Mombasa, a Mango, and a Monkey

The bus terminus was empty except for a few other Westerners waiting for night to break, for faint predawn light to settle on the streets. I shouldered my backpack, glanced at the young blonde-haired man next to me as he peered anxiously out the doorway, and stepped out onto Moi Avenue.

I headed east, toward the city center and the hotel where I was to meet Michelle, Ross, and Shirley. Already, the air was muggy, and by the time I reached the ivory arches welcoming travelers to downtown Mombasa, my shirt was soaked through with sweat. 

I had spent ten hours on a bus traveling on one of the most dangerous highways in the world, the A109, or the Nairobi-Mombasa highway, a roadway littered here and there with the desiccated shells of abandoned vehicles. If I were going to die, I might as well be asleep for it. Most of the time, my eyes were closed, but I was prevented from truly falling asleep by the jolting and shuddering of the bus and the gasps of horrified passengers.

When I reached the hotel, I was utterly exhausted. I searched the lobby, but no sign of Ross, Michelle, or Shirley. They must be late, I thought. I sat down on a sofa and tried to sleep, but I felt the eyes of hotel employees on me. I shouldered my backpack, shuffled outside, and flopped onto a beach chair beneath a palm tree by the pool and fell asleep with an ocean breeze caressing me.

When I woke, I felt I had been out for hours, but by my watch I had been asleep less than twenty minutes. I went back inside and ordered a small pot of coffee. Half an hour later, still no sign of them. I then had the bright idea of checking for a note at the front desk. Sure enough, they had left one. They were taking a boat to Zanzibar that left at 9 a.m. "Meet us there," the note said. I checked my watch. I had half an hour until the boat departed. If I hopped into one of the taxis outside the hotel, I could make it in time. 

I was halfway across the city when I changed my mind. I had three weeks left of Christmas break, and I did not want to spend it missing connections and scurrying to beat time. I wanted to relax and travel at my own pace, so I told the driver to take me to the Likoni Ferry instead. I would spend a few days on the coast by myself.

Christy was in the States, visiting family. We had said our goodbyes the day before, and I already missed her terribly, so I suppose I wanted time to think, as well.

I sandwiched myself in with hundreds of Kenyans on the ferry, a dubious undertaking at the time. A couple of years before, in April of 1994, one of the ferries capsized, killing 272 people aboard. The ferries had also been known to stall and drift out to sea. On this day, however, we made it safely to the mainland.

I trudged along the beach, past expensive hotels and resorts, until I came upon Vindigo Cottages, a wayward, slightly unkempt compound a little overgrown with weeds. Perfect. There, I paid for a two-bedroom chalet, with a full kitchen, overlooking the Indian Ocean. Before I even entered my cottage, an elderly Kenyan man was waiting for me by the front door.

"Please, sah, I buy you dinner," he said.

I was taken slightly aback. "You want to buy me dinner?"

"No, sah, I buy dinner...chakula...and I cook it for you tonight. In there," he said, pointing to the kitchen.

After a few more confused exchanges, I realized he wanted me to give him money, so he could buy food at the market, and make dinner for me in my kitchen.

"How much?"

"Five hundred."

"Five hundred shillings?"

"Yes."

I was a little skeptical, but then I noticed his bicycle propped against a nearby tree. A wicker basket hung form the handle bars and two others served as panniers across his rear tire. I gave him the five hundred shillings and told him my name. His name was Daniel.

"You like fish?"

"I love it."

"I will make fish."

I thanked him. He mounted his bike and pedaled off. I entered my cottage, tossed my backpack on the bed, and trotted down to the beach. I had planned on taking a dip, but a young man named Phillip convinced me to go snorkeling.

"How much?"

"Five hundred."

"Is everything five hundred shillings here?"

"Eh?"

I haggled and we agreed on two hundred shillings. Phillip took me in a dugout boat about one hundred yards out to sea.

"Here," he said.

"The reef is here?"

"The reef is here," he said, and he handed me snorkeling gear.

I had never snorkeled before in my life, so I made many fumbling attempts and came up often gagging on seawater. Phillip, I am sure, enjoyed many laughs while I was under. I got the hang of it, eventually, and managed to stay down for longer and longer periods. I saw clownfish, powder-blue surgeonfish, angelfish, trumpetfish, even a moray eel. During one dive, I was so engrossed, I didn't know I had gone too far. Phillip later told me he had been yelling at me to stop.

Unaware, I had reached the edge of the reef. A yawning abyss lay beyond. Sure enough, I crested a wall of coral and immediately felt the tide pulling me down into a great maw of deep, dark water. I clawed my way back to the surface and scrabbled over the reef, scraping my shins in the process.

When I surfaced, Phillip was there, wide-eyed, eager to pull me in.

"Don't go there," he said.

"I'm done."

If you've been cut by coral, you know how painful it can be. The scrapes were not very deep and did not produce a lot of blood, but my shins were on fire. I crawled back up the beach to my cottage and nursed my wounds with a cold Tusker. I dropped into a hammock on my back porch, in the shade of a makuti shelter, and relaxed to the susurrations of the sea. I woke a few hours later with half a bottle of warm beer resting in my lap. Daniel was by the back door, dismounting his bicycle. His arrival must have wakened me. He pulled a string of three fish from his front basket.

"Samaki," he declared.

I suspected he had fished for them rather than buy them with the money I had given him. He then pulled sisal bags full of fruit and vegetables from his panniers. I could see the balding head of a coconut sticking out of one.

Daniel immediately began work in the kitchen, while I popped down the road to a mini-market to buy a bottle of wine. I returned to the unmistakable aroma of grilled fish. Daniel was grating the coconut into a pot of rice. Fifteen minutes later, around sunset, I sat down to an exquisite meal of fish kebabs with coconut rice and flaky chapatis. There was enough food for the two of us, but Daniel refused to eat with me. He retreated instead to the kitchen and began cleaning up pots and pans.

Sated, I poured a glass of wine, leaned back in my chair, and listened to waves breaking on shore. Daniel came out to collect my plate. I praised his cooking, gave him an extra five hundred shillings, and told him he should open a restaurant. He beamed, thanked me, and then reached into his pannier to produce a mango.

"For breakfast," he said.

I thanked him and accepted the mango.

"You must put it in the icebox," he said.

I asked why, and he pointed to the thatched roof. "Monkeys."

Sure enough, a colobus monkey was perched on one of the rafters. Our eyes met, and it bared its teeth and disappeared through the thatching.

"They steal everything," Daniel said.

I thanked him again. He mounted his bicycle and pedaled off. The rest of the evening, I lay in the hammock, listening to the ocean, and finished the bottle of wine.

****

A bloodcurdling scream. I bolted upright in the hammock. Complete darkness. I checked my watch: almost midnight. Had it been a dream?

Another inhuman scream. My heart pounding, I flopped out of the hammock, scrabbled inside the cottage, and peered frantically out the windows. A plan. I should have one. But nothing presented itself to me. So I crouched at a windowsill, checked my breathing, and listened.

Silence, save for waves breaking on shore. Then, a turaco began warbling. Other nightbirds gradually chimed in. Not until I heard several minutes of uninterrupted birdsong did I finally slink toward the bedroom. I slipped under the sheets and slept fitfully until sunlight pierced the curtains.

I flopped out of bed, shuffled into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator to an exhalation of cold air and emptiness. For a beat, I stood there stunned. And then I looked around for my mango. Nowhere. I turned, and behind me on the kitchen table was a pile of feces.

My first reaction: Who in hell steals a mango and then shits on a table? And then, illogically, I tried making a connection to the screams of the night before. Yes, eventually, I looked up at the rafters. When our eyes met, the monkey bared its teeth and disappeared through the thatching.

Daniel was already waiting outside for more business. I told him I was leaving. He was disappointed and insisted on taking a photograph of me with my camera. Why? I'm not sure. But here is the photo he took.

I packed my meager belongings and flipped through pages of The Rough Guide to Kenya, deciding on my next destination. I settled on Wasini, a small, remote island with few inhabitants and no vehicles.

What could possibly go wrong there?

(To be continued)