The Barachah Guesthouse

6 April, 2009 3:26am
"I've never before seen a person actually shake from fear" --Sanne

It was only a three day trip. The plan was to travel to Mombasa for a few days to promote bags and skirts sewn by the HIV women from KENWA. We could sell the products to the various hotels along beaches while at the same time stealing a chance to check out Old Town and the coast. We needed to budget. That's all we could think about as we searched our travel guides for the cheapest hostel we could find. The Barachah Guesthouse, at 900ksh($10) per night for a single room, seemed like the perfect option. Sanne and I are familiar with sharing a bed anyway, as privacy has become a foreign commodity whilst rooming together in Kenya. On Monday April 6th, at precisely 2:14am, a series of events occurred that taught me one of the biggest lessons I needed to learn. The Barachah Guesthouse...a name I now will not soon forget.

At the present moment, we're standing under a shaky fan in a box of a room, with dirty paint peeling off the walls, fluorescent lighting, t.v. in a locked metal frame, and one twin bed under a blue mosquito net. It's so hot my face is constantly beading with sweat, and it doesn't matter that the water spitting haphazardly out of the shower head is not warm. Before we arrived we hadn't showered in 4 days, so the sole availability of water in general is a highlight of the trip. I'm covered in mosquito bites and wish I could bathe in a tube of extra strength Benadryl. The night prior, we paid a cover charge and $2 per shot of gin just to enter the cheesiest discotec in all of Mombasa. The good news is despite my neglect to take anti-malarial pills, Sanne has just informed me that gin is actually used as a preventative as well. They used it in World War I, clinically proven. I'm safe for now. It's our last evening before heading back to Nairobi and, completely exhausted, we drifted off to sleep at about 9pm.

BANG! BANG! I'm lured awake. BANG! Eyes open. KICK! BANG! I jerk to my left towards Sanne and our eyes lock in alarm. CRACK! "SOMEONE'S BREAKING IN," we blurt out in unison as we tear off the mosquito net and jump to our feet. Before we realize the commotion is coming from next door, Sanne is already dressed and I've lunged toward the light. BANG BANG! I can't breathe. The only thing keeping our door shut is two small locks normally found on elementary school bathroom stalls. BANG! I'm searching. Frantically searching. WHERE DID I PUT MY KNIFE?? Where! I threw it. I threw it somewhere last night and I have no idea where it is. The entire contents of my backpack and purse are now spilled across the floor. I'm desperately tearing through every bag I have and I find a small bottle of gin. I can use this. I'm sure I can use it...maybe smash it across his head? I put it aside and finally locate the small Swiss Army knife hiding in a plastic bag with my towel. Sanne is at the edge of the bed with her pepper spray and she's silent, listening, waiting. I'm sweating profusely and I'm shaking. I'm actually convulsing, but can't stop. We are completely silent. Someone is breaking into the room next door. They are kicking the lock off the door and all I can think of is, as soon as they're done, we're next.

"Shhhhh," she whispers as I sit next to her, "It's okay, just be calm." How am I supposed to be calm when I'm preparing myself to fight for my life?? Do I even know how to use this knife?? Please let adrenaline take over. "Can we get out of the window?" I barely whisper. "No, I tried," she responds. Okay, so we're trapped. It's fight or flight, and since we only have one option left we're going to have to stop this person at our door. We turn off the ceiling fan so that we can hear what's going on, but there is only the rhythmic banging. "Maybe they're breaking in because they know no one is in there," she says. "Or maybe they think it's us," I expostulate. Neither the security guard nor hotel staff can be trusted, for godsake they're probably in on it. I'm still shaking, and I think what a terrible reaction I have to panic mode. I am also thinking that I'm a complete idiot for thinking two white girls can stay alone in a cheap hostel in a third world country. I am really scared. I've never been this afraid before. We're poised for what may happen next, and while both of us have our phones in hand, there is no one to call. I'm clutching my $20 Nokia mobile, but have no idea who I'm dialing. No one even knows we're here. Even if they did, there is not much that can be done at this point, it's up to us. BANG! BANG! Creeeaaaakkkk. They made it inside. Mild rummaging, a bottle breaks. Sanne is keeping me sane, but we both know the reality. If we're next, it will be any second now. I don't even know when it happened, but suddenly I see I'm completely dressed. What seems like hours pass, straining to hear any clue, until finally the iron-rod "security" door to the lobby squeaks open and shut. Ten more minutes pass and we hear voices from the hallway, speaking something other than Kiswahili. They sound stressed but I cannot understand what they're saying. We can hear the t.v. sets turn on from a few rooms, but we're still just squatting by our door. Afraid to show anyone we're inside, we rule out the option to go outside and decide just to hold out until daylight. At least for now the immediate danger has passed. The intruder is gone or, in any case, has not tried to break into our room. I wish more than anything I was in New York, safely inside an apartment with someone I can trust.

The fear has died down as we're lying on the bed, lights on, packed and waiting for the time to pass. Cautionary behavior still on high, voices at a low volume, we review the night. It's now 4:08am, just a few more hours. "I don't think I can sleep," says Sanne, as her heavy eyelids flutter closed. And then, leaving a hollow pit of dread in my stomach she adds, "You better be careful traveling alone in South Africa." I shift my gaze away from her, to the door, the t.v., and finally to the blue sheets beneath us... "I think I'll write."

It's almost sunrise. As I lie awake writing in this dingy hotel room, I hear the faint echo of the Muslim prayer sung over the loud speaker. It's become a chant of comfort for me, religiously occurring multiple times per day across the city of Mombasa. Heard from wherever you are, it's a sense of community, of belonging. It's a reminder that for these few minutes of reflection, in this world you are not alone. To be honest, this is hardly comparable to some of the things that happen to others while traveling. It could have been a million times worse and I realize that. However, it was an experience I needed to have, a character builder to make me wiser. My naivety begins to melt away and though I don't want to become jaded, I know my new mindset has already started formulating. I recently read the prologue to Emma's War, a book about a relief worker who married a warlord from Uganda. The author's final thought really rings true to my feelings about my experience thus far. She writes, "...the experiences of people like me, people who went there dreaming they might help and came back numb with disillusionment, yet forever marked."