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