We had already been cheated once that day... twenty dollars for a five-minute cab ride from the docks to the city... so we were wary when we were approached by a young man outside the gates of Fort Jesus and offered a free tour of the city.

Mombasa. We had sailed into port in the morning: the over-large African sun rising slowly over the forests of leafy trees and the bright turquoise tropical seas. The bow had been crowded and someone brought out a boom box which was playing "I bless the rains down in Africa, Gonna take some time to do the things we never have..." inspiring a spontaneous dance party. Certainly every port brought with it incredible excitment, but for some reason coming into Africa was different, more earthy, more vivid. The African American students on the ship seemed to be the most excited of all: none of them had ever been to Africa, and they wondered if coming here would bring them back to their roots, would make them feel at home, would give them a sense of completeness and belonging that they had felt lacking back home.

Travel long enough and eventually you will come to realize that nothing ever turns out the way you expect.

The port was dusty and barren. Enterprising Kenyans had set up tables full of wooden carvings, masks, and beaded jewelry as an impromptu marketplace to meet the ship. Our unexpectedly short taxi ride to town had taken us down a short and littered road, under an arch styled to look like two giant elephant tusks, and past a few run-down bars and clubs, including Club Florida, which would serve as the hub of drinking activities for a large portion of the arriving students. The place had the feel of an abandoned amusement park.

We went immediately to Fort Jesus, the only known tourist attraction. It was an old fort left over from Portuguese colonization which had changed hands numerous times as Muslim and Christian empires had sought to control the Port of Mombasa and its lively spice trade (Mombasa is very close to the island nation of Zanzibar, in the Spice Islands!) The fort had peeling buildings within stone walls and sat on the edge of the endless turquoise plane that was the Indian Ocean.

It was sad but true that our experiences abroad had made us distrustful and cynical, and that despite his friendly attitude and cheerful suggestions we knew he wanted money, wanted our money, and we didn't know how much or when he would demand it. We refused him several times, and began wandering down a quiet street. The road was cobbled and the buildings were old and peeling stone. Many of them still had faded black stenciled lettering on them announcing their former service as British colonial buildings. There were cats lounging everywhere, beneath every spot of shade and in every doorway, more cats than I had ever seen in one place, uninterested in our passing. Our guide informed us that American exchange students came to Mombasa and stayed in one of the old British colonial buildings. It seemed ironic.

I felt a gentle but sudden touch on my arm, and, already on edge, I turned quickly to see a small boy running away from me. He ran to his mother's side where he was immediately but playfully scolded. It had been his apparent aim just to touch my skin.

Mombasa is a predominantly muslim city today, and we passed by several elaborate mosques and we walked deeper into the old part of the city. After trying to lose our guide several more times, we began to follow him, and he led us deeper into the city. We ended up in a more crowded part of town where people were selling all manner of items. My friend Phil stopped to buy some lemon grass from a vendor; our guide argued with him in Swahili until they settled on a price, whether it was more or less than he had originally been offering, we couldn�t know. We entered an open building where there was a vast fruit market. I was surprised to discover that I could only recognize a few of the many varied types of fruit for sale. Next door there was a meat market. The ubiquitous cats made their presence known here: they lounged under every table and darted out to catch bits of meat that fell from above. There was blood everywhere. On the tables, dripping to the floor, being licked up by hungry cats� everywhere. The amount of blood was only trumped by the number of flies� great, large flies that stirred from the meat and blood in waves like on the sea. At one stall there was hanging meat and a large pile of glistening skin and hair�camel skin, we were told, very fresh, just butchered this morning. Another stall was selling goat heads, there were nine of them still bleeding on a tray with eyeballs and tongues lolling, covered in flies. My camera was in my pocket. It stayed there. I stood out enough in this marketplace. I would have to remember the goats� heads in my mind, I thought. I shouldn�t have worried� they have since been impossible to forget.

Our next stop was a spice shop. About the size of a small garage, the whole shop was crowded with burlap sacks filled to bursting with each type of spice. Yellow, brown, black and red, the smell of the mingling spices filled the room as the shop owner carefully showed us his exotic wares. So this was what the Chinese and the Indians and the Persians and the Omanis and the Europeans wanted so badly. This place must have seemed like a strange type of heaven to them.

Eventually we ended up on a modern-looking city street, and our guide wanted money. We asked him why he had told us that the tour was free, that he just liked people and wanted them to like Mombasa, that he loved his country and wanted to show it to people. He seemed slightly embarrassed but countered that it was obvious from the beginning that he would want money, and that we knew that as well as he did. He hailed us a taxi and when the taxi came he spoke some words in Swahili and climbed in the front seat to �assure that we made it back to our ship�. The taxi driver took us what seemed to be a long way and told us about how poor everyone was these days, and how a man couldn�t even afford to have a second wife, wives being increasingly expensive.

We reluctantly paid the taxi-man and the tour guide a sum of money and walked back through the temporary marketplace, where the American college students were busy trading their socks and t-shirts and baseball caps and condoms for wooden rhinoceroses, five-foot giraffes, and brightly-colored sarongs.

Oh my gosh. I have a friend who is in Africa right now promoting jump rope...he's right around where you are! That's so crazy...I had no idea you were going. I love how you travel from Antarctica to Africa and learn about geophysics and other cool - sounding things.
» The-Muffin-Man on 2010-04-25 03:59:14

One of the first things my Psychology teacher admitted during our college talk was that, as we get older, people become more and more impossible to trust. It seems as though we gain more fear than we lose from a long life. How sad.

It sounds like you're really experiencing, though. That's seriously awesome.

RE:
Thank you for the birthday happiness. :]
» Unicornasaurus on 2010-05-02 04:15:41

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