Peu, we made it

I give up. The time is just too much, and the lessons too daunting for an adequate literary crusade. I will skip. Though you should know that my journal beams with praise, satisfaction, and awe at the experience up north. The experience in Meru National Park, where we skipped the organized tours and rented a self-drive taxi from a man on the street - a Peugeot station wagon, to be exact, with its normal destinations plastered in black paint atop a yellow racing stripe down its side. It beams, indeed, with descriptions of our no ground-clearance, muffler-rattling extravaganza in a park with virtually zero other visitors. It beams with descriptions of our excitement seated atop the vehicle later named Dominique admiring herds of wild elephants, buffaloes, giraffes, zebras, gazelles, oryxes, waterbucks, warthogs, hippos, babboons. And it revels in contentment that Reuben didn't care too much that the paint on the car was virtually destroyed by passing branches. Glorious, is all.

Nairobi, then, is a land hyped up on mega-reputation of malaise. Robberies, hassles, agressive touts are the theme to every city-bashing essay based here. While I wouldn't say it was the friendliest of cities I'd ever been, I would also compare it more closely to Denver than, say, Lucifer's den. But that's just me. In fact, I wholly enjoyed my beer in a bar named "Taco Bell" complete with the real thing's copyrighted logo outside, and my walks past bland buildings that somehow still make it onto the monetary notes; as well as by the site of the 1998 bombing of the US embassy. A park has been erected on the site. How nice.

Mombasa is one of those names that inspires in me an image of richness. Those people (you know them) aspire to reach Mombasa. Or, if not aspire to get there, then at least revel in the fact that they have been. An exotic destination to kill all others, as the name sounds as if it rings from the far side of the universe where bikinis shine with the light of a thousand suns, palm trees grow higher, and the culture is of a uniqueness this world could never know. But, it turns out, it only sounds that way from a seat in Houston. When I arrived, I saw bland square buildings around the bland enormous elephant tusks erected over the main avenue named for the nations second (of three) presidents, Moi. The beach doesn't touch the town, and the outrageous entry fee to see just what inspired the Portuguese creativity in naming "Fort Jesus" were enough to send us barreling into the old city faster than planned. There, though, the oldness is only a century and the magnificence matches the punyness. So, Mombasa seemed a bit of a dud.

But we did jettison the urban for the serene, just to see what the fuss was all about. Tiwi Beach did provide solitude, and one of the most beautiful beaches since Thailand. But after swimming for an hour or so in salt with only a modest helping of harmonic-motion, and much more seaweed, the passive pastime of sitting in the sun did little to satisfy wanderlust. (Though it did catalyze appreciation for the beauty of this world and for the people I'm with.) It also brought conversations with the two newest additions to the world vagabond lifestyle that highlighted the emotions of the new that I had been, for a week, afraid they were numb to. Holes in sidewalks, women carrying cargo atop their heads effortlessly, smells of burning, even awe at the old city Jenny and I found bland (combined, of course, with full on culture shock). They do a great job of hiding the genuine in their minds, but as it turns out Jenny and I are perhaps the numbest of the two. Maybe. But I think I've already covered that.

After a one kilogram seafood breakfast, we jumped ship out of Kenya, and moreover out of a country from which I feel I have still not gotten much culture or understanding (aside from the common "chapati is thicker, wider, greasier here than in India" and, with that, the unanticipatedly large Indian influence on this eastern african coast). People in Kenya speak impeccable English to the extent that they could sit in New York and have a conversation with Hillary on the merits and detriments of Liberalization as a world bank policy, and genuine friendliness without ulterior intent never seemed to spill over to our side - no doubt an outcome aided by our own submersion in a dominating group of four. It's sort of like bringing Boulder along for the ride. Matt said it best as we cruised down Mount Kenya: "On this trip, have you ever felt like you might as well be at home? As we walked down today, Kristy said, "I feel like we're walking into Boulder Canyon."

But we left anyhow, and spent the night watching Trinidad and Tobago tie the soccer powerhouse of Sweden as transport to Tanga was finished for the evening. No worries, though, as the driver saw fit to honk his horn as though the apocalypse were imminent sometime around six in the morning (12, Swahili time) and we enjoying a one dollar flank steak breakfast in Tanga before the sun hit the zenith (6 swahili time - makes sense, doesn't it?). Sunday has inhabitants hiding from work, sun, and the outside in general so tomorrow will hopefully prove more successful in a bicycle-acquisition-quest.

Tata wa na na