Smelly socks in Kenya

I’m sitting on my bed in Nairobi, with my wet and smelly socks hanging from the mosquito net and the air-conditioning on 30 degrees. The room’s starting to sweat a little, and the aroma of eau-de-sock is stripping paint off the walls. But these soggy foot protectors are reminders of my inadvertent discovery this weekend.

It’s difficult to write about a place you don’t want anyone to go to, as its isolation is what made it special. But I’m confident that if you ask me directions, you’ll probably end up in Somalia, as I had no idea where I was going, and found this by being (unsurprisingly) a bit lost.

Even by my standards this wasn’t smart.

Having no plans or place to stay in a foreign country is not recommended. By the time we landed late in Nairobi I was cross, frustrated and feeling very Paddington Bear lost. So, brazenly ignoring the taxi touts and hustlers, I strode up to Avis, handed over a piece of plastic, hired a car and headed to any travellers first port of call — the Backpackers. It’s still the crumbling, dirty showered, block drained Mecca of travel grunge I remember (which makes me feel hardy and adventurous). But its leathered ex-army Brit owner convinced me I had to head far out of town with the cheerful advice of “When you get raped, do come crying to me.”

There’s little to motivate me to wake up at dawn, but this gem of a line had me sneaking out of my tent and brushing my teeth in the cold to escape His Morbid Lecherousness the next morning.

And so, armed with my trusty Rough Guide, I headed north, towards the slopes of Mount Kenya. I coped with Nairobi traffic by driving as badly as I could whilst trying to read maps and avoid potholes.

Four hours and an impressive bit of 4X4 driving in my Avis Rent-an-Impractical Car, I rolled across my final river, skidded through my last donga, and slid to a halt in the misty hilltops of Castle Forest.

Probably because of its silly name, this is one of those rare places which has still to be discovered.

It is an old house, built by the Brits as a mountain retreat, and so far off any decent road that few tourists make the effort. The prices are as generous as the dark teak wood flooring and the views which wrapround to Mount Kenya and the plains below. Its claim to fame is that Lizzy was staying here and not the famed Treetops, when she got the message that her dad had died, leaving her as Queen of the Realm. Thankfully she didn’t graffiti her initials on the floorboards, otherwise Castle Forest would be overrun with Americans and monarchists from Leamington Spa.

And unpacking in my room which looked onto the vast stretch of rainforest, I realised how lucky I was to have found a place so completely on Kerryn Radar. And of course that they had accommodation (there was no way I was leaving if they were full). So I slipped out to explore the forest and brush up on Ray Mears’ advice for when I would eventually get lost. Instead I got caught in one of those rainstorms that 1980’s posters painted as romantic (wet girl, staring up at the sky laughing) which in reality translates to wet girl, staring up at the sky going WHY?

So I retraced my puddles and sat in front of the fire, steaming, but with wine.

I raised a disbelieving eyebrow on this morning’s epic hike, when Hudson my guide, told me that all the paths through the forest were made by elephants. But it’s true! I spent my time hopping over puddles caused by Dumbo’s footprints and trying not to fall on my arse into elephant poo.

But the magic was slithering down a steep cliff face path to the river, then taking our shoes off and wading against the fast flowing current, to see the most beautiful waterfall thundering down the mountain.

I know I’m not the first person to see it, but I imagine this is how David Livingston felt when he stumbled across something unexpected. Not only did I feel thoroughly insignificant, but the twenty first century suddenly melted to pre-history. Against the backdrop of giant ferns and the canopy of rain forest, there should have been woolly mammoths and little men in loincloths.
Instead I got wet socks and an arse of elephant poo as I tried to clamber delicately back up the hill.

So, as I try and breathe through the fug of sock in Nairobi and face up to a week of work, I do feel a little smug.

Kerryn Radar may be thoroughly treacherous. But when it works, it’s magic.