Red Shoe Musings: February 2012

It was an early start in Dar-es-Salaam, another of the cockroach ridden hostels I seem to be frequenting at the moment such are the consequences of dating a skint Rasta guy here who lives in the bush miles from town. We can't stay over at mine because I'm a house guest at my friend's family home. The noisy whirring of a badly wired fan above the bed and the poorly plumbed bathroom didn't make for the most luxurious and comfortable nights sleep. The wooden framed single bed we were both on was narrow and creaky whenever I fidgeted to try and find a more suitable sleeping position. There was a window looking out onto a building site. An exciting chance to see the scaffolding from close up. These back streets of Dar around the old Indian quarter are really interesting. They seem to be alive right through the night, even though you'd never apply the tag 'the city that never sleeps' since it's reserved for the throbbing 24 hour party scenes of Western cities like Berlin, New York, for obviously different reasons this part of central Dar doesn't seem to sleep much either. There are people sitting out and drifting around at any hour.

When we left our keys at reception to check out, there were some men asleep on the dirty pavement giving out onto the street and others, dressed in security uniforms heads tilted aside asleep in chairs. This place is a real curiosity to me, it's so lived in, but these people live a life I can't really comprehend, access, imagine. From the outside though, as a passer by, it looks very exotic in my Western gaze. It seems poor, but not desperate, it's central Dar-es-Salaam, not a slum. It's a shock to the system to European living standards but the intricately decorated iron grills protecting the balconies make me wonder what they are protecting.

The bus to Ubungo, where the bus terminal is, was already quite full in spite of the fact it was light was only beginning to break. When we arrived at the terminal, it was a frantic push and rush to get through the dizzying crowd of people going in all directions or just standing around, passengers hauling all kinds of belongings. It's a nightmare to a British person trained to queue, read signs, departure times, see announcements and clean, clear, logical systems. We were ushered through a metal turn-style gate absolutely bursting with people, a very confined space given that the steams of traffic going in both directions were supposed to squeezed through - those leaving and those arriving. Unpleasant. In my early morning bad mood I find myself thinking - this is just ridiculous, why can't they be a bit more systematic? We were touted by a 'friend' on to a bus that was supposed to be 'luxury.' Sadly we found ourselves on a service that stopped all the time, in the unbreathable, unbearable heat and stagnant air when the vehicle is at a standstill on the side of the road, picking up and dropping off new passengers in random and obscure road-side villages.

Upon arrival at the boarder, I found out that I had failed to notice that my visa had already expired. Issued in London for 90 days, I had stated my departure date from the UK but the Tanzanian High Commission had issued it from the day that they processed it. Sure enough, I was punished for this error by the corrupt boarder officials both sides of the Tanzanian and Kenyan boarder. The Tanzanian official told me I would be taken to court in Tanga, or I'd have to pay a $600 fine. I was shitting myself. I also needed to get back into the country, how on earth was I going to pull this off? My parents are coming to visit me and we're going to Zanzibar, all my possessions are quietly and ignorantly tucked away in my friends house in Dar. In Africa, money talks, I had to bribe. They had only gone through the rigmarole of threatening me with a fine and court action to scare me, all they wanted was money, someone like me was just a sitting target for them to squeeze some extra money out of.

Once clear of the boarder, the rest of the ride was a calm one, passing palm trees and grassland and a slow ferry crossing onto the island of Mombasa. We were exhausted but we had reached our destination. The town really does stand up to its travel guide descriptions, it is historic and the arab influence is palpable, perhaps more so than in Dar-es-Salaam. Bustling market area, one small stall we went past was selling very intricately and beautifully decorated hats, called Taqiyya. Mosques, women wearing veils and men in embroidered hats and long djellaba type robes.

We got taken by a taxi driver who was keen to help us given our lack of local knowledge to a nice cheap and cheerful guest-house on the beach. Perfect. It was just what the doctor ordered. Little balcony, looking out onto the beach, pleasant room, clean, simple bathroom and relaxed and friendly staff. The vast changing tides of Mombasa beach, much like those in Dar were a stone's throw away fringed with tall coconut trees. You could see there was a reef in the distance as waves were breaking much further away from the shore, out near the horizon.

It was a starry sky and we had a drink and some food before bed, attacked by several cats scrounging for leftovers and tit-bits and two very cute kittens. I miss my cats at home.

The beach had a very relaxed feel, there were camels and small boats offering rides and many people happily swimming and milling around. The camels were my favourite feature, being such a sucker for anything 'different' and characteristic of being somewhere foreign. Reminiscent of the days of my childhood in Mallorca when my Dad would excitedly take us to see the 'Donkey man' who would make a regular trip to the beach with a donkey covered head to hoof in decorative items, small Mallorquin ceramics and whistles for sale, I seem to remember. This tradition seems to all but died out these days. These camels had brightly coloured seats on their backs and unlike those you see in zoos or circuses in the UK, they seemed calm and relaxed on the sand, their natural habitat. They are such an interesting design of animal. They're so extraordinary, their sweeping necks and funny padded hoofs.

The water was as warm as a bath, the seabed stays shallow for too long for a really good swim. I miss the aqua cool waters of Mallorca in the summer where me, my sisters and cousins swim out to do water acrobatics in the deep turquoise expanses. I love it, it's such a liberating feeling. Not complaining though, we splashed around in the shallows and knelt down in the water watching people drift up and down the beach.

On our first day in Mombasa we went into town to have a look around. We ambled through Old Town to Fort Jesus, a Fort built by the Portuguese 1593, it was a lot bigger than I expected and housed some interesting artefacts. Some of the buildings in old town were pretty impressive. Zanzibari, arab, highly decorative doorways and wooden highly embellished balconies. All these crammed in with crumbling disused looking building and corrugated iron roofed shack like structures. I managed to get some photos of this area along with some stolen ones form the window of the matatu during the drive into the centre of town.

In town we kept being cautioned on our safety, to hold to our belongings tight, so I was less comfortable taking photographs even though the town centre and market area would have made some great pictures.

The rest of the weekend was spent mostly on the beach, taking advantage of the sea, reading magazines and books, chilling out. Taking short trips to the mall nearby for supplies, mainly drinks. There were a string of bars and clubs on the way to this mall from our guest house, but the bars on the beach served us just fine so we didn't venture out. Although, I reckon in high season the nightlife in this area is pretty good fun. Mombasa beach can be quite the hang out or getaway for inter racial couples. I saw many walking along the beach, drinking in the bars. I suppose it's normal in any touristy area like this.

I didn't want to leave, mostly because being right on the beach was so relaxing, I really think I need to buy myself a beach front house later on in life, it's just my natural environment. I was also terrified about the fresh boarder problems awaiting me and the tedious long, hot, stuffy bus journey. But I was lucky enough on return, they didn't give me too many problems. The only issue was the long wait we had once we cleared immigration because they were checking all the luggage on the bus. We stopped at Tanga for lunch and got back to Dar in the dark. I was exhausted after a relaxing weekend, it's not a good idea to get a bus at the crack of dawn after a bad night's sleep. The seats were so painfully uncomfortable. Tanga was a welcome break.

Some pictures taken in Old Town, Mombasa

Just love this one, Somali jewelry shop. The paintings on the side of the building are really cool. There is a Somali community in Kenya since they're neighbours