Hell’s Kitchen

On the road for Hell’s Kitchen – Dusty roads, baobab trees, and approaching villages.

We decided to visit. It was a good opportunity to test out Bruno’s repairs on the wheel of the Toyota, since the road was said to be rough. In fact, it wasn’t. It took us less than 2 hours to drive the 40km from Malindi, the last 25km on non-tarred road. That might sound like a long trip, but we had been expecting worse. Totoyaya performed up-to-par, so kudos to Bruno for the successful repairs.

We reached Marafa at noon. That was a bad idea. This place isn’t nicknamed “Hell’s Kitchen” for nothing! It was hot. Hot.Hot.Hot.Hot.Hot. Just the memory of the heat makes me break out in a sweat. There was no way either of us was walking 80 meters down into that depression – almost to sea level – where we wouldn’t benefit from the merciful occasional gusts of coolish wind, where instead the sun’s noon-hour rays baked down onto the rock, turning the depression into an oven.

Thanks, but no thanks.

And so we sat and waited.  Bruno, still a bit under the weather from his cold, was completely kaput.  I stuck a wet cucumber slice on my forehead and sprayed myself with our infamous Kalahari-Desert water-spray-bottle, disused since Namibia.

While looking out at the Marafa Depression from above, I read about it.  The local name “Nyari” translates as “the place broken by itself”.  I learned that, along with the regular geological explanation of its formation, there are also a few local tales explaining its existence in a much more interesting way.  One legend tells that a long time ago, a little village existed where now we see the depression.  One day, the villagers received a message from God demanding they move their village elsewhere.  In a panic, all the villagers quickly departed.  All but one stubborn old woman.  And suddenly, the abandoned town vanished – the woman as well – and in its place stood the Marafa Depression.

Another, even more appealing story, states that there was once a family so rich living here that they used to bathe in their valuable cow’s milk.  God was furious with their excessive behavior.   In his wrath, he opened the ground beneath their home, and buried them within.  The red and white colors of the sand and rock – which represent cow’s milk and bloodshed – remind us of the dangers of excessive living.

Around 5pm, the heat and sun began to subside, and we toyed with the notion of walking down into the depression for a closer look.  Bruno wasn’t so sure.  By this time, the day’s tourists had arrived from the coast, and were beginning to wander around the place.  “Hey, if the old grannies can walk down there, then so can we!” I urged.

So we did.  We spent about 90 minutes walking around the depression, me testing out the panoramic setting on my new point-and-shoot camera.  The light and the color were great at this time.  And the depression was much longer and more impressive than what I could initially see from the car park.  It was certainly large enough that we felt as though we had the place to ourselves.  Except for the occasional crackling of rock and fleeting movements behind the sandstone.

Could it be an animal? A fox?  Can animals really survive down here?  Would they want to?

A few giggles and a black head popping out behind a boulder eventually revealed a few local children spying on us. By the end of the walk, it seemed we had a whole village of school children pretending not to follow us.  This is not my favorite of situations, as it never ceases to make me feel like an alien or a zoo animal.

When we reached our car, the kids continued observing us from a distance.  An Italian woman approached them with a bag of sweets, and they swarmed on her like flies.  We could hear her shouting, “Pole, pole” (“Slowly, slowly”), but they’d already torn the bag of sweets from her and were off to get their sugar high.  I suddenly understood why they’d been following us.

“They cut school a lot,” a local guide regretfully informed us.  “For them, a day spent at Hell’s Kitchen yields more than a day in class.”

I made a mental note never to give sweets out to kids.  Sometimes, our acts of seeming kindness do more harm than good.

The sun began to set, right over the depression.  Unfortunately, it was cloudy that night, so we didn’t get to see the golden rays of the sun slowly transform the colors inside the depression.  It was still beautiful, but I’m told the sunsets here can be absolutely magical on the right evening.

The part I looked forward to most was spending the night here.  There is no official camping, but we’d been given permission to park the camper here overnight.  They even had a newly-built toilet and shower block!  After the sunset, the tourists slowly left and we had the place to ourselves for twelve glorious hours.  The silence was absolute.  The stars, mesmerizing.  The canyon, mysterious in its darkness.  And the early-morning breakfast overlooking the depression, the rising sun coloring the sandstone pink, and the bright green and yellow bee-eaters chirping and swooping around us – priceless.

Our camper is near the upper-left hand corner of this photo. This is where we camped for the night!

Best Time to Visit: early morning and late afternoon

Price: 300ksh/pp (less than $4US) and 500ksh for a guide (optional)

Getting there: Easy with your own car, but expensive if hiring a driver from Malindi. One or two daily matatus from Malindi to Marafa for backpackers.

Where to spend the night:  Camping in front of the Marafa Depression is an absolute MUST!