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.

Nomadic lifestyle of the poor and obscure

I have the  privilege of the ability to travel almost anywhere in the world (repressive regimes and scary violent places notwithstanding).

 My meager pension, hardly enough to survive on in Canada, allows me to live a very rich life here, full of relationship, engagement and contribution.
How is this possible?

As a young man I experienced life as long and challenging. Like many others I struggled through periods of angst and frustration.  There were times I felt isolated, misunderstood and without purpose. “What will I be when I grow up?” and “What is the meaning of (this) life?”.
 My forays into National Geographic, my reading had me question the sedentary life and romanticize the nomadic.
 I spent my youth in the city flanked by the ocean to the west, the Fraser river to the south and the coast mountains looming to the north. There were many opportunities to explore the edges of an amazing, breathtakingly rich and varied environment.
For me though, the city itself was overstimulating, raw, dirty and quite unappealing.  As soon as I was able I crossed the Strait and settled on the Island where I spent most of my adult life, anchored firmly to the land, a shangri la in a country of vast landscapes, beaches, wilderness and fecund farm land.
Why go anywhere else? it was all there, fertile soil, a temperate climate and comfortable lifestyle filled with opportunities for recreation, discourse and discussion with like minded.
  I helped raise  family, grew food, took a job, volunteered in a men’s centre and worked on creating community.
I thought I would never leave.
Often I imagined travelling with my young family to Mexico, across Canada, into the states, but the family grew up and moved on to their own journeys. We  managed a few forays; east, north and south and made an annual pilgrimage to a special beach on the west coast for a number of years.
 At one point, I declared that the Island was big enough  that I could reasonably expect to continually explore it, yet not see it all in my lifetime.
What I realize now was that I was scared. My brief excursion to visit Machu Pichu when I was 21 had threatened my equilibrium. How could I visit or explore another country when I didn’t know what my own looked like? Not to mention being unable to speak the language!
It was easy to make excuses and trap myself in an assumption or a cage of my own making.

The winter of 2010 was the clincher,  heavy snow, a basement suite and a mixed up relationship brought my deepest desires to the surface. I applied for a leave and made the arrangements to finally visit New Zealand.
That broke the pattern. I began to explore the possibility of living in community and  began courting an exceptional woman.

We spent the summer camping , travelling here and there, out to the west coast  and into Arizona.



 In the fall she returned to a project in Tanzania.  When she came back, I went off to spend 3 months exploring New Zealand on my own, and started blogging.
The following year I retired. We  tied up loose ends, discarded or gave away much of our stuff and packed the last of our possessions into storage.



 It was the beginning of a new path for me.




We started by walking the Camino in Spain.  Our agenda, day by day, was to put one foot in front of another, which brought our consciousness truly into the moment.





 That was a few years ago, and I’m finally grown up,  constantly evolving and maturing everyday. I’m volunteering, in service to the greater good, supporting  the creation of community and self empowerment through educating, building with natural materials and intelligent ongoing discourse.
This is a compelling purposeful lifestyle, albeit nomadic and possibly temporary. But that is what is so powerful about it,  it is challenging, stimulating and rewarding. I’ve never been more satisfied or content.