"Africa: Haleluya "
I left from LAX on June 1st, complete with travel wallet, Lonely Planet Guide, $2000 in AmEx travelers checks, cargo pants, hiking boots, daypack, sixty pound duffel, and a recently shaved head. I flew with a slew of similarly clad adventurers to London to meet my new travel partner Meredith for our long 8.5-hour trip to Nairobi.
Our first trip to Africa.
Going to Africa was the most exciting vacation I had ever embarked upon. I had been dreaming of Africa for nearly six years. I forget where I first got the idea. It was all part of this itchy, irritating sensation caused by a combination of early 90's GenX angst, collegiate wanderlust and a sense of wasted youth I experienced after graduating from NAU. It took a few attempts, a few victories, a few coincidences, and a few years, but I finally made it happen. I was going to Africa.
Despite the impact of the Discovery Channel, National Geographic, and the Internet, Africa maintains an image of mystery and danger. It's remote. It's dirty. It's dangerous. Images of Somalia, Ethiopia, Ebola, apartheid, and Ide Amin fill my head. They have wars and poverty. Famine and disease. Jungles and deserts. It smells of diesel exhaust, cooking food, dust and body odor. Hell, lions just walk around outside. Lions for crissake.
Africa seemed as distant as Mars.
In many ways, it is.
We flew British Airways into Nairobi. Other than a few nebulous goals and expectations, Meredith and I had no formalized plans after our arrival. We knew no one in Africa and had no reservations with any hotel, tour agency or guide service. We only knew what we wanted to accomplish in our 25-day stay. We were going to climb Kilimanjaro. We wanted to safari in Ngorongoro Crater and Serengeti National Park. After that, it was all up in the air.
Meredith and I had decided to climb Kili first. We planned to get it out of the way since it would be the most strenuous activity on our vacation, and we wanted the best shot at success. We wanted to be fresh.
However, Kilimanjaro is located in Tanzania, about four hours from Nairobi via shuttle bus. In order to climb Kili, we had to make our way from Nairobi to either Arusha or Moshi. Our Lonely Planet guide recommended several shuttle options for this, but we didn't know where in the airport to make these reservations or buy these tickets. We didn't know when the busses left or where they left from. And we didn't know where we were going once we got there.
Sure, we had done lots of preparation. We had spent hours on line reading every travel story we could about Africa. I talked up all my friends who had done the trip before, and we both knew the Lonely Planet Guide cover to cover.
But it's little comfort as you watch the little animated airplane on the flight's personal entertainment system crossing the Mediterranean and into Africa. Lonely Planet doesn't ease the culture shock when you see the flat-topped Acacia trees of the Serengeti, famous from a hundred National Geographic Specials, from the window of the rapidly descending 747.
I think it was at that moment, when I first saw those Acacia trees that I said to myself, "F@$#, I'm in Africa."
So two calendar days, 15,000 miles, and nearly 20 hours of airtime later, we stepped off that 747, simultaneously excited and exhausted, smiling and sweating, bloodshot and bug-eyed, naive and nervous.
And they certainly see you coming. The minute you step off the plane a gauntlet of cabbies, touts, tour guides, pickpockets, porters, hustlers and salesmen are waiting for you. They wait at the arrival gate of every international flight for every overwhelmed travel-weary tourist.
My friend Athina likened it to being a celebrity. Everybody wants your attention and everybody wants something from you. Everybody is ready to extract a few dollars. Sometimes more than a few.
I'd never experienced that much attention.
We really had no plans on using a guide acquired at the airport but within seconds, four African men had our bags and were moving us upstairs to the office for the Davanu Shuttle busses. Davanu is a popular company that runs tourists from Nairobi into Tanzania. Fifteen minutes and sixty dollars later, we had our tickets to Tanzania.
The shuttle bus didn't leave for several hours, so we suddenly found ourselves whisked into downtown Nairobi by our new friends. The leader and cab driver was an almost absurdly friendly African man in his early thirties who smiled uncontrollably and ended every sentence with "Halleluya".
"Where are you from, Halleluya?" "First time to Africa, Halleluya?" "Hakuna Matata, Halleluya." "Welcome to Africa, my name is Johnny Halleluya."
"No shit?"
"Halleluya."
Johnny Halleluya's cab conveniently dropped us off at the office of "Come to Africa Safaris", where we were immersed into an hour long hard sales pitch for their tour operation. Peter, our new salesman conveniently offered a tour to Kilimanjaro and was more than willing to give us a very good price. Thankfully, Meredith and I had regained some of our composure and were not quite the suckers he anticipated. And as tenacious and efficient as they are, they lacked the sophistication of their American counterparts in the art of negotiation.
In the end, we did in fact book a tour with Come to Africa. The price they offered was about $100 less than the other operations we had researched, and they did receive a favorable review in our Lonely Planet Guide. So we figured, why not? If anything, it saves us from going through this again in Tanzania.
It was only later that we discovered that Come to Africa merely subcontracted the tour to AAH Tours and Safaris in Tanzania, and although we got a good price, we could have saved a about $100 dollars had we booked the trip in Tanzania.
Peter wanted us to book a safari with him too. We thanked him politely and were soon on our way to explore Nairobi before our shuttle into Tanzania.
Of course, Johnny Halleluya intercepted us outside the office and informed us that the tour did not include the cost of the cab ride.
"How much", I asked.
"$20 dollars."
Halleluya.
But it's not just the touts you need to watch for in Nairobi. The minute you step into the street, a dozen other agents will find you, as do all the kids selling watches, sodas, trinkets, and other tourist crap.
And you have to keep a keen eye out for the muggers. Nairobi has an unfortunate reputation for robbery. Its nickname is Nairobery. One of our fellow travelers on the Davanu shuttle had her necklace ripped from her neck after being in Nairobi only a few hours.
All this kind of sours you to an otherwise attractive and modern city and friendly people. I didn't meet many travelers with feelings for Nairobi.
You get the impression in Nairobi that if you won't spend it, they just might take it. This includes the Kenyan government. If you plan to go to Kenya for any reason at all, just remember these two simple words: "One month."
When you arrive at Kenyan immigration, they are going to ask you how long you plan to stay in Kenya. Meredith responded, "one month". As did most of the other people in line. They were subsequently moved right through the line with a nod and a stamp and all stood waiting to see how much of their baggage made it across the Mediterranean.
Now, I pride myself on being honest, perhaps to a fault, so when asked how long I intended to stay in Kenya, I replied, "I don't know".
Wrong answer. He asks again, this time with irritation, "how long are you staying in Kenya?". So I explained to the nice third world bureaucrat that I was traveling to Tanzania and would soon be back in Kenya.
I was immediately shuffled into a new line, visions of strip searches and East African prison rape flashing in my head.
Apparently, because I was passing through Kenya to Tanzania, I needed to purchase a "transit visa". Conveniently this costs $20 US dollars. Payable in cash only. After I completed some paperwork that would eventually wipe the ass of some impoverished man living in a Kenyan landfill, a crisp new Jackson was extracted from my nifty travel wallet and placed in a wooden drawer filled with other crisp $20 bills. At this point three additional bureaucrats signed, stamped and checked my passport, and I was allowed to enter the elusive baggage room were Meredith was pacing, wondering what happened to her new friend and travel partner who only moments ago was standing right behind her.
Honesty cost me $20.
But my duffel arrived intact, so I really couldn't complain. Until I returned 25 days later and found that my travel visa had expired, and I required another one.
And they required another $20.
Halleluya. Welcome to Kenya.
