08 June 1979

Editor’s Note: The nature of the world is in change. This item first appeared in the Socotra Daily in the summer of 1979 in a place called “Kenya.” What will the powers do next on the world stage? A doctor’s appointment looms here in the Piedmont. Why I accepted a commitment to be somewhere at 0830 seems wildly improbable with the temperature reading “6” degrees under clear chill skies. We thought some thoughts from a young fellow on a place and event 44 years ago might be relevant. It fills the “M” in the Alphabet Cities block. A nice place, far away. Or the “N” block. See what you think…

– Vic
Mombasa, Kenya
Nyali Beach

We lurch away from the Fleet Landing and the crowds get thicker as the people smell American dollars coming. We smell burning clutch as our driver hangs on the tail of a recalcitrant cement truck. Claustrophobia begins to rise as the fumes penetrate the passenger compartment. When it nearing the unendurable, the truck lurches forward and we pop up over the hill. With grinding gears we pass the mixer in motorized elan, and roar with air-cooled power down the main drag of Mombasa. Giant crossed elephant tusks greet us. The buildings are two-story. They have long porches, and need paint. Most date from the thirties. It’s overgrown and colonial and sleepy. The curbs are painted in zebra stripes. It’s great. The verdant growth seems a step ahead of things, but no one seems to care a great deal. The grass always grows back, doesn’t it? The driver pulls back on the stick and we do a few barrel rolls through the rotaries.

We hit the built-up section of town and drop off a passenger, a sailor who is home to a place he has never been before. I marvel at what he will feel. People walk under the long verandas, small shops open to the air. Black women in white Muslim garb and veils, for it was the Omanis who ruled this coast before the Brits. Most of the signs are in English, but a Muslim influence is clear. More detritus of Empire. Pakistanis in turbans. Bright print skirts. Big new Mercedes. The cars don’t go with the supporting scenery. The quaint old buildings jar with a new 450SL parked outside. Which is not to say that everyone owned one; but rather that those who could own a car owned an expensive one. The division of wealth appears precarious here.

We engage in another duel with the cement truck and come up victorious. Luckily so. In a mile or so we are at the Nyali Bridge, the one time pride and current abomination of Mombasa. In structure the thing resembles one of the old bridges in West Virginia; silver painted steel girders and end-to-end plank paving. Here they built with the tide in mind, so the center span rises and falls on pontoons to the ceaseless rhythm of the ocean. Sometimes there is plenty of room to drive below the overhead stanchions. Sometimes there is not. The buses with their metal luggage racks wouldn’t fit at high tide. The urban transportation system has a squashed look to it.

No sweat on this transit. Our driver hands a few shillings to the toll collector and off we roll. Once on the other side of the estuary we really fly, honking wildly. The pedestrians don’t even flinch.

We exit the developed area in a hurry and come into a district of fine new homes. We scream past Jomo Kenyatta Boulevard and break hard into a ninety-degree bend. Four-wheel drift all the way, a near side-swipe, and over the palm trees we see the signs of for Nyalli Beach Hotel. A last jog into the hotel grounds and we came to the guard shack with a long cross bar across the road. The bored guard swats a fly and hoists it up. We arrive in state under the white portico. Bellhops wait eagerly for our luggage, but we are a disappointment. I am wearing my lime seersucker Foreign Correspondent suit, on the assumption that the guy in the suit will get thrown out of the bar last. My bag contains a tooth-brush and a pair of socks, cut-offs, and a tee-shirt. I’m ready for action, danger or excitement. But above all I am ready for a drink.

Well, cold beers are first. Tusker lagers in green bottles. Tusker Ale in brown bottles. Served with chicken broiled on kabob hanging from a hook over a black carved plate with rice and salad. The food is fabulous, but after a month the alcohol is supreme. I shift to gin and tonics at the pool. It is a swell set up. The pool Olympic, the sun tropical, the palms dancing above in the monsoon wind. Over the wall is a lawn with white lounge chairs scattered around. Several have bronzed European women in bikinis draped over them. The scenery is inspiring. One particular lady (Spanish, by consensus) was obviously part of a conspiracy to drive the Airwing mad. She wears a black John Player string bikini, high heels that set her delicious buns up, and mysterious sunglasses. Behind her, if one can able to break target acquisition lock, is a brilliant white sand beach, blue water, and that freighter on the reef. Picturesque? We couldn’t imagine the amount of money it took to have that ship scuttled so it was perfectly framed by the palms.

Quite the hotel. A little path runs from the pool down through the thicket of lounge chairs to a beach front restaurant. It is open to the breeze, but dark and elegant inside. Well laid out. It even has Marxists. We stroll down to the beach and see a party of stocky individuals drinking beer and soaking up rays. I was wearing my cut-offs and an industrial strength bhat chain from Thailand. As American as the day is long. I felt instant lock-up. One of the Russians raised his glass and uses his English. “Cheers!” he said. “Das Foudanya!” I respond and tip my drink to them. Real intercultural communication. It is evident that they are the officers of one of one of the Soviet trawlers out in the harbor. Their job is to follow us around at sea and provide target information if they must kill us.

They know where we are tonight.

Freedom, even in the military, is a more valuable commodity than you would think. When the Russians pull into port the enlisted guys get to go ashore with a political officer. No vodka or sex for the troops. It would be enough to drive an American bonkers. When we are ashore, the sky is virtually the limit. And thank God.

When we hit the beach I began to realize why the hotel has guards at the gate. They have them on the hotel beach, too. From the prices, it is hard to believe that the annual income here averages a couple hundred dollars. The tourist is insulated from the reality. We stroll out of the private area and within seconds we are surrounded by enterprising vendors. They have the same curios as every other place in the country. At astonishing markups. The only evident difference is that these guys are also selling reefer.

We return to the safe enclave of the pool and watch the Spanish lady walk around. Best show in over a month. Frank is looking at the carved ebony elephant he has purchased. I am looking at the four gin and tonics I bought. Finally the lady slips on a black robe and the show is over. We adjourn to the balcony of Broncos room and watch a spectacular sunset. The only thing unusual about it is that the sun is sinking at our backs. Bronco marvels at it, because as a Californian, it is 180 degrees out of phase. I explained to him about the “Green Berets” scene when John Wayne walked down the beach in Vietnam and the sun was sinking in the ocean to the West. All depends on how you look at things, particularly in Hollywood. This evening the clouds turn pink, the wreck lights up, the sky is the deepest lapis lazuli, and a full moon presides upon the event. The clouds are swirled by the wind into fantastic shapes. When it got dark it is time to don my suit, have more cocktails, and head down to the beach for dinner. The breeze is cool and the rustling palms do not sound at all like catapults or arresting gear.

There was no moon and it was very dark. Sitting at our table, we surf was a roaring presence and the breeze blew briskly through the open windows. We watched the crabs which had taken charge of the beach when the people left. And it was not just the crabs that came out after dark. We were warned not to stray into the darkness, but there can be peril there No one talks about it very much. Uhuru is great, but the bloody slice of history when the Mau-Mau’s ruled and the colonial age died in East Africa has been neatly excised, at least for tourist consumption.

But even the tourist trade has changed. No trophy hunting. In fact, no hunting at all. I had naively assumed I could get a skin of some kind, perhaps a nice zebra for the wall back home, but it was not to be. Maybe a good thing. I have always felt that most animals were happier on the hoof. Spears and a nice shield seemed like the ideal Kenyan souvenirs. But spears are banned. I guess the ship doesn’t want the crew bringing back a few thousand lethal weapons with them.

The hotel was abuzz, and not just with Tusker Lager. There was talk that students had taken American hostages in Teheran. It seemed likely that we will not be headed to Australia next, but back north to strike Iran.

Still, the cocktails are good with dinner, as are all varieties of the house wines. The crabs put on a real show, scuttling after treasures left behind in the day. We chase them for a while after dinner, and are not attacked by Mau-Maus. Or anyone else. Not that night, anyway.

Copyright 2001 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com