Mombasa

My solo traveling through Africa was supposed to begin with Mombasa. But now I had been adopted and had a new set of parents who worry more than my own parents as my own have realized over the years that worrying gets them nowhere. Originally, I was supposed to go to the coast with Thomas’s niece, but she backed out. Thomas did not want me traveling alone (even tho this is by far the easiest of my destinations for the next 2 months) so he found someone in the neighborhood who he thought would want to accompany me to Mombasa. In return for her services as 24/7 tour guide, he promised her she wouldn’t have to pay a thing. While this is a great arrangement, it meant that I had to pay for everything, which would’ve been fine if I had known ahead of time, but I didn’t and since I was only in Kenya for a couple more days and didn’t want to take out money again, it made an already frugal me even more frugal, but for two. However, in the end this arrangement worked quite well because she got me better rates on things, knew where all to go that were of interest, was a ball of laughter so we spent our days cracking up, introduced me to her cousin and her cousin’s crazy friends who took a liking to me and showed me a night on the town, and was just an all around awesome person. We even got to the point where it didn’t really feel like a business arrangement but more like a friendship. I ended up liking my new friends in Mombasa that they had to practically drag me to the bus station for my departure to Dar es Salaam. Hopefully, there will be a reunion soon.

Mombasa was quite a change of pace from my life in Nairobi. I was alone in a hotel room so I got more time to reflect and to write. I didn’t have to watch awful, dubbed Mexican soap operas or deal with rowdy children getting mad at me or throwing “Obama” at me. I no longer had to take 10 cups of tea per day to appease Thomas. However, I do miss my host family. The Mombasa way of life on a whole is also quite different. Obviously it would be more laid back as a coastal town. The cultural make-up contrasted to that of Nairobi as well. Nairobi has representation of every Kenyan ethnic group. On top of that, there is a sizeable Muzungo (white) population, vestiges of colonialism. There are also some Indians. Mombasa, perhaps by virtue of its coastal trading, has many more Indians and Arabs than whites and they are better integrated, almost all speaking Kiswahili (it is a Swahili town). Islam has a heavy presence with mosques dotting the skyline. I’ve been serenaded by the call to prayer in the mornings and evenings, something I haven’t really experienced since I lived in Senegal. It is one of my favorite things to listen to and really lends to meditation. Many women, both Arab and black, wear a full chador or burka. Many of the men meanwhile wear the skullcap. While Senegal was a Muslim country, people didn’t really dress the part and Islam was more a religion than a way of life. It was new for me to see women with dark skin and features dressed as if they were in the Middle East.

Meanwhile, my identity continues to fluctuate. In Nairobi, I was simply a Muzungo. In Mombasa, I was called South African, Ethiopian, and Jamaican as everyone on the beach tried to guess my origins. Someone at a restaurant started talking to me in what I assume was Amharic. He apologized when I looked at him blankly and he said he thought I spoke an Ethiopian language. I’ve also been told several times I look like the Kenyan musician Nazizi (google image her. I actually do sort of look like her). Normally though, people just called me Rasta. Rastas have a precarious position in society. Before they were only associated with bad, violent people who were known for killing. However, that group no longer runs amuck and people are starting to realize that you can have rastas and not be a cold-blooded killer. Lucky for me. However, hardly no women have dreadlocks and the men who do are looked down upon. But I’m assured that since I don’t look Kenyan, mine are OK.