Hell's Gate photos

Just returned from a weekend trip at Hell's Gate, Naivasha. Sounds more stunning than the name suggests. Trixie and I decided to meet in a central location on Friday afternoon, to get a matatu to Naivasha. I navigated my way down Ronald Ongala street, past the hellish noise of shouting matatu touts, through the markets pumping out music from the eighties to compete against background noise. How more people don't suffer from sensori-neural hearing loss, I don't know. I had to cover my ears just to survive the noise pollution. Everyone else looked perfectly at home with the 80 decibel noise.

Just as my nerves were about to give way, I sought peace and tranquillity at a petrol station. Only people with cars can enter, so the majority are pedestrians, I perched myself between two petrol pumps and waited for Trixita to arrive. A guard- even the petrol pumps have guards- approached and asked me to move, unaccustomed as he was to Muzungus standing between petrol pumps. Luckily Trixie arrived and we shoved ourselves past the crowd, towards the ticket stand, yelling to get heard. We chose our seats in front, so as to save our sanity.

I chose the paralysis seat, half seat with a bar across, near certain death if there is a road accident, a step up from the seats behind...
The views were spectacular once we pulled out of Nairobbery. Lush rolling hills, large plateaus and green green life. The matatu driver took the usual risks- driving on the wrong side of the road, overtaking on bends. They must give out free Driver's Licences here as they did in Ireland in the old days, as people here drive dodgily. Not that I'm an expert or anything, but overtaking with no view of the road in front is nearly certain to cause an accident

I did mention to the driver more than once
"Oh is that wise. You can't see around that bend"
or
"pole pole, whats the rush?"

He ignored me, of course, or pretended he didn't understand. I will have to alter my accent here as very few people see to understand what I am on about

Then soon after arrival, we change matatus for round two- another back breaking experience from Naivasha town to the Lake. A man approached carrying everything he could possibly sell that day. We wore about 6 hats, several necklaces, odds and ends, all around his neck. He was not impressed when I took a photo of him. But what a sight all the same. A one man shop.

We past several flower farms along the way. Employers no doubt from Europe, in trouble recently for contributing to the Lake pollution. Several fish were found floating dead on the surface of the lake. We past the miserable huts of the lowly paid workers- one room huts, with sheet coverings for doors, a vast difference from the wealthy entrepreneurs who drive in Lland rovers, milking the profits afforded from meagre wages paid to the backbreaking work of local flower pickers

When we finally arrived at the camp. I had to bargain for my bed, something I always like to do after a long matatu trip. We did land on our feet however, managing to sleep in the wing of the owner's cottage as all beds were sold out...to Swedish students. It suited me, a colonial room for two with bathtub ...nice

That night as I sipped my beer, two volunteers joined me at the restaurant overlooking the Lake. An Indian volunteer spoke of his homeland at the foot of the Himalayas and seemed stuck on the idea that Muslim Indians had more interest in Pakistan than India.

As he put it " it's as if they come to my father's house, eat our food, sleep in our beds..they even die in India and still they cheer for Pakistan in the cricket

He repeated this analogy several times in case i didn't get it the first time.

I decided to divert to another subject- travelling in Afghanistan. We were lost in stories of travels past when suddenly in the corner of my eye, I spotted a huge black insect crawling up my knee- a cross between a spider and a giant hairy spiky sea urchin. I flicked it and it wouldn't budge. Then I started to scream, and lept to a nearby chair.

Other travellers were just shaking the stress of Nairobi from their shoulders when I went leaping across them, diving into to one of the nearby chairs. What a sight! I don't know which is scarier; a giant African insect or a screaming leaping Irish woman raving about the insect. You make up your own minds..but it was huge and not a incy wincy spider or caterpillar

Anyway, my heart raced for one hour, so I decided to head back to the cottage to calm my nerves. I'm in Africa now. Massive insects are all part of this wonderful continent.

The following day, five of us headed off in bikes around Hells Gate National Park..a beautiful track lead the way past zebras, war hogs and gazelle. We stopped briefly for photos and then off to Hell- the gears or brakes didn't work but what to do except keep peddling. We hired a guide at the entrance to the gorge, and hiked past lower and upper gorges, lifting ourselves up and down rocks, sliding down ridges, with beautifully coloured craggy edges on the rock

A wonderful sunny day, great to feel part of nature. We past a boy herding his goats, a Masai warrior, dressed in a brightly coloured kanga. By the time we made our way back to the bikes, I was exhausted and had little energy for the 8 km journey.

That night we rested at the restaurant, swapping travellers tales and sipping red wine..no insects this time, except Hippo who had made their way to the edge of the camp, on the other side of the electric fence

Next trip- Lake Baringo for more wild life spotting- hopefully this time, from a distance....

Where's the outrage?

Recently, while reading the daily soap opera paper devoted to rival politicians, The Daily Nation, I came across an article which held a particular resonance for me. The title was "No, it's not easy to write about magical Kenya" by Rasna Warah.

She wrote "it is difficult for many Kenyans to experience the magic of Kenya simply because they are too hungry, too desperate, and too downtrodden to marvel at the beauty of a scarlet sunset dipping into the Indian Ocean or a herd of gazelle dancing across a savannah".

How is it possible for a writer to write about the magic of Kenya when the world around her is crumbling? If Kenya burns, we will all feel the heat, regardless of income or social status. I am finding that all my blogs mention the rotten state of Kenya rather than the beautiful people or sunsets. Every week, another scandal erupts, reminding me of corruption, impunity and total disregard of the political elite for the welfare of their citizens. Already several scandals involving theft of free primary education money, the profit from stolen maize and the pocketing of money allocated for the building of infrastructure, have depressed both Kenyans and foreigners.

But where is the outrage? Why the complacency?Are people so scarred and oppressed that they cannot take a stand?

I have found myself in recent weeks, erupting in uncontrolable rage at the pole pole rate of change here. I realise this is a developing country and that I am not here to impose change on anyone. But day after day, reform seems to creep along at a snail's pace. There is no public outcry at the state of politics or anything else for that matter. Rather a fatalistic notion that this is Kenya and this is the way it will always be.

On a return trip from Uganda, I asked the bus conductor to put on the chick flick "The Notebook" on the dvd player to relieve us from the constant monotony and freakish films they had chosen- a film about Nigerian dwarves pinching women's arses and bribing officials followed by Kenny Rogers Live and then to top it all off, Gospel music. I suggested a change of scene- some Hollywood romance to ease the nerves. After ten minutes, a harmless love scene involving the two main characters (they kissed at the beach), jerked the conductor into action. He quickly changed the film, opting for The tragic South African film "Sarafina" which explicitly shows the violence in Soweto during the aparteid regime.

When challenged about the appropriatenss of this film, one man retorted "we are used to this violence". Hollywood romance does not translate here. Kissing is strictly taboo, reserved for tourists and honeymooners.

I recently imploded when a manager in the organisation suggested that I was doing too much and that we should scale down activities. Scale down to what- nothing?

I am reactive. I have always known that. When I am angry, my eyes bulge, my face reddens and my hands fling about. Its a scarry sight but somehow people find my facial changes funny here. As a taxi driver said to me last night; " you look funny when you are angry". Kenyans seem more controlled in their anger. The stoney faces remain stoney faced. There are no explosions, or drama or raised voices..in front of me anyway. Such repressed anger..even in children. How do they not burst with emotion with all they carry inside?

Cultural differences I suppose- fascinating and unfamiliar but frustrating as hell.

The paper seller on the corner of my road replied "God help us" when I asked him what was in the paper that day. Divine intervention may not be enough to rescue this state. Its up to the people of Kenya to save this place- not the volunteers or the aid workers. A little bit of Kenya protest is needed in regular doses

Up and down

Visiting Karen Blixen's house last Sunday with a group of friends, I noticed a poster on the wall about her life and writing. Author of "Out of Africa", she frequently wrote to her mother in Denmark about her life in Kenya, running a farm at the foot of the Ngong Hills. Her farm no longer remains but her writing does, of a time long past but not forgotten- Colonial Kenya. I lingered for a while reading one particular letter she had written: "I was not drawn to Africa because it is was rich, but its riches are boundless"


And this is certainly true, if you have an open attitude and can see all the riches it beholds


Many time here in Nairobi, I have been caught up with numerous issues. Important questions like can I afford to live here as a volunteer? or how can I get faster internet access? or how can I communicate with people at home if I can't access skype?


Consumed with such questions, I wonder how I found myself in such a recondite place where even the basic necessities of life like health, education, technology are considered luxuries that few can afford. Only today in The Daily Nation, I read an article about the ongoing saga of the stolen millions from the Free Primary Education Fund. Hundreds of thousands of innocent children will suffer because the elite under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Education misplaced Doner money. More aid money down the drain in a country already swelling to the brim with dependency on aid. And still the culprits remain in their positions, wealthy with the money they misplaced. Kenya's forgotten children will remain in villages all over the country, denied their basic right to education.


There are other problems too but I have been adviced by my Kenyan friends not to worry about the small stuff like lack of Internet access. And I understand why. With the weight of massive burdens, people here are resigned not to sweat the small stuff and exude a patience which I admire. I have not heard a voice raised in frustration (except my own) nor a tormented look on any one's face since I arrived. Not even in Kibera, where people set up shack in Africa's largest slum. Without sanitation, living in hovels which provide the most basic kind of shelter. Literally, they only have the roof over their head and the shirt on their back. Still there is laughter and children playing as if its just another day. Life goes on.


And now for its riches ...because they are everywhere if only you have the eyes to see them. I left Ireland hoping for a change of scenery and what I got instead was a change of perspective. Sure the little things bother me all the time. But I have to remember why I am here and the job I have to do. The little things will have to wait.

Last weekend crystallised in all that I loved about Kenya. I was invited to a Team Building Day at Masai Lodge by the Occupational Therapy Department at Kenyatta Hospital. We were instructed to meet at 7.3o in Kenyatta.

I should have known! 7 30 in Kenya translates to 9 am. Instead of turning over for another sleep at 8 am , I got up at 6.45 am only to realise my mistake when I got to Kenyatta. And as I looked around searching for the familiar faces of my colleagues, I noticed my other Muzungu friend, Trixie, who had mistakenly kept the time.

I have learned from my mistake. Always always add at least one hour and then hope for the best that people will stick to that time. You never know. Time is unique here in that no one seems to live by the clock. Rather a notion that when you get there, it is time enough. No rushing..you can always blame the traffic

So we arrived at Masai Lodge in the beautiful natural surround of Nairobi National Park, well after 10 am and then the games began.

We were instructed to introduce ourselves while walking around a swimming pool, announcing important details like our name, our marital status ( very important here) and our shoe size, type of tooth paste etc. I discovered that I was one of two single people. the other single person was also a Muzungu. All my colleagues in their thirties were married with children. Even the ones in their twenties.

We kicked off with strenuous exercises geared for a fitter crew. And then a team game where we had to lift other members of our team over a rope. Large and small, light and the not so light were lifted with grace over the rope and onto the other side as if their life depended on it.

Afterwards, there was a two hour hike near Nairobi National Park with a Masai Warrior- to fend off Lions in case they got hungry. He was draped in a bright red robe, tied in the middle with a luminous belt of different colours. On his head, a red head dress with flowers over a red plaited long wig. Quite an outfit for the hike. He carried his Masai stick with the rounded edge, a formidable figure in our group of inexperienced trekkers.


We walked over rivers and rocks, under dry grizzly bush and over dry red crackled dust, in the hot African sun. I chatted with colleagues about the general happenings in Nairobi. Most are from upcountry regions in rural Kenya. Most made their way to Nairobi in search of a better life for their family. Some of the married men had left their families behind in order to bring in money for their families and had been lured by the appeal of the single life too.


Everything was going well until we approached a thin metal drawbridge overlooking a deep ravine with murky brown river far beneath. Nothing between us and the abyss except bush and rocks. I was one of the first to cross unfortunately. There was a queueing system and I was up near the front. Great


I was terrified, as I have some experience of Kenyan construction - it is not made to last. My legs quivered as I slowly walked across, clinging to the metal rope and trying to look across the horizon. Behind the team were yelling "come on Muzungu, move faster" or "I think she's going to crawl."


I kept my slow pace. Now it was my time for pole pole (slowly slowly). No rushing now as I was on African time. They would have to wait while I made the crossing. So slowly I crossed with someone behind me murmuring "relax relax". Now was no time for relaxing. I couldn't relax here, put my feet up or turn around for a chat. I was risking my life in this crossing..pole pole


And finally I reached the other end. Not far behind me, one of the girls was midst anxiety attack. Her feet gave way under her and she told me later that all she wanted to do was lie down on the bridge and rest. However, pole pole she reached the other end.When she reached the other end, her t shirt was soaked in sweat and she was hyper ventilating. No one offered her sympathy as is often the case here. Just nervous laughter. I consoled her and reassured her that I was also scared. At least we only had to cross it once.. it was only going to be once, right?


No, there was no way back from Kitengela re-cycled glass factory.. all that way for recycled glass! We would have to cross again. What a cruel joke. All I had to do was follow the others and pretend that the bridge was safe and that we wouldn't fall to our deaths far far beneath. One wise guy mentioned that I should stop and admire the scenery.


Is he out of his mind?? At a time like this, stop and admire the scenery beneath us...very far beneath us. I needed a stiff drink to relax not admire the scenery


Nothing like the fear factor to bond a team. If you can make it across a stringy metal bridge overlooking a steep ravine, you can accomplish anything. At least we were still alive I thought..that was team building enough for me


And then the highlight of the day-swimming in the pool. However we decided to turn it into a basketball game of boys against the girls.The girls had a not so easy victory as the boys couldn't swim. What a match. Splashing, pulling the ball, throwing it into our handmade basketball net which consisted of a chair, fowling- one of the funniest sports I have ever played in the water


Afterwards, we relaxed with Tuskers and listened to the beat of Luya music in the background.

Many tribes live in Nairobi and an event like this was a rich musical blend of all cultures.I got a chance to listen to all types of music. Luya from the West, the rhythmical Kamba beats of the East, The Flame dance; a risky dance for a female as it involves hula movements of the hip which seem to drive the male folk into a queer state.

I announced that I would be dancing but at a distance.My mother told me always keep my distance from men.. all men and now was the time to remind people of this. There would be no grinding movements near my behind.I would be keeping my distance


Everyone was laughing. What kind of dance would that be with between male and female.It didn't exist here. The whole idea of dancing here is to simulate sex, and to keep the rhythm, something many of us from the west are not used to.


I watched and I learned. Do not move your shoulders, only your hips. Bend your knees and make circular subtle round hip movements while listening to the beat. It was a teasing dance. I forgot who I was for a few hours while I lost myself in the rhythm and followed the others, dancing in circles, all without the aid of alcohol.I surprised myself


Afterwards I felt exhilarated. I had finally learned to African dance and was enchanted by the way everyone lost themselves in the music. Dancing there, that night, under another cloudless African sky, I thought this is one of Kenya's riches. The freedom to dance uncontrollably.


The night wore on and even the Masai warrior had changed his clothes. I didn't recognise him in his western dress- he was less luminous now and looked like everybody else.


Later that night, we got a lift home with one of my colleagues and his mistress, a woman half his age...no judgement. He had invited her to a work party! And he wasn't the only one with a complicated love life. Another colleague of mine told me that he didn't live with his partner and his two children. He kept up the face of the loving partner in public but in fact she didn't want to live with him as they had married early in life and she hadn't had a chance to enjoy her youth- that was his version.


Another woman reminded me that it was expected after college that you marry and have children. The parents wanted grandchildren. There was little time for waiting after college. If a woman reached 27 she is considered old. I reminded her that I was 35 and had never been married. She told me I was free then like an animal, like a Simba. I wasn't expected to live by Kenyan standards and since I had left Ireland last year, I wasn't expected to live by Ireland's societal norms either


What a liberating feeling. I was free here. Free not to be judged by societal norms. No one is ever entirely free of such norms but I was more liberated than before. This is what I was hoping for, to shrug off norms, when I set off for Africa 5 months before. Tired of the constant demands and expectations of home, I shrugged off all expectations placed on Irish women of child bearing age and headed off to Africa..for a change of scenery...and perspective


And there, I found it. Freedom from expectation and freedom from all the burdens placed on women today. I had joined the ranks of women who instead of giving birth, decide to head out into the world and discover all the riches that other cultures provide. I could learn another language here or easier just to dance under the stars. Whatever took my fancy.

That night in the car, I felt that I had finally discovered all that was good about life in Africa

Sure there are many things that challenge a person here. Lack of internet access, power cuts, the haggling of no fix prices.But here I am really stretching myself. In the face of all these challenges, I feel truly alive. Why do we need so many lows in order to enjoy the highs? To give us a sense of perspective I suppose

Up and down is an expression Kenyans use to express the fact that they are busy. Up and down is the way I feel most days here. Loving the place then hating it five minutes later. You could be accused of being Bipolar given the different strong emotions you feel in one day


The more obstacles placed in my way, the more I feel grateful for all I have here. Great likeminded friends who continually support me, freedom to dance all night without self consciousness awareness of rules imposed on you.I am free here and alive. That is more important to me than fast internet access (well most of the time) or new clothes or gadgets

Saying goodbye to paradise

Carlos left yesterday.

We spent his last 4 days in Africa together as luckily he missed his flight home on Friday. Convincing himself that his flight was at 3.45 pm rather than 2.15 , he came to work with me at Kenyatta hospital on Fri am. When he finally arrived at the airport at 2 pm, his flight had left and there was nothing left to do but stay with me 4 more days.

I am reminded of a book called "a woman's world", edited by the great Irish travel writer Dervila Murphy, who wrote about the relationships women encounter when they travel alone on their journey.

First of all, women share relationships with local women due to common bonds of children, and family. Often I been invited to a family home by a woman in a shared taxi or in the back of a horse drawn cart. Passing through markets, I brush arms with other women looking for the best deal on clothes or vegetables.

An invite from a woman is less threatening and for the most part, I accept as I get a rare glimpse into the household of a local family. Usually I offer to cook, but I am often ushered into a reception room as a guest and not allowed to help. I haven't a clue how to cook Ugali or chapati anyway and would make a mess.

Then there are the relationships with children. This I love most of all.

Today, I spent the morning in a Special Unit for children with intellectual disabilities in Nairobi. I was touched by one affectionate child, who hugged me every few minutes, proclaiming I was his new rafiki (friend) and when snack time came around, he shared every bite of food he had with me. First mandazi (donut), then chapati... he wasn't the only one. Every child in the room naturally shared their food with the child sitting beside him.

I couldn't help comparing them to the spoilt brats I have worked with in the past, who have tantrums when asked to share their toys.

As for the relationships with men, these are the most complicated for women travelling alone. Often I find though, men in otherwise hostile terrain, view a lone western woman as vulnerable and go out of their way to assist and help in a rather macho but welcoming manner. In Pakistan I have experienced a barrage of questions about why my father or brother allow me to travel in such a manner but usually this is accompanied by an invite to their home to meet their wives or children. Women in Pakistan are usually accompanied by males even to the market and are never out alone.

There are always unwanted advances as one would encounter at home. Travel has taught me to be alert and friendly where ever possible as even a hostile situation can be defused with patience and compassion. If someone says "hello", I reply, even if he wants me to buy a pair of socks I don't need or an expensive Dhow trip that I cant afford. Friendliness doesn't cost anything and creates a better atmosphere when travelling alone. Plus you can glean very useful information about the region with a quick exchange on the side of a street, information you will not find in any "Lonely Planet"

The worst thing about travel is the goodbyes. I have had more intense 4 or 9 day relationships than 9 year relationships. Days spent with travel buddies amount to weeks or months at home as we fit our friends and family in at weekends and around busy schedules. You can get to know someone very well on the back of a 10 hour bus, bumping along unpaved roads, with a chicken on your lap, laughing or enduring loss or theft as is the case in Africa also.

Everything is intensified and maybe thats why I travel so much. I need to intensify my life, to put a frame around my life and say this is it. I only get one chance and I am going to enjoy all of it.

The goodbyes are still hard but I have learned to mellow with travel. I have learned that you must let people go and not hold on to them.

So as the swans come to drink at your palm, they must also be allowed to fly away again (woman's world ref)

You say goodbye often and hello even more times. Eventually it balances itself out and the result is an interesting mix of friends from all over the world, many on facebook.

Hello to all of you I have met on the road

till we meet again...

As for you women out there who comment that you would love to travel as I do but do not have the courage to travel, its 2010 afterall. Decades of feminism and still I hear this.

Would you ever hear a man say " I dont have the courage to do x, y or z". Rather "I want to go to x,y or z, what is the best way..."

Get off the couch girls, take out the lonely planet, rucksack, antimalarials and get travelling. Escape the recession!

Hotel Cliff beach villas

Well just returned from paradise, Zanzibar island, where I spent 12 amazing days. Most days were spent on the beach rusting my skin as Kenyan children would say. I rusted so much, I turned pink, then purple patches and now parts of me are white again.

I headed to Zanzibar alone on the 18th as I couldn't wait for the other volunteers who were traveling overland ooch on the 22nd. I flew with fly540 only to be greeted by customs who insisted that Irish citizens should pay 100 dollars for the visa. I didn't have such currency on me so luckily a chap from the dive centre at Kendwa beach helped me out. I still made a scene if only for the drama of it. I do like confrontations

I met Jose Carlos, a Spanish beach boy, on my second day. Like the local beach boys, he spent his days hanging out, chatting, laughing and making sure he had a good time.

Me alegre que verte Carlos. Hasta pronto en Nairobi

I have been practising my Spanish ever since. Swahili is taking longer

Christmas eve and day were spent on the beach and nights in Kendwa rocks and Sunset dancing till 3. How the locals dance here. Dancing just for the pure enjoyment of it. No self consious behaviour. Pure rhythm and lots of practice.

Beach boys work out on the beach everyday. Some of them are bursting out of their own bodies in muscle. Its too much for my delicate sensibilities. Little hassle here, a welcome relief from the constant hussle and hastle of Nairobi

Then it was time to leave for Tiwi beach, Kenya
Thats where we checked into Cliff Beach villas and then the drama really began
I managed to get bitten by a stone fish on the first night followed by bed bugs on the second night! Great way to ring in the new year!

I also discovered that I left some of my clothes in Zanzibar, only my favourite ones of course. A fiasco with the laundry in Malindi guesthouse, Stonetown caused this as well as my own carelessness when rushed and under pressure to move.

Its very difficult to rush when one has turned into a beach girl not that I was ever known for my punctuality

Here is a poem written by the hilarious Racheal Tuckley, a VSO volunteer, about our 4 day New Years experience at Cliff beach villas:

Hotel Cant Afford Ya

On a long matatu highway,
hot wind in my hair
Warm smell of old tilapia
up through the air
At the end of a long bumpy road,
I finally saw lightsI was looking forward to chilling out,
We were due to stay 4 nights

There we stood in the doorway;
We heard warning bells,
We were thinking to ourselves,
This could be heaven or this could be hell
She asked for my valuables and,
told us her family way,
Don’t you trust me, she said,
and we thought…It’s only for a few days…

Welcome to the hotel cliff beach villa
Such a dodgy place
Such a potential space
Plenty of scope at the hotel cliff beach villa
But you can’t be cool - no water in the pool

Her mind seems definitely twisted,
has she got the paranoid bends?
She got a few masaai and askari boys,
weirdly don’t wanna be friends
How we laid in our bedrooms,
trying not to sweat.
Most days to remember,
every night to forget

So we talked to the captain,
she said, ‘I don’t want to shout…
Please don’t bad mouth me…
I should have thrown you all out’
How does she hear our talking from so so far away???
Flooding wakes you up in the middle of the night
How much longer shall we stay?

Welcome to the hotel cliff beach villa
Over-priced food
Will put you in a mood
Breaking into your room at the hotel cliff beach villa
What a nice surprise,
if your towel arrives

No water in the toilet,
No champagne, or ice,
And we thought we are all just visitors here,
of our own device
And in various mattresses
Bed bugs gathered for a feast,
We don’t know who last slept in these beds,
Maybe they were deceased?!!!

Last thing I remember,
we were Squirming to our cab
And trying to negotiate fairly
Without feeling too
We destroyed our financial details…
And she shouted as we leave…
“Please don’t destroy my property”…
and“Were you talking about me?”

Now I'm relaxing in another paradise.
How much fun can one woman have?

Donkeys are the mode of trasnport here.
I walk to the beach everyday, passing a maze of narrow streets, lined with pink flowers and coral stones. Kids yell out "jambo, jambo" beach boys "do you want a boat ride" or :wannw ride a donkey today?No hastle if you dont want anything. I walk right on by.

Ninjas warriors and Massai watch me stroll the streets,
wondering where I have come from and how much money I have

I feel slightly underdressed when walking alongside muslim women in their black veils or Bui Bui

So thats all the news of Christmas.
I hope you all had a wonderful time and hope to see you soon.
My friends are in my thoughts as always