Fake Plastic Trees

There is a strange tree in the middle of the Masai Mara. It looms on a hill top as you approach the Mara River, spiky, pine-like in its lonesomeness, its branches jutting like the fletching of an arrow fired at the heart of the earth. It is an alien thing, unlike every other tree on the plain and it draws the eye like a cynosure.

It's also clearly made of plastic.

I say clearly - it took me a few seconds to process the fakery, possibly because it's so unexpected. Moses helpfully pointed out that it was a disguised mobile phone mast, but we would have worked that out for ourselves as we passed close by, the branches giving off a plasticky sort of glow on the sporadic sunshine.

Fortunately this was the only part of the day that reminded me of my Windsor Safari Park delusion. This time the sun shone (most of the time), we got to walk about (under armed guard) and even crossed the border into Tanzania (very briefly).

Speaking of which, I always thought it was pronounced TAN-z'-NEE-a. Not according to the locals, who call it Tan-ZAN-ya. I checked this out when I got home. I visited my local news agent and told him I'd been to Kenya. "Really?" he said. "I grew up in TanZANya!".

You learn something new every year.

The day started positively with another sighting of the gorgeous cheetah family. They're definitely my favourites, and the gang were incredibly lucky to find them sunning themselves on a grassy knoll only a few feet from a track. Throughout the trip was I was amazed at the complete lack of reaction from the animals as a motor vehicle full of gawping monkeys pulls up only yards away. They must have worked out long ago that monkeys in a box pose neither a danger nor an opportunity for a three course meal. You can't eat them, they don't eat you, and hopefully you can't have sex with them. Presumably in savannah speak that means the monkeys in a box aren't really there at all.   

Quick! Monkeys in a box, hide our faces!

We gazed happily at the fluffy family of lightning death for a while before heading off through a green sea with bouncing Thomson's Gazelles replacing dolphins scattering around our ship's prow. So far we had been a bit disappointed with our rhinos (sadly never quite resolved) and lions, who had decided to impersonate ostriches (also missing so far) and stick their heads in the ground whenever we passed. Our first glimpse of that most sought after commodity - "Lion Face" (TM) - was found after our first detour from the previous day's track, as we trundled over the hills and far away, and spotted a pride lounging about under a tree.

Of course, none of these we helpful enough to to give us any Lion Face either, but a lone young male, perhaps banished further out from the shade of the tree for some sort of adolescent offence, was gracious enough to raise his head to the level of the grass tips as he sulkily watched his pride mates at rest.

As usual he wasn't at all interested in the monkeys in a box, but his precarious social position appeared to make him more restive and alert than the comfortable inactivity of his female pride mates. His mane - if it could be called that - appeared short and ruffled, as if he's been experimenting with Bed Head. Eventually we left him, hopeful that we would eventually get a closer look at the King of Beasts. Shortly afterwards we would pass a lone female, similarly concealed at grass tip level. It wasn't looking good.

After a trip through elephant country we had another budget safari moment. Moses dropped us off at a little airstrip. At first this was for a toilet break - the strip had one of the few toilet stops in the Mara. After the safari crew had taken advantage of the facilities, Moses showed absolutely no inclination to get the monkeys back in the box. After a while, when pressed, he admitted that we were actually awaiting another crew member arriving by plane, but of course that plane would be arriving in five minutes. We settled down for a long wait.

Six five-minutes later, Conor joined us. Conor was an African specialist with one of the biggest NGOs of all, and had tacked on a cheap safari during a visit to another part of the continent. Having flown into the Mara on a very nice looking plane he may have been slightly surprised to find himself bouncing about in the back of Moses' Monkey Box, and probably more than disappointed by the fact that the abundance of animals that had greeted us in the early hours had now melted away to be replaced by endless sightings of Warthogs. A few elephants did deign to flap in the distance, and Magnuss' Marvellous Magnifier did pick up some far away Ostrich action, but otherwise Conor had to pin his hopes on happy hippos at the waterside.

The border with TanZANya is marked with a small obelisk advertising TK Max. There is an utterly futile sign suggesting that it is a bad thing to climb on the stone, so obviously everyone climbs on it. I'm not even sure it really marks the border, since I had been told that the Sand River marks the border, and the stone is in a muddy patch in the middle of a field that whilst a touch damp shares very few attributes with your average river. So I don't know if I've taken a short walk into TanZANya or not. I'll try not to let it bother me.

The Mara River flows into Kenya from Tanzania before making its windy way to Lake Victoria. At drier times of the year it is a magnet for the thirsty wildlife of the Masai Mara and Serengeti, but for us in our rainy paradise it was just a chance to see hippopotamuses and crocodiles. Just to really annoy us, all the Monkey Boxes arrive and congregate on one side of the river. The hippos, being much smarter than us, have worked out they they will get better uninterrupted yawning time if they stay on the other bank. The crocs, possibly not needing to eat for several months after gorging on bits of Wildebeest several weeks before, sent a lone delegate to show they were interested, but she, too, sat on the far bank, pretending to be a twig.

With an air of hopefulness we agreed to claim the services of a Park Warden. The services of this Warden would eventually cost us 200KSH each. These value for money services were:

• trying to persuade Mario to become his Italian pen pal
• tell us he liked talking a lot
• talking a lot
• telling us he liked jokes
• telling jokes
• not funny ones
• taking us to places where there weren't any animals
• asking for $25 whilst holding a gun

We took a risk and paid him on 2,000KSH. He didn't shoot us. On the other hand, at one point were were only a few hundred yards from where we'd spotted some lions, so his gunly presence was reassuring, if slightly irritating, and it was a delight to get out of the Monkey Box for a while and get the backs of our necks properly sunburned at last. The highlight of the trek was probably a camera shy dung beetle who flew away as soon as we tried to film it. Needless to say we had to spot that for ourselves. 

After feeding the Carnivorous Sparrows (who were very keen on the left-over chicken) at the Wardens' hut, and chasing a red headed lizard into a bush, we were hoping to get a treat from Moses who'd promised us a close up of lions if - and this was the crucial bit - there were no other Monkey Boxes around. The park rules are quite stringent. The following day Moses would get fined for driving up a grass verge trying (in vain)  to get a good look at leopards - one of the other drivers took his number and reported him. So, 4WD or not, trundling over the grassy verges to get proximal peek at predators was full of risk for him. Sure enough, as we reached the lions they were being gawped at by a succession of minivans. We stopped, whisked out various forms of magnification, and then forlornly headed back past the Fake Plastic Tree. 

To cheer us up, Lauro whipped out his iPhone and flicked through the contents until he found what he was looking for. For the next 5 minutes we were all entertained with a sing-a-long version of Hakuna Matata from The Lion King. What the local animals thought of the Box of Singing Monkeys rocking down the track we will never know, nor if the warthogs were confused by the cries of "Pumba!!" that accompanied a sighting for the rest of the day. 

The adrenaline highlight of the day was probably Moses' Stig impersonation as he tried to drive us past a pod of Monkey Boxes that had got bogged down in the Masai mud. I'm hoping the footage appears on YouTube eventually, especially the moment where two unsuspecting minivan drivers who'd been having a sly fag emerged from behind a vehicle to see Moses hurtling towards them, spraying mud like sparks form his chariot's wheels. But we weren't quite done on the wildlife front. The mud was keeping the other minivans off our tail, so when Moses spotted another splash of beige against the baize, he fulfilled his promise and drove down a small hill to pull up a few metres away from a couple of recumbent lionesses. At first they were both intend on tussock nuzzling like every other lion in the Masai, but a rather naughty open-and-close trick on the driver's door soon caught their attention, and gave an uncomfortable reminder that while the animals might have worked out that they can't eat Monkey Boxes, they know they can eat the soft delicious centres if the shell is breached.

So Conor at last got to see something more exciting than a warthog, and we finally got over the frustration of slightly lions.

Less convincing, it must be said, were the Masai Villagers that the tourist trail inevitably led us to that night.The village lies within striking distance of one of the park's main gates, and offers short tours to Safari-goers in return for $15. The very fact that it works on such a commercial basis makes it slightly questionable value for money. They all start off very friendly, though Mario felt the traditional jumping dance, or adumu,  was done a little half-heartedly. They also warned off a village drunk who was trying to promote his new invention, The Random Bulbous Wooden Thing, from harrassing us, so we felt pretty safe from hawking. We got a chance to see the many creative uses of car tyres (a cross-Kenyan feature), including a cattle trough and many pairs of sandals,  and got to see various stages of the building of a traditional home. All the while though, the activity of the village seemed to have stopped, and large groups of masai women and children would hang around staring calmly at us.

Once you had progressed through the various stages of housing until you got to sit in a finished one (stick your head in a bag for a few minutes to recreate the general experience), the whole thing changed. The reason that, despite the fact that they get countless tourists every week, the women had been staring is that they were about to play their role in the whole affair. Whereas the Science Museum might usher you to Exit Through The Gift Shop, here the Gift Shop gets up and chases you all over its village. Several members of the group left clutching unconvincing jewellery that they confessed they had no use for. Previously friendly masai men tried to turn on the guilt trip. Given they'd just made $75 from us all for a 20 minute tour, forcing us to buy a plastic crocodile tooth seemed a little much.

They wear tartan, but don't expect any shortbread.

To give them some credit, however, the reason for that is that the $15 dollars per head fee goes to a very specific home: nomads they may be, but this village had decided to invest in something very important - a school.

This, weirdly, was the highlight. Not the traditional dress or the mud-walled houses or the tyre shoes. A little primary school full of wooden benches and hope. Multi-lingual writing covered the walls, along with the usual children's paintings of sheep, though these ones were less fluffy and more muddy. We met one of the teachers, a hugely enthusiastic woman who was clearly glowing with pride as she talked. It was the evening, so obviously the kids were back at the village plotting to sell brightly coloured string to tourists, but it was clearly an endeavour that was worth every $15 they get. So go, have a look, give them your money. The tour may not be worth it, but the outcome certainly is.

Oh, and wear boots. That's a lot of sheep shit.

The upside to our camp was mostly the red wine. The beds were damp and I'm told that at three in the morning some other tourists turned up and started talking loudly in the tent next door for about an hour. I didn't hear a thing.

Safari, So good?

I'm used to epic amounts of jetlag. Trips to South East Asia and Oceania have turned my sleep cycles inside out on many occasions, the worst time my very first experience in Sri Lanka where not only did I not know what day it was but would have struggled to tell anyone my name.

Kenya, therefore, was a bit of a stroll in the national park in comparison. But three hours is three hours, and if you're trying to get ready for 8 o'clock, the fact that your body is wrong to think that it's 5 o'clock is only useful for people who like to say 'I told you so' to their own corporeal form.

As it was, being a few minutes late for Nickson and his driver would turn out to be so astonishingly insignificant it makes me laugh to recall that I was bothered by it.

Adventure Panorama Safaris

What follows is an account, not a review. If, however, by reading it you get a decent idea of what Kenyan budget safaris are like, I may have done you a favour - either way.

Nickson's punctuality was impressive. I'd nipped to the local Nakumatt supermarket for drinking water, expecting lateness (Nairobi traffic being what it is) but he was waiting for me when I returned. I apologised, without realising that this was the last time anything would happen, or anyone would turn up, on time in Kenya for the next two weeks.  He introduced me to Moses, my driver, who - suspiciously - had "Jocky Tours" written on the rear windscreen of his Safari minibus.

Although I had booked a three days in the Masai Mara followed by one day in Lake Nakuru, and because of this had planned to be dropped off in Lake Naivasha in order to go to Hell's Gate, the first volte face of the day was Nickson's arbitrary decision to swap the days round and suggest starting with Nakuru. It turned out that two other travellers had booked a reverse trip, and I was being shoe-honed into their schedule. Moses, who would turn out to be something of a genial nutter, cottoned on quite quickly that if I was the only guest who wasn't returning to Nairobi, it made sense to order the trip around me getting dropped off, and the attempted coup was rejected.

Nickson looked dejected.

It didn't matter, but then at this stage there weren't any other travellers. Having boarded the bus at 8:05am, but 8:30 I had gone precisely 150 metres as Moses moved to pick up food supplies for the journey. As he went inside to collect materials for dinner, he left me listening to Kenya Classics 105 FM, where a cheesy voiced DJ was inviting anecdotes from his listeners about evil In Laws.

"Why is it we only hear about the women? Don't men struggle with the in-laws? It is always the women. Perhaps they cannot help it. Come on men, if you have suffered at the hands of your wife's father or mother, call and tell us."

It would then flip to a recording of his previous phone called, endlessly repeating phrases like "she would not even greet me" (love the way she said greet) and "I tried so hard to be nice to her, but she was just nasty".... I never discovered if Kenya men have a problem with in-laws or not.

We'd gone such a short way that Nickson, although we'd left him behind, had caught up and was hovering about during the loading process. As the laden minivan pulled away, this was the last time I would see or hear from him.

We slowly gathered a crew. Lauro and Mario, Australian Italians from Adelaide, joined us next. It was past 9:00am at this point, and they were surrounded by the their own Kenya crew who seemed to have nothing to do with Nickson's mob. They'd been expecting to go to Nakuru first, of course, but didn't seem too bothered by the alteration.  Lauro was a fund-raiser for an organisation helping refugees in Kenyan camps and had come - on his own money - to see how the cash was being spent. He'd brought his dad with him, who couldn't communicate much with his son as Lauro had chosen to learn Spanish over Italian. It was a little tragic, but they seemed to have a perfectly amiable relationship.

Having waited around for some time, as soon as Moses had three passengers he headed straight for the petrol station.This marked him out as different from most other Kenyans, who like to wait until a vehicle is entirely full before they make everyone wait at the refuelling stop. Moses made up for that accidental courtesy, however, by making us wait at the pumps for another hour.

We were, apparently, waiting for another traveller. Moses' phone, which (amusingly at first, less so after a while) had an elephant-call ring tone, was in constant action as communications between him and representatives of Safari-goer Number 3 continued.

"5 minutes", we were told. Unfortunately we were told this several times, and it didn't get any more true. At 10:30, 145 minutes after my trip-of-a-lifetime* began, we finally started to drive out of Nairobi. Our extra passenger was still nowhere to be seen. Moses mumbled something about oversleeping, but who this applied to was not clear. The Australians suggested a plan to throw the person in a crocodile pit, assuming they ever turned up.

And they did. A car chase ensued, with us speeding down the western highway and a taxi screaming after us. Another trunk call on the elephant phone and Moses was persuaded to stop. A few minutes later another car pulled up. Sally, a woman from Lebanon studying in Nairobi, was our latest gang-member, and we agreed not to throw her in a crocodile pit when we found that she had been just as much a victim of the Keyna laissez-faire approach to time keeping as we'd been.

It was now 11am. I'd been in the van for almost 3 hours and we were on the outskirts of the City.

I'd love to report that from that moment forth we sailed along through decent country roads, occasionally espying a Thomson's Gazelle frolicking amongst the goats and enjoying the greenery as we sailed past it, catching up time as we dashed along. Unfortunately, only the Gazelle bit would be true.

There are a lot of road blocks in Kenya. The average tourist ought to be quite grateful for that, as I'm told it's greatly reduced instances of car-jacking. And, most of the time, a mini-bus like ours just gets waved through.

Most of the time.

We'd been driving for another hour or so when the Kenyan policemen (dressed in exactly the same yellow bibs as you'd get on officers by the side of the M4) finally decided we looked suspicious enough to stop. There ensued a frustrating and bewildering 30 minutes during which we had no idea what was going on, and had to piece together the situation from snippets of overheard comments and remarks from taciturn coppers. 

Amid the various layers of bureaucracy the Kenyan Government trowels onto day-to-day life is one protecting musicians' royalties. If you are driving any kind of mass transit (bigger than a private car, that is) you must have a license to have a radio. It doesn't matter if the radio works (our driver had tried disabling our speakers several miles previously, clearly anticipating this turn of events), or if it is off. Have radio, get license. In a country rife with petty crime, the police then enforce this fastidiously. I say fastidiously - how fastidious they are about making sure the appropriate money is collected I'm not sure. The entire process is dealt with there at the roadside, with the police entirely in charge of how much money changes hand, like judge, jury and bailiff - Judge Bredd, perhaps. Apparently the fine could have been as much as 30,000 Ksh, which would probably have wiped out all of Moses' wages in one swoop. But after half an hour's haggling he clearly reached an acceptable compromise and returned to the van with his song sticker. 

Pity the final member of the party, Magnus, who had been waiting patiently at the world's least interesting service station cafe for two hours. At least when we arrived the cafe got considerably more interesting after their attempt to supply red wine to Magnus and the Aussies. I had a fairly bad feeling about it, and part of me thinks they should have had one too, but with them having pointed quite clearly at a bottle of Merlot on the drinks menu, even I was shocked to see three glasses of luminous, slightly effervescent chemical effluent being brought out and presented to them. Bravely tasting it, we discovered that if this was to be described as wine, then aubergine is a kind of chocolate. Its flavour was mostly indescribable, but I shall try by suggesting that it seemed to be a sort of alcopop, but one which would be avoided by all but the most desperately dipsomaniac teenager. Thanks to 'communication difficulties' the attempt by the Aussies and the Swede to exercise their consumer rights failed, and they ended up paying 100Ksh each for the privilege of a few scant horrified sips.  

But onwards! Our company now complete we set off from the Narok services, many miles still ahead of us and the day slowly ebbing away. We were scheduled to reach our camp at 3, to drop our bags, and then head park-wards for an "introductory wildlife drive". We reached the 89km-long access road to the Masai Mara at 2pm. It was, we considered, theoretically possible that we would be on time. 

The optimism did not last long. The Masai Mara road differs only from the surrounding countryside in that it is denuded of vegetation. It cannot be relied upon to be any more level, smooth, dry or basically drivable than the rest of the landscape. It is rutted, pot-holed, ditch-strewn, flooded, rock-infested and feels endless. It was almost 4pm when we reached the national park.Our schedule was in tatters. What would happen? 

I needn't have worried. After all the trials of the journey, we got what we came for. Moses had driven us to the far gate from our camp - we were going home via the Masai Mara, and would get the coveted wildlife drive. And wildlife there was in abundance. It doesn't take long to see Zebra and Gazelle - we'd seen those before we even reached the camp - but within minutes we were ticking off the Big Five. 

Our first friend was a buffalo. Several, in fact, who stopped to glare at us with unbovine hostility. We were told that Buffalo make the Big 5 list simply because they like beating the crap out of people. I hadn't realised that violence was the primary criteria for the list, though it does explain why giraffes - infinitely more exciting than these impressive but cow-like creatures - don't cut it. But I needn't have worried about the giraffes, since they don't know they're not on the list and like to strut around and get their share of the glory.  A trio of them, including mother and baby, wandered contentedly past the van, giving us all a good goggle. 

The Big 5 frittered down the Big 3 a short time later, as a herd of elephants were found eviscerating a shrubbery. The baby was shy, keeping its head in the bush, but the adults seemed fairly relaxed about our presence - all very reassuring since I wasn't quite clear how the slightly flimsy mini-bus was supposed to protect us if Dumbo's mum got twitchy. 

Then we were privileged to find 'slightly lions', as Terry Pratchett once wrote. A little while into the drive we got a close up of a lioness. Or at least some of her. One of the downsides of the moist weather (of which more later) was the lushness of the landscape and therefore the length of the grass. Our lazy lioness, utterly unfazed by us, was determined to stay camera shy. The best view we could get was four furry paws stuck up in the air and she rammed her face further into a tussock. But still, down to the Big 2, and only on our first drive. 

The last candidates were leopards and rhinos, much harder to spot than the others and -according to the books - the ones that most disappoint avid animal appreciators with their absence. But the good men of the minibus driving community have their ways. Moses was spending half the journey on the CB, and the other half on his elephant phone. At one point he heard an excited crackle on the radio, whisked us off on a detour and we were headed to a side road where several other jeeps and minibuses had congregated. 

"Leopard", said Moses.

Leopards are hard to spot because they hang out in trees. But if you know which trees they hang out in the whole proposition becomes pleasingly possible. I didn't quite get the shots I was after, as Leopold the Leopard decided to run down the far side of the trunk, but he or she posed on the the ground for a bit, before going Garbo and slinking off spottily to be alone.  

Big One.

It was getting dark now, and the minivans had formed a convoy to head to the exit. The constant presence of white vans did detract a little from the sense of wilderness. Along with the lush green grass and glowering grey skies all these vehicles did tend to give me the unshakeable sense that I was in Windsor Safari Park. I yearned for a bit of solitude and for an azure sky. But it's reassuring to know the most top-end of the top-end safari splash out couldn't have guaranteed me the latter.

As we rounded the last set of hills, one of the convoy ahead stopped, and its population popped out of the roof, meerkat-style. Up on the hill, barely visible in the gathering gloom, were two rhinos, conveniently picked out against the darkening sky. They stopped, posed for long-range photos, then decided that the other side of the hill would be more private and trotted off.

Finally, as we trundled out of the park, three cheetahs - a mother and two adolescents - stalked across the red earth road, their eyes fixed on some impalas out on the plains to the right. They gave up shortly afterwards, and instead stopped at the roadside, eyeing gazelles hungrily and conveniently showing themselves off to the goggling minivan occupants. Eventually we left them to it and headed 'home' to our acceptable tented accommodation outside the park to enjoy the wonders of lentils and beer-drinking moths.

So there you are - from the ridiculous to the sublime. Make up your own mind if you'd rather pay more. 

In the beginning

I nearly didn't make it to Kenya at all, if the British media were to be believed. I'd booked for November 30th, when the public sector workers were involved in a once-in-a-generation strike to try and block detrimental changes to their pensions. The press were spinning tales of queues so massive at Heathrow's immigration halls that passengers would be stranded on planes, unable to leave for fear of overloading the arrivals hall, and therefore spreading the pain to those leaving as well as their planes were further and further delayed.

As it was, I was delayed by an hour, due to a power cut in the air traffic control tower. This was an interesting foretaste of my holiday.

I arrived in Nairobi without further incident. When I arrived, the special time stream known as Kenyan Time kicked in, and from thereon in, every action had an equal and opposite amount of faffing attached to it. Indeed it was possible that Einstein's theory of relatively explained the whole thing, with the extra mass of all those elephants slowing time down to a crawl, with only visitors   even aware that it is happening.

My bag took an hour to arrive. Nairobi airport is the Penn & Teller of the airport world, with all its tricks and secrets on full display. Rather than hide the magic source of the baggage, we could see them very slowly depositing them on the carousel, whilst a portly golden retriever ran up and down on top of the bags sniffing for Andrex toilet paper. Watching the slow going was oddly comforting - after 45 mins the bag was still absent, but it was obvious that this was more likely to be a by-product of the graceful slow motion unloading than it was of a missing backpack. It turned up, and I stepped out into Trafficworld.

The odd thing about Nairobi traffic jams is the waiting. You are frequently stuck for up to 15 minutes, with almost no movement whatsoever. Nothing stirs. Then, without any warning, you are off! Off! Off! Someone turns a key in the gridlock and opens it, and for a few minutes you flow like quicksilver, before suddenly you congeal again and are forced to sit patiently under the watchful gaze of giant storks the size of 11 year olds as they sit atop street lights and huddle under their ragged cloaks.  

There's not much more to say of Day One. I scuttled nervously into the Kenya Comfort Hotel - approximately 36 square feet of cupboard plus a water closet for $60. Eventually Nickson from Adventure Panorama Safaris turned up as promised, collected his money and outlined what would be happening the next day. Or what should have been happening the next day. I ate at the hotel, sitting drinking Tusker as the "short rains" lengthened outside the window, before their Nairobi beat battered away at the rooftop all night. But still, jet-lagged and exhausted, I slept.

Downtime

I was supposed to go to Mombasa today, but in the end the thought of dealing with a large, bustling city in 30c heat didn't appeal, and I thought I'd afford myself that rare thing - a day off.

So I'm wandering the streets of Malindi, nosing in shops, having a quick Skype in the Bling Cafe (my initial bill was 8,542,894ksh, hastily corrected to 180 - things have a habit of being more expensive than you expect in Kenya, but that would have been a bit of a shock). Unfortunately, my tourist head had forgotten that it was Saturday. The Italian expat crowd are also in town, and with the influx of prey comes the predators. Previously hassle-free streets are now full of people making strange gestures at me, or over enthusiastically offering me sandals even though I am wearing the best pair in the world (FACT).

I've taken refuge in Li'l George's Coffee Shop, which for a coffee shop sells an inordinate amount of sparkling wine. Alas it is rather early in the day to sample such wares, though the thought of cold tasty bubbles is a strong lure...

Vasco de Gama's pillar stands, like an engorged chess piece, on a headland to the south of Malindi. Apparently he loved the pizzas so much that in 1497 he erected this enormous marker to help him find his favourite restaurant again. Sadly he was never to use it - his next stop was India. Once he'd tasted Chicken Madras there was literally no going back.

At least I think that was the story.

As part of the 500. ksh you pay to see Vasco's giant phallic mnemonic, you can have a squizz at the House of Columns, containing a very possibly real stuffed Coelacanth, and the Portuguese Chapel, featuring a very possibly real fake stuffed Jesus. In a charming homage to Christian tradition you are expected to make a contribution to the collection bowl. In a homage to my own youth I gave then 30p.

I have just seen a champagne bucket with flowers in it. I Love Pizza is a decent joint, though they burn their crusts a little and have a fascinating customer service ethos. The Head Waiter, Abel, remembers your name and calls to you as you pass in the street. But when he's actually serving you he contrives to give the impression that he'd rather be forced to sodomise a puppy than have more than a moment's interaction with you.

I have enjoyed Malindi more that I thought I would, though if every day had been like today I probably wouldn't. I shall retreat for an early night soon, after nursing one final pizza. Got mozzied on the leg last night - damn these little bastards are good. I have yet to do a study to see if they are more attracted to my blood before or after beer. With an early start tomorrow it may not be the right time to check, though this may not stop me.

Mombasa awaits me, if only briefly. Mom. Basa. Good name.

The Sex Monkeys of Gede and Yellow-bummed Cuteness

The Gede ruins, on the road from Malindi to Watamu, are considered the most impressive Swahili ruins in Kenya. Gede flourished from around the 13th to the 16th century, and then was abandoned, perhaps because of raids from Somalia, Portuguese bully-boy behaviour or vanishing water supplies. Or all three. At any rate, everyone left, leaving it a hollow shell full of nothing but shadow and memories.

A bit like my hotel.

Rather sadly, in the big scheme of things the Swahili didn't make a good ruin. Whereas the Hindus and Buddhists of South East Asia worked with huge, ornately carven blocks of stone - almost if they designing it to be dug up and marvelled at a millennium hence, Gede, on the other hand, has beauty only in practical details: see here the echo chamber used for the call to prayer in pre-megaphone days, or there the cunning arrangement to get water from the well to the Sultan's bathroom. But as a spectacle, Gede entirely lacks majesty; enjoy those details instead.

I was interested - and subsequently a shade disappointed - to hear several mention of Sex Monkeys roaming the area. I wondered what shameless behaviour had led to such a monicker, before my guide, Alf, finally spelled out the Sex Monkeys' name.

S.Y.K.E.S

What a let down. They did seem a bit frisky, though, so maybe noone had taught them how to spell.

Probably the most interesting ruin is a bit of the outer wall that has been overrun with Strangler Fig, giving it the classic jungle-temple look. If this had been Cambodia there would have been a big queue if tourists waiting to have their photo taken in front of it. As it was there was me and a few Sex Monkeys.

After a lunch stop in Watamu, where I witnessed the fascinating "Hot Twins Shop" (I declined to buy any due to baggage restrictions) I tuk-tuked my way to Arabuko Soloke Forest Reserve. It's only $15 to get in, apparently as a lure to pesky stay-away foreign tourists, but this thrifty offer is slightly off-set by the fact the the guided tours they offer are $20. Given that a) the Forest Ranger is employed whether he shows me round the park or not, and b) he is unlikely to be getting paid $6.66 ph, I thought this was surprisingly high. Since all but one of my guiding experiences in Kenya have been largely disappointing, I politely declined, aware that I was possibly cutting off my twitchy proboscis to spite my face and jeopardising the main reason I had come: to see the famous Golden Rumped Elephant Shrew.

These funny little long-nosed, rabbit sized beasties are only found in Kenya, and 90% of the known population lives in Arabuko. They are shy and skitter about in the undergrowth; you can hear them constantly as you tread the path, your footsteps causing a panic-blighted explosion of slightly jumpy footsteps as they bound away, unseen.

I've been on a lot of forest walks in Asia, and have been privileged and lucky enough to see, out of a range of magnificent and charismatic jungle creatures, precisely bugger-all. My luck had already turned a little when on the path leading to the forest, where the sky was still blazingly open and the trees less dense, I saw a bush full of monkeys chittering and giving me suspicious stares.

But skittering in the leaves was all I was getting shrew-wise, and I had given up sporting my camera when a funny little shape came into view ahead, poking its nose about in the leaves. It drifted across the path, just briefly enough to preclude grabbing my camera, but lingering long enough for a decent look before it disappeared into the bushes. As I drew closer the usual explosion of tiny footsteps told me I had scared it, but this time it burst across the path right in front of me, flashing its yellow bum as it bounded back to its bushy base camp to my left. No amount of prying could then discern it, but I'd seen an elephant shrew, and despite sneaking through the electric fence with help of a trusty twig, clambering around trees fallen across paths, holding conversations with chatty monkeys and trying a couple of ill-judged short cuts, that was pretty much the highlight of the day, and maybe the week. If I'd taken a guide I probably would have had them jumping on my head or something, but I'm happy with my fleeting glimpse of yellow bummed cuteness. And that's not something I have call to say very often.

The Great Depression

The Marafa Depression is an odd geological feature in the middle of nowhere. It has shades of Lake Mungo in central Australia for two reasons. Firstly because it consists of dramatic natural sand sculptures of red, white a delicate coral pink, and secondly because both of them would be a lot more popular if they weren't so fucking difficult to get to. The trip to Marafa can be made by Matatu. Although the distance is only 30km, this trip takes up to 2 hours. 2 hours in a Matatu over rough terrain isn't a journey, though, it's a cooking instruction, so I snapped up the offer of Ozi's concierge (if you can call him such), Lawrence, of a taxi for $37.

Taxi might be pushing it. Lawrence's friend Omar, and his buddy, turned up in a clapped out 80s sedan with a windscreen cracked on both sides and prevented from collapsing solely by dint of a supporting bit of plastic that looked like the attachment for a removable Sat Nav. I'm getting used to this now, though, so having satisfied myself of the only African qualification for vehicle safety worth pursuing - four round wheels - we were off.

The countryside between Malindi and Marafa is dotted with Baobab trees, which as tradition suggests do indeed look at though they have been uprooted and replanted upside down. Their rootlike branches all seemed to be at different stages of development - some wintry bare, others covered in springlike growth, still more sporting baboon-friendly pods. I suppose in a land of eternal summer there's not much reason to stick to the normal rules, and a tree that with its pale, fat body and twiggy arms arms looks more like a snowman than a plant this is doubly true. After a very long stretch of dirt track - it varies in intensity between pale rocks like angular cobbles and the comparative blitheness of stretches of deep red sandy earth - you arrive at an inexplicable road block, controlled by a relaxed looking man with a piece of string. There's no real indication of the qualification criteria for passing this Gandalf substitute, but we could pass, the string was pulled, the bar was raised and on we went.

Marafa costs 300 sh, which is a bargain. Less appealing is the fact that they push a guide on you. This isn't the Hell's Gate Gorge - you wouldn't come a cropper on a slippery rock face without your guide, though it might take you a while to work out how to get to the bottom of the pit. Instead you are whisked through with typical Kenyan half-heartedness and left with the following useful information for your 500KES:

• The amazing formations are sand, not rock 

• They are temporary 

• The ants won't eat you 

• It's a bit hard to climb out of the depression when it rains 

• Falling off the edge is not considered wise 

• Legend has it that a greedy family with much largesse revelled in it to the extent that they washed their clothes in milk. God was so revolted by the smell of rotting lactose (I think this is how it went, & if not it should be) that he cursed the family by casting their lands into the ground, and turning them and their wealth into features of the land. So the white stone is the milk, the red stone the blood, and the stupid price of the shit guide represents their avarice. 

 Marafa is amazing, and sort of worth the guide (but do tell him if you want to get plenty of time down in the depression - my guide was worried about rain, but I get the feeling he would have whisked me through regardless. Put down a marker that you want to take your time). The sand formations are epic, some of the colours are exquisite and as visits to Mars go, it's a pretty quick journey. It suffers from just one major flaw that takes the edge off the amazement factor: it looked like a quarry. It's an accident of geology. The same luck that gave them a delicately hued other worldliness also gave them dunes of slag that look like something from a seventies Dr Who story. As wonderful as the whole thing is, you do expect to see a mechanical digger rear its yellow head or a fleet of debris removal lorries to rumble past. Check out my gravel pit, screams Marafa. Many of the best vistas actually spoil the sensation by showing you the big piles of dark grey that nature has insisted on supplying as some sort of counterweight to Marafa's good fortune. That said, it doesn't spoil it entirely, but the best views are those where a pillar of magnificence gives you a serendipitously restricted view. Bear that in mind and you won't be disappointed. It's not huge, but it is big. But it is less of a depression than an eroded hillside - it only has three sides rather than the sunken pit suggested by guides, as its far edge just collapses down onto the plains below, handily removing some of the pretty silt. But I think it likely that it will manage to make you gasp anyway, as the ridges and contours of white and rose perform their corrugated dance of shape and colour for your delectation. Just don't let them rush you.

And if you've ever seen Lake Mungo, try not to compare.

Hakuna Matatu

I knew it was a little optimistic to get from Lake Naivasha to Jomo Kenyatta Airport in 3 hours by Matatu, but the receptionist had seemed so confident. Fortunately, the Matatu drivers aren't so naive. As soon as I told them my flight time they laid it on the line - hire me as a cab or you're buggered.

I suspected a hustle, but I'd originally planned to jump a taxi at the earliest opportunity, and here it was, many miles early. Other passengers were hoofed off the bus and off we went.

And what a good, good plan. The problem is, there is no such thing as the Nairobi circular, so any driver has to go through town. Driving through Nairobi is like walking through wet cement: technically possible but time consuming, completely exhausting and with the constant danger of getting fatally stuck. My driver excitedly pointed out a new traffic light and gleefully explained how these revolutionary items work. According to him, when the light is red, cars stop, an explanation sadly undermined by the behaviour of drivers all around him.

We arrived - at the wrong terminal, sadly, with 15 minutes to spare. A friendly police woman, rather than giving directions, hopped in the cab with us and guided us to the domestic terminal. I still had 10 mins and could relax for the first time today.

I should be boarding now, but Kenyans seem pathologically incapable of fuelling their vehicles *before* the customers arrive. Just as Moses (the safari driver, not the liberator of the Hebrews) had waited until he had a full minibus before visiting the little cars' room, so my flight has decided to refuel just as it was supposed to board. At least they didn't let us get on first.

It's got propellers. This always makes me nervous. 

On the plane I was able to meet my first white Kenyan, a 61 year old local artist who makes sculptures from drift wood. I'm going to look him up later and check that he doesn't put shells on things (He doesn't - this is him, no shells but a definite Boosh aesthetic), but he certainly knew more about art than I do (this is not difficult). He'd just lost his Dad at 88 to hospital malpractice, and I think giving me his life story was a welcome distraction. Odd to meet someone so relatively old who had nonetheless lost his Dad at the exact same age as mine. He sent all his children to (I suspect private) school in England, and they all decided to stay there. I suppose that must be an occupational hazard for White Africans, but I suspect he gets out there often enough for it not to hurt too much. On hearing my accent, he said; "I feel that we have already met, the way you speak," and may well have been taken aback to find that I was a trade unionist. He hid any disappointment well. 

I have booked in at the mysterious world of Ozi's B&B Hotel, a Lonely Planet recommended establishment that appears to heading towards Malindi's version of the Bates Motel. Finally saving money on accommodation, but am now pining for something with a pool - but local prices for such luxuries seem to be beyond me, especially if I want the comfort of decent security in Nairobi in a few days. There are also hardly any guests. I'm hoping the first ones I meet don't say "Red Rum" in funny voices. 

My greatest triumph of the day was managing to mistake an entirely random taxi driver for a member of staff and paying him my rent. In my defence he was inside the hotel when I arrived, helped me with my bag and was fastidious in checking that the room was to my satisfaction. So perhaps when I said "do I pay you now?" and he said "yes", he thought he had earned some sort of tip. But a 1000 shilling tip is probably unusual from a traveller in budget accommodation, and rather think he was a little bastard. For a start if it was an innocent mistake he'd have been back for more tips from the Twoflower impersonator in Room 2. 

Just as I was beginning to think that I was more likely to meet Santa than another guest, I was lucky enough to to meet Jo, an Australian woman, a little older than me, who had been travelling around Africa on her own for a year, passing through 25 countries (apparently when a tuk-tuk driver gave her shit for not agreeing to an extortionate fare with the words 'this is Africa', she was able to reply, in true Aussie style, "I've seen more of Africa than you, so fuck off"). She is off to Lamu in the morning, going against all governmental advice. I suspect she'll be fine.

If you're reading this, Jo, it was a pleasure to meet you.

Next to appear magically in Ozi's Haunted House of guestlessness were Ben, Martin and Lüdy, three volunteers from projects on Robinson Island and enjoying a spot of shore leave. 

Randomly tagging along to other people's fun is somehow more acceptable when travelling alone than it is, say, on the no19 bus. The boys were heading out on the town - it took the merest smidgin of an offer to join them for both Jo & I to be down the pub (the Kenyan pub being an admirable legacy of Empire, as is their skill with the humble chip). I seem to have rambled across British comedy, Keynesian economics, The West Wing, the Euro crisis, Stephen Moffat, the level of wealth one must attain before one becomes incorruptible especially if you're The Queen, the honesty of mass media and the average length of a game of cricket. Apologies to Benton, who managed to get a word in edge ways to tell me about wet snow in Burlington, Vermont and the attractions of leaf peeping. I didn't make any Due South references, since I realised that he was only just born when it was broadcast.

At least the heat isn't keeping me awake. That's because the thumping disco down the road, which is still going at 2am, is keeping me awake. Time for another episode of West Wing Season III on the iPhone, then.

 

Welcome to the Hellmouth

Having prised myself away from the protective pupa of the tour bus - in more ways than one- today I ventured out onto the animal dotted plains... on a bicycle.

A cheap one at that. Refusing to pay Crayfish Camp's ludicrous hire prices I stomped off down the road on what could have been a fool's mission there appeared eventually a vision: several bikes lined up under a tree. $5 later I was crawling up the hill on a bright yellow mountain bike. It had brakes, and everything.

Hell's Gate is the only National Park in Kenya that encourages walking or cycling. On one level that's rather handy, since the weak concentration of beasties would hardly make this a must-see for the minibus brigade. That said, seeing how close you dare wander to a group of chomping Giraffes is a bit of a rush.

Given that (according to a Maasai guide) they have leopards and hyenas at the park (though no lions) it seems odd that the system has worked without anyone getting chomped. Maybe with that many warthogs about the risk of getting a bicycle in the teeth just doesn't seem worthwhile.

The place is named so because if the gate-like formation of the opening of the broad, animal-filled(ish) gorge that eventually lead you to volcanic hot springs (or to the belching geothermal power station that shares their energy source). The first Europeans to see it were butchered at the entrance by forward thinking locals, so that could be considered a smidge hellish also, or at the very least inconvenient.

What they don't tell you is quite what a big hill you have to cycle up. Weirdly downhill seemed to account for only about 5% of the cycling, which seemed terribly unfair; I couldn't even enjoy the one major downhill stretch as it was so steep, and to let rip on the rock strewn road would have been suicidal for all but the most experienced mountain bikers. Also the far side of the hill is a disappointment; forewarned about the power station, the profusion of workmen, sheep and pylons was an atmosphere killer. If I'd known, I'd have stayed on the near side with my giraffes a little longer.

But the path does lead you to the rangers' post and the entrance to Ol Njorowa gorge. It was at this point I linked up with George, a Maasai guide, and probably a good thing I did. The gorge was carved by running water, and a gentle trickle still snakes through the bottom, creating slippery footholds and patches of quicksand ready to ensnare the unwary and either hurt him or at least his camera equipment. George helped me up and down a few dicey cliff faces, as well as filling me in on a few details. The Maasai community have apparently reclaimed much of the Gorge from the Kenyan Wildlife Service - so I was pressed by the rangers into buying yet another ticket and - more happily - engaging George's services. He also told me that there are very few Europeans about at the moment. He thinks it is the trouble with Somalia keeping them away. I just think they've looked at the weather trends a bit more carefully than I did.

It's hosing it down outside. Again.

The gorge was formed following a volcanic eruption - delightfully at one point water has eroded the side of the looming volcanic plug above, giving you a clear cross section of the path if the former molten rock's upward progress. To see that you have to follow a smaller, younger gorge, do rapidly carved that graffiti from 1992 looms impossibly high over your head.The whole 30m deep trench was probably nothing but a shallow ditch by the time Bucks Fizz were whipping their skirts off.

The final stretch of the park was beautiful, with red cliffs looming at every turn, but still a bit light on animals. If you're a fan of warthogs, though, the place is pig infested. Knock yourself out.

I made it back to Crayfish a broken man. After 4 days in a bus, following a long haul flight, my body was a tad surprised at being asked to cycle up a massive hill, clamber and climb through a gorge with a good bit of walking thrown in. I approached the restaurant and asked if they did snacks.

"Yes. We have sausages."

Me: "Anything else?"

"Samosas."

I brightened. "Vegetable samosas."

A disappointing head shake.

"Oh. I'm a vegetarian. Do you have anything for vegetarians?"

There was a moment's thought: "We have some cabbage."

Worth every fucking cent this place.

Lakeside

These blogs will be out of sequence, since they all essentially depend on Internet access, and it makes more sense to write "in the moment" & catch up on other things later. Finished the last day of my Safari with Adventure Panorama Safaris - sort of, and have nothing but praise for... The animals we saw. I'll cover that later. But having been dropped off in Naivasha Town, I have been able to experience the cost effective genius of the matatu (like the Tunisian Louage but without the slavish attention to Health &. Safety). The matatu is a small bus ploughing a particular route, but with elements of a share taxi in that it picks up and sets down wherever it pleases, and it only sets off on its travels with a decent mob on board (I'm told that some run according to time tables - I don't really believe it).

The matatu holds - theoretically - 14 people. The matatu conductor was happy to admit that they cram over 20 people into something smaller than a transit van, something necessary partly due to the fact that there are 2 conductors. One handles financial issues (he was a touch reluctant to hand over my 150 shillings change from my paltry 50 bob fare), the other stops and starts the bus by tapping signals on the roof. Although they take up a bit of space, they are sometimes happy to ease over crowding by hanging into the outside of the matatu, bus surfing their way along the insane Kenyan roads.

Eventually a cargo-carrying woman, that my bag and I had pinned squishily into a corner, decided to get off. I had become so crushed into the matatu that, having got off to allow her freedom, I couldn't muster the energy to ease myself back on board. The three strong matatu crew were a little mystified by my insistence on walking the final kilometre, but as it made a trip on the Piccadilly Line feel like aversion therapy for arm-pit fetishists, I was happier trotting along. A very nice Kenyan man and his three boys accompanied me for some distance. He introduced his son as "Blazing". He himself was called Stephen. OK

I arrived at Crayfish Camp, Naivasha. They are renting me a room the size of George Osborne's social conscience for £40 per night. To make it worse, they rent bikes for £2.50 an hour, when the going rate in town is £3 per DAY. Avoid if you don't want to feel like you've just been mugged in downtown Nairobi.

Tomorrow, Hell's Gate. Sounds like this hotel. I've just had to relocate to follow the signal for my shitty $5 wireless connection that now only works in reception. Twats.

Believe it or not, I'm having a whale of a time. Or at least a buffalo.

(pictured, Mario, Lauro & Sally, my safari crew)