Shots Across the Water, page 9
There was a feast with food laid on, and we mzungu who had been part of the abortive launch were invited to join. It was mostly fish which I didn’t eat, but there were my old favourite beans and rice and other delicious vegetable and fruit dishes.
Mzungu? This word is used widely in East and Central Africa to refer to foreigners, and in particular white Westerners. It is a Bantu word that means ‘wanderer’ and was originally used to describe spirits. I had heard the word occasionally in Uganda but in Kenya it was widely used. It wasn’t a derogatory term, it was simply a statement of fact. I embraced it, glad of a word to describe myself.
That afternoon Rob came to where I was staying and took me for a guided tour of Lamu Old Town. He had been in town for two weeks. We visited food shops and restaurants which he gave his reviews of, as well as some of the old buildings including the Lamu Museum, housed in an old Swahili warehouse, and Lamu Fort.
I had not heard of Lamu before I started this journey. As I learned more about the island town, it sounded like a fabled, mystical place. But nothing had prepared me for one of the most unique destinations I have ever visited. Lamu was founded in the 1300s and looked like it had not changed much in the intervening centuries. The streets were narrow, too small for cars, so carts and donkeys were used to move goods around. The buildings, predominantly white, were built from coral stone and mangrove timbers, often with elaborately carved doorways opening on to the streets. The people wore colourful clothing, contrasting with the white houses and blue sea that could be seen at the end of most of the streets. I instantly fell in love with the place.
‘Come and see where I’m staying?’ asked Rob after we had walked around for a while. He and Steve each had small rooms on the second floor of an old house where they could climb the stairs to get out on to the flat roof, where there was a tiny thatched shack. ‘I think this is being vacated – why don’t you speak to the owner about renting it?’ said Rob. I jumped at the chance, spoke with the landlord and agreed I would move in the next day.
That evening our small group went to a large, beautiful house outside town occupied by a group of German women. They had a tradition of cooking food for groups of mzungu travellers once a week, and we all made a small contribution. The food was vegetarian and delicious and the company was wonderful. Their house was on the way to the beach and they told me to come by any time en route to or from the beach. That night I dreamed that I lived there for the rest of my life, a dream that still occasionally reoccurs.
Island heaven
The next day I moved into the shack on the roof above Steve and Rob. I had a single mattress on the floor with a rug and my own sheet bag. There were hooks to hang my mosquito net. There was a table with a chair and some cushions. That was it. I had shared use of the very basic bathroom on the floor below. Ocean breezes blew in through the stable door, keeping me cool and largely free of mosquitos. There was an open window with no glass or shutters and a thatched roof, which I suspected let in the rain. I loved it.
The stable door overlooked the town, looking out to the waterfront and the old jail and beyond. From the open window I could look down on the labyrinth of small streets and thatched roofs. It had been a while since I’d been able to wash my clothes, which quickly dried on the washing lines on the roof. That first evening it rained heavily and, as I had suspected, the roof leaked and I had a minor flood. The next morning the sun was out again. I unsuccessfully attempted to repair the roof but the landlord agreed to get someone up to fix it. The next morning I walked across the island to the beach, seven miles of sand with surf and scrubland in the dunes that gave a tiny bit of shade – although not enough as my nose was burnt a bit. I swam and bodysurfed in the Indian Ocean waves. I felt the best I had in a long time.
A few days quickly become a week. The call to prayer of the mullahs punctuated each day. I loved walking in the old town, exploring every street and ending up in quite a few dead ends, sometimes chased away by dogs. I walked the 45 minutes to the beach every day. Sometimes Rob or one of the others joined me but often I went on my own, although there were always other people swimming. I often stopped on the way back at the German women’s house for a drink and a chat.
One evening there was a wedding. There were a lot of men and boys dressed in white praying on mats out in the streets to the music of flutes and drums. Then a large group of women walked through the town dressed in black and swaying to the sounds of drums and a trumpet playing a type of traditional jazz. The procession led up to a square where another band played with four drummers, cymbals (baking trays), a cornet and a flute. In the middle of the square the men were having mock fights with sticks while the women swayed, this time to a slow trumpet. A very beautiful ritual and a privilege to see.
I had been in Lamu 10 days when Rob, Wim and Eric (from the Netherlands) and I took a dhow trip from Shela Beach to Manda Island across the water. We took our mosquito nets, food and cooking pots. The island was pretty much deserted and we walked along ‘elephant paths’, although with no sign of elephants. Eventually we arrived at the ruins of a town called Takwa which was abandoned some time around the 18th century. We found a beautiful beach nearby where we hung our mosquito nets from trees. We spent two days and nights there swimming, walking and sitting around. We cooked simple stews and made chapatis on a wood fire. It was magical – although as four young men we did occasionally get irritated with each other.
On our last day on Manda we walked back along the beach. My Greek sandals that had got me this far finally gave up on me so I had to walk back barefoot, trying not to burn the soles of my feet in the sand. Exhausted, we finally reached the one smart hotel on the island where the staff took pity on us and gave us a meal and a boat ride back to Lamu Town. They were really kind. That evening I sat on the roof outside my shack watching the sun set. The dhows were sailing home and the palms were blowing in the wind. I have always missed Lamu and still would like to go back one day. It hasn’t happened yet.
Lamu hasn’t always been the idyllic island that I found. In September 2011, a British couple on a sailing holiday were kidnapped from a hotel by Al-Shabaab, a terrorist group based in Somalia. Three weeks later, a French woman was taken by the group from a different hotel. These and other kidnappings along the Kenyan border with Somalia resulted in an invasion of Somalia by the Kenyan army. In June 2014, armed men attacked Mpeketoni, a town on the mainland close to Lamu. They burned buildings and attacked people, killing 47 in one night. This carried on and within one month Lamu had witnessed over 100 killings, which Al-Shabaab claimed responsibility for. Needless to say travellers and tourists stopped going there.
Following these attacks, Lamu became the location of counter-terrorism activity supported by Western nations as part of the post-9/11 so-called ‘War on Terror’. Security is much tighter today and the UK’s Foreign Office still advises against all but essential travel in Lamu County and the whole area north of Malindi that I travelled through, excluding Lamu and Manda islands – and it was only in 2021 that the travel advisory was lifted on those.
Changing plans
Over those days in Lamu I’d talked with Rob about his plans to travel through Zaire and across multiple countries to the Sahara Desert and then back to Europe. I’d been thinking for some time that I would like to be home by my birthday in October. I felt this strong pull to be back by then for something, I just wasn’t sure what it was 13. We discussed travelling back together, although this would mean me not going to Swaziland. If I did go there it would be much longer before I got home plus I would need to find work to replenish my limited funds.
Later that evening Rob and I were eating dinner when his former partner Angie and her young son walked into the café having just arrived in Lamu. Angie and Rob had ended their relationship in Khartoum. He was pleased to see them and I knew from conversations we’d had that he would like to get back together with her. I suspected this could mean the end of us travelling to Zaire. I was anxious about travelling across that country on my own, but I had to enter Zaire wherever I was headed as the border between Kenya and Tanzania was closed.
I’d been on Lamu for three weeks, the longest I had stayed in one place since Israel. It was hard to leave but I did, taking the bus back to Mombasa via Tana River and Malindi. I stayed two nights in Mombasa and decided that, from then on, I would walk or hitchhike unless it was an emergency. I had done the maths and at my current rate of spending I would run out of money well before I got back to the UK.
I set off walking from Mombasa. It was very slow. I walked about 10 miles in the heat before a lorry driver stopped and drove me for about an hour until he arrived at his destination. I thanked him and started walking again. It was hot and dusty and I was beginning to regret travelling on my own. What on earth was I doing walking up a hot and virtually empty road 6,500 miles away from home? I was trying not to feel despondent when I heard a car, which slowed down and stopped. A window wound down and a familiar face popped out, saying, ‘Get into the car.’
‘Rob!’ I shouted. ‘What are you doing here?’ I got into the car. Jonathon the driver was a British expatriate driving from Mombasa to Nairobi. Rob had hitched a ride from Mombasa with him in the morning and told him that he hoped that he would see me on the road.
‘I wanted Angie and I to get back together, but she was very clear that she didn’t want that. I felt sad so decided to set off and see if I could find you,’ said Rob.
It felt very random that despite leaving Lamu separately we had met up again, but then maybe it was just meant to happen. So we started travelling together. Jonathon seemed very pleased and we chatted away until we reached the turn-off to the Amboseli National Park where he insisted that we should both go next. We slept the night in my tiny tent by the side of the road. That evening we talked about Zaire and began to actively plan our journey there. It was exciting.
The next morning we hitched a lift with some other travellers in a Land Rover which got us near to Oloitokitok, close to the border with Tanzania and Mount Kilimanjaro. They dropped us off and we started walking. The land was flat and pretty much empty, with very little vegetation. So it was a surprise to see trees up ahead. We were almost at these trees when we saw some others were there too – a small group of giraffes. We slowed down and crept up, getting very close to the tallest. It stood there for what felt like a very long time and then gently moved away with the others following. It was a magical moment.
We carried on walking and met some Masai people. We stopped and they offered us a drink of beer. Then they asked if we would like to buy some of their jewellery. Despite my now very tight budget, I asked the price of a bracelet that was offered and after some bargaining ended up buying it. I wore it for many years.
After a night camping in a field we set off to walk up to Amboseli National Park, one of the most famous in Kenya. We thought it would be a six-mile walk but it was much longer. Eventually we walked off the road to find a park gate surrounded by Masai souvenir shops. We could not enter the park without paying a fee that was quite beyond our budgets. So we hung out with the Masai instead. Once they realised that we were not wealthy tourists, some of the men invited us back to their nearby village where we met some of their wives and children. Their village, called a boma, was made up of a circle of enkaji (houses), built with branches covered with several layers of a mixture of soil, urine and cow dung.
I liked the Masai. They seemed to have created a realistic balance between their traditional life and the modern world. They made money from selling traditional crafts, jewellery and costume but still lived in the types of houses I suspect they had lived in for centuries. Like the Dinka of Sudan, the Masai are tall, averaging over six feet. Those we met were wearing red or blue checked cotton robes, called shuka, wrapped over their backs or shoulders. Many of them wore sandals made of what looked like car tyres.
That night we camped in my tent on the edge of a churchyard. We woke up in the night freezing cold and put on every piece of clothing that we had, which wasn’t enough. After months of hot nights as well as days, this was a shock. I regretted trading in my sleeping bag for a rug in Sudan. We woke to an incredible view of Mount Kilimanjaro and the lesser-known Mount Meru to one side.
We walked back to Amboseli and sat by the entrance for a few hours. Eventually one of the staff arrived and told us that we would be admitted into the park without having to pay. We were driven in a park Land Rover to a basic campsite on the edge of a green swampy area. It was set in dense vegetation of trees, ferns and bushes. We explored carefully and suddenly saw six large elephants tearing up grass for food. We crouched down, hiding in the vegetation as best we could, watching them move very gracefully, as if in slow motion, despite their enormous size. Eventually they saw us and bolted off.
We saw giraffes, bucks, kobs, zebra, wildebeest and more. And so many monkeys, much cheekier than the Egyptian ones. If we looked away from our food for a second it was gone. One got into our tent and quickly snuck away with the bread. Nearby were birds with beautiful blue, green and purple wings which shone in the light. All this and an incredible view of Kilimanjaro.
The next morning I woke up before Rob. It was really dark outside, which didn’t make sense. I gently opened the zip door flap of the tent and just outside was a huge elephant walking right past, less than three feet away, followed by another large elephant and two younger ones of varying sizes. I crouched in the entrance of the tent, barely breathing, taking in this incredible sight. After they had passed I realised that if they had been any closer that would have been the end of us both.
Later one of the staff from the Amboseli Safari Lodge walked over to the campsite to invite us to breakfast, which was very generous of them. The Lodge was empty, which didn’t make sense to us but was certainly to our advantage as we had a really huge breakfast. Then they offered us a Land Rover ride around part of the park. We saw a leopard, wild dogs, buffalo, zebra, two lions and more elephants and giraffes. It was fantastic and I couldn’t quite believe that they were doing this for us. The next morning one of the Lodge staff came with the Land Rover and took us to the entrance of the park. I could not believe their generosity and all I had to give them was a couple of my postcards.
It took a couple of days to hitchhike and walk to the Ugandan border at Busia. We walked across the border after buying a couple of chocolate bars, the last we would eat for a while.
Back to Uganda
Curfew
Arriving in Kampala we went straight to the Embassy of Zaire to apply for visas. This was, as usual, slow and difficult and the staff seemed surprised that we wanted to travel to their country. Worst of all this meant leaving our passports overnight. We appeared to have no option, so after a short discussion we agreed to hand them over in exchange for a signed receipt and a promise of our visas in the morning.
We had to find accommodation and agreed that for a number of reasons we should stay in a hotel. The main reason was the overnight curfew which was still in place. Kampala was a dangerous city and we didn’t want to take excessive risks. We found a room in a hotel near the Zairean Embassy and settled in for the night. The hotel room was on the fourth floor and quite small: two single beds, a small table and chair and a window looking down on the street. The fan in the ceiling was noisy, but the worst noise was the sound of gunfire on the street below. At one point, when there was a lull in the shooting, we looked out of the window. We saw three bodies lying in the street below and shut the window quickly, shaking with fear.
We were scared. We locked the door of the room but that didn’t feel enough. We took the table and chair and pushed them against the door up against the handle so we would at least have some protection if someone tried to kick the door in. Realistically, though, that would only have bought us a few seconds and in any case we had no escape route. We sat down and played cards to calm down. That was fine for a while until there was a knock on the door. We froze.
After what felt like a long time, but wasn’t, I said, ‘Who is there?’
‘Another mzungu,’ answered a voice that sounded English.
‘Can you just wait a minute?’ I said, looking at Rob. He nodded at me, suggesting we should open the door. We pulled the chair and table back and opened the door. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked in amazement.
‘Who is this?’ asked Rob, who was really confused.
‘Patrick and I were at Bristol University together,’ answered Guy. ‘I might have known that he would be doing something as crazy as this.’ He had arrived at the hotel just before the curfew and the staff had told him that there were other mzungu staying. He had no idea that I was travelling in Africa, let alone Uganda 14.
Guy continued, ‘I’m only in Uganda for a few weeks. I’m on a legal investigation. And I just changed hotels today because mine felt too dangerous. This one seems quieter.’
‘It’s pretty noisy outside,’ I said. The anxiety and then excitement of Guy’s arrival in our room had meant Rob and I had temporarily forgotten about the shooting outside. The three of us spent the rest of the evening talking.
After a fitful night interrupted by gunfire, Rob and I returned to the Zairean Embassy. To our great relief our passports were stamped with visas to travel. I still have the passport with this and many other visas and stamps. Signed by Omary Biladi, the Deuxième Conseiller, this Zairean visa is in French, which was the official language of Zaire and many of the countries I would soon travel through. I was about to test my O-level French, for which I had only just scraped a pass.
I went to the Post Office and joined the queue for an international call. And to my great surprise I got through to speak with Mum. It was so lovely to hear her voice. No one else was at home. I felt a little homesick when I finished the call and cheered myself up by doing some rare shopping. I really liked the sandals that I had seen the Masai wear, made out of car tyres, and went to a market where I had heard they were made. The market was around the edge of a large open space where matatu taxis congregated and almost immediately I saw a huge pile of old car tyres, surrounded by about 10 young men sitting on the ground cutting and stitching the rubber to make the sandals. I tried a few before choosing a pair that felt very comfortable. Little did I know how many miles I would walk in them before I got back home and that they would survive the trip intact. The best sandals I have ever had.
