Decaying Vacation

While Kisumu town has a cheery and organized vibe – much like the small towns I visited in South America – the beach resort we stayed at was hardly a romantic getaway.

I liked Kisumu the moment we got off the matatu. At least ten young guys – boys, really – circled around us with their bicycles ready to take us wherever we needed to go. The station had style, spunk and stamina: music blaring, tilapia grilling, vehicles churning, and hundreds staring. In my very first day in my undergraduate African Politics course Professor Reno showed us a picture of an African minibus station. The picture contained several minibuses bumper to bumper in no lines or order. “But everybody knows the system, and you will always end up where you need to go,” Professor Reno told us.” “This is Africa, and it works.” We called the resort, hired a tuk-tuk (or motor rickshaa), and headed to Lake Victoria.

We should have stayed in Kisumu.

We stayed at a decaying resort on the shores of Lake Victoria. The perfect place for a horror film. “Stop it, you’re freaking me out,” my girlfriend told me when I mentioned that.

The resort looks like it has not been worked on for at least ten years. Broken down vans and boats sat in front, with dozens of sleeping dogs nearby. A boy mowed the grass, but it remained overgrown. Dozens of African masks and sculptures littered the eating area and common rooms – some spilled over, some rotting, others creepily staring back at you. We were the only guests there, and a team of at least ten Kenyans were ordered to take care of us. Steven was in charge, and the guy with the white hat silently stood near the water. Quietly thinking to himself.

The Indian owner had a fu manchu mustache and smoked a cigarette, “Welcome,” he said to us kindly. Two younger men intently watched the World Cup, while a third man sat behind the cage guarding the money and the alcohol. The bottles looked like they had not been touched in years. Three fish tanks sat in the dining room full of filthy Kenya lake water. A scary looking fish barely fit the tank, struggling to get out.

We sat on the deck and watched the sun go down. “Rarrrrr” we heard a large, strange moan. A family of hippos – father, mother, and child – stood less than 50 meters away. “Wow. We could not have had a better welcome for you,” the owner replied. His sister added, “We don’t usually see them this early, this is great!”

We forgot our hunger, exhaustion and anger at being here for several minutes and enjoyed the spectacle. “At night, the Hippos used to come up near the rooms,” the owner explained to us, “That is why we got the dogs. To keep them away.”



Now I understand the sign that appeared at the entrance of the resort: “Warning: Please be aware of wild animals and reptiles, as disturbing them may lead to serious injuries. And the Management does not hold itself responsible. Management.”

Kenya’s version of an insurance policy.

My adviser hates that Africa is associated with animals. He despises the Lion King and cannot stand that people still use the term ‘jungle’.

But on this night, the hippos were our saving grace.

At night, we could not sleep. At one point we thought we heard a hippo outside our door. Then the dogs went crazy. Cars drove by at three in the morning, awfully close to our cabin. My girl woke up at 7 am thrilled to take a hot shower. She pulled back the shower curtain and a big pile of sand littered the corner of the shower. Termites.

We never should have left Kisumu town.