Escape from Kipepeo prison

Kenya had a primary election this past Thursday in preparation for their general election on March 4, their first presidential election since the closely contested outcome in December 2007 that escalated into violence, brought tribalism to the surface, and killed more than 1,300 people.  It was arguably the lowest point for Kenya since gaining independence in 1964 from Britain. This March, in my opinion, Kenya will show the world whether it is ready to transition fully toward being a prosperous and democratic nation, or whether it will be cast into yet another storyline of an African country that is a long ways from putting its worst times behind them for good.

Kenya requires that people be registered to vote in their home town, and since there is no equivalent to an absentee ballot system here, election day as well as the day before and the day after are often national holidays so people can travel home to vote.  In this instance, this three-day sequence lead up to a Sunday, a day when life definitely slows down in Kenya, markets and stores are often closed, and there are finally no lines at the bank, albeit because the bank is closed. I hadn’t anticipated this beforehand, and found myself looking at four days of unexpected down time. Not wanting to spend it in the Nairobi chaos, I hopped on a plane to the island of Lamu. I’ve heard stories from others who have been to Lamu about its uber-slow pace and vibe, and the respite it provides from the frenzied intersection of traffic, crowded streets, long lines for everything, and polluted air that is Nairobi.

So I got on the internet, secured a place to say, and off to Lamu I went for my first days of complete down time in a little while.

There’s a threat to that down time, however, when you’re a white guy on a small tourism-dependent Kenyan island during off-season. 

The airstrip for Lamu is actually on a second island that is a few minutes’ boat ride away. As we’re making the short voyage across the strait and the arrival pier becomes more clearly in view, I was either about to experience the greatest welcome of my life or be assaulted by every tour boat operator on the island.  Unfortunately, it was the latter.  Dead squirrels on the roadside have been attacked by magpies more gently than what I endured.

Two things helped me tolerate the magpies. One, I knew enough Swahili to make it apparent than I might not be as easily manipulated into hastily buying their tours as perhaps other mzungus. Not that my Swahili is great, but throughout Kenya I'vev noticed that speaking a few lines in this situation helps keep the hawkers at bay, if only momentarily.  Amid the madness, I was amused by and appreciative of the vendor who ignored my obvious solo-ness and offered to sell me “romantic cruise by sunset with fresh crab” though I wondered later if I misunderstood and I would have to be romantic with the crab.  My second strategy was knowing the directions to my guest house and therefore, not sparing a moment of uncertainty for the Lamu world to exploit to their advantage. In fact, I didn't know where I was going, but I could act like it. From the website I remembered that it was to the right of the pier, so off I went with my entourage, a fake confidence in Lamu geography, and an ability to steal some looks to the guest houses along the way in search of "Kipepeo Guest House." 

Just beyond the very friendly woman who sat on the stoop of her hut and offered me a massage “later, when it’s dark” was the Kipepeo Guest House. The Kipepeo Guest House was described by on-line Trip Advisor reviewers as “charming,” “quiet and well-run,” and “great value” and I have since concluded that all of those reviewers could only have been recently released from long stays in prison to conjure up such descriptions.

I was met at the door by the portly German proprietor who apologized because she had just woken up for the day (it was after 4pm), a fact that was verified as she stood there disheveled in her nightgown, out of which one of her boobs was nearly escaping.  In her no-nonsense demeanor she showed me  to my room which was basic but clean, the small refrigerator that I was to leave unplugged unless I absolutely must have something cooled, the balcony from which I was to throw all of my trash so as not to attract ants inside, and then unapologetically told me breakfast was not included (as is the norm in guest houses throughout Kenya) because she liked to be on the internet most of the night when there’s less competition for bandwidth, and she was usually going to bed around the time an omellete might otherwise be served. "Going to be a nice sunset," she said with her back to me as she left, to indulge in her breakfast, I assumed. The only other time I saw her was when she heartily knocked on my door later that evening to announce that ceiling fans should be turned off when leaving the room, which explains why mine was off when I returned from my one outing of the evening.  This also implicated her in lying to me earlier when she said everything in my room would be safe since I had the only key.

I had one of two rooms on the third floor. The other room was unoccupied which gave me the entire shared balcony to myself. If I kept my eyes looking directly ahead, my chin perfectly parallel to the floor, I had a spectacular view of the Indian Ocean from that balcony and the potential for peace provided by waves breaking gently on the beach.  But it was not to be as my imagined serenity was interrupted by the tour-selling paparrazi that had reconvened on the ground three floors below me. As I suspect most mzungus do upon arrival to their seaside room,  I had stepped out to take in the view within the first minutes of getting settled, and there my admirers stood, looking up in anticipation, like I was the Pope coming out to see his followers. I half-expected them to start serenading. Instead, I heard broken English calls of “Romantic cruise tonight!” “Fishing kesho (tomorrow), my friend!” “Come take dinner in local village!” 

My good attitude was fading.  I was quickly reframing what I understood Lamu to be about.

And it worsened when she showed up.

Her name was either Melinda, Belinda, or maybe just Linda. I never really knew for sure because she chewed her gum with such force that she produced gallons of saliva with each motion and it muffled her speech. After the no-nonsense introduction to the guest house by the German in which Belinda/Melinda was also told that no local boys were allowed, even ones that offered to make her juice from fresh fruit (metaphor?), she initiated our first and only interaction. “I’m Belinda/Melinda. Isn’t this view, like, amazing? I wonder if they sell water here or if I, like, I have to go find it somewhere else. Do you know? Do you want to, like, go find water with me?”

Before I could answer she had moved on to describing how Africa was, like, amazing and there weren’t as many hungry people as she thought there would be and it’s just so hard to, like, find sunscreen which seems crazy since it’s so hot and sunny here and do I want to go on one of those boat cruises with her because it would, like, reduce the price and we could find out information right away because the tour guides were, like, just outside the door of the guest house. Somehow she spoke without pause and maybe even without taking a breath. Her verbal barrage made me feel like I had been the victim of a no-contact violent crime.

The onslaught continued for a bit longer and she talked mostly about her own adventures. On the rare moment when Belinda/Melinda asked me a question, she repeated my statement as another question.

“So you’re, like, doing research in Samburu?"

Yes, that's precisely what I just said.  The topics jumped around a lot, usually moving to something unrelated and involving a partially correct observation about somethign on the African continent.

"Do you know where, like, all of the drumming goes on in Kenya?"

Drumming is really more of a thing in West Africa, but I didn't have the chance to reply before she had moved on.

"So you just, like, got here today too? It's not like a desert here at all." 

I was pleased that she used the word "like" in an appropriate way in one of those statements.

I took a step back on the balcony while she spoke. Her presence was forceful and loud, and sometimes I felt the soft arrival of her saliva on my face and arms. Within minutes, I knew that Melinda/Belinda and I did not have a quest for down time in common.     

I returned to my room and did some calculating. If I stayed inside the guest house, I was subjected to Belinda/Melinda and the scary German owner. If I escaped outside, the paparrazi awaited. I was imprisoned no matter where I went.  If I leapt with enough strength from the balcony, I could land in the ocean and swim to the nearest Somali pirate ship which was sure to be out there somewhere, which would be an improvement over my current circumstances.

After devising an excuse about meeting some people for dinner that I had met on the flight over, I left Belinda/Melinda and opted to deal with the paparrazi again. I felt guilty that I didn't invite her along, but I can’t invite people to a dinner with friends that I entirely made-up. 

So I strolled along the seafront with the paparrazi in tow offering me numerous options for how to spend my time and the assurance that if I didn't tell anyone else they would give me a good price. "Facemask snorkeling with dolpins." "Come fishing for kingfish and we will make kingfish on the beach for lunch then you will have kingfish." "Brother, you are Dutch? I take Dutch fishing!"

They reminded me of a random dog who joins me on a run near my dad’s place in central Minnesota.  He emerges from a small farm I pass, runs alongside me for awhile, hopes I'll take an interest, but eventually gives in to my ambivalence and turns around to go home, and neither of you end up with any fulfillment from the temporary togetherness.   

I continued walking along the seaside of the main part of town and took in the sights but mostly took in the smells. Smells of low tide, trash rotting in Lamu’s heat and humidity, and donkeys and donkey poop.  Lamu has almost no vehicles, and the primary form of invented transport is donkeys and I would estimate that there are 900 donkeys for every Lamu resident, and they roam the paths and streets of the town like rats roam New York City. It’s bizarre.

During my walk I passed the pier in the photo below and hoped that nothing would happen to me during my stay on Lamu that requires quick emergency attention. And I regrettably admit that I thought if something serious happened to Belinda/Melinda, she wouldn’t get quick emergency attention either so maybe the location of the ambulance wasn’t such a bad situation after all.

 

 

I wore down the papparazi who turned back while I ventured further in search of why this island gets so much attention from tourists. Up to this point, I hadn’t seen it.

Forty minutes later, I found it.

A long, golden sandy beach that stretched literally as far as my eye could see.  A civility among pedestrians that included pleasant and sincere greetings of “jambo” but nothing more. Giant coconut palm trees. Mango trees. And the moment that brightened my life for good: signs for guest houses. I stepped into one such guest house for data gathering.  Moments after I entered I was brought a glass of fresh mango juice with a hibiscus flower adorned on the rim. “I’m not staying here, though” (yet). “No problem, our gift to you.”  I looked at one of the rooms and its view of the ocean over the treetops of palms. In short, it was perfect. Open, airy, welcoming and a view of the ocean. He quoted me the price. Only $12 a night more than my prison guest house with the German guard, and this one included breakfast.  They could charge twice the amount he quoted and it would still be a great deal. I had found the promised land.  I wanted to embrace the hotelier on the spot, though I wasn't sure how such an action would be interpreted in this Rasta-meets-Islam world of Lamu.

At this point it was near sunset, my belongings all remained at the Kipepeo House of German Terror, and I didn’t know how to reserve a donkey or a dhow (wooden boat) to get me there and back again before complete nightfall which comes quickly when you're this close to the equator. The owner of The Promised Land recommended I stay at Kipepeo for the night and he would send a boat as early as I wanted in the morning.  I wanted to say 5am, but agreed to 7:30.

I retraced my route and returned through the sea of donkeys, stinking trash and the papparazi, and took refuge in my room. I only had to fall asleep, and upon waking up, would hit the reset button on my Lamu experience.

I woke up a little after 5am with an excited feeling that Santa had arrived and patience knowing I had to let the parents wake up first. I packed, then re-packed for something more to do. I didn’t want to leave the room until I left for good, for risk of waking Belinda/Melinda or the German gatekeeper whose room I would have to pass in the loud stairwell.  At 7:20 am, I left money for my one night stay on the bed, and made a slow run for it. I felt my heart beat faster as I snuck past the proprietor’s room, who thought I would be staying three more nights. Given the four other vacant rooms, her unwielding ways and the time she would gain back for more internet surfing by not checking on the status of my ceiling fan, I felt no guilt. I hoped that her all-night rendevous with Google had left her in a deep slumber and she didn’t hear my duffle bag hit the narrow metal door on my way out.  I momentarily welcomed the outside and its donkey air, and the earliness that kept the paparrazi away.

At 7:25, the boat showed up and I’ve never been more appreciative of a Kenya who kept time. 

And here I sit on my balcony at the Msafini Guest House with a view of the ocean and the smell of salty air. I’ve gone on a run on the beach, cooled off afterward with an ocean swim, had one glass each of pineapple, and passion fruit juice at breakfast, and have no idea what I’m doing after posting this blog…..

Cheers!