Marafa to Magarini with Hell's Kitchen in Between

Having a dedicated and trusted driver is an asset in Malindi. I’ve seen a number of posts recommending it, although of course (bila shaka) it costs. As we found out when we asked ours to take us to Marafa from the PolePole Beach resort. Famous for the nearby ‘depression’ (does that sound appealing?) also known as Hell’s Kitchen there is a stream of tuk-tuks and cars making their way out most evenings to catch the sunset over the vast and startling landscape that has become an enigmatic attraction there. We, however, were spending some nights in a local guest house before heading to the Magarini farm and school site. Our driver brought us right to the door, literally, collecting his payment that must have made up for the extra driving he’d had to do previously. It all works out eventually.
Watching our daily entry and exit  from the guest house in Marafa, a family of brightly dressed children called out ‘Ciao!’ to which we replied ‘Jambo’.  Which brought forth a chorus of Jambos and laughter almost every-time. All attempts to speak Swahili were greeted with smiles of appreciation and often a welcoming Karibu.
Stepping out into the ‘street’ and I use that term loosely, we took a short walk down the main drag checking out the possibilities in Marafa. From one end to the other it  takes all of 5 minutes. Another 5 minutes out of the village to the bar at Hell’s Kitchen, where in spite of the large lettering declaring Italian cuisine, there is, unfortunately, none available. In fact getting a meal in Marafa is a bit of challenge. Generously our hosts invited us for dinner where, surrounded by her flock of ducks, Jescar and her daughters pulled together many evening meals by the light of solar lamps and the rising moon. We had breakfast daily at the New Shalom cafe (not yet on TripAdvisor) and afternoon beers at a couple of  fairly anonymous establishments.
After breakfast we climbed onto  pikipiki/bodaboda/ motorcycles and out to Magarini Childrens Centre. As I’m rather large I had one to myself while Elke rode with Emmanuel. In the first days we set up the Safari tent and met the onsite staff. When our volunteer AJ was scheduled to arrive we took the minibus/daladala back to Malindi, and purchased supplies: mattresses, cookware, gas bottle and stove. AJ attempted to arrange sim card for his phone (bring an unlocked phone!). Transort arranged and we were delivered with all our purchases directly to the school and then on to to Marafa for the night.
Once the second tent was set up the following day we celebrated by stopping at Hell’s Kitchen and doing the tour through the quite impressive terrain. Winding down the trail into this ‘depression”  some local children were doing flips and acrobatic moves on the sandy floor. Superlatives don’t begin to describe the place. Erosion at it’s most colourful, not a place to be in a downpour though! Climbing around outcrops, standing in mini canyons and under overhangs and mushroom shaped hoodoos,  twisting back and forth takes about an hour. Then a climb up and out and along the rim where the more inaccessible portion (with occasional visits from troops of baboons) is visible. Pictures barely touch the majesty of it, but here are a few.

Beachtime!

From Nairobi“Take the train” they said, it’s scenic, new and comfortable, along with sold out and unavailable as we soon determined. Including the scalpers at the tour companies. The next best choices were a long bus ride to Mombassa along a highway famous for it’s fatalities, then overnight in a hotel before another 6 hour bus north to Malindi or overnight for 9 hours (read 11 or 12) direct. After a few moments of thought we chose to fly.
2 years previous we had stayed in a lovely Italian owned ‘hotel. More like furnished apartments, it is close to the beach, a few nice restaurants and in case anyone’s interested, Vasco de Gama’s self erected monument. This time though, we  decided to treat ourselves to beach house resort style accommodation. A little ways south out of Malindi is Watamu beach; white sand, a reef offshore keeping the surf away from the beach and the (mostly) Italian tourists.
Our driver, prearranged to pick us up, assured us he knew exactly where we were going. Unfortunately he was mistaken, as the Pole Pole restaurant was not the Pole Pole Beach house. Pole pole means slowly, slowly and is also an expression of sympathy, singularly (pronounced poe lay). We were moving pole pole after leaving the tarmac, picking our way over coral outcrops and avoiding holes. Our eventual destination was apparently not well known.  After driving both ways twice, we arrived, in the dark, to a welcome reception. Dida the Ethiopian cook even provided us with a small bit of food and drink before we installed our bags in our room. Once that was accomplished, Ken from reception walked us through and around the building then down to the beach, past the pool, shared by the three other facilities on the property. Idyllic? Coral sand with crushed shells, an almost full moon, surf rolling in the distance, Swahili architecture, furniture and ambiance. Breakfast included. Paradise and posh for the same price as the hotel in Nairobi.
After  breakfast in the morning we walked the beach.  Flat whitish sand stretching almost to the reef with the low tide stretching to the horizon  left and right. The ocean a number of shades of blue and green with warm sun and a constant gentle (mostly) breeze off the water. Higher up in front of the resorts the seaweed being raked away from the tourist path gave me a chuckle, definitely a daily make work project.
Walking north we stopped at the great outcrops of ancient and dead coral sharp as razors with bits of the flotsam and jetsum hanging off the edges. Much of the plastic tidal deposits are also being raked away out of sight of the tourists.We sat quietly on the beach enjoying the temperature and the view...

However our reverie was soon interupted by a insistent stream of rasta boys hustling. These young men are fluent in Italian (English German and..?). The parade of bikini’s accompanied by these fellows is a sight to behold, often chaperoned by husbands, boyfriends and occasionally children. and we witnessed the un -endearing habit of these well meaning (I imagine)  foreign adults handing out sweets to the local children. Which explains the constant greeetings of "Caio' where ever we went. Our hotel security kept the rasta boys and children off the property, but they'd be hanging close by waiting for the next 'best friend" to provide a reason to guide someone into an opportunity to hand over cash. When informed we had none 'amna'  they generally left us alone.
 I  wanted to swim in the Indian ocean but the constant wind and timing of high tide full of seaweed encouraged me to use the pool, which was filled with salt water, so technically, I did swim in it…Then I lay in the sun and collected a very good sunburn. Who knew my overhanging belly would make stripes?  As we lay there Elke and I spoke about personal value, the old messages about what we deserve, what we allow, what brings up guilt. There is a big piece of entitlement and privilege or the lack of it enmeshed here. Equality, assumptions and access.
On our last night we ate an exquisite meal at a nearby hotel resort on their dining patio, outside but covered by the high thatch roof. Romance is how we make it.