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I walked across the border from Uganda at the border town of Busia. Busia itself is a town split in two by the frontier, or in reality it is two towns known as Busia U and Busia K. It was a hot day and there was a sea of people moving to and fro across the border; most people, like me, seemed to be walking from the taxi park in Busia U to it's counterpart in Kenyan Busia or vice-versa. There was a queue of traffic waiting between the border gates, mostly goods vehicles, the majority being petrol tankers heading into Uganda. Their diesel engines belched black smoke, which hung in the air with the dust thrown up by the hot breeze. While walking the few hundred metres of no-mans land and getting my passport stamped at the relevant immigration offices, the Kenyan taxi touts were already hounding me. I let one lead me to a matatu for Kisumu; resistance was useless.
Kisumu is Kenya's third largest town and is just over 100km from Busia on the shores of Lake Victoria's Winam Gulf. I arrived on Saturday afternoon, the town seemed very quiet, a lot of the businesses had closed for the weekend. Once I left the chaos of the taxi park the rest of the town seemed to be asleep, with very little traffic or people in the centre of the town. I walked to the Razbi Guesthouse, just off Oginga Odinga Road and checked in for a night. It was a very pleasant guesthouse and the staff friendly and helpful. Unfortunately there was no running water, this was a town wide problem; there was a problem with the pumping station and none of the town had any water pressure. It was back to bucket showers again; at least the cold water was refreshing as Kisumu was definitely a lot hotter and humid than Jinja and Kampala, from where I had just travelled.
I didn't do much in the town; I only stayed the night, as my main aim was to get to the Kagamega Forest Reserve about 40km north of the town. I was too exhausted to do much in the afternoon after my journey across the border. I went out for the evening and ate at the TOT Coffee House and had a nice beef curry, washed down with Tusker beer while watching the third place playoff in the African Cup of Nations between Nigeria and the hosts Mali; Nigeria won on a penalty shoot out after extra time. There is a large Asian community in the town and this was definitely reflected in the cuisine.
The following morning, Sunday, I walked back up to the taxi park and took a share taxi to Kagamega. The town centre was even quieter than Saturday; as we drove north out of town along Jomo Kenyatta Highway we soon found where everyone was this Sunday morning, the Kibuye Market. This is a once a week market which stretches along the highway about 1km out of the town centre. The highway was a mass of people buying and selling, it looked as though you could buy almost anything along this stretch of road.
The journey to Kagamega was uphill most of the way passing fertile farmland on the surrounding hills. It was somewhat uncomfortable with nine people in the car, a couple of them definitely on the large size; I soon found my left leg going to sleep and I struggled to keep the circulation going by wiggling my toes. It was with relief that we pulled into the taxi park at Kagamega and the human cargo in our car stumbled back out into the world, myself limping until I managed to get some blood back into my left leg. Kagamega seemed a bigger town than I expected, it had most services you would need here. I didn't stay long and climbed into the back of a pickup truck for the 10km trip along a dirt road to the village of Shinyalu.
The journey became a little more difficult from Shinyalu, at the edge of the forest, it was another 8km to the Forest Rest house but there was very little, if any, traffic continuing along the road past Shinyalu and through the forest. I was left with only two options, to walk or to take a bicycle taxi; I chose the later option, as they seemed only too willing to pedal me along the road to the forest. I climbed onto the back of a bicycle and I was slowly pedalled out of Shinyalu on the last leg of my journey. It was now the middle of the afternoon and very hot, but my cyclist kept a steady progress slowly cranking the pedals round while weaving along the road trying to find the smoothest piece of dirt. It hadn't rained for sometime and the road was covered in a thick layer of dust, a couple of inches thick in places. It began to make the going slow, it must have been like trying to cycle along a dry sandy beach, difficult. By the time we hit our first hill, which was hardly noticeable to the naked eye, we came to a crunching halt. We both climbed off the bike and began walking; sweat pouring from the cyclist's forehead.
This is how our journey continued for the 8km, cycling and walking, until we reached the turnoff for the Forest Rest house. I had expected the road to have just passed by endless trees into the forest, but instead found that we passed by many small settlements and farms along the way from Shinyalu, and a constant traffic of pedestrians and bicycles along the dirt road; I don't recall passing any other vehicles though. Once we turned off this road we walked past a small tea plantation before freewheeling downhill the rest of the way to the Forest Rest house. By the time we arrived I felt rather guilty for the physical effort expended on my behalf and gave the cyclist an extra twenty shillings to buy a drink. I really thought he was going to die on me at one point.
The Forest Rest house is in a little hamlet of buildings in the forest. The Kagamega Environmental Education Programme centre is based here plus a few other houses for forest workers and a couple of kiosks; there were about ten buildings in all. The Rest house is an old wooden building built on stilts. There are four rooms, each with an en-suite bathroom, which almost worked, and a large veranda running the length of the building. The place looked fairly deserted as I was shown up to room two by the caretaker; he told me that there was only one other person staying there, an American who was doing a study of insects in the forest. It didn't look as though he needed to go far to study insects as there was a hive of bees living in room one.
Later that afternoon I met the American, Roy on his return from the forest. I was a little surprised to see a Native American sitting on the veranda, in just a pair of shorts, very tanned and his hair in two plats that reached down to his waist. I think he looked older than he really was, but I would have guessed he was about seventy. He had spent his career working as a curator at the natural history museum in Los Angeles; he was in charge of bees, wasps and ants. Since he retired he has spent all his time doing fieldwork, which was something he never had time to do during his career. If he was studying bees he needn't go any further than room one; all during the day there was a constant drone of bees coming from the room. He goes wherever someone pays him to go to study ants. This was one of his many trips to the Kagamega Forest, paid for by the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, to do a survey of the various species of ants that live here. It is a study that no one has done yet and on Roy's visits to this forest so far he has identified 102 species of ant, one of them new to science. His other trips take him to exotic places like Thailand, Borneo, Papua New Guinea and northern Australia.
I spent three nights at the Forest Rest house, during which time Roy and myself got into something of a routine. That first afternoon he later knocked on my door holding a couple of cans of Tusker beer. Each afternoon, after I returned from one of my hikes in the forest and Roy returned from collecting ants, we would sit on the veranda having a beer. The mornings also followed a similar routine with Roy brewing up a large pot of coffee. It may sound strange but it's really difficult to find a decent cup of coffee in Kenya, yet the stuff grows everywhere; wherever you look there is either a tea or coffee plantation. The only coffee served was instant Nescafe; the rest I guess is exported. Unless you are prepared to go self-catering, I wasn't, it was too far to the shops in Kagamega to pick up supplies, the only choice for somewhere to dine is a little kiosk at the end of the road. This is where I ate during my stay in the forest.
The kiosk didn't have a name, it was just a wooden shack with a corrugated iron roof; I named the place Mama's Kitchen, after the Mama, a large lady, who tried to do the cooking. My only regular dining companion during my stay was a chicken; it was always around scratching about under my table; occasionally Mama's children would run in, quickly say, 'Jambo', before turning shy and running out the back door. The menu was not extensive and I settled for a bowl of mixed vegetables, rice and a chapatti, washed down with a bottle of warm beer that tasted foul. That's when I really began to appreciate Roy's Tusker and for the rest of my trip through Kenya always ordered a Tusker when I was in a bar. I ate at Mama's Kitchen for the three nights I stayed at the forest; each night I ate the same, it kept things simple and avoided any confusion, but the food gradually got worse and worse each night. By the third night I found Mama lying on one of the benches in the kiosk, wrapped in a blanket, cooking my dinner over a charcoal fire. You would think you couldn't really go wrong with rice, vegetables and bread but believe me, Mama managed by day three to make it almost inedible. I only managed to eat it as I was hungry from not eating all day. Roy always joked when I returned to the guesthouse that I managed to survive another one of Mama's meals.
I spent my days hiking in the forest, getting in some training for my up coming trek to the summit of Mt Kenya. As the forest is designated as a forest reserve and administered by the Kenyan Forestry Commission, there are no park fees payable and you are free to hike through the forest by yourself without having to take a guide or ranger with you. I asked around at the Kagamega Environmental Education Programme office for a map of the forest showing the trails, which are supposed to be way marked; after much searching they found that they no longer had any maps or guides. Roy told me that all the way markers had long ago disappeared, probably aquired by the locals to use as firewood or for construction.
There is a lot of pressure on the forest from the surrounding villages and many illegal activities are going on. Even the Forestry Commission advise against taking photos of people in the forest, because the majority of them will be there illegally and won't appreciate having their photo taken. I found a constant caravan of women marching through the forest carrying huge bundles of firewood on their heads back to the villages. Roy, who has been visiting the forest for the last few years, told me that the problem is getting worse each year. There is a lot of illegal logging going on as well and the villagers herding their cattle through the forest have turned the paths into large tracks cutting a swathe through the trees. It appears that either the Forestry Commission doesn't have the power to act against this encroachment or just turns a blind eye. Unfortunately I think the later is true as in the past the Forestry Commission has tackled the problem of encroachment on forests by redefining their borders and surrendering the land to the villagers. This is what Roy told me from his experience of working in the forests of Kenya over recent years.
So without a map or way markers on the trails my hikes became more challenging than I expected before I even started; I decided to carry my compass in my pocket just in case. At first I followed a trail north from the Rest house which after a while lead into a large glade where the villagers graze their cattle. It was very difficult to pick up a trail on the other side of the glade as it was so big and the trails just disappeared into the long grass. I found a trail on the opposite side, which I followed for a while until it petered out and I found myself just walking through the undergrowth along a very indistinct path. I turned back to the Rest house, fearful of getting lost in the forest.
Near to Mama's Kitchen was a sign pointing along a path saying, 'Pump house trail'. I followed this to the pump house out in the forest. Along the way the path forked, I doubled back and followed the other fork, which lead out onto the main dirt road through the forest. I walked along this for two or three kilometres until I reached the Rondo Retreat, a more expensive version of the Forest Rest house. I continued walking for a while until I saw a sign pointing to a trail saying, 'Yala River Trail, 3 hours walking.' I thought that this sounded promising, checked the time on my watch, the direction of the trail on my compass and began hiking. The trail lead through the forest and out onto open grassland following a gentle valley in a southerly direction. I only saw one other person along the trail, a local boy herding some cattle. The weather was hot and sunny, hardly a cloud in the sky and the going got hot once I reached the grassland and low bush.
After about an hour walking from the road the track turned into a narrow path, which lead into thick forest. I kept following the path deeper and deeper into the forest, now keeping an eye on my compass to see if the trail would lead me in a circle back to where I entered this thick patch of forest. The path swung from a southerly direction to westerly confirming my thoughts that this was a loop trail. Soon I came to a small grassy glade; there was no cattle grazing here, it was far to deep in the forest for the villagers to herd their cattle down to. I followed the faint traces of a trail through the long grass to the trees on the other side from where I could hear in the distance the sound of falling water; I must be getting near the Yala River at last. The path went downhill winding through the trees, the sound of water falling becoming louder and louder. Eventually I arrived at the banks of the Yala River just downstream from a waterfall. I was hot and the air humid; my T-shirt was soaked in sweat and sweat dripped from my forehead.
I stood by the edge of the river, which was flowing fast, the water brown with sediment. It was then that I began to get spooked from my surroundings. I knew that there were no crocodiles or hippos along this river but it didn't stop the thoughts going through my head that there could be all kinds of nasties living in or along this river, deep in the forest, two hours walk from civilisation. I decided to continue along the path that now lead away from the river in almost a northerly direction. Just as I began walking along the path the leaf litter in front of me moved and this snake slithered across the path just one step away. It quickly disappeared off the path and into the forest. If I wasn't spooked before, I was now; I had almost trodden on one of the nasties that was going through my head as I stood at the edge of the river. I really was in a jungle; I began to walk faster the trail crossing many small streams and clearings where the undergrowth grew thick and tall; the perfect place for snakes my mind kept telling me.
Eventually the trail lead out of the forest and back to the low bush and grassland; there had been a few forks in the path in the forest but it appeared that I had chosen the right way and soon found myself back where I had started, my jungle adventure over. It still took two hours to get back to the Rest house where Roy was waiting for me with can of Tusker; I recalled my adventures in the jungle and my snake encounter. Roy laughed and said he loved that part of the forest along the Yala valley, it was really wild down there.
My other hike I went to the Lirhanda lookout hill. Again the trail to the hill wasn't marked but I guessed that a trail lead off the road somewhere past the Yala River trail. I was right, a couple of kilometres past the Yala trail I came across a large path leading south through the forest. I thought to myself that this must be it and began to follow the trail, which gradually began to go uphill. After about twenty minutes walking the path began to climb steeply and lead out of the trees and up a steep grassy slope; I had found the lookout hill. As I climbed the hill I heard the first rumble of thunder in the distance, I didn't take much notice of it. The hill is about 50-75 metres higher than the surrounding forest and, as it name suggests, is a good lookout hill with panoramic views 360' across the forest. The view was fantastic but to the east I could see the storm clouds gathering and the rumbles of thunder becoming louder and more frequent, lightening streaking across the black clouds.
In addition, to the west a thunderhead rapidly formed, the two giant clouds merging above me as I sat on the hill; it began to look inevitable that I was going to get rather wet. The first large raindrop hit my hat and was soon followed by a rhythmic tapping on my hat as the rain began to steadily fall from the sky. In the space of a few minutes the hot sun had disappeared and heavy, black clouds surrounded me. I hiked back down the hill and into the forest, the rain beginning to fall in a steady downpour. The leaf litter on the forest floor appeared to come alive as the rain dripped off the trees above and hit the ground, causing the litter to almost dance around my feet. By the time I reached the road the storm was in full swing, lightening striking above illuminating the shadows along the side of the road. The red, dusty clay road, which only a little while ago was baking in the hot sun, was now steaming as the rain fell, leaving a mist, which covered the road up to about waist height. The dust quickly turned back into heavy clay and stuck to my boots in huge clods, weighing down my feet. The road was deserted, the locals must have been able to read the weather better than I could and taken shelter. I walked alone back towards the Forest Rest house, just passing a couple of brave cyclists along the way and finally arrived back soaked to the skin.
Roy was already sitting on the veranda with a couple of cans of Tusker waiting for me with a smile on his face, as he saw me walk along the veranda, dripping wet. As we drunk the beer and the storm continued to rage around us he gave me one of his tips. When he is out in the forest and hears the first rumble of thunder, he turns back for home and generally just gets back as the first drops of rain begin to fall; I will try and remember that tip in the future.
The storm finally abated and later that night while I was sitting in my room an intruder flew in through my window. It was big, ugly and noisy; I dived for cover under my mosquito net. From the relative safety of my mosquito net I assessed the situation. The flying bug was absolutely huge, I had never seen a bug so big before which could fly. It's body, which was jet black, must have been the size of my little finger, with long, bright orange legs dangling from it's abdomen; when it rested it's wings formed a delta wing shape on it's back. It was going to be a battle to the death, the room wasn't big enough for the two of us. The bug kept flying around the room; it's vibrating wings making a menacing noise as it passed by my net. I decided to use chemical weapons first on the intruder to try and stun it; I reached for my bottle of DEET insect repellent spray. As it flew past me I released a cloud of DEET, I scored a direct hit, sending the bug spiralling across the room. This battle continued for some time, whenever the bug was in range I squirted a cloud of DEET at it. The DEET was beginning to have an effect and the bug flew in increasingly erratic patterns across the room, thumping into the wooden walls and dropping to the floor. At one stage it crash-landed on the opposite bed, I took my opportunity and coming out from the safety of my mosquito net ran across the room to clobber it with a sandal. All I managed to do was stun it; I retreated back under my net as the bug took to the air once more, this time landing on a wooden chair to take refuge. I grabbed my DEET spray and my knife and ran across the room, stunning the bug with DEET while it sat on the chair and then plunging my knife into its thick body, pinning it to the chair, it's legs twitching as it's life ebbed away; I had won.
In the morning I told Roy about my battle with the bug and showed him the carcass. It turned out to be a spider wasp, which has a very nasty sting; I knew the bug was bad news. Roy told me that it flies into spider webs, catching the spider, which it then lays an egg in before burying it; the wasp's egg hatches and the lava feeds off the spider's body. Roy told me that I had caught a mighty fine specimen and asked if he could keep it with his collection. I agreed, pleased to have done my little bit for science, and apologised for the knife wound in its body.
I planned to leave the Forest Rest house at Kagamega early in the morning and to begin my journey to Mt Kenya. Unfortunately I forgot to settle my bill the previous night and had to wait for one of the caretakers to arrive to take my money. By then Roy was up and had brewed another pot of coffee so I also stayed even longer having an unplanned breakfast. I had a long journey today, which I knew would be difficult to complete by nightfall, especially now that I was leaving the Rest house later than originally intended. I said goodbye to Roy and once again left him in peace in the forest to look for his ants and began walking along the track, past the tea plantation and back to the main road. As I passed the tea plantation a boda boda pulled up and offered me a ride to Shinyalu; after my experience on a boda boda coming to the forest I wondered if he knew what he had let himself in for; my luggage weighed an extra 19 kilos plus myself. It was still early morning and the temperature cool, so the going was not quite so bad. Even though we still had to walk up the steeper of the hills, if that is what you could call these slight gradients.
My plan today was to try and reach Naro Moru, a small village by the western slopes of Mt Kenya by travelling via Eldoret, Nakuru and Nyahururu, thus avoiding an unnecessary trip through Nairobi. From Shinyalu I took a rather battered looking pick up truck back along the dirt road to Kagamega from where I took a matatu onwards to Eldoret. Another change of vehicles and an hour or so of waiting around at the taxi park and I was again in another matatu heading east along the main Kampala to Nairobi road to Nakuru. It was late afternoon by the time we arrived and I began to doubt that it was possible to reach my intended destination today. There was still traffic going to Nyahururu, which I reached just as the sun began to set. The journey from Nakuru was very scenic as the road went up the steep escarpment of the Great Rift Valley with stunning views from the top looking south across the valley floor. I checked into the Good Shepherds Lodge on Nyeri Road for the night and planned to finish my journey to Mt Kenya the following morning.
Nyahururu is one of the highest towns in Kenya at an altitude of 2,360m and the climate is very pleasant, cool at night and warm, without being too hot during the day. The gently undulating plateau, which surrounds the town, is heavily cultivated although when I visited it was the middle of the dry season and everything looked very dry and brown, scorched by the sun. A short walk out of town is Thomson's Falls, where the Ewaso Narok River plummets 72m into a ravine. The falls are named after the explorer Joseph Thomson who was the first European to walk from the coast at Mombasa to Lake Victoria in 1882.
I had plenty of time to reach Naro Moru today, about 120km further along the road, so I decided to spend the morning at the falls. I walked along the road out of town for about a kilometre to reach the falls. As I approached I saw the line of souvenir shops lining the track leading off the road to the falls. Before I could take evasive action Peggy, as she introduced herself, came running down the road to greet me. She wanted me to visit her shop, which had only opened two days ago (allegedly), to look around and maybe buy something to help get her business underway. I had a feeling that Peggy's shop had always been open for just two days over the last few years and that this was her ploy to get customers through the door. She was very friendly and stuck to me like glue as I walked to the trail leading down into the ravine, as though she owned me and that I was her customer and no-one else's.
I hiked down the steep trail leading to the base of the waterfall where a troop of baboons were crossing the river. The ravine had it's own microclimate and the bottom was a thick jungle with trees and other shrubs clinging to the steep sides of the ravine. I was the only person down there at that time of the morning; it was very relaxing with the sound of the water crashing down into the plunge pool, the cool spray from the falls gently drifted down the ravine where the baboons sat on the opposite side watching me. The thought of Peggy waiting at the top of the falls to drag me off to her shop made me stay a little longer enjoying the peace.
Late that morning I took a matatu to Naro Moru and arrived just before 14.00. As I squeezed out of the matatu touts swamped me, even in this small village, which was no more than a string of shacks along the main road. My first impressions were that everyone was a tout trying to sell me a tour up Mt Kenya. I was not interested and just wanted to go to the Mt Kenya Hostel along the road to the mountain to sit down and rest before deciding how I would trek over the mountain. I walked north along the main road to the turning for the mountain from where it was an 8km walk to the hostel. It took me two hours to walk carrying my pack; I thought this would be an ideal warm up for tackling the mountain.
I arrived and met Patrick in the garden who was busy clipping a hedge. The place was very quiet, only Patrick seemed to be about; there were no other guests staying. The hostel was in a wonderfully peaceful location, a couple of hundred metres from the road, which had very little traffic on it as it only went as far as the park gates. At the top of the garden was a small mud hut with a thatched roof, a sign read, 'The Summits View Pub'. I thought to myself that this was fantastic, the hostel even had a pub set out in these beautiful gardens. The garden was dominated by a large jacaranda tree, still in bloom with its purple flowers and some smaller bottlebrush trees, their red flowers attracting tiny sunbirds that fed on the nectar. Small farms surrounded the hostel and the peaks of Mt Kenya dominated the view to the east. I was exhausted from my hike from the village and the first thing Patrick did while I was checking in was to make a pot of tea. Later that evening he cooked me dinner, which was different, a bowl of rice, potatoes and cabbage, enough to feed at least six people. By 20.00 Patrick went home and I was left alone sitting in the lounge reading a book with a kerosene lamp and a warm bottle of beer. Someone had forgotten to buy fuel for the generator so I was left in the dark.
A few hours later someone arrived, it was Joseph, the manager, just returned from Nairobi. Patrick had filled me in on what was going on and where and who Joseph was. He was a bit surprised when he saw me sitting there and I said, 'Oh, you must be Joseph.' I explained about my afternoon chat with Patrick and what a great job he was doing, especially in the garden, which was a beautiful, relaxing place. Joseph replied saying that Patrick is only the caretaker and doesn't have anything else to do except gardening.
Unfortunately that night I became sick and woke up the following morning with a stomach bug. It wasn't serious, more annoying than anything and only lasted 48 hours, but it was enough to postpone my trek up the mountain until I felt 100% fit again. The last thing I wanted to do was trek for two days to the peaks and then not be able to reach the summit because I was not fit enough. So the next five days I fell in to a routine, mostly sitting around the garden moving from shady tree to shady tree as the sun tracked across the sky above us, coming up over the peaks of Mt Kenya and setting behind the Aberdare range of mountains in the west. Patrick kept me supplied with tea through out the day and I also gave him some money each evening to buy some eggs and bread for breakfast the next morning when he walked to work. I took a couple of trips to the nearest main town, Nanyuki, mostly to stock up on supplies of food, as well as for a change of scenery. I decided to go self-catering at the hostel; it was definitely easier than trying to arrange for someone to cook each evening.
Patrick had worked as the caretaker at the hostel for a number of years. The hostel was owned by Joseph's brother James who lived on a plot next door; his two cattle kept wandering into the garden and tramping over Patrick's carefully manicured flower beds, usually closely followed by Patrick chasing them back to James' plot, shouting in Swahili and waving his arms frantically. Patrick was the lynch pin of the hostel; without him the place would probably fall apart. The only name you heard shouted all day was his and he always came running dropping whatever he was doing to help out someone else, whether it was to walk to the road to help carry some shopping, sort out some administration in the office or chase the chickens out of the kitchen. Whenever the phone rang you would hear the shout of Patrick's name. Patrick lived a couple of kilometres from the hostel on an acre of land with his family of four children. He only had enough grazing space on his land for one cow, which supplied enough milk for his families needs, but no extra to sell at the market; the rest of the land was given over to growing maize and vegetables. Patrick always seemed to miss the mountain and often talked to me about his adventures climbing the mountain many times over the years. It was only Joseph who told me that he used to be a mountain guide and spent his life leading groups on treks across the mountain. Unfortunately one day the government ran out of money and the first casualties of this budgetary squeeze was the mass redundancies of the mountain guides; Patrick never got his old job back and spent some time working as a porter before finally landing the job of caretaker at the hostel.
By the Monday I was feeling fairly fit again and ready to tackle the mountain. During my days sitting around the garden I had discussed with Joseph my plans for trekking over the mountain. I wanted to go up one route, the Naro Moru route, which started at the park gate just a few kilometres up the road, and come down the Sirimon Route. This would give me a 50km traverse of the mountain to hike, ascending the western flank of the mountain and descending the northern flank. Joseph disappeared to Nairobi on Monday so I couldn't make arrangements to climb the mountain until Wednesday. He gave me a price of US$300 for this trip through his tour company KG Expeditions, which had its offices based in the village of Naro Moru. This was an all inclusive price, that included; park fees, bunkhouse fees, food, a guide who could cook, a porter to help carry the supplies and transport to and from the park gates.
We planned to leave the hostel early on Wednesday morning, but by the time we managed to get organised it was a lot later. Finally by 11.00 Peter, my guide and James, my porter and myself were ready for our five-day expedition across the mountain. We left the hostel and began walking to the park gates as Joseph had driven to the village to pick up another couple of trekkers from Denmark who planned to traverse the mountain, west to east along the Naro Moru and Chogoria routes. Over the last couple of days the weather had improved and today was no exception; the peaks of Mt Kenya were clearly visible with the glaciers reflecting the bright sun, a few clouds hugged the sides of the mountain. The dirt road to the Naro Moru park gate passed by farmland, mostly smallholdings growing maize, cabbage and other vegetables. Small wooden buildings with either tin or thatched roofs stood in these plots.
After walking about fifteen minutes, Joseph drove past taking the couple of Danish lads to the park gate, plus their guide and porters and returned shortly afterwards to give us a lift. The nearer we reached the gate the clearer you could see that the farmland had been clear-cut from the forest. The forest suddenly started abruptly at the edge of the farmland as though someone had cut it away like a slice of cake. The forest at this altitude is known as the Lower Montane Forest and is usually dense containing large trees, the most common being the buttressed dark-red East African camphor. The lower forest is much thicker on the wetter eastern and southern slopes of the mountain; hence most routes up the mountain are on the northern and western flanks. Unfortunately it appeared that a large majority of this forest had been cleared for agricultural use.
Joseph sorted out all the paperwork at the park gate while we sat around watching a troop of baboons on the other side of the road watching us. Just after midday we entered the park to walk our first stage, 10km to the bunkhouses at the Met Station. There is a park track that goes as far as the Met Station; we followed this through the Upper Montane Forest that surrounds the lower slopes of the mountain between the altitudes of 2,000 - 2,500m. The track follows the crest of a broad ridge between the northern and southern Naro Moru valleys. The walking was easy and I really didn't notice the 1,000m ascent we made that afternoon to 3,050m. The road never became too steep and I didn't find myself out of breath or breaking out into a sweat; it was a very pleasant afternoons walking, which took us just over three hours to complete. The Upper Montane Forest consisted of very tall straight trunk trees, mostly the East African yellowwood and the African pencil cedar. The trees were also covered in all types of lichens, mosses and ferns the most common one, and obvious, were the long strands of Usnea, also know as old man's beard.
The further up the mountain we climbed these trees gave way to the shorter East African olive and the pillar wood before we reached the bamboo zone, which grows at between 2,500 - 3,000m. The bamboo grows thickest on the southern slopes of the mountain, although along our trail there were many thick patches of bamboo growing around the shorter trees. Along the way the trees were alive with all sorts of birds, of almost every colour in the rainbow. The only animals we saw were black and white colobus monkeys, although there was plenty of evidence along the road of both elephant and buffalo.
We reached the Met Station at just after half three, which included our stop for lunch. The Met Station consisted of a number of small wooden bunkhouses, each with an adjacent tiny shed for the porters to cook in, and were dotted amongst the trees on the slope, mostly the East African olive, draped in old man's beard. It was a very scenic location with views glimpsing through the trees to the plains below. I sat on the veranda of my bunkhouse for the evening while Peter brewed me the biggest pot of tea ever. I walked down to a nearby stream that flowed through a bamboo thicket to collect a couple of litres of water for the walk tomorrow. The weather had remained good all day and into the evening, broken cloud and sunshine; the bunkhouses being bathed in the evening sun as it slowly dipped down below the horizon behind the Aberdare mountains in the distance. Peter served dinner just after the sun had set, the distant sky glowing orange. I had been in Africa for almost a month and this was the best dinner I had eaten, and here I was sitting on the side of a mountain.
It was fairly cold overnight but I survived in my sleeping bag with just a long sleeved T-shirt on for extra warmth. As I stepped out of the bunkhouse there was still frost on the grass in the glade below the bunkhouses. Peter made breakfast and a pot of tea and by 08.30 we had begun our second days walking. Today was another 10km walk to the bunkhouse at Mackinders Camp, an ascent of 1,150m to an altitude of 4,200m; it was a lot tougher walking than the previous day. The park track ended at the Met Station and from there a path carried on up steeply through the thinning forest for just over half an hour. As the trees began to thin out and become more sparse the main species were the East African rosewood and giant St John's wort, which were much shorter and crooked rather than the tall straight trees further down the mountain. The tree line was at an altitude of 3,200m, from where we began to hike up through the moorland, the trees now replaced by giant heathers, which were very similar in appearance to heathers that grow in temperate countries except that they grow up to 10m high. At first I mistook these heathers for conifers until Peter told me that they grow this big. The first section of moorland is very steep and is known as the vertical bog, although when I climbed it, it was towards the end of the dry season and the bog was absolutely bone dry. This made the going a lot easier and quicker but I could see by the lie of the land that this steep section of moorland could hold a lot of water in the dry peat 'steps' and tussocks of grass.
The trail leads up the southern ridge of the Teleki Valley with the North Naro Moru River flowing along the valley floor. Once past the vertical bog the path flattens out to a gentler gradient and we climbed on to the upper moorland where the giant heathers were replaced by far stranger plants. The path took a fork, the path to the left descending into the valley and following the North Naro Moru River along the northern bank. We took the right fork and continued along the ridge, which was the easier route and the most commonly used trail up this valley. Grass is the dominant vegetation of the upper moorland and between the tussocks of grass grows giant lobelia and giant groundsels. The lobelia only flowers once in its life sending a spectacular floral plume into the sky, growing as high as 2m.
There are various species of groundsel, some only grow at ground level while others, the tree groundsel, can grow up to 5m. They grow very slowly in the harsh conditions at these altitudes where the temperatures can range widely between day and night. They can grow for up to 120 years and only flower once every ten years or so. Dotted about the landscape were several flowers, the distinctive bright red Mackinders lily as well as a few species of everlasting flower such as the Helichrysum, which looked like a dried daisy. The walking began to get hard at this altitude; I became very conscious of my breathing and gulped as much air as I could through my mouth. The path followed the ridge of the valley towards the high, snow-capped peaks of Mt Kenya, now looming in the distance at the head of this valley. The path was rocky and dry passing many giant groundsels along the way; it seemed a very alien environment with all these strange looking plants growing around me that I had never seen before.
The path dropped down to cross the river, now at an altitude of just over 4,100m, we slowly plodded on to Mackinders Camp, never walking too fast so that we didn't get out of breath. Just before reaching the camp there is a final small hill to climb between boulders and groundsels. This was our last challenge for the day and reached the camp at 4,200m at the top. The camp was fairly busy and we arrived at about 15.00, six and a half hours after leaving the Met Station, including our lunch stop. Once I stopped walking and sat about resting at the camp I really noticed the lack of oxygen at this altitude. I was still breathing heavily through my mouth to get enough air into my lungs, every moment I was aware of my breathing. It seemed very much like being on the moon; everyone walked around very slowly, no-one ran or rushed about; the landscape appeared very lunar, we were almost on the limit of the vegetation at 4,300m, above us was only the shear rock faces of the mountain peaks and the scree slopes.
Looking up at the mountain I could see the trail I would take that night up the scree slope to reach Point Lenana, the third highest peak on the mountain at 4,985m. I could also just see the snout of the Lewis Glacier high up on the mountain, which I would also have to hike past to reach Pt Lenana. It looked a daunting prospect to climb, especially at this altitude. At least climbing at night you couldn't see how far you had to go to reach the top. Once the sun set the temperature dropped dramatically and we all took refuge in the bunkhouse where our porters and guides cooked up our dinner. The bunkhouse is not in the best of condition, with gaps around the windows letting cold drafts in and no ceiling, just rafters and the cold sheets of corrugated steel keeping the elements at bay. Those of us who were attempting the summit that night, which included me, had an early night and went to bed around 20.00; I wrapped myself up in my sleeping bag still fully clothed and could still feel the cold.
I had a bad nights sleep; I don't think I slept at all; I only probably dozed. The cold and the altitude did their best to keep me awake. I found the atmosphere high up on the mountain to be very dry, which dried out my nose. This caused me difficulty in breathing through my nose, as my nostrils felt very constricted; I kept waking up during the night from my light sleeping feeling short of breath and gasping for air through my mouth. To make matters worse during the night the wind picked up to gale force; it sounded as though the roof of the bunkhouse would be blown off. The wind howled relentlessly through the night making sleep now almost impossible. Apart from continuously waking up gasping for air and being deafened by the wind howling around the bunkhouse I also began to worry about ascending to the summit with a gale blowing over the mountain. The strength of the wind scared me and I didn't know whether it would be possible to reach Pt Lenana in such conditions.
As I lay awake worrying the clock ticked on to 02.30, time to get up and prepare for the climb to the summit. I felt lousy as I packed my backpack in the dark; my head ached as though I was suffering from a hangover but without having the enjoyment of the night before. Every movement became a chore, concentrating on anything was almost impossible and all my body kept telling me to do was to lie down. By 03.00 Peter had not appeared and the others who were making the summit attempt this morning had already left; I gave in and crawled back onto a bunk bed and hoped that Peter had decided that it was too windy to climb this morning. Peter, shining a torch in my face, soon woke me from my dozing; he was looking far too happy and smiled offering me a pot of tea. It looked like we were going up the mountain after all and at 03.30 we stepped out of Mackinders Hut and into the cold wind that had been roaring for what seemed like an age.
The sky was clear and the stars shone brightly above us as we began to once again slowly plod up the mountain. The path continued up the valley, the wind whistling past the giant groundsels, which stood in the darkness like sentries, guarding the way up the mountain. The temperature was well below freezing and the small streams that crossed the path were frozen, the ice crunching under our feet. The moon had already set and the only light we had was that from our torches, just shining the way a couple of metres at a time. As we walked my body was still telling me to go and lie down, my head was pounding and my breathing almost out of control; I just didn't seem able to get enough air into my lungs to make the headache subside. After walking about a kilometre, mostly along a fairly steady gradient I had to stop, overcome with a feeling of nausea. I leaned over a rock in the dark, the wind blowing around us, and began to vomit. As I leant over that rock, glimpsing the dark peaks of the mountain now so close, I thought that that was it; I had failed, beaten by the altitude and lack of oxygen. The only way now was back down.
We rested for a while there in the dark, I gathered my thoughts together and drank plenty of water while breathing deeply through my mouth, gulping the air. The feelings of nausea had now passed and after vomiting I began to feel a lot better, far better than I could of hoped to feel just a few minutes ago. Peter asked me how I felt, I was now more determined than ever to reach the summit especially as I could feel myself getting better by the minute the more I sat by that rock breathing deeply. It was while I was sitting there that I realised that it must have been the problems I had breathing during the night that caused this altitude sickness. I told Peter that I was feeling okay and ready to continue towards the summit; we agreed to walk for periods of about fifteen minutes and then stop and rest to see how I felt.
Soon we reached the bottom of the scree slope, where we rested; my headache was easing and I no longer felt nauseous and after a five-minute break we began the steep ascent to Point Lenana. I was glad we were doing this in the dark and that we couldn't see the top of the slope, as it seemed to go on forever. The previous afternoon, sitting at Mackinders Camp looking at the trail zigzagging up this slope, I decided that the only way to make it to the top would be to take it one step at a time and to just concentrate on the next step rather than the ultimate goal of the summit. I continued to persist up the slope only looking as far as the beam of my torch shone, the wind stopping us in our tracks every now and then as a strong gust blew dust and grit into our faces. We stopped many times on the way up this slope, each time my headache seemed to have abated a little more; the more we hiked the better I felt, I found I could breath far more easily as I walked compared to when I was lying in bed trying to sleep.
As we reached the top of the scree slope the distant horizon to the east began to glow brighter, turning from black to blue, the stars beginning to fade and disappear. The Lewis Glacier, the largest on the mountain, was now clearly visible to our right, snaking down the mountain; two hikers were crossing the glacier to reach Point John, their torches shining across the snow and ice. By now the tube from my water bottle had frozen solid in the freezing wind. Ahead of us lay a boulder field which we crossed reaching the Austrian Hut just as the sun broke over the horizon lighting up the peaks of the mountain in a golden glow of sunshine. The Austrian government built the Austrian Hut after an Austrian climber, Dr Judmaier suffered a fall on the mountain in 1970 and became trapped on a ledge for a week with a broken leg. There was no technical mountain rescue unit on the mountain and after many failed attempts at reaching him, his father called out an alpine rescue unit from Innsbruck. They successfully managed to rescue him and after the rescue the Austrian government supplied funds to set up a technical mountain rescue team on Mt Kenya as well as building the Austrian Hut. The hut does not have a caretaker, so its condition deteriorates a little each year, but when I stuck my head through the door it still looked comfortable, especially when the alternative was to stand in the freezing gale blowing over the ridge outside.
The gale blew relentlessly, the wind whistling and whipping around the hut; the toilet a few metres along the ridge was taking a battering, the roof had gone and the sheets of corrugated steel crashed together echoing across the glacier to the peaks on the other side. As we sheltered from the wind behind the hut the sun continued to rise becoming brighter and brighter, illuminating more of the mountain as the rays edged into the deep valleys and gullies. Peter asked if I felt ready to continue, the summit of Point Lenana now towering above the Austrian Hut; I felt great and ready for the last push to the summit, my headache had gone and that moment in the dark when I vomited seemed like a lifetime ago. We continued up the steep southwest ridge of Pt Lenana, now only 195m ascent to go, confident that I would reach the summit. We climbed slowly, the wind now being our main problem; the path though kept most of the time to the lee side of the wind, which blew in from the east, whipping over the top of our heads. There were small patches of ice and snow on the way up, mostly in sheltered spots, in between large boulders and cracks in the rock. I had been told that the path to the summit had been altered in the last few years, due to the retreat of the Lewis Glacier, and that it was a lot more difficult. I didn't find the going too tough, although there were a number of places we had to scramble up the rocks to reach the summit. The last scramble took us up a metre high step of rock from where it was a few metres walk to the summit marked by a metal Kenyan flag bolted onto the white painted rocks. It was 07.00, I had made it to the summit, 4,985m, and the highest point I have ever reached.
Peter and myself shook hands on the summit and I stood there stunned by my achievement; not even the wind howling past the summit could dampen my spirits now. The view from the top was equally stunning. To the west, below us was the Lewis Glacier with the south-east face of Nelion, 5,188m, glowing in the early morning light, Batian, the highest peak on the mountain at 5,199m rising beside it. To the north we could look down to the head of the Mackinder Valley, the route we would be taking down the mountain, the peaks of Sendeo and Terere clearly visible on the far ridge of the valley. Looking south-west down the mountain along the way we had climbed we could just make out the silver roof of the Mackinders Camp where we had started this epic climb in the middle of the night, sitting at the head of the U-shaped Teleki Valley. It didn't look possible to have been able to climb so far in just three and a half hours. The plains surrounding the mountain were all covered in cloud and it gave the impression of standing on an island looking out over an endless sea of cloud. On a good day from here it is possible to see as far as Mt Kilimanjaro in Tanzania and Lake Victoria to the west, unfortunately with the low cloud cover the views from the summit this morning were restricted. This didn't spoil my enjoyment of the moment standing on one of the highest peaks in Africa, almost on the equator with glaciers and snowfields lying around me.
The hardest part of the climb up this magnificent mountain was tearing myself away from the summit. It had taken me months to plan and train for this climb, three days to actually make it and a lot of effort both physically and mentally to reach this tiny spot far above the clouds. One consolation about leaving Point Lenana was that I was taking a different route down the summit rather than retracing my earlier footsteps from Mackinders Camp. Taking one last 360-degree look from the summit we began our descent down the north face of Point Lenana. This is one of the most exhilarating sections of walking on the mountain, leading steeply down the rocky slope to Harris Tarn, about 200m below the summit. Apart from the strong wind we were lucky with the weather, the only cloud was below us and above us only blue skies; this section of the trek can become treacherous in bad weather, especially when it snows. There was a lot more snow on the northern slopes of the mountain, especially on the more sheltered slopes; the air temperature still remained below freezing but I could at last feel the warmth of the sun on my face.
We planned to spend the night at Shiptons Camp at the head of the Mackinder Valley to the north below us at 4,230m. From Harris Tarn the path lead up slightly over a ridge crest before descending down a broad ridge of scree. It was tough going trying to walk down this scree; it was very steep in places and very easy to loose your footing. My thigh and calf muscles soon began to burn and eventually either Peter or myself would slip sending a small avalanche of rock down the mountain. That is when we would take a break and rest on a rock slowly letting the blood flow back into our legs before continuing our descent. Soon we caught our first glimpse of Shiptons Camp, far below us. Almost nothing grew on these high altitude slopes; it was just bare rock and scree. Occasionally the odd everlasting flower found a foothold in a sheltered spot between some rocks, but this was the exception. Most of the area above 4,300m is known as the high altitude desert or Nival; only one thing survives up here and that is the lichen.
The scree slope seemed endless but after two and half hours we finally walked through a small gully down a cliff and across a small patch of grass into Shiptons Camp, six hours after leaving Mackinders Camp. It was 09.30, I sat down exhausted still trying to comprehend what we had achieved during the early hours of this morning; at times it didn't seem real, as though our long slow slog up the scree slope under the stars was all just a dream. James, my porter had already made it to the bunkhouse by coming around the summit circuit path, carrying both his and my backpack. I'm still not sure how he did it because he couldn't have made two journeys during the time it took us to climb to the summit. Within a few minutes of collapsing into the bunkhouse James brought me a very welcome hot pot of tea and an hour or so later breakfast.
We spent the day at Shiptons Camp, the north faces of the peaks of Batian and Nelion looming above us. When I arrived it was fairly quiet, only a couple of other people were camping and a handful of others were leaving late for a trek to one of the other huts around the mountain. As soon as we stopped walking and I sat down or lay down on my bunk bed I began to feel the symptoms of altitude sickness again. It was all due to my nose being dried out again and not being able to get enough air quickly enough into my lungs. Within an hour or so of arriving at the bunkhouse my dull headache had returned and I wandered about slowly as if nursing a hangover. The day seemed to drag by, whenever I went to lie down on my bunk I found I couldn't sleep because of my headache. The wind still blew relentlessly and the noise at Shiptons was very similar to that at Mackinders. A bargeboard on the bunkhouse outside my room had come loose and repeatedly crashed into the wall whenever a gust of wind blew; it made sleep difficult.
By the afternoon trekkers on their way up the mountain began to arrive and steadily over a few hours the bunkhouse filled up. It was far colder at Shiptons compared to Mackinders. Over dinner that evening everyone wrapped themselves up in jackets, gloves and hats. I finally crawled into my sleeping bag at 20.00, partly because there was nothing else to do and partly to help keep warm. It was not a good nights sleep; I lay in bed for twelve hours and I am sure I didn't sleep a wink; concentrating on breathing while trying to get to sleep are not two very compatible occupations. I woke up, if those are the right words, or rather got out of bed at 08.00 feeling very cranky. I didn't really have time for Peter to bring me yet another five-course breakfast; all I wanted was porridge, bread, jam and tea. I knew that if I started walking I would feel a lot better and just wanted to get going rather than sit around for another couple of hours. Other people who had spent the night in tents said that there had been a hailstorm early in the morning. By 08.00 there was no evidence left around the camp but the peaks above us were coated white. It looked as though it was freezing rain as every surface of rock was now plastered in ice, rather than snow just lying in the sheltered spots. I felt happy that I had made the summit yesterday, despite the wind; the ice looked far more treacherous.
Peter soon got the message that I wanted to get going and we were soon packed and ready to trek down the mountain the 13km to the Old Moses Camp at 3,300m. As I thought, within an hour or so of leaving Shiptons my headache had eased, I no longer felt cranky and was once again enjoying trekking through this unspoilt wilderness. The path lead down along the Mackinders Valley, which stretched northwestwards away from the peaks. This was upper moorland with the now the characteristic groundsels and lobelias lining the way. The gradient was very slight but every now and then we would reach a steep cliff where the path would wind down the escarpment before continuing on its more gentle descent. The path eventually leads up the eastern side of the valley, the Liki River disappearing below us in the valley floor. Once we reached the ridge of the valley the path turned north-easterly leading down and up two more valleys crossing the Liki North river and the Ontulili river before finally descending northwards to the Old Moses Camp. There had been a bush fire here back in 1996 destroying a large swathe of vegetation across this side of the mountain. The silvery branches of the giant heather, left charred from the fire, remained stretched towards the sky, the new shoots now growing from the base of the stump. It will take years for these new branches to reach the size and height of their ancestors.
It took five hours to reach the Old Moses Camp and we arrived at about half past two. The camp, at an altitude of 3,300m is still in the lower moorland, sitting on a slight hill looking out over the forest below and the plains, which were heavily cultivated. This was my last night on the mountain, the climate and the altitude all began to feel normal again, it was not too cold at night and I could once again breath normally, my headache now gone. The following morning it was a relatively short walk of 9km to the Sirimon park gate. The Old Moses Camp is at the road head and the trail down from here followed the park track descending back into the forest. First thing in the morning it was overcast and raining, my first bit of bad weather I had encountered on the mountain (if you don't count the gale blowing the night I climbed to the summit). By the time Peter had prepared breakfast and I had eaten it we were all packed and ready to go, the bad weather had passed over and we hiked back to the gate in sunshine.
The forest on this, the northern side of the mountain, is a lot thinner than that on the west, mostly because this side is the driest. The lower moorland seemed to stretch far further down the mountain; there was very little bamboo before we reached the forest, which was not quite the thick jungle it was on the western slope. Just after 11.00 we reached the park gate where Joseph was waiting for us as planned. We shook hands and we celebrated my successful expedition up the mountain. I sat down on a small grassy patch looking back up at the peaks, now far off in the distance, a satisfied grin appeared on my face. I thought about all the months I planned this trip to Africa, the regular hikes I had done back home over the last six months to Dartmoor and Scotland to train for it; finally the roller coaster of emotions while trekking this mountain, from the misery of suffering from the altitude to the euphoria of standing on the summit. I was elated.
Joseph drove us back to the hostel at Naro Moru going back via Nanyuki. The road from the park gate to the main road was long and rough. After so long on the mountain it felt strange to be back in civilisation, driving through villages. On the mountain I could have been anywhere, now I was suddenly thrust back into Africa. I felt like I had just arrived on the continent, everything was again new and exciting. We stopped in Naro Moru to pick up some beef for lunch. As we drove back out of the village we passed by the small taxi stand, two of the drivers who did the route past the hostel saw me sitting in Josephs 4WD. They waved and shrugged indicating, why not come with us; I felt as though I had returned home, even the taxi drivers knew me now in this small village.
A short while later we were back at the hostel. Patrick was out in the garden weeding a flowerbed. As we came to a stop outside the front of the hostel a small crowd gathered, mostly children from the surrounding farms; they seemed to spend the weekend playing in the hostels garden. Patrick came over anxious to know if the trip had been successful; everyone had been worried about the gale that had blew up, even at the bottom of the mountain. I told him the good news and all about my adventure up to Point Lenana, he was very happy for me that I had made it to the top.
After five days living on a mountain the first thing I wanted to do was have a shave and a shower. While I showered Peter got busy in the kitchen cooking up the beef and frying some chips. To my surprise there was hot water. I later found out that Patrick was responsible for this. He remembered that I was coming down the mountain this Sunday morning and had especially gone out to collect some firewood to heat up the water tank for me. The rest of the day was given over to rest and relaxation, after doing my one chore, a bucket of very dirty laundry.
Later that afternoon four other travellers arrived at the hostel; this was a busy day. They planned to hike up the mountain tomorrow, I unfortunately planned to leave Naro Moru and the Mt Kenya Hostel tomorrow for good; a day I was not really looking forward to. While I was cooking my dinner that evening Joseph opened up the Summits View Pub at the end of the garden. The place was busy with the arrival of the new guests, their guides and porters plus some other guides I had got to know during my stay at the hostel. I sat at the bar, a bottle of Tusker in front of me, recounting my stories of climbing the mountain to the group who were setting off tomorrow. I also chatted to Joseph and told him about my plans to trek up Mt Meru in Tanzania in a couple of weeks time after my friend, Gerald arrived in Dar es Salaam. Joseph said he would love to come down to Arusha and cook for us on the mountain. The more I thought about his offer, the more sense it seemed to make. I took a note of his mobile phone number and we agreed to meet at the Mashele Guesthouse in Arusha on Monday week. It was one of those evenings when suddenly everything seems right in the world.
I woke the next morning to the usual flurry of activity as another group made their last minute preparations to climb the mountain. I sat under my favourite shady tree, a Jacaranda tree still in bloom with purple flowers, while Patrick boiled my eggs he bought for me that morning and made me a pot of tea. Today I aimed to travel to Lake Naivasha. After Joseph had dropped this group at the park gates he came back to give me a lift into Naro Moru from where I would pick up a matatu to Nyeri. Finally it was time to say goodbye, a moment I didn't want to arrive. There was a lump in my throat as Joseph drove out through the garden and I waved goodbye to Patrick for the last time. Patrick was one of the most helpful, kind people I had met for a long time; nothing was too much trouble for him. These people are rare; I think as time goes on he will become a legend in my mind, joining a select group of people, numbering now three, who have made me look at the world around us from a different angle.
Joseph dropped me in Naro Moru, a matatu was already waiting on its way from Nanyuki to Nyeri, within a few seconds my luggage was tied to the roof and I was squeezed into the back. I was back on the road once again.
It was about midday by the time I left Naro Moru, bound for Lake Naivasha. I had hoped to have left earlier as I had quite a few connections to make; I was once again bypassing Nairobi and retracing my route back to Nakuru taking the first matatu as far as Nyeri before changing at the small but hectic taxi park for another matatu to Nakuru via Nyahururu. After spending so much time at the Mt Kenya hostel it felt strange to be travelling again, it was almost like beginning a new journey. The journey was uneventful as we sped past the plains around Nyahururu, which were still parched, now towards the end of the dry season. The descent back down the Laikipia Escarpment was dramatic with stunning views across the valley below. The road wound steeply down the escarpment, the crash barriers on the side of the road had too many gaps in them for comfort, the twisted, mangled metal being the last testament of someone's fatal driving error.
I waited about an hour or so in Nakuru for a local bus to Naivasha. It was late afternoon by the time I arrived in the small, rather uninteresting town of Naivasha to make my last connection to Fisherman's Camp on the shores of Lake Naivasha. The matatu was absolutely packed, but as we sped along Moi South Lake Road I managed to glimpse my first two giraffes by the side of the road; this made the journey for me, they were the animal I really wanted to see while in Africa; I hoped that during my short stay at the lake I would see more.
The lake is the centre of Kenya's flower growing industry; giant greenhouses and plantations lined both sides of the road. This has unfortunately had a detrimental effect on the lake and it's wildlife, with pollution of pesticides, fertiliser and herbicides running off the flower plantations into the lake killing a lot of the fish and in turn reducing the number of birds feeding on the lake. The lake is one of the rift valleys fresh water lakes and along with Lake Nakuru and Lake Elmenteita used to form one large lake, which filled this basin, the waters flowing south through Ol Njorowa Gorge (Hells Gate Gorge) to the soda lakes of Magadi and Natron in the south. Europeans settled in this area of the valley during the 1930's and the lake served as Nairobi's airport between 1937 and 1950 with flying boats arriving on their four-day flight from Southampton. Passengers came ashore at the Lake Naivasha Hotel, now the Lake Naivasha Country Club, and from there were bussed to Nairobi.
The sun had just set by the time I had arrived at Fisherman's Camp and it was getting dark fast. Fisherman's Camp looked idyllic, being on the shores of the lake, the whole camp shaded by huge acacia trees. I had arrived too late though, the bunkhouse was fully booked (by the British Army on yet more manoeuvres) and the bandas by the lakeshore were slightly over my budget at KSH800 a night. They suggested I try the Top Camp where the bandas were only KSH400 a night, a price more suited to my budget. The Top Camp was on the other side of Moi South Lake Road opposite Fisherman's Camp, and as its name suggests was on top of a hill. I hiked up a path, now in the dark until I reached the top of the hill, breaking out into a sweat in the process and found a small collection of bandas looking out across the lake. The bandas were perfect, situated amongst euphorbia trees and surrounded by geraniums growing to the size of bushes. Each banda also had a veranda with table and chairs and a view out across the lake looking over the top of the acacia trees below, which shaded Fisherman's Camp.
I only had one full day to spend at Lake Naivasha and decided to spend it hiking at Hell's Gate national park. I took a matatu back along the road towards Naivasha town and was dropped at the turn off for the national park. From here it was a 2km walk to the main Elsa Gate. Hell's Gate is the only national park in Kenya where you can walk or cycle freely without taking a park ranger with you. Most people rent bicycles for the day but I decided that hiking would be an ideal opportunity to keep myself in peak fitness for my upcoming treks in Tanzania over the next three weeks. The park is set in an area of intense volcanic activity; the volcano, Mt Longonot, 2,886m, looms over the park to the east. This volcano is thought to have last erupted about one hundred years ago, fine volcanic ash covers Hell's Gate Park. In the west of the park is the extinct volcano of Ol Karia, steam seeps through the lava flows from this volcano. This natural heat has been harnessed by a geothermal power station, tapping the steam from 360m below the surface to provide 15% of Kenya's electricity.
The first European to document this area was the German naturalist and explorer, Gustav Fischer in 1883. He gave his name to a high volcanic plug, which rises 25m from the valley floor, Fischer's Tower. This is the first sign of the volcanic activity you see as you enter the park. I hiked along the main trail, which winds through Hell's Gate Gorge, steep escarpments and cliffs on either side. On the plain between the cliffs were huge herds of zebra, Thomson gazelle, Grant's gazelle plus a few warthogs; this was the first time I had seen zebra. It felt strange to be hiking across this plain, through the gorge, covered in dry grass and shrub with herds of zebra crossing the track in front of me. It took me about three hours to reach the ranger post at the head of the Lower Gorge (Ol Njorowa), where I met a Danish couple I had met the previous night at the restaurant and bar at Fisherman's Camp. They had taken the easier option and cycled through the park, although they said the going was not that easy cycling through the soft volcanic ash.
I was hot and exhausted and stopped for a while at the rangers post with the Danish couple where the rangers sold some welcome cold sodas. Once we all felt fully refreshed we hiked down into the lower gorge. There is another volcanic tower here known as the Central Tower, which roughly marks the start of the gorge. The start of the gorge is fairly shallow, but quickly becomes steep and after we only walked a short distance down into the gorge the sheer cliffs rose up either side of us. A small trickle of water flowed along the floor of the gorge. The gorge is prone to flash floods and our small guide booklet, which we bought at the visitors centre at the Elsa gate, warns you to keep an eye on the weather. When there is a torrential downpour in the surrounding hills water can race through the gorge sweeping all vegetation, gravel and even huge boulders before it; I presume that this water is also capable of sweeping away the unwary tourist too. The thunder rumbling in the distance didn't do much to put me at ease. About ten minutes walk down the gorge we reached the junction of the side gorge, which stretched about 3/4km to the west past the central tower.
This gorge was absolutely stunning; the water-eroded walls are so narrow in places that they almost block out the sky. It reminded me a lot of the famous Siq, the gorge that leads into the ancient city of Petra in Jordan. After following the many twists and turns of the gorge, including scrambling over a few large boulders we reached the dramatic end. We stood at the bottom of a huge plunge pool, the dry river flowing down over a cliff and into the gorge. We could only imagine the power of the water as it cascaded down into the gorge, the only evidence before us being the circular carving of the plunge pool. We retraced our steps back to the main gorge. On the way we had a fantastic view of the Central Tower, dominating the view down the gorge. The tower was formed the same way as Fischer's Tower, by semi-molten rock being forced through a fissure in the rock and cooling and solidifying as it extruded. Scattering the floor of the gorge were lumps of Obsidian, a jet-black almost glasslike rock that is formed by the rapid cooling of molten lava.
We continued down along the main gorge, which became deeper and deeper. The stream that ran along the sandy, gravel floor was slowly becoming more than just a trickle as more and more water began to pour from the rocks around us leaving a trail of green algae down the cliff faces. I think we took a wrong turn, as we didn't have a guide and instead of scrambling down some steep, wet rocks carved by the water; we took a safer looking path that slowly led us up and out of the gorge. We should have reached some hot springs and steam vents but we didn't; we turned back and retraced our steps back to the head of the gorge.
After stopping at the rangers post again to drink more cold sodas we began our long trip back out of the park. The Danish couple quickly disappeared along the track on their bicycles while I plodded on through the afternoon heat and dust. The thunder we heard rumbling in the distance never really reached us but on the way back a few welcome drops of rain fell from the sky cooling me down for a while. As I walked back I saw in the distance a lone giraffe heading towards me; this is the one creature I hoped I would see today and now here was one walking past me just off the track in the grass. We both walked stopping now and then as we neared each other; myself to take photos while the giraffe peered down at me.
Finally I reached Fischer's Tower near the Elsa gate where I met up with the Danish couple again who were resting at some picnic tables. I stopped to rest, but in the distance I spotted a large troop of baboons approaching us fast. We quickly packed up the snacks we were eating as the first baboons bounded up to the tables. We stood back on the road watching the baboons as they took over the picnic tables and climbed up Fischer's Tower, the perfect acrobats. I began my last tiring walk out of the park and along the 2km dirt road to the main road from where I hailed a passing matatu to drop me back at Top Camp. I returned to my banda and collapsed onto my bed and fell asleep before my head hit the pillow; I was totally exhausted from the heat and the distance I had hiked. It was dark when I awoke and I stumbled back down the hill to the bar and restaurant at Fisherman's Camp. The food there was really good, both nights I had the fillet steak, which was real fillet steak that just melted in my mouth, a far cry from usual African beef that made your jaw ache as you tried to chew it before finally giving up and swallowing it whole.
I had one deadline to meet on this trip that was fast approaching; a friend of mine, Gerald, was flying into Dar es Salaam on 2 March to join me for three weeks in Tanzania to do some trekking. Today was Wednesday and 2 March was on Saturday. When I originally planned this trip and a city to meet up in I expected to have been on the coast of Kenya at Mombassa by now; from there Dar es Salaam would be a few hours bus ride south along the coast. Instead now I had to get to Nairobi and take a bus direct to Dar es Salaam on Friday, which would take over twelve hours. I had heard many stories, mostly of the horror type, about Nairobi. At first these scared me and I dreaded the day I would finally have to go to the city. But as time passed and I heard more and more of these stories I began to get fascinated by the place and by today I couldn't wait until I arrived in the city. Before I stood out in the road to wait for a passing matatu to take me to Naivasha I asked a hawker what his one top tip for surviving Nairobi would be. He told me to get the matatu to drop me off somewhere in the city before arriving at the matatu station downtown and to take a taxi from there to a hotel. Apparently, according to the stories I had heard, the matatu station was home for every mugger, robber, thief, drug dealer and conman in Kenya; this sounded like good advice and was something I hadn't thought of before. Thanking this anonymous hawker I crossed the road and was shortly in the back of a matatu and on my way to Nairobi.
I had to wait a couple of hours or so at the matatu park in Naivasha for the Nairobi bound matatu to fill up; the park was nothing much, more a lay-by at a junction in the centre of the town. I kept thinking I had made the wrong decision when every half hour a Kenya Bus went past me bound for Nairobi, leaving a trail of dust behind it. I had all ready paid my fare so I sat by the side of the road watching the street life, the hawkers and matatu touts chasing every matatu that pulled up in town. Finally rain stopped play and I took shelter in the matatu until the last passenger arrived and we began the approximate 100km journey to Nairobi, or as the locals called it Nairobbery.
I took the anonymous hawkers advice from Lake Naivasha and asked the driver to drop me at Westlands, a suburb a few kilometres northeast of the city centre. I climbed, or rather was squeezed out of the matatu, completely unnoticed by any robbers or conmen. The only person who spotted me was a taxi driver who took me safely to the Youth Hostel on Ralph Bunche Road, about 1.5km west of downtown, for a fare of KSH400, a bit steep I thought but the traffic was bad at that time of day, it was late afternoon. The hostel was in a nice part of town, just around the corner from the Nairobi Hospital, the staff were very helpful and friendly and I made myself at home for a couple of nights in a four bed dormitory. I had only Thursday as a full day in the city; I planned to book my bus ticket to Dar es Salaam first thing in the morning. The staff at the hostel recommended the Akamba bus company as a safe and reliable company and they also had an early morning departure. Most busses appeared to do the Nairobi - Dar es Salaam route overnight, which sounded like just asking for trouble to me. The locals told me that the Tawfiq bus company had had its licence withdrawn after a spate of deadly crashes over the last few months; allegedly, according to the rumour doing the rounds of Nairobi, they had killed 700 passengers. I booked my ticket with Akamba.
Despite all the negative stories I had heard about the city, during my short stay I actually liked the place. If it weren't for the problem of crime and general lawlessness that characterises the city, I would have liked to stay longer and explored the city in more detail; unfortunately I had my 2 March deadline to be in Dar es Salaam. The city is very green with trees growing along side most of the roads, the western side of the downtown area is demarcated by the Uhuru Highway and a number of parks, Central Park, Uhuru Park and the golf course. The parks make a striking contrast to the compact downtown area where there is a great mix of architecture from tall, modern, glass office blocks to old colonial era buildings with grand facades. Uhuru Park is infamous for its muggers, so I decided not to spend a few hours relaxing in the pleasant looking gardens. I was advised not to walk through the park or Kenyatta Avenue after dark to get back to the hostel; taking a taxi was a good insurance policy.
Nairobi is a very new city and only really came into existence with the building of the Mombasa to Uganda railway during the late 19th century, previously it was just a watering hole used by the Maasai. Nairobi is about halfway between Mombasa and Uganda and made a useful base to pause before the railway line was pushed up into the highlands. Nairobi became a tent city for the thousands of mostly Indian labourers who worked on the construction of the railway, as well as home for the British settlers who were overseeing the work. By 1905 Nairobi succeeded Mombasa as the capital of the British East Africa protectorate. Today Nairobi is a modern city with gleaming office blocks downtown, upmarket shopping centres, smartly dressed people, most of the men wearing business suits and ties. The city also goes to the other extreme with huge slums around the suburbs and a large poverty stricken population. It is now the largest city between Cairo and Johannesburg with a population of over 1.5 million.
I took security advice from the locals and went out into the city with only enough money in my pocket for what I needed that day; watches, jewellery, money belts, day packs were all safely locked up at the hostel. I felt confident and ready to do battle. I took taxis into the city and after purchasing my bus ticket to Dar es Salaam went to the National Museum. I would highly recommend a visit to the museum. They have a very good guide service, which is free; I took a guide to show me around the exhibits who proved to be very knowledgeable and greatly increased my enjoyment of the museum. There were three main exhibits; a very extensive fossil collection showing the origins of humans; a huge bird gallery with almost 900 stuffed specimens from around Kenya. The most fascinating exhibition was the Peoples of Kenya portraits by Joy Adamson. Joy Adamson painted an extensive collection of portraits depicting the various local tribal people and their traditional cultures, which make an almost unique anthropology record.
In a courtyard between the main museum building and an annexe is a life-size fibreglass elephant. This is a replica of Kenya's most famous elephant, which was given a 24-hour Presidential guard to protect it from poachers. It's tusks were enormous and would of been highly prized by poachers. The elephant eventually died of old age and not at the hands of poachers. Taxidermists tried to preserve the elephant but failed, hence the fibreglass replica. My guide showed me into the annexe where there was a display of photographs of the building of the railway line and the Asian immigrants who came to the country. Shut off in a corner of the annexe behind some wooden screens was a large object draped in dusty sackcloth. The guide led me behind the screens where the skeleton of this famous elephant stood, looking rather neglected and unwanted; the tusks were absolutely huge. Apparently this is the downfall of the male elephant, their tusks never stop growing and eventually they get so big the elephant cannot feed itself. They also only have seven sets of teeth and when the last pair wear out the elephant again starves and dies, unable to chew its food.
Opposite the museum is the Nairobi snake park. I had some more time to kill so after having a good lunch at the museum cafeteria, I went to scare myself at the snake park. There were also some crocodiles there, I asked the lady at the ticket office what time they feed the crocs, she said on Thursday. Today was Thursday, I asked if I could watch but she said that they only feed them after they close. I haggled for a while but she wouldn't let me back in that evening to watch the spectacle; it was worth a try.
My first evening I ate at the small restaurant at the youth hostel, the food was not that good so on my second night I decided to venture out to find something a little more appetising. I ended up at the Sagret Hotel, a short walk north along Ralph Bunche Road, where they had a large outdoor bar serving nyama choma. Nyama choma is a bit of an institution in Kenya and the neighbouring countries and the bar at the Sagret was excellent. It was like walking into a butchers shop, on the counter was a pile of meat, various parts of different animals. I chose a goat's leg and it was thrown onto the smoking barbecue and half an hour later it arrived on my table served with a plate of chips. I washed it down with three bottles of Tusker beer and left that evening very happy and satisfied.
I woke up early the following morning to catch my bus to Dar es Salaam. The taxi I had arranged to pick me up at 06.00 that morning outside the hostel didn't show up, so I walked back towards the Sagret where I found a few taxis parked up; taxis don't cruise the streets looking for business in Nairobi, fuel is too expensive. My taxi was an old black London cab, which seemed very much out of place driving into downtown Nairobi. The Akamba bus office is on Lagos Street and when I arrived at 06.30 the place was a hive of activity, the street lined with buses heading to all points in Kenya plus a few international buses going to Kampala and my destination Dar es Salaam. The bus was only about a third full when we departed at 07.00 and made our way through the crowded city centre, out through the suburbs and on past the airport and south along the road towards the border town of Namanga.
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