Hell’s Gate National Park is located about 2 hours from Nairobi. For $50 each, we made arrangements with Patrick, a local tour company owner, to have an experienced guide drive us to and through the park, guide us through the canyon, and provide a nice lunch. Patrick suggested we take as much time as possible to enjoy the park, so we agreed to be ready for a 6 am pick up. Patrick stressed that we would go on English time, not African time (which tends to run much later), so we were surprised that our driver still hadn’t arrived by 6:30 am. We called Patrick and he said he’d call a driver and someone would arrive within 20 minutes. This seemed like an uncool way start to the trip, especially because we received a note the previous night that the park fees had gone up and our trip fee would be higher than we had agreed upon. Still, we wanted to enjoy the day, so we didn’t complain.
Naftali, our driver, arrived at 6:50 am. We briefly stopped at a petrol station where we paid the remainder of our trip fee and Naftali put 1,000 shillings of petrol in the tank. At the gas station, I bought a latte, and Mike bought vodka to cope with the driver’s wild driving. Some of the world’s fastest runners come from Kenya, so it was not surprising to see several runners in training off the highways leaving of Nairobi. As we drove, the landscape changed from tropical green tree-filled hillsides to dry yellow plains with the occasional cactus tree. Speed-bumps emerged without warning, and because the tiny vehicle was cruising too quickly, we hit our heads on the car’s ceiling a few times. The Hell’s Gate sign neared and we realized our driver hadn’t picked up our lunch, so we reminded him that lunch was promised to us. It appeared to be the first he’d heard about the lunch arrangement. Reluctantly, he drove to a market to seek out lunch. The best we could find was a tortilla-like piece of chapatti wrapped in egg omlette, accompanied by a hard-boiled egg for each of us. We bought our own sodas, and played with some small children while we waited for the lunches to cook. I taught the kids how to gallop and skip. We joked with a little girl who had a dangerous plastic bag on her head. From a few feet away, another little boy with two empty glass alcohol bottles watched us. As we waited in the car for the driver, the kids went from being friendly to being inquisitive and demanding. “Give me money.” “Where’s my sweets?” they asked with their hands held out. “Where’s my friendship?” Mark responded. I smiled and gave them high fives, pounders, pretended I didn’t know what they were talking about. Admittedly, I wanted to give them sweets, but I knew it was like feeding the animals, something irresistible but bad for long-term development (there are signs in some areas that caution against giving to begging children because instead of becoming artists and businesspeople they may become beggars).
At the Hell’s Gate National Park gate, we paid an extra $5 each, making a total of $25 per person. We noted the bikes available for rent and felt happy that we were driving instead of pedaling the dirt roads. Naftali admitted that he had never been to the park before, so Mike showed him the map and explained that we wanted to get to the glassy black Obsidian caves. We slowly ventured down the beautiful quiet dirt path as Naftali argued with Patrick on his cell phone. Out the windows, we were seeing warthogs, zebras, gazelles, and impalas, therefore it was a game drive and Naftali wanted more money. Annoyed, we insisted, “You must work this out with Patrick because he agreed on this price.” “But petrol is expensive,” Naftali whined. “Talk to Patrick,” we firmly repeated. The 2 wheel drive path turned into a 4 wheel drive trail, but Naftali progressed. I was horrified as the leaves fell in the window and branches scraped the exterior of the car like nails on a chalk-board. The under-carriage rattled over the grass. Finally, the path became impossible to negotiable and we were forced to reverse, to retreat to the main road.
The winding path led down into a crater where multiple geysers released hot steaming gasses into the air like industrial smoke stacks. We passed giraffes and water buffalos until we reached the entrance to the slot canyon. We ate lunch at the hike entrance and I occasionally stood holding the driver’s wooden masaai simba club to keep the aggressive baboons at an acceptable distance from our food. Make no mistake, they recognize the power of the club. I felt powerful as I flexed and warned them to back away from our food.
After lunch, we descended into the slot canyon by foot. Our guide stayed in the car to nap which was just the same to us. He had so many strikes against him at this point, it was certain he would not receive a tip. We hiked in peace through the beautiful sandstone and obsidian layered canyon. For us Coloradans, it felt like home, the perfect way to contrast the bustling city, and the perfect way to conclude Africa. Herds of goats and cows roamed the ledges of the canyon, and as we progressed, streams of water flowed into a larger stream of water. It was totally peaceful. We negotiated the steps and crevices of rock ledges and emerald walls of waterfalls. Clear hot water gathered and steamed in small pools. The physical exertion of hiking felt great.
At one point in the hike, we ascended the canyon wall and heard distant shouting from the other side of the canyon. We looked up to see two women on a ledge. Using hand gestures, they instructed us to turn back. We turned around and made our way back to the canyon where a small boy, possibly one of the women’s sons, directed us how to negotiate the narrow section. Wet and dirty, we jumped through the rocks and continued following the helpful young boy as he led us to where the path began to widen. Ten minutes later, we parted ways and continued on our own. It was a beautiful four hour hike.
We returned to the car where Naftali informed us there wouldn’t be enough petrol to explore the volcanos, so we accepted a female Park Ranger as a passenger and turned back toward the park entrance. We drove quickly, faster than my preferred pace, but Naftali did slam the brakes to a stop when we asked for pictures of giraffes. Outside the park, Naftali continued to drive like we were on a 75 mph race track. Like the cars around him, he drove balls out blindly passing trucks while climbing uphill around corners, jockeying for position. Occasionally we were forced to wedge back into line with the other vehicles to avoid head on collisions. It was intense, especially because of the bald tires, squeaky brakes, texting, blaring radio, and lack of rear view mirror (it was facing Naftali instead of the rear traffic). A few times I wanted to yell “pole pole!” (slow down) because we would hit the ceiling without warning due to speed bumps or brakes slamming. I saw a sign that said “Drive responsibly. Recklessness kills.” I didn’t have a working seat belt, and I hoped he wasn’t going to accidentally kill us with his recklessness. At one point, Naftali was staring out the side window as the vehicles in front of us quickly came to a stop. “Stop!!!” I yelled. He finally slowed down slightly after that.
When we got back to the hotel, Patrick, the tour company owner met us at the door. I had heard that Kenyans (by their own admission) were direct and commanding, not like their polite, respectful Tanzanian neighbors, so I acted accordingly. When Patrick asked if I would be using their taxi to go to the airport, I told him that our driver had been reckless and there was poor communication about the tour, so we had a lovely day but would not be using their company or making recommendations for their company in the future. All that to say, we had a beautiful day and the slot canyon hike was incredible. If you ever go to Hell’s Gate (and I totally recommend it), I would suggest going through someone other than Naftali and Patrick (unless you can get them in writing to include enough petrol for the entire park, drive a reasonable speed, and keep to the agreed upon price).
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