Negotiating Mombasa

Another very nice aspect of Nairobi is that within a few hours drive or a short, rather inexpensive, flight, you can escape to some very interesting places. A few weekends ago, a group of us – some Italians, a French, a German and a couple of Finns – drove a few hours northwest of Nairobi to Lake Naivasha, home to Kenya’s flower industry. We hiked in Hell’s Gate National Park, saw hippos on Lake Naivasha and flamingoes on Crater Lake, and spent the evening at a campsite called, appropriately, Fisherman’s Camp (although they called the accommodations “cottages”, pouring pots of boiling water on myself for a shower confirmed for me otherwise!). This past weekend I flew to Mombasa on the coast, Kenya’s second largest city and the largest port in East Africa. This time, opting for the other variety of accommodation, I stayed at the Mombasa Serena about 30 km north of Mombasa, a beautiful resort owned by the Aga Khan located right on the Indian Ocean.

On Saturday morning, I explored the old town of Mombasa. Most of the people of Mombasa are Swahili, whose cultural origin stemmed from the intermix of Arabs and Africans. Mombasa was a key town along the Arab trading route, then passed into Portuguese hands throughout the 16th and 17th centuries, then to the sultans of Oman, before coming under British control in the 1870s, at the same time that Britain formally ended the East African slave trade. Most Swahilis are Muslim and, as a result, Mombasa’s mosque-filled streets bustle with woman in full black robes, head scarves and veils and men in long, white tunics and square, embroidered caps.

With my Lonely Planet guide book, I had meticulously outlined the route I wanted to explore and looked forward to leisurely wandering the streets of Mombasa while taking photographs. But, I knew what would happen as soon as my car (loudly marked with the hotel logo) pulled up in front of Fort Jesus – a large fort, on the edge of the old town, built by the Portuguese in 1593 – I just thought I could be insistent enough to thwart it. No less than a dozen “tour guides” attacked, barely allowing me to open the car door. I took a deep breath and told myself to be strong in my resolve to “go it alone.”

In Nairobi, negotiation is a constant part of my daily life – taxis, furniture, fruit, even the stuffed animal I recently purchased for a baby shower – the only fixed prices are the highest ones the sellers can extract from me. There is a Kiswahili word for people like me – “mzungu” – or white person. The term, I believe though, describes more than skin color, but the ridiculous things some of us do (such as donning a matching running outfit and jogging up and down a busy Nairobi road, of which I’m guilty), and also the ease with which we can be charged 4x the rate of local Kenyans. I do not fault them for trying, but the negotiation battle that takes place everyday for everything becomes tiresome.

I tried to ignore the guides, but they were as relentless as I was weak. I ended up with Abdul for 1200 shillings (down from 2500 at the start). “But look here,” I said, while unsuccessfully trying to put the Lonely Planet up to his face, “this is the route I want to follow.” “Akuna matata, I will show you a good tour,” he said over and over, while leading me away from Fort Jesus and old town, to one of Mombasa’s busiest commercial streets, Digo Street. I had to jog to keep up as we darted around people, hopping on and off the sidewalks. At one point, I actually got nudged in the back by a matatu (minibus) trying to get by me on the street! “Where are we going? This is not part of the route I want to take!” I shouted angrily at Abdul. “Akuna matata” he kept saying – making me just as angry at the Lion King movie as him – while moving along pointing out the obvious, shoe stores, t-shirt sellers, jewelry shops, on this crowded street, trying to get me to go inside. “I’m stopping, Adul, not shopping, and going into old town!” At which point, I did, and turned around and walked away.

But Abdul wised-up, wanting his 1200 shillings, and led me back into the old town (but still refused to look at my Lonely Planet). We immediately hit the markets – spice shops, fruit stands, silk sellers, Swahili carvings. I allowed Abdul to bring me into the first spice shop where I bought some overpriced hot curry powder. I then had to explain to Abdul, “I do not want to shop and spend money, so will not go into another store.” “Akuna matata, you can just look.” “No, that is not possible because they will follow me around the store and beg me to buy. I just want to walk and take pictures.” He ignored me and kept trying one store after another - uncle’s, friend’s, sister’s husband’s – but I continued to refuse to enter another store. I’m sure at this point he was beginning to weigh the cost/benefits of that 1200!

Finally, we wandered. We passed through narrow alleyways that open into enclosed courtyards ringed by Portuguese homes with layers of intricately carved wooden balconies; went up to glaring white mosques, where I could see, through the open windows, many young boys being taught a Saturday religious lesson; and took pictures of many ornately carved, Lamu-style, wooden doors. Abdul told me I would not have been safe, and could not have taken all my pictures, without him. Maybe that was true, but as a tour guide – pointing out to me “pussy cats smelling spices” and “houses ka-PUT” – I found him a bit useless. However, did I really have a choice???