Monday, 2 November 2009
A soggy Tanzanian welcome
Our new driver is an English guy named Tim. We also have a new truck with Dipsy the Teletubbie as our mascot. We were warned that the ride on the Tanzanian side of the border would be rough as the authorities had dug up 97km of road and had yet to re-lay it. This coupled with torrential rains which appeared out of nowhere as we processed our visas made for the toughest day of driving yet. The new truck is laid out in such a way that everyone sits sideways with two seats facing forwards at the back. The road was so rough that the boys were taking it in turns to sit at the back of the truck where they could be thrown a good foot in the air everytime we hit a particularly deep pothole/crater in the road. Everyone was glad to see the welcome sign for the Snake Park (and yes…it housed an entire collection of snakes and crocs) where we were to spend the night.
A night out in Karen
We arrived back at Karen on the outskirts of Nairobi to drop off Jas and Jenny and to pick up Daniel and Dave. With two nights at the camp it was a good chance to communicate with the outside world, make use of the hot showers to catch up with some much needed ‘personal administration’ and, in true overland spirit, take Henry out to say goodbye and get terribly drunk.
As is frequently the case when you travel abroad, we ended up at an Irish bar/club called the ‘Double Inn’ (see what they did there?). We were fine getting in as it was a local ‘mzungo’ Kenyan hang out but initially they wouldn’t let Henry in because he was a single black male. At this point Jenny demanded to see the manager and quite clearly and categorically explained that the only reason they had an extra 14 mzungos through the door was because of Henry. It was a battle that Jenny won and Henry was finally allowed to join us.
The clientele were mostly white Kenyans who had the air of public school boys (think men with floppy hair and pastel v-neck jumpers slung over the shoulders of a polo shirt or, more unusually, a pink ‘Smurf’ t-shirt!), well-to-do Asians and a handful of well established black Kenyans, most of whom had white girlfriends. It was an odd mix of people and there was a slightly odd vibe…it certainly wasn’t a traditional African night out.
Despite the unusual clientele and the dodgy regulations at the door with regard to skin colour, we had a fantastic night out. Unfortunately, the DJ appeared a little unprepared for people hitting the D-floor until 3am as he ran out of music very early on and resorted to playing the same tracks three or four times each. Nevertheless, it was a great night out and a great send off for Henry.
As is frequently the case when you travel abroad, we ended up at an Irish bar/club called the ‘Double Inn’ (see what they did there?). We were fine getting in as it was a local ‘mzungo’ Kenyan hang out but initially they wouldn’t let Henry in because he was a single black male. At this point Jenny demanded to see the manager and quite clearly and categorically explained that the only reason they had an extra 14 mzungos through the door was because of Henry. It was a battle that Jenny won and Henry was finally allowed to join us.
The clientele were mostly white Kenyans who had the air of public school boys (think men with floppy hair and pastel v-neck jumpers slung over the shoulders of a polo shirt or, more unusually, a pink ‘Smurf’ t-shirt!), well-to-do Asians and a handful of well established black Kenyans, most of whom had white girlfriends. It was an odd mix of people and there was a slightly odd vibe…it certainly wasn’t a traditional African night out.
Despite the unusual clientele and the dodgy regulations at the door with regard to skin colour, we had a fantastic night out. Unfortunately, the DJ appeared a little unprepared for people hitting the D-floor until 3am as he ran out of music very early on and resorted to playing the same tracks three or four times each. Nevertheless, it was a great night out and a great send off for Henry.
Masai mara
The Masai Mara is part national park, park home to the Masai tribespeople who are characterized by their stretched earlobes, blood red shawls, elegant beaded jewellery and traditional weaponry of poison arrows and hyena clubbing stick. As we hobbled over the potholed, dusty road to the gates of the Masai Mara national park gates, we passed traditional masai villages consisting of clusters of circular mud huts with pointed, foliage-covered roofs. Every now and again across the shrubbed plain you’d catch a glimpse of red as a masai tribesman herds his skeletal cattle in search of water and any grass or leaves they could eat. The rains here are nearly a month late and it’s taken its toll – cattle carcusses are strewn everywhere, the rotting stench of putrid flesh greeting our nostrils as we pass by.
At the gates we are all but hijacked by over zealous Masai women desperately trying to sell us jewellery or wooden clubs. Leave a wrist on show and they pin a bracelet to it and demand money; try and give it back and they won’t take it. The only way to escape is to throw said bracelet on the floor and make a run for it. It’s a sad sight to see these warrior tribespeople who have survived successfully in the harshest of terrain for thousands of years lowering themselves to the level of tacky souvenir sellers. Unfortunately, it’s a sight that’s all too common to see with indigenous peoples around the world and is the bitter aftertaste of modern tourism.
We had both an evening and a morning game drive in the Masai Mara national park…and what great game drives they were! Some of highlights we saw were a pride of lions lying bloated and dozy after feasting on a kill (a lion can eat 35kg of meat in a single sitting!), two antelopes battling it out, a dorky looking giraffe, its legs splayed as it drank, wilderbeast fresh from their migration from the Serengeti forming a long black line across the horizon and the rarest and most beautiful sight of all – a leaopard walking in front of the truck and climbing a tree right next to it, barely 5m from us.
Unfortunately, the damage done to the countryside is all too evident as track marksw criss cross the off the official tracks. Guides want their passengers to get the best view and best photos possible which means flounting the rules. Most of them, including Henry, go offroad to get up close to animals. This means that when an animal of interest is seen, it is suddenly hounded by four or five 4x4 trucks competing with each other to get as close as possible.
Henry, along with five other drivers, got fined for going off road to get close to the leopard. The standard fine for going off road is a substantial $1000 which comes straight out of the guide’s pocket. However, this is Africa; a cheeky smile, a quick chat and an offer of a few drinks at the end of the day and Henry got away with a $300 fine which went straight into the rangers’ back pockets. Not a cent of the fine went towards the upkeep and restoration of the national park. With five drivers stopped after one incident, each fined a similar amount, it’s little wonder the rangers looked so happy with themselves!
At the gates we are all but hijacked by over zealous Masai women desperately trying to sell us jewellery or wooden clubs. Leave a wrist on show and they pin a bracelet to it and demand money; try and give it back and they won’t take it. The only way to escape is to throw said bracelet on the floor and make a run for it. It’s a sad sight to see these warrior tribespeople who have survived successfully in the harshest of terrain for thousands of years lowering themselves to the level of tacky souvenir sellers. Unfortunately, it’s a sight that’s all too common to see with indigenous peoples around the world and is the bitter aftertaste of modern tourism.
We had both an evening and a morning game drive in the Masai Mara national park…and what great game drives they were! Some of highlights we saw were a pride of lions lying bloated and dozy after feasting on a kill (a lion can eat 35kg of meat in a single sitting!), two antelopes battling it out, a dorky looking giraffe, its legs splayed as it drank, wilderbeast fresh from their migration from the Serengeti forming a long black line across the horizon and the rarest and most beautiful sight of all – a leaopard walking in front of the truck and climbing a tree right next to it, barely 5m from us.
Unfortunately, the damage done to the countryside is all too evident as track marksw criss cross the off the official tracks. Guides want their passengers to get the best view and best photos possible which means flounting the rules. Most of them, including Henry, go offroad to get up close to animals. This means that when an animal of interest is seen, it is suddenly hounded by four or five 4x4 trucks competing with each other to get as close as possible.
Henry, along with five other drivers, got fined for going off road to get close to the leopard. The standard fine for going off road is a substantial $1000 which comes straight out of the guide’s pocket. However, this is Africa; a cheeky smile, a quick chat and an offer of a few drinks at the end of the day and Henry got away with a $300 fine which went straight into the rangers’ back pockets. Not a cent of the fine went towards the upkeep and restoration of the national park. With five drivers stopped after one incident, each fined a similar amount, it’s little wonder the rangers looked so happy with themselves!
A drink with Henry
Homemade punch was awaiting our return to Fisherman’s Camp from Hell’s Gate. After cycling all day it was a welcome treat! According to Henry it was Kenya’s Independence Day whilst our guide, John, said it was the President’s Day…either way it was an excuse to cook up a storm and drink copious amounts of booze!
I was on the cook team and was on chapatti dough rolling duty whilst Jas was on chapatti cooking duty. My drink in one hand, a rolling pin in the other, I got cracking producing a heap of chapatti to go with the BBQ meat and veg.
After dinner and an entire cool bin worth of punch, we managed to persuade Henry to take us to his local bar. We headed down to the small village along the roughly Tarmaced road, occasionally tripping over a pothole or two in the dark.
The bar was handily located behind the butchers, which, even at 9pm, was still open. (I say ‘handily’ because the butchers sold cooked goats meat which, in Africa, is the equivalent to a 2am kebab)
The bar was small, dark and filled almost entirely with men bar a couple of prostitutes who hung around by the men’s loos. Henry was the centre of attention as he walked in surrounded by 14 ‘mzungos’ aka ‘dollar signs’. Suddenly the prices at the bar jumped. Admittedly, the drinks here were a quarter of the price than back at camp but we were still paying inflated mzungo prices. Someone quite rightly pointed out that it was more than a little unfair that prices were based on skin colour and wondered what would happen – and how many riots would occur – if you did the same in the UK. I guess, given the fact that the whites colonized and enslaved black Africans over hundreds of years, we now get our comeuppance when we re-visit the countries in which we wreaked havoc. Nevertheless, there is something that feels a little morally amiss about it all
A guy named Marcus, a local gin den and a rather large hippo
Marcus was born in Wales, educated in an English boarding school and has worked for the last three years in South Africa…needless to say, his accent is a mess J He is one of those people that anyone who writes aspires to be…he gets paid to write about his travels. In Capetown he was a sports journalist for Sky but after he quit his job to travel from Capetown to Cardiff by public transport alone (no planes!) Sky Travel asked him to write about his experience. Nat met him at Fisherman’s Camp eight months into his travels. He’d had malaria twice, been arrested and almost deported in Malawi for refusing to pay a bribe and had interviewed a local witch doctor. I got chatting to Marcus and Nat and we ended up spending the morning together.
We had the day off to do as we chose but nearly everyone was hungover so the day consisted of sitting by the pool or in the bar area recouperating. Instead, Nat, Marcus and myself decided to pay a visit to the local village to find some local grub to get stuck into. We asked a local market stall holder where a good place was to get food and we were directed to a tiny little hut with a sign saying ‘Mama’s kitchen’ and a fruit stall out front. Inside were three or four plastic tables and chairs, a small counter with a bowl of eggs to one side and a few pastries on show and a hole in the wall that looked into the kitchen. Choosing the food was simple as there was only one real meal on offer – a mixture of vegetables and chickpea stew with a side of chapatti.
Mama was a bubbly character who was very keen for us to try everything she had on offer. We gratefully tucked into a plate of food (which was noticibly smaller than that of the local sat opposite us…I guess mama was hoping we’d ask for seconds) followed by slices of fresh pineapple from her fruit stall. As we ate, cows wandered aimlessly passed the open door and every now and then a small child would pop their head in to smile and giggle at the mzungos. Our meal cost us 100 Kenyan shillings each – less than a £1 for a two-course meal.
Marcus was keen to find out where he could get hold of some local tipple so he asked the two local men eating on the tables across from us. They laughed knowingly when he asked and one of the men offered to take us to find some. Following our newly found guide, we headed back towards Fisherman’s Camp then carried on a little further up. Along the way we managed to pick up a horde of young kids on their way home from school. Marcus entertained them by saying the word for ‘bum’ in Swahili which they all found hysterically funny.
Just beyond Fisherman’s Camp we entered a small homestead that backed onto one of the flower farms. There were a couple of houses, a few goats milling around, a tiny puppy rolling in the dust and a couple of kids playing together. In front of one of the houses was a small wooden shack with a roof made of clear plastic. Our guide ushered us in whereby the chitter chatter of the locals inside fell briefly silent only to be followed by ‘karibu, karibu’ (i.e. welcome, welcome).
The inside of the small shack was lined with wooden benches. In one corner was a ‘bar’ which was literally a small bar of wood with a large plastic vat of some suspiciously clear and ominously toxic liquid. We were ushered in and sat on a bench next to some rather colourful characters who’d obviously been sat there for a fair few hours already. One guy had only a couple of brown teeth left and one of his eyes hung low so that it was almost closed…a visual personification of one being ‘blind drunk’.
Opposite me was a chatty woman in traditional African dress with a baby strapped to her back and a young girl who looked like her daughter sat next to her. Again, she too looked like she frequented the ‘gin den’ a little too often than was good for her health. After the usual ‘What’s your name?’, ‘Where you from?’ pleasantries, Marcus ordered three glasses of the potent beverage. ‘Changa’ as it is known is created from corn fermented with sugar and then distilled. It forms a clear liquid that tastes like gin mixed with gasoline.
That evening, under the watchful eye of a huge hippo grazing at the end of Fisherman’s Camp gardens, Nat, Marcus and I had a Changa drinking session. Mine consisted of a shot glass full whereas the two guys managed to consume the best part of a litre bottleful followed by a hearty helping of 2kg of goat meat…I left them to it!
I was on the cook team and was on chapatti dough rolling duty whilst Jas was on chapatti cooking duty. My drink in one hand, a rolling pin in the other, I got cracking producing a heap of chapatti to go with the BBQ meat and veg.
After dinner and an entire cool bin worth of punch, we managed to persuade Henry to take us to his local bar. We headed down to the small village along the roughly Tarmaced road, occasionally tripping over a pothole or two in the dark.
The bar was handily located behind the butchers, which, even at 9pm, was still open. (I say ‘handily’ because the butchers sold cooked goats meat which, in Africa, is the equivalent to a 2am kebab)
The bar was small, dark and filled almost entirely with men bar a couple of prostitutes who hung around by the men’s loos. Henry was the centre of attention as he walked in surrounded by 14 ‘mzungos’ aka ‘dollar signs’. Suddenly the prices at the bar jumped. Admittedly, the drinks here were a quarter of the price than back at camp but we were still paying inflated mzungo prices. Someone quite rightly pointed out that it was more than a little unfair that prices were based on skin colour and wondered what would happen – and how many riots would occur – if you did the same in the UK. I guess, given the fact that the whites colonized and enslaved black Africans over hundreds of years, we now get our comeuppance when we re-visit the countries in which we wreaked havoc. Nevertheless, there is something that feels a little morally amiss about it all
A guy named Marcus, a local gin den and a rather large hippo
Marcus was born in Wales, educated in an English boarding school and has worked for the last three years in South Africa…needless to say, his accent is a mess J He is one of those people that anyone who writes aspires to be…he gets paid to write about his travels. In Capetown he was a sports journalist for Sky but after he quit his job to travel from Capetown to Cardiff by public transport alone (no planes!) Sky Travel asked him to write about his experience. Nat met him at Fisherman’s Camp eight months into his travels. He’d had malaria twice, been arrested and almost deported in Malawi for refusing to pay a bribe and had interviewed a local witch doctor. I got chatting to Marcus and Nat and we ended up spending the morning together.
We had the day off to do as we chose but nearly everyone was hungover so the day consisted of sitting by the pool or in the bar area recouperating. Instead, Nat, Marcus and myself decided to pay a visit to the local village to find some local grub to get stuck into. We asked a local market stall holder where a good place was to get food and we were directed to a tiny little hut with a sign saying ‘Mama’s kitchen’ and a fruit stall out front. Inside were three or four plastic tables and chairs, a small counter with a bowl of eggs to one side and a few pastries on show and a hole in the wall that looked into the kitchen. Choosing the food was simple as there was only one real meal on offer – a mixture of vegetables and chickpea stew with a side of chapatti.
Mama was a bubbly character who was very keen for us to try everything she had on offer. We gratefully tucked into a plate of food (which was noticibly smaller than that of the local sat opposite us…I guess mama was hoping we’d ask for seconds) followed by slices of fresh pineapple from her fruit stall. As we ate, cows wandered aimlessly passed the open door and every now and then a small child would pop their head in to smile and giggle at the mzungos. Our meal cost us 100 Kenyan shillings each – less than a £1 for a two-course meal.
Marcus was keen to find out where he could get hold of some local tipple so he asked the two local men eating on the tables across from us. They laughed knowingly when he asked and one of the men offered to take us to find some. Following our newly found guide, we headed back towards Fisherman’s Camp then carried on a little further up. Along the way we managed to pick up a horde of young kids on their way home from school. Marcus entertained them by saying the word for ‘bum’ in Swahili which they all found hysterically funny.
Just beyond Fisherman’s Camp we entered a small homestead that backed onto one of the flower farms. There were a couple of houses, a few goats milling around, a tiny puppy rolling in the dust and a couple of kids playing together. In front of one of the houses was a small wooden shack with a roof made of clear plastic. Our guide ushered us in whereby the chitter chatter of the locals inside fell briefly silent only to be followed by ‘karibu, karibu’ (i.e. welcome, welcome).
The inside of the small shack was lined with wooden benches. In one corner was a ‘bar’ which was literally a small bar of wood with a large plastic vat of some suspiciously clear and ominously toxic liquid. We were ushered in and sat on a bench next to some rather colourful characters who’d obviously been sat there for a fair few hours already. One guy had only a couple of brown teeth left and one of his eyes hung low so that it was almost closed…a visual personification of one being ‘blind drunk’.
Opposite me was a chatty woman in traditional African dress with a baby strapped to her back and a young girl who looked like her daughter sat next to her. Again, she too looked like she frequented the ‘gin den’ a little too often than was good for her health. After the usual ‘What’s your name?’, ‘Where you from?’ pleasantries, Marcus ordered three glasses of the potent beverage. ‘Changa’ as it is known is created from corn fermented with sugar and then distilled. It forms a clear liquid that tastes like gin mixed with gasoline.
That evening, under the watchful eye of a huge hippo grazing at the end of Fisherman’s Camp gardens, Nat, Marcus and I had a Changa drinking session. Mine consisted of a shot glass full whereas the two guys managed to consume the best part of a litre bottleful followed by a hearty helping of 2kg of goat meat…I left them to it!
Hell’s gate
Hell’s Gate national park is one of the few national parks where there are no large predators…unless, that is, a lion sneaks in which has happened on a couple of occasions. This means that, unlike most parks, you can hire a bike and cycle around the park getting up close and personal with the wildlife.
The bikes we hired would not have met UK health and safety standards. Most had gears that were temperamental at best whilst others didn’t have brakes. Whilst Fisherman’s Camp owned a few of the bikes, most of them were on loan from individuals from the nearby village. This made for an interesting day out!
Our guide, John, was one of the most informative guides I’ve ever met. His father was a ranger in the park many years ago so he actually grew up in the ranger accommodation inside the park. He knew every corner of the park intimately and everything about the wildlife you’d find there. You could ask him anything and he would have an answer for it.
Half the day was spent cycling around the park, the other half was spent gorge walking. Our day almost came to an abrupt end when Ravi had a puncture early on and John informed us we had 4km to go to get to the ranger post where it might be fixed. Using Nat’s initiative and Leatherman, we managed to fix the tire temporarily with a piece of gaffa tape that was holding Claire’s sunglasses together and some micropore from the medical kit I had on me.
The day was fantastic. We had close up encounters with zebra, a rock hyrax, an olive baboon with his thin pink appendage on full show, buffalo and wart hogs. The gorge itself wasn’t huge but interesting all the same with hot springs dripping down the rocks at different points. It involved quite a bit of slip sliding down steep stone faces and clambering about the rocks. The gorge is prone to flash floods which wash away the stone with great force. Since 1992, the gorge has increased in depth by about 20m so it’s only a matter of time before the Hell’s Gate gorge transforms into something not too dissimilar from the Grand Canyon.
Bar Nat, Jon and me, everyone headed back to camp early in the afternoon when all the animals had taken shelter. The three of us hung back for an hour or so just chilling out on a grassy plain surrounded by zebra. It was great just sitting there in complete silence listening to the sounds of nature with not another human soul to be seen or heard. At that point I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I heard complete silence. I can’t overestimate the importance of being able to let your mind wander with no distractions. Right then, I really didn’t miss London!
The bikes we hired would not have met UK health and safety standards. Most had gears that were temperamental at best whilst others didn’t have brakes. Whilst Fisherman’s Camp owned a few of the bikes, most of them were on loan from individuals from the nearby village. This made for an interesting day out!
Our guide, John, was one of the most informative guides I’ve ever met. His father was a ranger in the park many years ago so he actually grew up in the ranger accommodation inside the park. He knew every corner of the park intimately and everything about the wildlife you’d find there. You could ask him anything and he would have an answer for it.
Half the day was spent cycling around the park, the other half was spent gorge walking. Our day almost came to an abrupt end when Ravi had a puncture early on and John informed us we had 4km to go to get to the ranger post where it might be fixed. Using Nat’s initiative and Leatherman, we managed to fix the tire temporarily with a piece of gaffa tape that was holding Claire’s sunglasses together and some micropore from the medical kit I had on me.
The day was fantastic. We had close up encounters with zebra, a rock hyrax, an olive baboon with his thin pink appendage on full show, buffalo and wart hogs. The gorge itself wasn’t huge but interesting all the same with hot springs dripping down the rocks at different points. It involved quite a bit of slip sliding down steep stone faces and clambering about the rocks. The gorge is prone to flash floods which wash away the stone with great force. Since 1992, the gorge has increased in depth by about 20m so it’s only a matter of time before the Hell’s Gate gorge transforms into something not too dissimilar from the Grand Canyon.
Bar Nat, Jon and me, everyone headed back to camp early in the afternoon when all the animals had taken shelter. The three of us hung back for an hour or so just chilling out on a grassy plain surrounded by zebra. It was great just sitting there in complete silence listening to the sounds of nature with not another human soul to be seen or heard. At that point I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I heard complete silence. I can’t overestimate the importance of being able to let your mind wander with no distractions. Right then, I really didn’t miss London!
Afternoon tea at Elsamere
Elsamere is an archetypal colonial abode with lush gardens dropping down to the shore of Lake Naivasha. It was here that Joy and George Adamson – of Elsa the lion / Born Free fame – lived. Every afternoon at 4pm you can visit their home, watch a video of their conservation work and enjoy all-you-can-eat cakes and tea. There’s something slightly distasteful about enjoying high tea when people down the road are living in shacks but you justify it by the fact that all the money made goes to the Born Free Foundation.
Joy and George were passionate about conservation in Africa. George lived in the sticks where he set up various animal rehabilitation centres whilst Joy’s work took her around the globe promoting her various books. All the money she made was ploughed back into the Born Free Foundation and was used to sponsor various conservation initiatives both in Africa and around the world.
Whilst the video discussed their work comprehensively, what it didn’t tell you was how they both died. Talking with a guide the following day, we discovered that Joy was murdered in the very house we visited. She apparently got into a dispute with a worker, accusing him of stealing something. When she docked his wages, he went round to the house and hit her, killing her. She was in her 70s.
George was also murdered. He was hijacked up in the northern border region of Kenya where ‘shifters’ or ‘bandits’ abound. Whilst it could have been a coincidence, our guide John said that some people believe it was politically motivated because he was campaigning against the ivory trade which, at that time, was still legal in Kenya.
Whether the stories of their deaths are true or merely urban myths (I’ll need to do some research to check it out) both Joy and George left the legacy of the Born Free Foundation behind which, even today, works tirelessly to conserve endangered wildlife across the globe.
Joy and George were passionate about conservation in Africa. George lived in the sticks where he set up various animal rehabilitation centres whilst Joy’s work took her around the globe promoting her various books. All the money she made was ploughed back into the Born Free Foundation and was used to sponsor various conservation initiatives both in Africa and around the world.
Whilst the video discussed their work comprehensively, what it didn’t tell you was how they both died. Talking with a guide the following day, we discovered that Joy was murdered in the very house we visited. She apparently got into a dispute with a worker, accusing him of stealing something. When she docked his wages, he went round to the house and hit her, killing her. She was in her 70s.
George was also murdered. He was hijacked up in the northern border region of Kenya where ‘shifters’ or ‘bandits’ abound. Whilst it could have been a coincidence, our guide John said that some people believe it was politically motivated because he was campaigning against the ivory trade which, at that time, was still legal in Kenya.
Whether the stories of their deaths are true or merely urban myths (I’ll need to do some research to check it out) both Joy and George left the legacy of the Born Free Foundation behind which, even today, works tirelessly to conserve endangered wildlife across the globe.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
The ugly reality of the flower trade in Kenya
Today we travelled the short distance from Nakuru town to Lake Navaisha – Henry’s family home. As we made our way, turning off the main highway into Navaisha town and on towards Fishman’s Camp on the edge of the lake, things began to change. Roads that, up until now, were potholed and treacherous, transformed into roads of smooth Tarmac, speed bumps that usually appear out of nowhere were clearly marked, there were barriers on the edge of the road, road signs, even a Barclay’s ATM made an appearance in one of the tiny local townships. The houses here were more uniform, each baring the ugly appendage of a tall TV aerial. We even passed a 24-hour hospital.
Soon, all became clear. Massive greenhouses, half a kilometer in length appeared on each side of the road. Lined up next to each other they stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions. Each flower farm was surrounded by high walls and the usual row of bougainvilleas. At their entrances, people streamed in and out.
This is the true reality of our flowers back home. Every time we buy a bouquet, the likelihood is that some – if not all – of the flowers will come from these ugly blots on the Kenyan horizon. Picked today, the flowers will appear on supermarket and florists’ shelves first thing tomorrow morning or the day after at a corner store in Australia.
Henry has seen the lucrative flower business expand exponentially as he grew up here. He is all too aware of the power of these foreign companies.
Each flower farm employs 6,000 plus people and there are hundreds of them bordering Lake Naivasha. In a country where unemployment is rife, these flower farms offer the local population the little security they strive for. The flower farms also manage the roads, ensuring that the truckloads of valuable flowers reach the airport undamaged and on schedule. Those workers who make it up the hierarchical echelons are given a small house in which to live. In addition, they have the money they need to own their own television – a rare and sought after luxury in much of Africa. I imagine they also have access to 24-hour health care – another valuable resource to which few people in Africa have access.
Yet, as Henry explains, there’s a darker side to the flower farm story. The flower farms are based next to Lake Navaisha – deemed one of the most beautiful lakes in Kenya – because they need water for the flowers. Water in Kenya is hard to come by so setting up shop next to a lake means the farms can have access to as much water as they want.
Each flower farm uses thousands of litres a day and there are hundreds of flower farms draining water from the lake. The result: Lake Navaisha is shrinking. At Fisherman’s Camp a walkway has been built to the edge of the lake because the camp is no longer at the water’s edge.
Wildlife is abundant here: hippos, crocs, flamingoes all make use of the lake. Local people use the lake for drinking water, for cleaning and for fishing. But this vital source of water is shrinking before their eyes. Worse, it is becoming toxic. Each of the flower farms uses pesticides, insecticides and fertilizer to grow beautiful, healthy flowers that will survive transportation to Europe and Australasia. Each day these chemicals leech into the lake. When one of our group asked Henry whether they could swim in the lake, he looked downcast and said: ‘there are flower farms round the lake. If you go swimming my friend, you won’t come back the same.’
Like much of Africa, the Kenyan government’s hands are tied. It wants employment for its people and thus it seeks external investment and the influence of foreign companies. But, at the same time, it can all but stand aside and watch whilst its country’s natural resources are exploited, potentially at the risk of the health and well-being of those same people for whom it seeks employment. It is an ugly side to Africa that locals like Henry are all too aware of but are powerless to prevent.
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