Nobody in Kisumu knows where my guest house is. This is because it is in a remote corner of town, has two names and very possibly is in an alternate reality. Having stayed there, I don't think the parallel dimension theory can be dismissed out of hand.
Upon initial arrival in town, the bus dropped me off at an Muslim cafeteria style restaurant. I thought that I'd enjoy a nice lunch, and then ask the clerk for a cab to my destination which would put me safely on my way.
I got the lunch part right. The fried fish and ugali was very good.
The rest of my plan resulted in an emergency council meeting of waiters, patrons and someone who would eventually turn out to be my cab driver. All of them were eager to help. None of them had ever heard of where I was trying to go. The leadership of this committee was gently taken by Ahmed, a tidy man in his mid seventies who radiated kindness. You knew without needing to ask that Ahmed had grandchildren who adored him. After the whirlwind of activity, my luggage and I were deposited into the cab and I was sent on my way. Ahmed handed me his business card and asked me to call when I arrived. I tried, but there was inter-dimensional interference.
The backpackers place was in a lovely shady garden with the buildings painted a cheerful yellow, which was fairly typical. Less typically it soon became apparent that I was the sole guest. I can't convey how weird this feels. Usually there is at least one long standing resident who basically lives there now, or a knot of Germans who refuse to speak to anyone else. An empty guest house feels like finding yourself in an ordinarily bustling store after closing.
The teenaged receptionist checked me in with the illicitness of a drug deal and showed me to my room. The only thing that stood out on first inspection was that both taps in the bathroom sink were, with refreshing honesty, labeled "cold".
You would expect, being the only guest, I might be doted on. Instead my presence was treated as though I had wandered into someone's living room and everyone was simply too considerate to ask me to go.
Whenever I asked about any of the amenities that were not so much advertised as flaunted lovingly online I was met with polite bemusement from the staff. The idea that there should be available wifi was treated with incredulity. If they weren't so well mannered, they seemed to be thinking, they would really question my unsubstantiated claims about the existence of the internet. They seemed equally taken aback by my request for food until I pointed out that their own sign, clearly within eyesight, said that they had a bar and grill. Evidently in spite of the nearest eatery being over two miles away, nobody had ever pointed this out before. They managed to produce chicken and ugali, still transparently mystified by my outlandish need for nourishment. For breakfast I was asked whether I would prefer fried or boiled eggs. The reason for this line of questioning was never made clear. In their defense, it was a decent omelette. I decided to not tempt fate by asking about coffee. I probably would have wound up with the exact same cup of tea.
In the early evening, partly because it was the only available form of recreation, and partly to drown out the Mobius strip of Afro-pop and poorly dubbed Saudi, Korean and Ecuadorian soap operas blasting from the office, I decided to practice my fiddle. Half an hour through my rehearsal, a falcon landed about ten feet above my head and let out a scream. I continued with the tune. He screamed again. I realized that the descending two note slide in the song almost matched his cry. I played that section again. Sure enough, he answered. The bird stayed perched above me long enough to determine that his territory was secure before flapping off into the dusk.
After breakfast, I had somehow successfully conveyed the idea that I both wanted to leave the premises and also return later. This resulted in the arrival of a manic grin perched on top of a boda-boda. For those of you unfamiliar, a boda-boda is a motorcycle taxi which can also substitute for a pick up truck. I have seen everything from a king sized bed frame to an entire plantation's banana crop carried on a boda-boda. They are the cheapest, most efficient way to get around for those who place no value on personal safely. Boda drivers are without exception, lunatics. I reflected while clinging for dear life that this was possibly the worst method of transportation on unpaved African roads.
I finished my sightseeing, booked my ticket to Nairobi and had actual coffee. It was time to go back. As it was raining, I found a took-took and instructed the driver where I wanted to go, using what I was told was the older more familiar name of my guest house. He assured me he knew where it was.
I should have seen this coming.
My driver did know where a place by that name was, and took me there with very little difficulty. To find the actual location involved two hours, lots of driving around asking people and finally, the entire security staff of a nightclub who let me use their wifi. I honestly think that it may be impossible to locate that place with less than seven people involved.
Driving back in the dark, I amended my original position. A took-took was in fact the worst choice of transportation for unpaved roads.
On my return, the young female receptionist chided me in the all knowing maternal tones only available to childless women under the age of twenty one. I should have been guided by her from the start, and I could have avoided the whole incident. I asked for a car to be arranged for me the next morning to take me and my bags to the station. With raw untested confidence, she outlined a plan that involved two local matatus, a took-took and waking up at six in the morning. When I indicated that I really would prefer a car, she dismissed this with the assertion that her method was better. She then asked me to find her a job in America.
The next morning I was preparing to leave when the receptionist arrived at the door demanding to know why I was awake at such an ungodly hour. Over breakfast it was revealed that a brilliant compromise had been reached without the need of disturbing me. I would go on a boda-boda. When I pointed out that the laws of physics and my will to live were both strongly opposed to this, the true genius of the plan was revealed: My luggage would go on a second boda-boda. My protest were put aside with the traditional infuriating African debate technique of simply reversing my argument.
"This is not a terrible decision" I was told.
During the ride I distracted myself from thoughts of my impending doom by worrying about the destruction of my worldly possessions. This technique became even more effective when the motorcycle carrying them vanished into traffic. In spite of everyone's best efforts, I was deposited at the correct station, more or less intact. My bags arrived ten minutes later. I paid my drivers and was greeted with the news that the receptionist who had come along for the ride needed her return fare paid. By me.
This latest bit of African silliness settled, I sank gratefully into my seat to Nairobi, pleased to be heading somewhere reasonable. The two dollars I paid for a seat upgrade turned out to be one of the most sensible things that had happened in Kisumu. I rode off to Nairobi in as much comfort as bus travel allows.
Upon initial arrival in town, the bus dropped me off at an Muslim cafeteria style restaurant. I thought that I'd enjoy a nice lunch, and then ask the clerk for a cab to my destination which would put me safely on my way.
I got the lunch part right. The fried fish and ugali was very good.
The rest of my plan resulted in an emergency council meeting of waiters, patrons and someone who would eventually turn out to be my cab driver. All of them were eager to help. None of them had ever heard of where I was trying to go. The leadership of this committee was gently taken by Ahmed, a tidy man in his mid seventies who radiated kindness. You knew without needing to ask that Ahmed had grandchildren who adored him. After the whirlwind of activity, my luggage and I were deposited into the cab and I was sent on my way. Ahmed handed me his business card and asked me to call when I arrived. I tried, but there was inter-dimensional interference.
The backpackers place was in a lovely shady garden with the buildings painted a cheerful yellow, which was fairly typical. Less typically it soon became apparent that I was the sole guest. I can't convey how weird this feels. Usually there is at least one long standing resident who basically lives there now, or a knot of Germans who refuse to speak to anyone else. An empty guest house feels like finding yourself in an ordinarily bustling store after closing.
The teenaged receptionist checked me in with the illicitness of a drug deal and showed me to my room. The only thing that stood out on first inspection was that both taps in the bathroom sink were, with refreshing honesty, labeled "cold".
You would expect, being the only guest, I might be doted on. Instead my presence was treated as though I had wandered into someone's living room and everyone was simply too considerate to ask me to go.
Whenever I asked about any of the amenities that were not so much advertised as flaunted lovingly online I was met with polite bemusement from the staff. The idea that there should be available wifi was treated with incredulity. If they weren't so well mannered, they seemed to be thinking, they would really question my unsubstantiated claims about the existence of the internet. They seemed equally taken aback by my request for food until I pointed out that their own sign, clearly within eyesight, said that they had a bar and grill. Evidently in spite of the nearest eatery being over two miles away, nobody had ever pointed this out before. They managed to produce chicken and ugali, still transparently mystified by my outlandish need for nourishment. For breakfast I was asked whether I would prefer fried or boiled eggs. The reason for this line of questioning was never made clear. In their defense, it was a decent omelette. I decided to not tempt fate by asking about coffee. I probably would have wound up with the exact same cup of tea.
In the early evening, partly because it was the only available form of recreation, and partly to drown out the Mobius strip of Afro-pop and poorly dubbed Saudi, Korean and Ecuadorian soap operas blasting from the office, I decided to practice my fiddle. Half an hour through my rehearsal, a falcon landed about ten feet above my head and let out a scream. I continued with the tune. He screamed again. I realized that the descending two note slide in the song almost matched his cry. I played that section again. Sure enough, he answered. The bird stayed perched above me long enough to determine that his territory was secure before flapping off into the dusk.
After breakfast, I had somehow successfully conveyed the idea that I both wanted to leave the premises and also return later. This resulted in the arrival of a manic grin perched on top of a boda-boda. For those of you unfamiliar, a boda-boda is a motorcycle taxi which can also substitute for a pick up truck. I have seen everything from a king sized bed frame to an entire plantation's banana crop carried on a boda-boda. They are the cheapest, most efficient way to get around for those who place no value on personal safely. Boda drivers are without exception, lunatics. I reflected while clinging for dear life that this was possibly the worst method of transportation on unpaved African roads.
I finished my sightseeing, booked my ticket to Nairobi and had actual coffee. It was time to go back. As it was raining, I found a took-took and instructed the driver where I wanted to go, using what I was told was the older more familiar name of my guest house. He assured me he knew where it was.
I should have seen this coming.
My driver did know where a place by that name was, and took me there with very little difficulty. To find the actual location involved two hours, lots of driving around asking people and finally, the entire security staff of a nightclub who let me use their wifi. I honestly think that it may be impossible to locate that place with less than seven people involved.
Driving back in the dark, I amended my original position. A took-took was in fact the worst choice of transportation for unpaved roads.
On my return, the young female receptionist chided me in the all knowing maternal tones only available to childless women under the age of twenty one. I should have been guided by her from the start, and I could have avoided the whole incident. I asked for a car to be arranged for me the next morning to take me and my bags to the station. With raw untested confidence, she outlined a plan that involved two local matatus, a took-took and waking up at six in the morning. When I indicated that I really would prefer a car, she dismissed this with the assertion that her method was better. She then asked me to find her a job in America.
The next morning I was preparing to leave when the receptionist arrived at the door demanding to know why I was awake at such an ungodly hour. Over breakfast it was revealed that a brilliant compromise had been reached without the need of disturbing me. I would go on a boda-boda. When I pointed out that the laws of physics and my will to live were both strongly opposed to this, the true genius of the plan was revealed: My luggage would go on a second boda-boda. My protest were put aside with the traditional infuriating African debate technique of simply reversing my argument.
"This is not a terrible decision" I was told.
During the ride I distracted myself from thoughts of my impending doom by worrying about the destruction of my worldly possessions. This technique became even more effective when the motorcycle carrying them vanished into traffic. In spite of everyone's best efforts, I was deposited at the correct station, more or less intact. My bags arrived ten minutes later. I paid my drivers and was greeted with the news that the receptionist who had come along for the ride needed her return fare paid. By me.
This latest bit of African silliness settled, I sank gratefully into my seat to Nairobi, pleased to be heading somewhere reasonable. The two dollars I paid for a seat upgrade turned out to be one of the most sensible things that had happened in Kisumu. I rode off to Nairobi in as much comfort as bus travel allows.
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