Fire engines hose the plane as we taxi down the runway. There’s no need to panic. This is Kenya’s welcome to 1time’s maiden flight to the historic port of Mombasa, the second largest city in the East African country.
From March the air carrier will fly twice a week from OR Tambo International Airport to Mombasa International.
The humidity engulfs us as we step off the plane. There’s a small crowd of people, including a local media contingent waiting. “Jambo! Jambo!” they greet us, wearing warm smiles. Drums beat and local dancers perform a karibu (welcome in Swahili) dance.
Our group of more than 100 travel agents and media is ushered through customs and loaded on to three buses. We push through the streets of Mombasa city, the heavy traffic making way for our blue light escort.
Our guide, Simon Makona, explains that tourists are treated as VIPs because of their significant contribution to the economy. But of course not every tourist is afforded this luxury. I can see why certain politicians are partial to this perk.
Mombasa has a population close to a million, mainly Swahili and Mijikenda people. The streets are teeming with people, trucks, tuk-tuks and matatus (minibus taxis). Makona jokes “matatus lead to matata” as opposed to the popular Swahili phrase hakuna matata (no worries).
Motorbikes are a popular means of transport too. They weave through the traffic, carrying up to three people and a sack of maize or wood. Helmets are rare although I did spot one rider with a hard hat.
Coconut palms tower over thick green vegetation, telling of the city’s tropical climate and its proximity to the equator.
We head to Neptune Resorts, owned by Italian-run Plan Hotels in Diani Beach on the coast south of Mombasa Island. The island is separated from the mainland by two creeks, Tudor Creek and Kilindini Harbour.
“The only way to get across is to swim or take the Likoni Ferry,” says Makona. The huge double-ended vessel transports thousands of vehicles, people and livestock to and fro each day. It’s low tide. The bus hovers at the edge, making a tricky turn on to the ferry.
The dusty pavements are dotted with small businesses, motorbike mechanics, furniture, butchers and food stalls. Brightly coloured buildings advertising familiar brands stand out among dilapidated, old buildings. A billboard advertises free Facebook. Village houses range from brick to wattle-and-daub, roofed with palm thatch or tin. Skinny cows graze in heaps of dirt and children look up from their games to wave.
Rope ladders link the tree tops, creating pathways over the road for the protected Colobus monkeys. They also frequent the resorts’ lush gardens. It’s wise to keep room doors closed or risk having your room ransacked.
It takes us almost two hours to reach Neptune Resorts. The group takes over three hotels – mine is the five-star Palm Hotel. The rooms are thatched lodges decorated in Arab-African style and are, thankfully, air-conditioned. I have a huge four-poster bed draped with a mosquito net and made up with white cotton linen. Lush gardens with a swimming pool and, exotically, a swim-up bar, run down to the greeny-blue Indian Ocean.
Majestic Maasai, wearing traditional red robes and armed with knobkerries, roam the gardens. I wonder if this is what the country’s tourism minister, Najib Balala, meant by beefing up security. If need be, could this ancient warrior tribe fend off Somali pirates?
Each night a feast is prepared for the group at one of the three resorts – mountains of fresh lobster, prawns and other seafood are done on the grill; roast meats are cooked to perfection, local curries accompany flat breads and local vegetable dishes. The desserts, a range of decadent treats, would have any confectionery snob licking their fingers. Already, my first New Year’s resolution is done for.
We have an early start the next day to go snorkelling off Kisite Marine Park. We head out on a 25-year-old traditional dhow in a high swell. I am distracted by the sight of a dolphin. Snorkel and flippers on, I leap confidently into the water and immediately swallow water and fog up my goggles. But I catch a glimpse of an eel and schools of small, brightly coloured fish swimming among the coral.
In the right season humpback whales and whale sharks, the world’s largest fish, pass through Kisite. We’re assured they are harmless, but I’d become a backstroke champ if I met one.
We take a breather on a large sandbank before we sail to Wasini Island, 5km long and 1km wide, for lunch. We’re confused by small wooden clubs on our plates and someone wonders out loud whether we’re expected to kill our own lunch. But their use becomes clear when trays of succulent broiled crabs arrive at the table. Chicken and fish are served, too.
After lunch some in the group head off for a snooze on the hammocks while others cool down in the “lazy salt pool”. I float on my back and look up at a great old baobab tree. I feel as if the gods are smiling on me.
On the third day two colleagues and I decide to skip the planned golf day and opt to do some sightseeing in Mombasa’s Old Town. A metered taxi costs about $60 return, so we decide to rough it with local transport. It cost us R15 each for two matatus and curious stares from the locals to the ferry. From there we catch a tuk-tuk at R10 each to Fort Jesus, an old fort built by the Portuguese in 1593. The popular tourist attraction is close to Old Town, which is best explored on foot with an experienced guide. It’s easy to get lost in the maze of alleys and narrow houses, mosques and temples. Our guide, Omar Kher, is knowledgeable about the history and culture.
The Old Town’s architecture is shaped by Arab influences, as well as British and Portuguese colonialists. Kher points to boldly carved wooden doors, the first Portuguese balcony built and other historical sites. This includes a 5 000m tunnel that runs under the town, used to move slaves, and an ancient well believed to have been built by the Chinese when the port was a prosperous stop along the trade route centuries ago.
We stop to quench our thirst with locally made tamarind juice. It’s refreshing and delicious. Then we head through the alleys to the Spice Market. Traders bargain with housewives and measure goods on old scales. There are sacks of coffee beans, betel nut, bundles of vanilla pods, fresh tamarind and a variety of vegetables on sale.
Twice I’m mistaken for a local. When I explain we’re South Africans the response is: “Aaah! Bafana Bafana! Madiba!”
As we head back we spot an old woman bent over a hot tava making chapatti on a gas stove. My stomach grumbles. Kher bids us farewell. “Maisha marefu” (“long life” in Swahili).
We sit down to a tasty lunch, sampling the local curries – prawn, vegetarian and beef breyani – at Rozina House before we begin the adventure of getting back to the hotel.
Waiting for the Likoni ferry we learn the virtue of patience. You keep hearing the words “Pole! Pole!” which means slowly, said when impatient tourists try to clock-watch.
We join hundreds of people, uncomfortably packed together in the afternoon heat. We wait and wait. The first ferry loads vehicles and leaves. The second ferry also loads vehicles. The crowd grows agitated and begin to protest. Eventually the gate opens to let throngs of people through. There is pushing and shoving and I lose my companions. I imagine the headlines as the shoving continues. Then it all eases and I sigh with relief.
Finally, we arrive back at the hotel exhausted, hot and filled with a sense of adventure.
We clean up for the evening’s celebrations, a gala dinner around the pool. There is a feeling of the colonial hedonism that was immortalised in the book White Mischief. The champagne flows, and some of the well-groomed guests end up in the pool in full evening dress.
It’s my cue to go to bed.
Asante sana Kenya! - Weekend Argus