Running where night time is day time
Almost left behind
The odds were against me as the team prepared for this event. I had participated in choosing the date
without consideration of a training that was to take place at the same time as
the event. However, having postponed the
event a month prior, we had already agreed that whoever is available shall
participate in the event, a trip to the coast.
I had hoped that my training would end on a Thursday, after all, the
training material had indicated a 4-day training starting Monday, Nov. 11,
2014. However, the training scheduled
indicated that we had a 5-day event. I
had raised the two inconsistencies to the trainers, in fact, three
inconsistencies. Firstly, the date was
misleading – Nov. 11 was a Tuesday, not a Monday. Secondly the training days were inconsistent
with the training schedule and finally, the date of start of training was
indeterminate as to whether it should be from Monday or from Tuesday.
The trip to Mombasa had already been fixed for Friday, and I had hoped
that the training would therefore start on a Monday for four days. When the clarification came, I was faced with
a 5-day training starting Monday, running 9.00am to 5.30pm daily, yet the
Friday appointment at the coast was for 10 o’clock, after an overnight travel.
“I shall miss this trip,” I had written to my two committee colleagues,
Mercy and Charles.
“I do not see how it shall be possible to join you before Saturday,
since I can only take the Friday night bus.
This would however not be of much use since you shall be back Sunday.”
Jambo
Out of curiosity, I tried what my colleague Mercy, had tried before,
during the first planned meeting that was cancelled. I logged onto the Jambonet site, just to see
what goes. On this Wednesday night, I
realized that it was possible to fly down coast at KShs.7,380/=. This was of course about thrice the travel
budget of 2,500/=. I can confirm that I
booked Jambo without any intent. I was
just curious, clicking the “Next” button and see how the system works. Nonetheless, three minutes later, I was short
of 7,380/= on my credit card, as per sms notification from my bank. I even thought of cancelling this
‘experiment’ that I was doing on the Jambo site, but it was too late, with a
disclaimer like, “… no money shall be refunded whatsoever”
“Thieves!“, I shouted to myself and almost hit the computer screen.
I notified the training instructor that I would have to take an early
break on Friday. This was to enable me
catch the 1930 flight. The reporting
time was one hour to travel. With the
typical traffic jams in the city, I was not taking any chance and was out of
class at exactly 1600 to get a ready taxi arranged through the employer, but
charged to me. I paid cash some one and
a half hours later, as I disembarked at JKIA.
Surely, this traffic situation in Nairobi is absurd. How do you travel from Westlands to Jomo
Kenyatta International, a distance of only 12km for 1hr 30min! I run 21km in that same time, for crying out
loud!
Wrong time
The single aisle, double engine Boeing 737 left on
time and landed at Moi International Mombasa as scheduled at 2030. The taxi that was to drive me to the hotel,
where my other seven colleagues had checked-in in the morning, having travelled
by overnight bus, came for me about nine.
This was despite being informed that I needed it at 8.30pm. The notion that “hakuna haraka” (no hurry) in Mombasa was turning out to be
true. When I asked the driver why he was
late, he responded something like, “Nilifikiiri
ni eiti-thati kesho asubuhi. Wewe
umekuja mapema kweli” (I thought it was 8.30am tomorrow morning. You have come quite early)
When I checked into the hotel, and somehow managed
to get dinner, or rather the remains of it, we had a brief chatter with the
folks and generally informed them that I shall be waking up late and should not
be disturbed before 10.30am. I had
already read that breakfast was served from 6.30am to 10.30am. I wanted to be amongst the last taking the
breakfast. My colleagues told me that they
would be done with breakfast and would in fact be going to town to get some
swimming costumes. We set our review
meeting at 11.00am.
I was in shock and disbelief when I reported to the
hotel dining at 10.15am only to be told that breakfast was over, since the
service closes at 10.00am.
“But the information booklet at the rooms indicate that
the closing time is 10.30am!,” I retorted, both angry and hungry!
“Hiyo bukuleti
ina makosa,” the person at the dining responded, “Sisi kesha funga. Labda kesho.”
What type of customer service is this! You pay for their mistakes and they do not
even think of a simple alternative solution like getting me a simple efing cup
of tea from their kitchen! And the way
we are paying top dollars per night!!
Big pool
Later, my colleague Charles confirmed that the Hotel
Manager had been informed of the incidence and he said that he was to “make
good” the morning incidence during the evening.
We were advised not to take dinner since we were going out. Meanwhile, we had to taste the waters of the
vast Indian ocean first. Our team matched
to the waters after our late lunch – three to be exact, since I had a phone
which I had to leave behind with the sentry as we exited the hotel compound,
straight to the big pool, which had however retreated say 50 metres away.
I was afraid of the waters as I am not a
swimmer. But with the ladies daring the
group on, of course they were having inflated tyre tubes round their waists for
buoyance and hence could afford the confidence, we kept moving deep to the
waters. OK, as I matched through the crystal
clear high pressure waters, I could feel the drag on my feet as I forcefully pushed
them forward on the waters. The journey
started at zero depth on the shores, to half meter about 50m in the pool, and
now to about a meter, at the waist level some 200m distance from shore.
Out of nowhere, the folks just plunged onto the
clear waters, with only the two guys doing a swim. The rest were buoying. Someone shoved a handful of water and threw it
in my direction, and followed it in quick succession with other similar showers. The shock of the cold water hit my body and
forced me to collapse into the waters. I
was now completely wet and soaked. The
salty water was bitter on the mouth and worse on the eyes. That is exactly why I do not like the waters –
you get wet!
The water was not that cold. I could manage it. I even afforded a dive with my hands touching
the white sandy ocean floor. I however
could not swim. Those who had bought
their costumes for this event were having a ball. Charles, my colleague, complained,
“This red costume of mine is too short and a bit
loose. Am almost like swimming bolingo!”
There was laughter in reaction. Our group of eight was swimming in close
proximity and we understood his fears.
“Do not worry about being bolingo ya telephone,” I assured him, “Such a situation happens at
steam baths only, when you decide to let your towel drop for the steam to hit
you wholly”.
“No wonder I have reservations about steam
baths. Imagine a whole me being bolingo in front of all and sundry!”, I
finalized.
But I should have known better, since I was later
beckoned to see a couple in action just a handful of water throws away from our
swimming area. But I did not believe
this anyways. Which action can really
take place in the sub-fifteen degrees temperatures? This remains to be proven since that would
contravene Newton’s third law as there would be a third force – the water
pressure, which I realized was too high.
Did I know that I would witness more of this in these same almost-lukewarm
waters in the next 24-hours? Read on.
Out of water
Having stayed in the salty waters of the vast
swimming pool called the Indian Ocean, (must have been more than three hours in
the saline), it was time to go out. At
about nine, as I walked out of the hotel complex, I had to hand back my room
key to the Receptionist. Just in front
of me, in broad hotel light, in full public view, was my fellow Kenyan (I
guess, since she looked like one of us), in a bra only! OK, maybe there was this other innerwear
also, with straps running from shoes to the inner. Isn’t that against the constitution? To walk naked in a public lobby? Didn’t I read that in Chapter 6? Or does it mean that when you are accompanied
by a jungu you can go ahead and do
that? What are private beaches and hotel
rooms for! I handed over my key even as
the receptionist appreciated my definite bewilderment.
“Hapo sasa –
Mombasa raha,” he commented, beyond the earshot of the now retreating
couple, “Watu wala mali yao, na bado,”
he added.
Our team of eight walked to the main road and
started waiting for a matatu. None had the space for eight. We therefore decided to split and left in
small groups, as per the space availability whenever a matatu passed by. Two of us
got into a matatu and said, “Mtwapa.”
UNEP
“A ha – mwenda
kula mali yenyu. Ndio siku ya anza sasa!,”
the makanga volunteered without any persuasion. Meanwhile he took sixty shillings from
us. Mercy and I continued small talk,
during the pauses that the loud music could afford us.
“Nanyi watu wa
bara sivyo. Englishi yenu yanambia
nyinyi watu wa… eh..,” he enquired,
we said nothing.
“Ah, nyinyi
watu wa Nairobi,” he continued.
Stubborn makanga. Stubborn to the core!
“Mtwapa, Mtwapa,” he shouted, with his head hanging
out of the speeding vehicle in pitch darkness at some points.
He was back to us momentarily, “Nairobi vipi?”
“Nilisikia
mwatoka UNEPU!,” that was in reaction to something I had told Mercy, about
going to ICRAF Gigiri sometime ago to do something official.
“Mimi pia
natoka Nairobi.”
What the…. was our reaction!
“Ndio, mimi kesha
zaliwa Nairobi. Nilisomea Karura
mimi. Praimari and Sakondari. Mimi mtu wa Nairobi tu, kama nyinyi.”
“We wacha
hadithi,” the driver shouted from just in front of us, “Tafuta pasenja wacha hadithi hadithi zako
bwana we.”
“Mtwapa!,” the tout hanged his head out of the
speeding matatu but just for a moment, since he was back to us, “Karura hapo wakora wengi, si kama hapa
Kosti. Kwanza hapa Mtwapa utatembea saa
zote zile bila hata kuangaishwa na mtu.
Lakini kwetu Karura… wacha tu, utainuliwa juu upate huna kiatu. Huna kiatu nakwambia.”
“Acha hadithi
zako, tafuta pasenja,” the driver reminded him.
We alighted at Kenol and took a motorcycle to our
hosting venue where the full team arrived almost at the same time.
“I know this place,” was my first reaction. “I have been here before,” I told Mercy, who
had surely not been there before.
Democracy
The last time I was here there was a red hot show
just after mid-night. That was three
years ago. Since then, a moratorium had
been imposed on Mombasa trips, since the members felt that the evening was
excessively liberal, hence not good for our optical health. I can however confirm that only two members
felt that way, out of a team of eleven.
Where is democracy, when two trample the rights of nine for three years!? It was good payback, to be back, without the
opposition – good riddance!
In my running life, you get a surprise when you run
a new route. However, you are prepared
for the surprises when you run the route a second time. You can therefore manage expectations and
plan a better and a winning strategy during the comeback. That is the same mantra that I had this time
round. I was not going to be taken by
surprise – I had to be ready for anything.
After all, after that show 1,000 days ago, what else remained/remains?
After mid-night, the DJ started barking and kept
threatening to unleash the ‘swimming pool’ show.
One of the preparations, in this second visit, had already been put in
place, by sitting next to the pool. If
anything was happening, then it was going to happen before our very eyes! Time trickled by. However, instead of any shows, the loud music
pounded and pounded without any action.
We were starting to complain about how the establishment had robbed us
clean. Imagine, we had to pay an
entrance fee of 300/= in exchange for a can of a compulsory promotional drink
and a “PAID” rubberstamp pushed painfully on our hands! Surely!!
By dinner time, after washing my hands, the stamp was hardly visible,
yet that was akin the entry license.
Beauty pageant
The DJ finally said that he had just realized that
there was a Miss Liz, who was a Miss some-pageant, who was having a birthday.
“Liz, from wherever you are, please come forward!”
“Chiki chiki
chiki chi,” the DJ scratched.
Onto the stage matched this… eh… can I say
beautiful? That is in the eyes of the
beholder and most beholders expressed that adjective, so let me go ahead and
say beautiful lady. Now, catch your
breadth – as she walks up the three steps to the stage, we see her in this
petite white dress, with a thin red belt strap.
The dress is maybe 30cm above the knees?
Let me just say it is short and she has stockings alright.
“Now, give the cake to your friends. Where are you friends,” the DJ asked.
A deafening yell came from just underneath the
stage, as a small crowd of say ten similarly dressed ladies and a few other
gents waved and jumped.
“Chiki chiki
chiki chi,” the DJ scratched.
Now, was this the show?, because when she finally
‘bent over’ to give the cake to the group that had yelled a few moments ago, we
got to have a view of what was awaiting… there was nothing! Nothing I tell you. There was nothing under there!! Hakuna
kitu! Zero! Zilch!
There was nothing I tell you. So
we were here to see nothing that she had not put on!? There was varied reaction all around. Mostly, shouts of approval and whistles.
“Fundamentals!,” someone shouted!
“That is better than the cake,” someone else
shouted.
“We want more!,” I could hear. Am not sure more of what – the cake? What else.
We were having less, not more – shupid!
Stage-managed
Having been a runner for long, I can smell a stage-managed
event 42km away… and this whole event was stage managed. It was generally a bend-over theme disguised
into a birthday BS. Otherwise, how do
you explain this… We had a promotion of one of the top vodka brands where they
said that the offer price was 1500/= for a 750ml bottle from the usual price
which was usually double (that is what they said, I cannot vouch for these
prices – am a runner, not a marketer).
They parade these four dames on the stage, each with a bottle, then they
ask them to do a fashion show with their products. Their skirts are so small and tight that you
can feel the pain in your own body as they walk about.
Another reason why this was choreographed – when
they asked the birthday-gal girls to join her on stage, didn’t they put on some
music and ask them to dance one at a time in a competition-like style to pick a
winner? During this ‘competition’,
didn’t each of them do a deliberate bend over?
Didn’t one of them actually bend over only to ‘realize’ that her
stockings were torn on the bottoms?
Surely, is it a coincidence that you ‘realize’, unapologetically, that you
have gone to a party (birthday party) with torn stockings, and short dress! Any lift of the dress should result to stockings, and if they are torn, then there is no short dress and no stocking - so what do you remain with? Even if it was so, that the stockings ‘accidentally’ got torn, wouldn’t you remove them
before hitting the stage? (But that would probably be a bad idea, since it would
make the situation worse or better depending on your side of the divide)
When the dust settled, there was no pool show, and
we can only leave it to the imagination since it did not happen by two when we
left. However, by then, almost everyone
had been bent over or had bent someone over.
None on my table had had the privilege and opportunity of either, but
maybe my very own were too shy to try something that they might have had some
reaction to. For instance, what would
happen if they actually liked the dance move!
Part 2
My Colleague Charles and I finally remained behind
as the other six were chauffeured back to the hotel to sleep ready for an early
morning trip back to the city by bus.
The reason why the two of us remained was to enable us speak to the Hotel
manager, who had promised to make up for the missed breakfast.
“Wacha twende
Nyali tukanzungumze huko,” he said, as he ushered us out of Lambada onto
his car.
“Huko angalau
tutaongea. Hapa watato shule chungu
nzima bana.”
After about twenty minutes of drive, where I even
remember passing past our hotel, we landed at Nyali Nakumatt. For a moment I thought that we were going
shopping, but at this wee hour? Maybe,
maybe not.
“I see no parking,” Rob told us the obvious. “Let me just try in front of the building”,
he added.
At the front he tried squeezing the small car at a
loading zone, but the security guardress chased him away, “Mbona wa rivasi hapa? Nakukataza husikii, mpaka umenikanyaga?,” the lady had asked, to which the
driver just ignored, readjusted the car without much success and finally decided
to drive off the face of the sentry.
Disgust on both their faces.
“Ati
nimemkanyanga! Angekuwa ameanguka ana
chukuliwa na Ambulensi,” he fumed.
After parking, we found the shopping paradise transformed
into a different night life. There were
about four joints, Rob told us. Being
from the hospitality industry, we believed him.
You make a pick depending on your style and the crowd you mingle
with. For now, we were going to an adult
crowd, unlike the rowdy youth, he told us.
We were in another joint, where he was welcomed in
earnest. They surely knew him. At his seating place, a high stool for that
matter, a mamasita bent over on him almost immediately. I was sandwiched between him and my colleague
Charles. I knew that if this trend was
to continue, then I would be bent over in no time.
I had already seen Rob’s three damsels eyeing my direction with
interest, though I had pretended not to notice being noticed. Their whispering and body language suggested
that they were planning a move, though the music was so loud to hear their
chatter. Being pulled out in the guise
of visiting the Gents, only to realize that we are leaving saved the day. This Charles guy is a genius in arranging such
sneak-ins and sneak-outs. We would not
have left there any other way, if we had allowed our host to have his way. He was ready to ‘make it up’ and… nothing
happens by chance, all these Snapp sipping gals were part of the big scheme of
things.
Morning
We took a matatu,
yes, a matatu at this time of the
night, being just about 4.30am, and we were dropped back at the hotel
entrance. I later learnt that this particular
road has already embraced the illusional 24-hour economy and the matatus operated both day and night
shifts. I went straight to bed and set
the alarm for Sunday 9.45am. I was not
risking this breakfast thing again. I
also asked Charles to inform the others not to disturb my sleep. I knew that most colleagues would be leaving
the hotel by 8.00am, ready for their 9.00 o’clock bus, and they would be
tempted to say their goodbyes, hence the warning. I had arranged to travel by the evening bus,
because I knew that I was likely to be too tired on a Sunday morning. History has a way of indicating that Saturday
nights are usually long and the Sunday after should therefore be spared for
sleeping to late.
Either the alarm did not go off, or I did not hear
it, since I woke up with a start just five minutes to ten, for an alarm set for
9.45am. I was almost in a similar
surprise, when I reported to the dining hall at exactly ten, only to find that
they were just about to start wrapping it up.
At least I got breakfast for the first time at this establishment. As I later, about two, walked into the giant swimming pool after
checking out and even escorting two of my colleagues to catch their flight
back, I kept wondering of the events of the previous night. My thoughts were disturbed momentarily, since
infront of me, on the 1m level water, was this couple with their mouths glued
to each other continuously and alternatingly.
I have nothing against mouths, but I have something against public
exhibitionism. This was a public pool
frequented by all manner and ages of Kenyans.
Couldn’t my dear Kenyans, in good health, in their past teens (I guess)
just do this elsewhere? Maybe am too
analogue – no wonder I was not bent over (and vice versa)!
Barack Wamkaya Wanjawa, Mombasa Kenya, November
17, 2014
