Time Out Kenya, part II

A weekend at the Swahili coast, renting a house with good friends in Kilifi, Kenya.

Nothing beats swimming in the sea during a storm. Except perhaps savouring the Swahili seafood.

Time Out Kenya

It’s been an intense few months. I’ve probably had around five days of not working since I arrived in South Sudan on my birthday in January.

After nearly five months of following the referendum in South Sudan, of covering protests and the culture in Sudan, of covering the revolution and conflict in Libya and the fallout of the refugees fleeing into Egypt, I was happy to take some time out with good friends in Kenya.

The Aberdares National Park. I love the mountains.

EC1a EC flight 1a, a small Cessna charted by the European Commission, as it flies over north-western Kenya. The Kenyan aviation authorities will not allow any flights directly from Somalia to Kenya, having little trust in the security of the failed state’s airports. So whilst a flight out to Hargeisa or Mogadishu can be fast, coming back is somewhat slower. First landing at Wajir, in the arid scrubland near the Somali border, everyone—and everything—must be brought off to be checked and scanned. Then once again, the Cessna takes to the skies, bound for Jomo Kenyatta International. Karibu Kenya.
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EC1a

EC flight 1a, a small Cessna charted by the European Commission, as it flies over north-western Kenya.

The Kenyan aviation authorities will not allow any flights directly from Somalia to Kenya, having little trust in the security of the failed state’s airports.

So whilst a flight out to Hargeisa or Mogadishu can be fast, coming back is somewhat slower. First landing at Wajir, in the arid scrubland near the Somali border, everyone—and everything—must be brought off to be checked and scanned.

Then once again, the Cessna takes to the skies, bound for Jomo Kenyatta International.

Karibu Kenya.

On the Edge of Lake Victoria “Stop man-handling the muzungo. Show some manners!” It started with a mail from a Kenyan Couch-Surfer in Kisumu. “Welcome to Kisumu”, was the subject line, “it is my greatest pleasure meeting you … if you have some time and you think of coming then you can call me”. So I did. I hadn’t heard of Kisumu, which seemed like a good idea to go and find-out what it was like. Two days later, following a rickety, day-long bus ride, I found myself in the Western Kenyan city that lies close to the Ugandan border, on the edge of Lake Victoria, named so by John Hanning Speke in honour of our queen in 1858. We climbed into a matatu and drove out to his little village, several kilometres from the city. Several hours later, after feasting on fresh tilapia fish from the lake, we were in a very “local” bar, with a band playing. Philip convinced me to get up to dance, which I failed to recognise as a bad idea. Not only was I exemplifying the White Man’s lack of dancing ability, particularly to this Luo rhythm, but being the only muzungo there, attracted quite a lot of attention from the local ladies. As the singer was telling them to behave themselves, and “take their turn, one at a time” in between songs, my face was glowing red as I watched Philip’s amusement at this spectacle. He knew what he was letting me in for, and he was encouraging them. It was late when we arrived back at his home, passing the Masai guards who are famed throughout Kenya for their honesty & loyalty. “They make the best security” I was told. I wish I’d had them on hand earlier in the night.
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On the Edge of Lake Victoria

“Stop man-handling the muzungo. Show some manners!”

It started with a mail from a Kenyan Couch-Surfer in Kisumu. “Welcome to Kisumu”, was the subject line, “it is my greatest pleasure meeting you … if you have some time and you think of coming then you can call me”. So I did.

I hadn’t heard of Kisumu, which seemed like a good idea to go and find-out what it was like. Two days later, following a rickety, day-long bus ride, I found myself in the Western Kenyan city that lies close to the Ugandan border, on the edge of Lake Victoria, named so by John Hanning Speke in honour of our queen in 1858.

We climbed into a matatu and drove out to his little village, several kilometres from the city. Several hours later, after feasting on fresh tilapia fish from the lake, we were in a very “local” bar, with a band playing. Philip convinced me to get up to dance, which I failed to recognise as a bad idea.

Not only was I exemplifying the White Man’s lack of dancing ability, particularly to this Luo rhythm, but being the only muzungo there, attracted quite a lot of attention from the local ladies. As the singer was telling them to behave themselves, and “take their turn, one at a time” in between songs, my face was glowing red as I watched Philip’s amusement at this spectacle. He knew what he was letting me in for, and he was encouraging them.

It was late when we arrived back at his home, passing the Masai guards who are famed throughout Kenya for their honesty & loyalty. “They make the best security” I was told. I wish I’d had them on hand earlier in the night.