First Impressions of Mombasa

We leave Nairobi in the dark to catch a 6 am flight to Mombasa. As we come down through the cloud the sun is shining and the captain talks about seeing Mt Kilimanjaro, but the row I am in has no window.
We’re met by another cowboy driver who takes us into Mombasa itself. David says he feels as though he is in India – the Eastern architecture and even a cow in the road. We go straight to the Aga Khan Foundation headquarters but the planned rural school trips are cancelled as the teachers are on strike, so we have a strategy planning meeting and then the afternoon is free.

The teachers’ strike is for better conditions as well as pay and it seems that the public is behind them. The unions want to regularise contract teachers’ positions and get extra teachers into state schools – agreed to originally by the government but now the agreement has been reneged on. Atresh at the Foundation explains that politicians were, for the first time, going to have to pay taxes on their earnings, and had woken up to the fact that this would mean less money in their pockets. So they have siphoned money off from all sorts of places, including the money set aside for education, so that they will still have the same take-home pay. I’m not sure whether this was in the form of bigger salaries or how it has been worked out, but in effect, they are using tax payers money to pay their taxes. Or, as David says, they are stealing directly from the children. On TV, there are visuals of children teaching each other, while other children hang around outside their locked schools.

Atresh says several of the teachers on the project were willing to be at school so we could visit them, but he is not prepared to put them in any danger, as the situation is volatile. We plan the 7 days of the workshop in principle, before we set off back to the hotel.

Along the way, we are taken to Biashara street – a narrow, winding area of shops and stalls, selling almost anything, Rukaya takes us into an “emporium” where we are able to buy some kikoyis – I chose some for cloths for Sarah, Nic and me. If we ever lived in the same city, we could have a party with matching cloths! I feel quite vulnerable in the street as I have my big bag with me, and stay close to our driver. A man stops me and asks if I want to buy spices. He has a stall at a nearby market. I do, but we don’t have time today. He asks when I will come and persists when I say I don’t know. Eventually, our driver tells him to go away. Then we drive to the other side of the city to a shop a bit like the Warehouse in NZ to look for some china markers. (Which we don’t find). We see some very tall men and women selling basketware – woven sieves and mats and stools. I would like to buy some but don’t know where I will put it all.

Everywhere there is traffic – tuk-tuks zip in and out of the traffic, people and motor bikes spread into the path of cars, matatus (kombis) weave in and out, despite their length, people pulling handcarts carrying water in huge plastic containers, bananas, and all sorts of other wares dice with death as they try to shoulder bigger and heavier vehicles out of the way.

We pass stalls selling grains and legumes – huge 100kg bags standing side by side, with their tops open to display beans, lentils, soya, maize and other seeds I can’t identify. There are many stalls selling charcoal burners and others using the burners to cook food which is sold on the street. The smells are exotic – an olfactory experience I don’t mind experiencing – hot oil from fried samosas and other exotic looking titbits, fruit and veggies, fresh coconuts and pineapples, cut and ready to eat. I love the hardware stalls, selling pots from tiny to gigantic, ladles of all descriptions, lamps and other implements I can’t identify. There are leather shops which carry stocks of thousands – we plan to go back and have a look at what is available. Then there is the usual “stuff” sold by hawkers – t-shirts and plastic shoes and bags, cheap toys and jewellery and CDs and DVDs whose provenance I sincerely doubt.

Mombasa is very much a Muslim city with mosques and women wearing black dresses and head-dresses. Some wear kikoyis over their black dresses. We also see some people wearing kikoyis and kangas, but most people are dressed in Western dress, and many of the men are smartly dressed in black suits despite the heat.

I check with the concierge whether it is safe for me to walk alone in the area, and I set off down Haille Salassie Rd towards Aga Khan Road. People ignore me or smile and a few say “Jambo” as I go past. I walk past a temple and a mosque – it reminds me of Northdale where the two can be cheek by jowl. There is a park where people sit, relaxed, enjoying the relative cool of the evening after the work day is finished. At the end of the park are 4 gigantic “tusks” which span the road. I walk past shops of all sorts – many automotive spares shops and books shops, shops selling airtime, clothes shops and bars and food shops. I see the Scripture Union bookshop but press on back to Haille Salassie Street to find the hotel.

All around are bouganvilleas – cerise, red, orange, white – against the glossy green leaves. It is a tropical city, and the plants are tropical, too.

A visit to the gym on the top floor gives me a glimpse of the sea in the distance – but only if I stand on the tallest treadmill. Dinner on the pool deck in the cool of the evening, to the sound of the muezzuins is delicious – snapper in a coconut milk sauce with naan bread and spinach. Washed down with a Tuskers beer. It just feels right.

The whole day is a rich experience, and for a moment, I wish I were a tourist and Pete and I could wander through these streets looking, absorbing and buying. But the work starts tomorrow – 30 teachers and organisers, ready to learn how to take Reading to Learn into the next phase. If the strikes end before we leave we will be taken to see the rural schools, but we will meet and talk to teachers anyway.

As the evening cools down and the mosques fall silent, it’s time to sleep in my air-conditioned room – with windows tight shut against the noise of the unrelenting traffic.