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thirty-six f

Welcome to Kenya

A taxi brought us to Heathrow International Airport, where we caught a late evening flight to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, Kenya. I wasn’t looking forward to another overnight flight, but I popped a quaalude and managed to get a good amount of sleep on the plane. Even though Mike slept most of the day at our hotel, he slept through most of the night as well.

Our flight arrived on time, and we made our connection to Mombasa International Airport, which was clean, modern, and efficient. We found our luggage, sailed through customs, and were nearly blinded by the tropical sunlight as we exited the building.

Gary had suggested we chat up some taxi drivers to find local drug connections. We knew better than to approach the driver who took us from the airport to the Mombasa Beach Hotel. To him, we were American tourists on holiday. We needed to gain the trust of a few locals before asking any direct questions.

Mombasa was a mix of new and old, wealth and poverty, beauty and squalor. Traffic crawled. Our cab had no air conditioning. We sat in traffic for nearly an hour with open windows, breathing fumes and listening to the alien sounds of the city. Magnificent high-rises sat adjacent to crumbling buildings. Businessmen strolled alongside ragged street vendors. I’d get a glimpse of the Indian Ocean, and in the next instant I’d be drawn down a dark alley.

“Is this paradise or hell?” I whispered to Mike.

“We’ll make it our personal paradise,” Mike replied.

I had my doubts until our taxi left the main highway and headed toward the ocean. The city released us into greenery, fine buildings, and ocean views. Once I saw the sign for Mombasa Beach Hotel, I knew we had entered paradise.

The hotel was as luxurious as any in Southern Florida. Whether facing the ocean or the pool, each room had a large balcony. The lobby was decorated in vibrant greens, reds, and gold. While it wasn’t as elegant or sophisticated as London, the hotel oozed luxury.

“Welcome to Mombasa Beach Hotel. My name is Oliver. How may I serve you?” The front desk clerk’s English had a pleasant, lilting accent.

“Mr. and Mrs. Michael Ambrose checking in,” Mike said.

I knew better than to give his introduction any special meaning. I’d read most Kenyans were devout Christians. Registering as an unmarried couple would raise eyebrows and was probably forbidden.

“You are in Suite 400, one of our finest,” Oliver said. “I understand you have an open-ended stay.”

“Yeah. We got business here in Mombasa,” Mike said.

“Yes, sir. We have instructions to bill your company, Sunstar Industries, for all expenses.”

Sunstar Industries?

“Obuya, please take Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose to their suite.” Oliver motioned to a bellhop.

“ Siku njema bwana, madam. Good day, sir and madam. I am Obuya, here to serve you.”

Everyone we had met had been genuinely friendly and kind. London was becoming a distant memory.

“Anything you need, please call on me,” Obuya said as we rode the elevator to the fourth floor.

“Thank you.” I had a feeling Obuya would be the one to open doors for us in Kenya.

“Your room.” Obuya opened the carved double door to our room.

Ben had booked a suite for us overlooking the ocean. Our bed was draped in sheer mosquito netting, though I doubted a mosquito could find its way into our new home.

“Mike, it’s perfect,” I said, after we generously tipped Obuya.

He picked me up and spun me around. “If we play our cards right, we just might be here forever. Before we unpack, let’s celebrate.”

Mike stood with his back to me, unbuttoned his shirt, and slipped out of his pants.

“I need a shower before we do anything,” I said.

“Later, doll.” When he turned to face me, I saw he’d taped bags of cocaine to his chest and stomach. “I was sweatin’ so much in that cab, I thought the tape would melt offa me.”

“You could’ve gotten busted,” I said. “Why take a chance?”

“Nobody gives a shit when you’re leavin’ London. And nobody gives a shit when you get here. With all the cash we got, I ain’t worried.”

He had a point, but I was glad I didn’t know what he was up to.

“I don’t know about you, Mike, but all I want to do for the rest of the day is catch a buzz and relax on the balcony. We can start work tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Are ya nuts? We’re on Sunstar’s dime. Work can wait.”

“Speaking of Sunstar Industries—what is it?” I asked.

“One of Ben’s covers. He’s got all kinda corporations.”

“Smart guy,” I said.

“I’m learnin’ all I can from him,” Mike said.

“What does Sunstar do?”

“Ben said Sunstar’s into agriculture. Makes sense, right? I’m thinkin’ ’bout sayin’ we’re into diamond mining,” Mike said.

“Do they have diamond mines here?”

“I dunno. If not, we can say we’re lookin’ to start one.”

“Better stick to what Ben said. We don’t want to attract too much attention.”

Mike didn’t like me telling him what to do, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Ben and Vinnie had done the research, and they were a lot smarter than Mike.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s do some lines, call room service, and relax.”

Mike’s answer to everything was to get high. In my heart, I knew it was my answer to everything, too.

We decided to order samaki choma , a roasted fish dish recommended on the room service menu. It came with collard greens and coconut rice. Mike ordered a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black scotch for him and a bottle of Smirnoff vodka for me.

Without pot to put me to sleep, I drank more vodka than I had in a long time. I knew I’d have a nasty hangover, but honestly, I didn’t care.

In the past week I’d traveled nearly halfway around the world. I’d eaten strange food, drunk too much alcohol, and snorted substandard cocaine. I needed time to relax and get my life back on track. Mike and I spent much of the next day at the pool. Even though we had an ocean view, Nyali Beach was about a mile from the hotel. Between the heat and humidity, a hangover, and the great unknown, I decided a visit to the beach could wait a day or two.

Obuya took care of all our needs. We rewarded him with generous tips. By the end of our third day, we felt confident he could be trusted.

“We’re lookin’ for somebody who can show us the city,” Mike told Obuya.

“My friend, Waititu, is your man. He knows every street, shop, and ruin. He speaks English, Swahili, and many dialects and languages of our country. May I call him?”

“Yes, please,” I said before Mike had a chance to say something stupid like, “My good man.”

A short while later, Obuya informed us that Waititu would meet us in the hotel lobby at ten o’clock the next morning.

“And away we go,” I said, quoting an old line from Jackie Gleason.