The alarm went off impossibly early. Hadn’t I gone to sleep just a second ago? But no, the clock said that it was five thirty a.m., time to arise. For we had to davven and eat before our bus left at 7:30am for the voyage to Funzi Island.
The bus was not like the modern coaches that brought us from the airport. This one was old, decrepit, and lacking air-conditioning. Our guide was a young African called Willie who spoke excellent English and a reasonable Hebrew!
The bus traveled through the town of Mombasa, affording us a tour of Kenya’s second largest city. This tour confirmed the impression of Mombasa that we received from the drive from the airport: it really was a dump. The traffic included people pulling enormous carts, assisted by two other people pushing each cart at the back.
Mombasa is an island, separated from the mainland by a narrow band of the Indian Ocean. Traveling from one to the other would ordinarily be achieved by building a bridge, but the ships wouldn’t be able to pass beneath it. Building a movable bridge is too expensive, so traffic crosses the stretch of water by way of ferry. As we chugged slowly across the water, Willie told us to look for the numerous sharks in the region, but we didn’t see any.
Once on the mainland, the scenery changed dramatically. Now it was back to countryside, with occasional shacks at the side of the road. The trees were remarkable. They were tremendously diverse, in size, shape and color. Most were a rich hue of green, but some had red undersides to the leaves and white or red flowers. What they all had in common was an extraordinary density of leaves. But if I thought they just looked amazing, I was even more awed when Willie started telling us about them. It seems that the Africans take most of their life’s needs from the tree. We just think of trees as being source of fruit, and indeed the Africans enjoy many types of exotic fruit from the trees. But it doesn’t stop there. The different types of trees also provide them with a whole range of items, from car brake linings to rat poisons. Willie pointed out the “forty tree,” so called because the cures to forty different ailments can be obtained from it.
“We are now on the main highway to Tanzania,” Willie announced. It didn’t look much like a highway. It looked more like a narrow stretch of poor tarmac, barely wide enough for two vehicles. But, as I was learning, Africa ain’t quite America - or even Israel.
The bus pulled over. Willie announced that we were just stopping to collect the manager of our tour to Funzi Island. “He looks like Sean Connery,” said Willie, apparently by way of explanation. It was just as well that he warned us of this, though, because the man who stepped onto the bus at that moment did look exactly like the famous actor. With his dark tan, white beard, and grizzled look, he cut a most impressive figure. “Hallo, I’m Michael,” he said in a posh Etonian accent. Fascinating, I thought, an upper-class English gentile, the colonial type – I wonder what he thinks of all these Jews?
”My grandparents were Jewish immigrants to London from Russia,” announced Michael. Whoops. So he’s Jewish. “I’m a kohen,” he continued, spreading his fingers in the way of a kohen’s blessing. Interesting. “But I married a shikseh!” he finished triumphantly. Uh oh. “But,” Michael added, “when we got married, I bought her a Jewish cookery book, and she makes gefilte fish. The fish isn’t so good, but the shikseh’s terrific.” He smiled broadly, and began cracking one anti-Jewish joke after another:
“Why do Jews have big noses? Because air is free.”
“What’s the difference between a Jewish mother and a battery? A battery has a positive side.”
“What’s the difference between a Jewish mother and a rottweiler? A rottweiler eventually lets go.”
And so on, and so on. All delivered in a dry tone of sadistic amusement. One Israeli woman, who was not religious, became very distressed with his jokes, and began an argument with him as to whether it’s possible for a Jew to be antisemitic.
Eventually the bus turned off the main road towards the village that would be our starting point. Michael warned us that the road was a little rough, but that was a masterly understatement. It wasn’t so much that it was rough as that in some places there was simply no road at all. Vast pools of water replaced the road in several places, through which the bus lurched up and down, or rather down and up.
“An unfortunate incident happened a few weeks ago,” Michael told us. “We had a girl who fell in love with one of the Africans and became engaged to him. When her mother heard, she flew out straightaway. The girl went to meet her mother at the airport together with her fianc?, who put on his traditional robes. When the mother saw him, she cried out, ‘Sadie, I said marry a rich doctor, not a witch doctor!’ ”
As we approached the village, Michael told us that African children would approach the windows of the bus begging for candies and food. However, he informed us, the village elders had begged him to prevent the tourists from throwing anything to them, because they should not be trained to beg for food “like animals.” As it happened, we did not see many children when we disembarked from the bus.
We began to make our way to the beach where the boats were waiting. However, many of the Israelis were still messing around by the bus. Michael was growing extremely irritated with the slow progress that we were making. Looking back at the people straggling a hundred yards behind, he stopped to wait for them, and called out in exasperation, “Come on already, if we don’t move soon, the tides will drown the swimming island.” One of the Israelis near him said, “Listen, let me explain the Israeli mentality to you. When they see you stop to wait for them, they think that if you are stopping, they can also stop. So just keep going and they will catch up.”
Reaching the beach, I was surprised to notice that it seemed to be flowing away from us. Closer inspection revealed that the sand was covered with millions of tiny fiddler crabs. These crabs have right arms which are bright red and vastly disproportionate to their left arms and indeed their whole body. They sidled sideways into their holes as we approached.
Further down the beach, some men were disembarking from boats. “Smugglers,” Michael informed us. “Taking things from Tanzania to here and back. Don’t get too close or they’ll throw your cameras into the sea.”
Arriving at the seashore we could see our boats waiting some distance away. These were Arab dhow boats. They were around thirty feet long and ten feet wide, with a canopy at the back. Most unusual of all were their masts. It was at the top of the central mast that the horizontal mast was tied. From this the triangular sail would be lowered with its point downwards. The effect was striking in its unusualness. But how would we reach the dhows, moored some fifty feet offshore? For this purpose there were two large canoes fitted with outboard engines. Stepping into these tipping boats, containing several inches of water at the bottom, was slightly nerve-wracking. Sitting inside them, the water was only a few inches from the rim.
We reached the dhows and climbed aboard. Michael introduced us to the two African sailors, Omar and Sharif (!). They hoisted the anchor and we set sail (not by raising, I mean lowering, the sail, but by switching on the outboard engine). Surrounding the water’s edge were the mangroves, at this point with their roots exposed because of the low tides. It was straight out of a National Geographic television program, and a magnificent sight.
At this point the heavens opened and the rain cascaded down. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, because the droplets were quite fine and they were also warm. Some of the people used the umbrellas that were strategically placed along the boat.
Michael had told us to look out for dolphins but unfortunately we did not manage to see any. “If you see a round fish with a carrot on its head,” he called out, “that’s a gefilte fish.”
Soon the skies were lit up by the glorious equatorial sunshine. Sailing along in this weather, with the mangrove swamps lining the clear blue waters, I tried to absorb all of the beauty.
My thoughts were interrupted. “What’s there to see already?” asked a teenage girl with braids. “It’s just the sea and some trees.” Poor girl!
Eventually we reached Funzi Island. The canoes ferried us from the dhows to the shore. Michael said that the inhabitants were very traditional. The witch doctor had only consented to allowing the boat to the island on the condition that they sacrificed two goats on it once a year. “We had to make the boat kosher,” he explained, “Just like you make a room kosher by putting a mezuzah on it.” No, I thought to myself, not “just like a mezuzah” at all.
Two thin dogs came out to greet us; Michael explained that he occasionally brought food for them. They escorted us as we made our way through the trees to the village.
As we walked along, Michael explained that he was part of a group who worked to help the islanders of Funzi and other places. They raised money to pay for schools and a clinic. We saw the small building that was a clinic, but it was locked. Michael explained that it had been that way for a long time, as there was no money to pay for a nurse.
The school was a series of rooms that lacked windows and any furnishings, save for the blackboard. The children sat crowded on the cement floors and smiled at us as we entered. At the teacher’s instruction, they sang Hava Nagila and Hakova Sheli for us! It seems that the volume of Israeli tourists was sufficiently great to warrant their learning Hebrew. Looking at the blackboard, I was surprised to notice that it was my birthday. This was the first time that I had ever forgotten my birthday - it had been that full a morning.
Michael spoke to us about the schooling system in Kenya. Training to become a teacher takes two years, after which a teacher earns a salary of around $100 per month. The government pays very little towards the schools; parents must pay for furnishings. Children are only admitted to school in uniform. Yet many parents cannot afford to pay for uniforms or school fees. As a result, only about half of the children in Kenya attend school. Many of the others earn money by begging from tourists; an unfortunate result of this is that some children drop out of school to join this relatively lucrative lifestyle. Discipline is very strict, but caning was recently banned after a teacher caned a pupil to death.
After drinking some coconut milk, we looked around at some more buildings in the village. The poverty was unbelievable. With an average of 8.2 children per family, the Funzians lived in tiny shacks with a minimum of furnishings. There was no running water or electricity, of course; the cooking was done over a small fire. Many of the children were suffering from protein deficiencies. “The starving children in Africa” has become a clich? in modern Western society; it was humbling to see the reality of it.
Returning to the beach, we made our way back out by canoe to the dhow. The midday sun was blazing on the crystal-clear waters as I sat on the bow of the dhow. It was a magical experience, and I thought to myself that this was unquestionably the best birthday that I had ever had.
We sailed to a tiny island of sand, just clear of the sea. Michael explained that this island would be covered by the tides very soon, but we could have some time to swim on its shores. The tides in Africa rise some two to three meters during their cycle!
After a short and delicious swim, we returned to the dhow. The African sailors lowered the upside-down sail and the strong winds pushed the boat over the waves. We reached a small island where a large pavilion had been built for travelers to eat lunch. Having found out that I was an animal lover, Michael told me to look at the fruit bats in the third bathroom. To my delight, I saw three bats - two brown, one gray - hanging from the roof. I was surprised that no-one else (apart from my father) shared my joy. Michael told me that there were giant monitor lizards to be found amongst the mangroves and palms, but despite searching thoroughly, I found nothing other than millions of fiddler crabs.
After lunch, and minchah, we returned to the dhows for the final stage of the voyage. Sitting in my spot on the bow, I watched the canoe transport people to the other dhow. The African sailor maneuvered the canoe alongside the dhow and grabbed the side of the boat to move closer to it. The first passenger to step out of the canoe was an extremely large Israeli woman. She grabbed the side of the dhow, but she must have somehow pushed it at the same time, for the canoe swung away from the dhow. For a brief but absorbing moment I watched the fascinating spectacle of the large woman suspended prone in the air, her hands outstretched in front of her on the side of the dhow, her feet hooked over the edge of the canoe. Then, with a noise like a breaching whale, or rather with a noise like an extremely large woman falling into the water (which is a good deal more impressive), she fell in. “Man overboard!” I shouted, but her friends were already pulling her back in. My entire group was rolling in hysterical laughter. When they eventually managed to safely install the woman on the dhow, we burst out in rapturous applause.
The dhows arrived back at our starting point, and the canoes ferried us back to shore. The tides had now risen such that the mangroves were almost fully submerged. We returned back to Silver Star, tired but content.
The evening’s entertainment in the hotel was a disco. From my bedroom, I listened to the DJ play “In the Jungle” and other songs. One song was played repeatedly, and we were to hear it several more times during our stay. More than anything else, it represented the wonderfully cheerful spirit of the Africans. It was called Jambo Jambo, which means “Hello hello.”
Jambo! Jambo bwana! Hello! Hello, mister!
Habari gani How are you?
Mzuri sana “Very well.”
Wageni wakaribishwa The visitors are welcomed
Kenya yetu hakuna matata Our Kenya has no problems!
Kenya inchi mzuni Kenya is a good nation,
Hakuna matata No problems!
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