Mombasa

Week 1

Flying into Mombasa yesterday morning at 6:45, I was presented with a wondrous sight, the great African sun crawling over Tsavo, casting an orange hue over the acacia and baobob forests, elephants trudging through lush undergrowth about stagnant water bodies, accumulated from the recent rainfall.

Mombasa (the island of war, a title given by the early Bantu inhabitants) is an estuary, where fresh water meets the Indian Ocean. The island serves as the central hub for trade in East Africa, accommodating inbound freighters from Asia and the Gulf States. However, rudimentary sailboats inspired by Arabic design are still found on the coast, known locally as “dhows”.

Mombasa is home to a million people, though census data, cruelly outdated, suggests otherwise, a mere and unlikely 600,000. The city is teeming with activity and life, a crowded cityscape, worn by time and humidity. The architecture draws heavily from Arab influence: ornately carved wooden doors are common, inscribed with the Muslim greeting of Assalaam Alaikum- translated roughly as God be with you. Vendors sell collared dress-shirts, hung on fences and draped over stonewalls; men pull wooden wagons loaded with fruit, cans of gasoline, or sometimes both. Open-door shops selling newspapers and hindi cds are common, set outside is the aromatic smell of curried goat and coconut milk chicken.

The inner city roads, narrow and pot-marked, are busy with frantic matatus, three or four wheeled mini buses that dart about the city. Passengers are packed into the tight confines of these vehicles where the latest American rap hit blares at decimal-bursting sound. Tassels and decorative cloth swing about the Matatu as the driver careens around the streets, his navigator hanging outside the vehicle, offering transport for 15 to 25 Kshs.

Seemingly, traffic laws are more a guideline than a requirement, driving is an aggressive blood sport for both pedestrians and drivers. Oddly enough, these matatus make their way about the city in the absence of street signs and traffic lights, instead, commanding the road with a horn and jarring maneuvers.

As of now, I am staying at the manson hotel in central Mombasa, waiting for the teachers residence and housing to be prepared. During the interim, I have spent my time with Maurice, a bartender at the Manson hotel. Maurice, aged 21, a friendly local always wearing a smile, calls me his "age mate". He is keen to know much about Canada and its mazungu or white women, who he eagerly seeks to marry. He offered to show me around town, which I gladly accepted. Maurice took me to Fort Jesus, and thereafter, to his home near lokoni, 15 minutes from the Manson.

Maurice lives in a single room home, with a sheet metal roof, which he shares with his brother. The two rotate the bed to match their work schedules, one sleeping at night, the other during the day. His brother appeared to be in very poor health, gaunt and thin, his Lakers jersey delicately hung from his body. Maurice later informed me that his brother is HIV positive. Maurice had his brother take some photos of us for his scrapbook, and then we returned to the hotel on foot.

After dining with some Canadians from Montreal and my Kenyan project coordinator, Alice Wathika, I retired to my room. Cutting through the thick air, I crawled under my mosquito net, watching the ceiling fan lazily spin above me. The sleep proved to be a restless one, awakened by the Muslim calls to prayer, and the noisy Afrobeat, playing well into the hours of the night.

Saturday, I will be relocating to the teacher-housing complex in the Arabic quarter, and will commence classes at Mikindani, Nazerne School.

My first few days have been trying, but I love it. I cannot wait to see what tomorrow will bring.