge, I simply walked the bike—I was on vacation!

I love getting up early in the morning when the world is just waking up. I pedaled up and down hills, through small Kenyan villages that all looked the same. Perhaps the highlight of the Crater Lake trip was when I reached a small valley with lots of private game ranches. There, again, as I pedaled along the road were the usual warthogs, impalas, and three friendly giraffes accustomed to humans and vehicles. They didn’t even flinch as I rode by, minding their own leaf-eating business.

I stopped at a small village in the valley to buy a cold soda. I asked for one at a small stand and to my surprise, the dreaded woman at the counter replied, “50 bob.”

“Not thirty?” I asked. (This is the standard price for soda all over the country.)

I knew that she was swindling me. I had on my huge red Osprey backpack on and, well, I was white. I had tourist written all over me.

“Naijua thelathini bob,” (I know it is 30 bob), I said to her, but paid anyway. I gave her a cold stare… I was hoping ot make her feel guilty. I decided to leave a quarter of the soda as an off-handed insult. I guess my reasoning was: 1.) I can afford the extra 20 cents 2.) It is an insult to leave something given to you and 3.) either she had to pour out the soda or drink it to return the glass bottle. I don’t know if any of this worked, but from her confused look on her face after I left, at least I made her think.

Right after the soda break, the beautifully paved roads made way to bumpy dirt roads. To my right the lake stood, and as I looked down to it, I saw that the shore was inhabited by many bright pink boats. I looked again—flamingoes. Hundreds upon hundreds of them.

As I continued on my journey to Crater Lake, (after briefly stopping to admire the flamingoes), and found my way to the gate of the park. I used some finagling to prove that I was a resident of Malindi (my camera with pictures of me teaching) and it actually worked this time!

The lake itself wasn’t too remarkable. With all the rain that we had the past few days the lake was a muddy brown and not green as advertised. I decided to hike around it, as there was a trail around the rim of the crater. The woman at the reception desk stated to simply follow the white trail markers.

I really, really tried to follow instructions. The markers were few and far between. There were so many different trails (made my cattle, buffalo, or zebras?) that one minute I was walking along the ridge and the next I was in the valley beside the lake, looking up at the ridges where I was supposed to be. For some reason, I thought that walking on ridge would keep me safer from wild animals. What if I ran into some aquatic poisonous snake or worse—lions?! As this thought entered my brain, I see through the bush—an animal, brownish and strong. I thought I saw a feline-like tail. (Of course, there are no lions in these parts, but imagination is a dangerous thing.) The animal scurried into the bush before I could a better look.

I bushwhacked on those weird trails as far as I could. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the main compound which contained the restaurant, reception, and bandas. I climped up a hill through unknown (perhaps rash-inducing) fauna to the rim’s edge. After some rock scrambling, I found my way to reception, thankfully getting on my bike and driving back to camp.

That night, as I was watching a soccer match over dinner, the owner of the place explained excitedly that there were five hippos grazing on the water’s edge. Excitedly, I grabbed my camera and made my way down to the electric fence that separated us from the enormous beasts. Slowly, the great grey bodies meandered languidly along the edge, chowing on blades of grass. It was incredible to be so close to such colossal creatures. Although I tried snapping a few shots, the flash was unable to reach them… but it will be a memory that I will always remember.

The next morning I woke up exceptionally early to climb Mount Longonot, a dormant volcano about 30 km away. I returned my bicycle and boarded a matatu for a small village just south of Naivasha. There, I negotiated with a motorbike driver to ride me to the park’s entrance.

The ride out there was spectacular. Approaching the mountain through savanna plain as the day was just beginning was incredible. The air was cold—the driver had a wool hat underneath his helmet and I was really thankful that I had brought my jacket along. Villagers waved as we passed, the sun peaked through the clouds, and dew glistened off the small acacia bushes. We continued on back roads until we reached a metal gate with a guard. It was hardly the National Park that I was hoping for. We soon found out that we had reached private ranch land and that we couldn’t pass—without a price.

Luckily, the driver knew that he was in the wrong (not asking me to pay) and he negotiated with the gateman.  Within minutes, I was at the gate to Mt. Longonot National Park.

Keeping all of my cultural experiences in mind and all of the adventures that I have had in Kenya thus far, I would have to say that climbing this mountain was the best day that I have had in Kenya.  The hike up was something gorgeous—about 8 sandy km up to a tree-laden crater, and then another 11 undulating kms around the rim of the crater. Finally on my own, I felt a sense of independence that I haven’t felt working or being in Kenya. Constrained by a strict school and always waiting for others, I was finally comfortable enough to truly be on my own and navigate this country (and probably other foreign countries, for that matter). As I reached the top of the highest peak of the rim and marveled at the 360 degrees around to the lake, surrounding foothills and villages, I was ecstatic that I had planned this trip in my April vacation. The altitude (over 8,000 feet) was tough on me and I was out of breath more than I expected, but I love the feeling I get at the top of a mountain, perspiring but at peace, cars as ants and world affairs busily happening below.

I descended quickly. The whole trip took only about 4 hours and I humped back to the main road, after a quick stop at a cold drinks spot. Within no time, I had boarded a matatu and was back to Naivaisha to catch another bus down to camp. As soon as we reached town, the rain came quickly and intensely.  Underneath the veranda of a shoe store is where I got into an argument with a local.

To any tourist traveling in Kenya, you understand the annoyance of anyone who has anything for you.  If I am walking in town, without a doubt I will be interrogated by someone trying to sell something— always just a friendly conversation at first and then the incessant pedaling of a trinket or service. I have been offered everything from a ride in a tuk-tuk, a Massai’s wooden club to a ‘good time’ with a prostitute (all in broad daylight, mind you).

As soon as I de-matatued, there were a half dozen people trying to get me to board a motorbike, another matatu, and so forth. I needed to put some calories back in my system, and was looking for a place recommended by The Rough Guide as a good spot for some nyama choma (beef fry), a Kenyan specialty. One service that always seems to happen is that you ask where to go, someone offers to take you to your destination, and then they just want some money for a coke.

As the rain began pouring, I sought refuge in a shoe store and after I finished browsing, made my way out to the veranda to wait for the rain to slow. Here, I was approached by a dozen Kenyans asking where I was going. I kindly explained that I didn’t need any help, just a point in the right direction. A man, with terribly brown teeth (this is very common here), and a baseball cap kept trying to get me on the back of his motorcycle. Hungry and exhausted, I kept saying no. He insisted over and over and over again. He was an annoying old man not making any case for himself.

“I SAID NO, BWANA. THE CONVERSATION IS OVER. STOP TALKING TO ME. I AM FROM HERE. IF I WANTED YOUR HELP, I WOULD HAVE ASKED YOU.”

I try to be a good ambassador to the United States, but its a two way street. It's difficult when people see white and consequentially,  green. People looked at me and at him. Some people started laughing. He kept rambling. In any other circumstance, I would have just walked away, but it was raining so I simply ignored him. After the incident, I found my restaurant, ate, and back down to camp I went.

After I showered, I went to the restaurant to spend the rest of my day reading a book. As I was reading, I heard a familiar accent—Americans! I made small talk with two women my age—Leah and Ashley—both from the Bay area. They were working at a school outside of Nanyuki as a program manager and public relations interns, respectively.  They were on a mini-vacation around the area. It was such a relief to meet some expats… finally!  We talked and grabbed dinner together, and it was decided that I would spend the weekend with them in Nanyuki.  As I said to them, I’m just a leaf in the stream… and how good it felt!

Until next time,

Adam

Lake Naivasha and Hell's Gate

As I stated in a previous post, my past two weeks have been a huge highlight to my life in Kenya. I decided that I would take my 3 week April break and spend a portion of it ‘up country,’ in Nairobi and surrounding cities. I left my home in Malindi for about twenty days, soaking up new cultural experiences and making some great friends along the way. Instead of writing one long blog entry about my experience as a whole, I’ve decided to split up my experiences into smaller portions.  These will read more like journal entries than polished stories, but I hope you enjoy them just them same. Here is an entry about my favorite place in Kenya thus far, Lake Naivaisha.

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My trip from Nairobi to Naivasha was virtually painless—other than my pack crushing against my knees in the matatu. I sat next to a Muslim policeman and had the window seat—thank God. Matatus have become my main form of transportation. I feel a sense of adventure every time I board a matatu… and luckily, they are so inexpensive that I can have that feeling just about anytime that I want. The 2.5 hour trip cost me about 3 dollars.

Getting out of Nairobi proved to be the most time-consuming part of the journey. In a two lane street, four cars easily tried to get through, causing an enormous bottleneck. A truck parked to unload and a hot, hellish standstill ensued. Nairobi is infamous for its traffic and I had the privilege to witness it first hand. When we out into the city proper, it was smooth sailing.

I wish that I could say that I took in all of the beautiful sights of the Rift Valley, but I woke up to a down pouring of rain on the window, hugging my pack. We had reached Naivaisha town, a typical dirty hamlet with its nyama choma (beef fry) joints (literally skin cows hanging in the windows) and motorcycle drivers trying to take advantage of the next mzungu.  I eventually boarded another matatu, (giving the motorcycle drivers the excuse that I didn’t want to get wet on their bikes) and headed to a place called Fisherman’s Camp, where I planned to camp out for the night before hitting Hell’s Gate National Park.

I absolutely fell in love with Fisherman’s Camp-- a wide expansive campsite right on the beautiful lake, with hot showers, exquisite views, beautiful birds, and really wonderful western food. (I am salivating about their bacon-avocado burger right now.) I thought that I would only stay for a night or two, but I ended up staying for six. They had football (soccer) playing on a big screen television and the owner, Sean, was exceedingly hospitable.

I had bought a small, cheap tent in Nairobi to supplement my trip. Initially, I was very concerned about the quality of the tent. Like seemingly everything in Kenya the tent was manufactured in China. Perhaps the comedy within all of this was that the tent advertised that it could fit three people in it.  If a man were an inch taller than I am and sleeping in the tent, he would need to sleep diagonally.  A maximum of two people would be able to sleep in the tent, and they would be thin people at that. In my head, I had the image of the Seinfeld episode where the Asian people are sleeping in Kramer’s chest of drawers—perhaps three of them would have been able to fit in this tent.

Surprisingly, the tent did a decent job at keeping water out of it. Rainy season is upon us, so it rained everyday… and a sleeping bag was definitely needed (unlike the coast where it is so hot and humid!) The weather was about as perfect as you could come by—hot in the day and cool at night.

In the morning, I woke up early to get a jump on the animals at Hell’s Gate. I had rented a bicycle the night before and rode the five kilometers to the gate. After unsuccessfully attempting to persuade the ranger that I was a resident of Malindi (not a citizen, there are even cheaper rates for that), I paid the tourist entry fee and pedaled into the park.

Words (mine, at that) really don’t do the park justice. Pictures do a better job, but still aren’t adequate.  It was incredibly beautiful. The landscapes blew my mind. It reminded me a bit of Colorado and the American southwest (from what I remember in our family’s trip out west in second grade).  When I entered the park, I thought that I saw some children playing wildly at the Visitor’s Center. On closer investigation, the children transformed into baboons.  I couldn’t believe how human-like (and undeterred) these baboons were.

I was the first and seemingly only person in the park.  Most national parks here you need to drive a car in order to be safe from the animals, but in Hell’s Gate, they encouraged visitors to walk or ride a bike. About three kilometers in from gate, I saw small mammals in the distance—warthogs! Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I snapped as many pictures that I could of the far away animal. Little did I know that those warthogs proved to be the key to the Pandora’s box of African wildlife.  For the next hour or two, I encountered creatures that I’ve only seen in National Geographic: zebras, gazelles, dik-diks, impalas (with their spiral horns!), antelope, buffalo. When I witnessed my first giraffe, I was overcome with awe. To see—and hear—it run, was simply majestic. The landscape, too, was breathtaking. I discovered that artists from the Lion King used the park as their setting template.

I pedaled to what was called the Gorge, an incredible natural canyon chiseled out by sulfuric water. The geothermal springs here are active and the streams are the temperature of bathwater—simply awesome.

On my way back to the gate, I decided to take an 11 km detour through Buffalo Circuit. What I failed to realize was it was about 8 km straight up a mountain. In the middle of the Kenyan day, where the sun is directly overhead, it proved to be exhausting. The dirt road didn’t make it much easier, either. Through the combination of walking and pedaling, I made it to the top.  To the southeast, there was a gorgeous view of Mt. Longonot and the surrounding area.

Descending the mountain proved to be worth the climb: at one point, I descended rapidly to surprise a herd of grazing zebra. As they heard me, the began galloping and I rode right alongside them for what seemed like a ten yards or so— the grace and beauty of these wild horses is something that I will remember for as long as I live.

Until next time,

Adam

Nairobi Commode-tion

In high school, one of my most memorable “achievements’” had been my role in the musical version of the Wizard of Oz: Uncle Henry, a minor principal character and a stoic Kansas farmer. In my own mind, my acting coach—Ms. Milner—possessed glaring similarities with my character. Brusque, curt, and straightforward, Ms. Milner explained to me the ways in which I needed to compose my body to pull off a hardened cultivator. Her one and only piece of advice that I actually recall was to “pretend that a quarter dollar is placed in between your butt cheeks” to represent the posture of a rigid sexagenarian. For weeks leading up to the performance, my glutes were clenched tightly, seemingly suffocating our first president in a mephitic abyss. Never did I think that this skill would could in handy again, but it did, almost a decade later in Nairobi.

Earlier this month I was asked to come to Nairobi to help orient the new Fulbright ETA. The orientation went without a hitch and Naeemah and I get along great. The ‘hitch’ though, occurred within the accommodations where I stayed for two nights: our sister school in Nairobi, on a foam mattress on the floor.

It all started on the first of this month, April Fool’s Day and Abubakar’s birthday. I told him that I would take him out anywhere that he wished for his birthday and to my glorious surprise, he chose Pizza Inn, an Americanesqe fast food pizza joint. I gorged myself on a delicious pie. My first taste of American food sent me on a voracious downward spiral of gluttony. I paid for it tenfold.

At around 5AM, I was sprinting to the bathroom with those omnipresent Kenyan stomach rumblings that have defined my experience in Africa. The only difference this time, though, was that I was not in the comfort of my own seatless toilet, but in a Muslim school.

Coastal Kenyan Muslims withhold traditions of their prophet with zeal. Men dye their beards a bright red, dogs cannot be pets, women dancing with men is forbidden, etc. These traditions are difficult to comprehend in a western, Christian mind. The most aghast I have been about tradition involves bathroom etiquette.  One night in Mombassa, Abubakar explained this to me as the end-all be-all, no other way. Below is a paraphrased conversation:

“So, you don’t use toilet paper at all?”

“No—see, it’s unpure. Water is pure.”

“How do you get water in there? How do you clean it?”

“We use our left hand.”

“Without toilet paper first?”

“Toilet paper is unpure. Water is the universal cleanser. You can tell by the color and smell of your hand if everything is clean.”

“But you don’t use toilet paper FIRST?!””

Abubakar also explained that using toilet paper doesn’t always clean everything—that it does an unfit job in disinfecting. The only issue, is, that soap (antibacterial or otherwise) is often nonexistent in Kenyan bathrooms… so water has to do—even after the initial cleansing. After hearing this, I made certain to never let anyone come close to me with their left hand. Ever.

All of this knowledge did not aid me in my current situation.  It did not help either that Kenya toilets are more or less the in-ground pools of toilets. They flush, but there are no seats and one must squat the entire time.

I won’t actually go into much further detail about the actual ‘number two’ process’ but the events that surrounded it seem to be a microcosm of my experience here in Kenya so far: uncomfortable with a side of education.

There was no light—let alone light bulb—in the bathroom. One of my most appreciated features of my Nokia brick phone is that it is a “mulika mwizi,” literally translating to “illuminate the thief.” It has a small flashlight on it that has come in handy numerous occasions. This was one of those times.

In the dim light of my phone’s flashlight, shadows of mosquitoes danced intermittently on the concrete floor and I feared the epicenter of oncoming malaria would occur on terribly vulnerable body parts. I needed to make certain that this was a ‘one and done’ sort of affair, as the impending event would surely be very unpleasant: the southpaw sanitization.

Next to the toilet laid a spigot and a pitcher, both used to assist you in this task. I filled the pitcher with my right hand and tried to pour a little down my backside. After a few futile attempts, I decided to employ Ms. Milner’s advice, clenching to the shower for a thorough, full body wash. One main obstacle stood in my way—deciphering how to flush the commode. At first, it seemed simple and straightforward.  Above the toilet was a large steel tank with a chain lever. I pulled on the chain. Nothing happened. Okay, just fill up the tank with water, I told myself. The tank, though, stood about six and a half feet off the ground and I was still pinching that quarter dollar. The mental image that you have now is probably too much, so I’ll spare you details about my precarious position.

I filled up the tank cautiously, one hand lifting the very heavy steel lid, the other pouring a pitcher of water into the tank. My first attempted proved fruitless—not enough aqua. I tried again, filling the tank with more water. As the last drops drained from the pitcher, my grip on the heavy, awkward lid slipped. There was a large crash (enough to wake up everyone in the school) and then, a Christmas miracle in April: water began spewing into the toilet.

Whispering but audible I exclaimed, “I did it! I made it flush!” I may have broken the lever with my slip of hand, but it didn’t matter… I was home free to the shower. Or so I thought.

I turned on the shower and to my pleasant surprise, the water was warm, something I hadn’t experienced in months. Within 30 seconds, though, the water could make any lobster turn red. There was no fine control of the temperature here—the heater is either on or off. Scalding, I turned the water off. In some backwards logic, I discovered that if the water came out in a steady piss-like stream (akin to the shower in 1225 White Street, Ann Arbor), it would be cold.  It didn’t make any sense to me—like so many things in Kenya—but at least I could bath myself.  I cleaned all that was necessary and was thankful that this experience was over.

On the Long Trail, I didn’t mind using outhouses. Other than the spider webs, it was a nice way to start the morning. This experience, though, is one that I could have done without. As all of you sit on your plush porcelain seats, having the ability to flush on command, be thankful you’re not in Kenya.

Signing off,

Adam

Blog Slacking

Hey all,

Just wanted to let you all know that I have been backpacking all around central Kenya and haven't touched a computer for a few weeks... I have lots of adventures written in my journal and will post them soon! Hope everything is going well-- GO PENS!

-Adam, Hoss, J, etc. etc.