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TravellingTales
Gallo Images/Getty ImagesWhen I was younger my mother would say to me, ‘Son, you
are on the road to hell.’ I would give a carefree laugh, nick
another fifty from her bag and head out in search of whatever
would help get me to manhood the quickest.
I have since discovered that hell is not a destination. It is,
in fact, a road. Specifically, the road from Nairobi to Mombasa.
I set off late, thinking the road might be less busy at night.
Climbing into my rented Subaru, I inched my way to the
outskirts of Nairobi, reclined the seat a few notches, opened
a cold Tusker with my teeth and floored it. Dusk was falling.
In a flash, so was I. Into a pothole the size of the Ngorongoro
Crater. By the time I drove up the other side, the moon was out.
It wasn’t long before I encountered the first of many, many
trucks. He was ahead of me on a blind corner. The driver saw
me in his mirror and hit his indicator. At home this means it’s
safe to overtake. In Kenya they use it to help oncoming traffic
gauge to the millimetre how much space they have before
sideswiping each other. I had to take an emergency detour
through the veld.
I also wasn’t expecting speed bumps leading into and out of
every town. These are not marked in any way. Neither are they
the shape nor size of normal speed bumps. These are designed
to get your car airborne at anything over 70 kilometres per
hour. Several times I took off only to land in a pothole. It was
insane. The Kenyan authorities have no idea how dangerous
this is when you are trying to drink and drive.
But spillage was the least of it. Hell’s Highway met Dante’s
Inferno around about the town of Voi, when I encountered
a convoy of trucks evacuating what appeared to be the wholeof Mombasa in a single night. I don’t know what
they were carrying because their loads were covered
with tarpaulins.
My nerves, together with the shock absorbers, were
shattered by the time I killed the engine and stepped
out beneath a palm tree in the dark heart of Mombasa.
I was hit by a tropical fug so thick that my eyes misted
up. Fug this, I said, and jumped back into the Subaru
just as an anopheles mosquito the size of a cricket ball
slammed into my window.
With raw malaria dripping down the glass, I headed
at high speed for my beachfront hotel. Veering into
the space reserved for important guests, I flung myself
from the moving car, broke my fall with a parachutist’s
roll and sprinted for reception, where I plunged my
head into an ice bucket, then tried to charter a fast-
moving dhow to get me the hell out of there. I calmed
down when management offered me a purple
cocktail and free water sports.
Before leaving Nairobi, I’d read in the East African
Standard that DDT was the weapon of choice against
malaria, so I picked up a pint from a general dealer
in a muggers’ alley near the harbour and used it as
mix for my nightcap. The dreams were so vivid that
I almost woke up a completely different person. After
a Bloody Mary to help restore my bearings, I sloped
off through the backstreets of Mombasa’s old town.
As I rounded a corner, a man wearing a fierce beard
stepped out of a doorway and approached me. He
had a bag over one shoulder and a ceremonial dagger
in his belt. I took a couple of steps backwards but he
told me to relax and offered to show me something
for a thousand shillings.
‘How many shillings to the doubloon?’ I asked.
He smiled from behind his imitation Ray-Bans
and tapped his nose. That’s always a good sign, so
I followed him into an abandoned mosque and up
a spiral staircase so narrow that I couldn’t even turn
around. Just as the cold claws of claustrophobia began
scratching at my brain, we reached the crumbling
minaret and stepped out into the warm sunshine.
My new friend adjusted his dagger and reached
into his bag. I went into a defensive crouch. He
laughed and pulled out two cold Tuskers.
Every country has its own unique sayings. The
Spanish say ‘Mañana’, South Africans say ‘It wasn’t
me’ and Kenyans say ‘Anytime is Tusker time.’
Never argue with the locals. Besides, any country
where the beer is cheaper than the bottled water is
my kind of country.The highwayman’s safari
Our hellraising columnist will do anything for a beer – or with
a beer in hand. Join him on this trip in Kenya
Ben Trovato