Plato's Cave

Having climbed to the top of Menengai crater, and had a wonder at the view of Nakuru and it's lake, elevated and elated in spirit - you will find that your journey is not yet done. You must then make your way down again via a precipitous, slippery and frankly treacherous natural ladder of twisted tree roots into the very bowels of the caldera. On the way you'll be asked to repent your sins. This is a “Holly place”.

View from the top

At the base is a vast circular cave, pitch black even after your eyes adjust, and inexplicably smokey. It is a site of pilgrimage. Just as my pupils strained to adjust to the dark, so my eyes also began to widen to the spirituality of the place. Even stranger things began to materialise, though the true corners of this religious sanctuary would always remain dark to me. Scattered around outside I was surprised to find unobtrusive little lean-to's, consisting of nothing but a scrap of potato sack pinned in some fashion to the walls of the crater. More surprising still were the feet poking out of one such barely-a-meter squared dwelling. I realised that there are actual people sheltered more or less efficiently beneath each such construction. Apparently they live there, fasting and praying for months at a time. Is this living of a very extreme kind, the kind of intense rarified existence that approximates oneself to God? Or in fact it's exact opposite? Does the process of approximation to death make one  in reality more, or less alive? You are at least, more acutely aware of your mortality when enduring such a degree of discomfort and hunger. And yet certainly the beings beneath each little annex exhibited worryingly minimal vital signs.

The place is decidedly beautiful, and I thoroughly enjoy the few hours spent within the crater. However, the vibrant green that contributes so much to the beauty of the place when passing through, is the consequence of a the sort of bone penetrating dampness which is already seeping under the seams of my Oasics waterproof. 30 days and 30 nights of slow disolution did not appeal, even to that most competitive side of my nature, which is so often the most persuasive.

The hight of the crater, the depth of its caldera, it's beauty, the fact that it's the only place where you will find snakes in Nakuru... it all feels very biblical. Aggressive graffiti telling me to “Trust in God and Fear” disturbs me slightly whilst I inoffensively and innocently contemplate my empty tummy and potential lunch. All this thought of fasting made me worry that I hadn't packed enough food. I wonder that I am vaguely amused and maybe slightly irritated by the sign, rather than profoundly moved. Maybe I will return some time in the future as the prodigal daughter to be redeemed, that would be more than alright with God so they say. Right now however, I feel more like the blissfully ignorant, errant sheep of the flock, obliviously munching through a pack of salt and vinegar crisps. The greater good's and bad's and terrors of this world passing without notice comfortably over my head.

'And Plato they say, could stow it away, I drink therefore I am!"

An even more surprising discovery still was an empty bottle of vodka in the centre of the cave, being filled drip by drip by natural spring water trickling from the ceiling. The deliberateness of the scene was striking, the brand, the hollowed out dint where it stood just in the right place to catch each drop. I wondered whether God was now being sponsored by Smirnoff, or whether I hadn't in fact accidentally come upon the Holy Grail. I remembered Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and though I'd better not drink from it, else I might disintegrate into dust, or worse still, achieve immortality and thus still be alive to see the End of Days.   

Missing my beautiful people, from a beautiful place - Menengai Crater

Whenever I catch a sight of Jamie, or Nina, when I am not expecting, nor they - when they are busy looking so much like themselves, so much as I know they are and love them to be, they seem to take on the qualities of almost a symbol or cartoon. How can the strength and depth of someone's reality for one, afford them qualities of fiction?

Part of the reason my heart lifts for the sight of them so is that they are the few I truly recognise, I see them really, and that is so much of why one comes to love someone. To share in the realness of each other, no superficiality or pretence or self-delusion. Sometime I realise they see me better than I see myself and I am overwhelmingly grateful that such a real me does exist, and that they can abide it.

But why is it that the better one knows and loves the more caricature like such a vision becomes? I suppose one could argue about the nature of 'realism', that wholly elusive and subjective concept. As soon as we see something as real, it almost immediately becomes too much of itself to be so, especially in memory, that astigmatic mirror of reality such as it is. I miss my Mum and my sister so much. I remember the last time I saw them as I left them at the airport. They have a dimension and a colour for me which is so much more than real.

I think of the fantastically beautiful plants I saw in Nairobi, in the palatial estate that Amy's grandparents inhabit. They looked so so beautiful to be real, too large and bright, my Nina's and my Jamie's. Was it any different in this case? These 'real' flowers were after all, deliberately placed and manicured. But then again they do actually grow that way by nature, they bloom and photosynthesise and wilt in this efflorescence of exaggeration. And then what else is the inside of ones head, other than such a garden in which you nurture and care meticulously for those that you know and love?