by Daniel Waters

Created on: December 31, 2007

Ever since watching Tarzan as a child I have wanted to visit Africa. To me, even at the innocent age of eight I appreciated the romance and beauty of the landscape and wildlife, as well as the resplendent pad and lifestyle Mr and Mrs Greystoke had carved out for themselves. I wanted to experience the splendours of Africa for myself and perhaps reconnoitre a nice retirement spot for my very own tree house with accompanying plunge pool and detachable roof; or was that Swiss Family Robinson?

After much deliberation my wife Liza and I decided upon Kenya because it has the film star wildlife, as well as a magnificent coastline brimming with yet more exotic wildlife, Daz white beaches and some fine seafood. My one regret was that Kenya is mostly savannah whereas Tarzan lived in the jungle, although I'm not quite sure where. Actually that's not a bad question, where did he live?

As we touched down in Mombassa airport I braced myself for the onslaught of porters and cab drivers that would be poised outside, ready to ambush my fleshy western wallet. I quite unfairly - have this paranoia every time I land in a foreign country that everyone is out to cheat me, rob me or take me hostage. Fortunately this bizarre affliction usually passes once I've had my first incident free interaction with one of the locals.

I'm not really a people person, that's why I like writing after all. So new, foreign people are particularly challenging for me; smiling and nodding inanely is generally my stock response. However the Kenyan people seem to have an easy way about them, almost Caribbean in their mellow demeanour. As our coach swung its way through the streets of Mombassa it seemed to me that the city looked abandoned, but not for the lack of people. Broken signs hung from cracked, dusty walls and tiles clung to roofs at jaunty angles. As a tourist I had the luxury of thinking that it gave the place character, although I'm not sure the inhabitants would share this sentiment. My preconceived notions of Kenya were already starting to be challenged and I'd barely stepped foot on its parched, red soil. Gangs of topless, toiling men were lacquered with sweat as they pushed large creaking wagons through the streets, transporting their loads with maniacal urgency. No donkeys here.

Mombassa is not only an ancient port, it is also an island. It's separated by a few hundred metres of water from the expanse of Africa beyond. As we joined the mainland and broke free of the captivating mayhem of Mombassa

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