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 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.