Everything is comparatively inexpensive here in Kenya. By ordering groceries (also cheap—even for organic, excellent quality, good selections, online delivery service) and making the majority of my meals, it allows me room to “splurge” on some guided tours. Tours of course are catering to tourists and charge accordingly, but I feel some of the money goes into the economy and the tips go directly into the locals’ hands.
My driver and a guide picked me up at 7 AM for a biking, hiking, boating tour at Hell’s Gate National Park, including a lunch and boat ride at Lake Naviasha. Hell’s Gate is about two hours from Nairobi, in the Great Rift Valley, part of a massive rift stretching 4,000 miles and averaging 30-40 miles wide. It is defined from Jordan through East Africa all the way down to Mozambique. It’s punctuated by ancient and dramatic volcanic features. The panoramas are breathtaking. In the distance we could see plumes of steam rising in the cool morning sky from the hot springs at our destination (in background of the second vista photo).
As we headed northwest, just beyond Nairobi the city expressway narrowed to a two lane road that was packed with trucks going both ways. This international artery road connects Congo, Uganda, Rwanda and Kenya (via the cities of Kisimu, Nairobi, and Mombasa) to the primary East African port on the Indian Ocean, and so, the exchange of goods from all the above with the rest of the world.
We pulled off at an overlook site halfway to the Nat. Park, ostensibly so I could by souvenirs for my family in America, but mostly so the driver might get a cup of coffee while I visited the trinket tent at the stop. I forewarned the driver I was the unusual American, and not into collecting things, but would oblige the sellers by looking. Another car or two had stopped and a few other tourists were milling about. I could see a dozen more similar shops up the road.
A quietly pushy salesperson quickly met me as I snapped some photos of the view. He insisted on showing me a dozen carved stone pieces of animals, paperweights, etc. He wore me down so much, I asked the price of one. “You are my first customer, so I make you a deal…400 shillings!” I said his work was nice but I was not interested in collecting any, however I’d be willing to just outright give him 500 shillings (about $3) if he had change for my 1000 KShs bill which he happily took. “Yes, yes, come!” But I sensed my offer didn’t compute. He then walked me into the tent, packed with the same replicated trinkets (beads, Jewelry, small animal carvings of stone and ebony, soap dishes, spoons, etc,) that one sees at every one of thousands of these shops and in so many American homes. I asked again about my change, and again restated I didn’t care for any carvings.
He pointed out several things, picking up a few, had me hold a carving of ebony to feel the weight. The density of ebony is wonderfully evocative. By chance he then picked up a piece of raw uncarved ebony, about the size of a softball “From this is where we begin.” “Ahhh,” I said, “how about if for my 500 kshs I get this!” For an instant he was totally befuddled, and completely thrown off his pitch.
He tried to refocus me on the trinkets. “Good, good work, very nice carving, no?” I again said, yes, but I don’t want these, I only want this raw piece of ebony. He looked perplexed. “It is my only piece!” “Don’t you carve here when it is slow? You must have more around…?” “No, this is all.”
Exasperated, he checked with his partner and after a brief exchange in Kiswahili, his partner again clarified, “You want THIS?!” “Yes, yes.” “Ok, we split it.” I said it was a great idea. “Asante!” (Thank you!)
He wedged his machete in and then split the piece by smashing the back of his knife with a stone. As he handed me the piece, he said “1000 kshs.” I didn’t flinch. “500.” We each restated our lines at least five times.
“Ok, then give me back the 1000kshs bill,” as I grabbed it from his partner’s clutch. “I don’t need this. It’s very simple: 500 kshs, or nothing. Your choice.” He kept insisting, following me to the car. “No!” I said firmly, as I got into the car. I was trying to shut the car door and still he leaned in: “1000.” I waved him back. “No! No thank you. I’m done.“ I shut the door and he looked mournful. By this time the driver and guide were both in, the driver asked if there was a problem.
“No. I made it very simple. And then he got greedy. I’m fine leaving with nothing. Hakuna Matata.” “Ok,” the driver said, “Let’s go.” And so we hit the crowded road, and left them to debate who was to blame, them or me, and as we slid into traffic, I recognized I’m becoming less a tourist, and feel a more capable Kenyan with each visit here.
My driver and a guide picked me up at 7 AM for a biking, hiking, boating tour at Hell’s Gate National Park, including a lunch and boat ride at Lake Naviasha. Hell’s Gate is about two hours from Nairobi, in the Great Rift Valley, part of a massive rift stretching 4,000 miles and averaging 30-40 miles wide. It is defined from Jordan through East Africa all the way down to Mozambique. It’s punctuated by ancient and dramatic volcanic features. The panoramas are breathtaking. In the distance we could see plumes of steam rising in the cool morning sky from the hot springs at our destination (in background of the second vista photo).
As we headed northwest, just beyond Nairobi the city expressway narrowed to a two lane road that was packed with trucks going both ways. This international artery road connects Congo, Uganda, Rwanda and Kenya (via the cities of Kisimu, Nairobi, and Mombasa) to the primary East African port on the Indian Ocean, and so, the exchange of goods from all the above with the rest of the world.
We pulled off at an overlook site halfway to the Nat. Park, ostensibly so I could by souvenirs for my family in America, but mostly so the driver might get a cup of coffee while I visited the trinket tent at the stop. I forewarned the driver I was the unusual American, and not into collecting things, but would oblige the sellers by looking. Another car or two had stopped and a few other tourists were milling about. I could see a dozen more similar shops up the road.
A quietly pushy salesperson quickly met me as I snapped some photos of the view. He insisted on showing me a dozen carved stone pieces of animals, paperweights, etc. He wore me down so much, I asked the price of one. “You are my first customer, so I make you a deal…400 shillings!” I said his work was nice but I was not interested in collecting any, however I’d be willing to just outright give him 500 shillings (about $3) if he had change for my 1000 KShs bill which he happily took. “Yes, yes, come!” But I sensed my offer didn’t compute. He then walked me into the tent, packed with the same replicated trinkets (beads, Jewelry, small animal carvings of stone and ebony, soap dishes, spoons, etc,) that one sees at every one of thousands of these shops and in so many American homes. I asked again about my change, and again restated I didn’t care for any carvings.
He pointed out several things, picking up a few, had me hold a carving of ebony to feel the weight. The density of ebony is wonderfully evocative. By chance he then picked up a piece of raw uncarved ebony, about the size of a softball “From this is where we begin.” “Ahhh,” I said, “how about if for my 500 kshs I get this!” For an instant he was totally befuddled, and completely thrown off his pitch.
He tried to refocus me on the trinkets. “Good, good work, very nice carving, no?” I again said, yes, but I don’t want these, I only want this raw piece of ebony. He looked perplexed. “It is my only piece!” “Don’t you carve here when it is slow? You must have more around…?” “No, this is all.”
Exasperated, he checked with his partner and after a brief exchange in Kiswahili, his partner again clarified, “You want THIS?!” “Yes, yes.” “Ok, we split it.” I said it was a great idea. “Asante!” (Thank you!)
He wedged his machete in and then split the piece by smashing the back of his knife with a stone. As he handed me the piece, he said “1000 kshs.” I didn’t flinch. “500.” We each restated our lines at least five times.
“Ok, then give me back the 1000kshs bill,” as I grabbed it from his partner’s clutch. “I don’t need this. It’s very simple: 500 kshs, or nothing. Your choice.” He kept insisting, following me to the car. “No!” I said firmly, as I got into the car. I was trying to shut the car door and still he leaned in: “1000.” I waved him back. “No! No thank you. I’m done.“ I shut the door and he looked mournful. By this time the driver and guide were both in, the driver asked if there was a problem.
“No. I made it very simple. And then he got greedy. I’m fine leaving with nothing. Hakuna Matata.” “Ok,” the driver said, “Let’s go.” And so we hit the crowded road, and left them to debate who was to blame, them or me, and as we slid into traffic, I recognized I’m becoming less a tourist, and feel a more capable Kenyan with each visit here.
RSS Feed