After the usual Fort Jesus tour, where we were charged with the typical non-Kenyan rates worth telling stories about, my husband, daughter, and I decided to explore a side of Mombasa that’s not in the brochures. We ventured into the parts of the city without East African visitor rates, where there are no breadcrumbs to guide you—just faith that our weather-beaten, self-taught, multi-lingual guide knew where he was going. Our destination: Mama Golparii’s, the medipreneur.
Our elder daughter had been suffering from severe eczema, and we had heard about a Persian medicapreneur, Mama Golparii, who lived deep in a maze of tightly packed flats connected by winding alleys and stories. It was said that in order for our daughter to be fully healed, she needed to apply a special natural vaseline that would supposedly make all eczema-inducing vermin flee.
When we met Mama Golparii, she was unassuming, yet confident—she handled our daughter’s ailment with the ease and charm of someone who knew her remedy would work. Her confidence made us believe we would soon be spreading her praises across East Africa. And there were cats everywhere, a fitting backdrop to her mystical practice.
The vaseline she gave us resembled dried sorghum seeds blended into a banana smoothie. It didn’t have a distinct smell, but it carried an air of cheerful certainty. She handed us the prescription with a smile, and after paying her, we thanked her for her generosity, wishing her continued success in her career.
As we made our way back, we passed a mix of luxurious apartments and more modest accommodations. Our guide casually mentioned that pirates had once used their loot to build homes for their families in these very areas. The contrast between wealth and humility was striking.
With our daughter’s healing underway, we decided to treat ourselves to a camel ride. The camel, however, was not the family-friendly type—more like a hardworking beast of burden. It nearly flung me off as I struggled to balance on its hairy, indestructible hump. This wasn’t the majestic camel of King Solomon’s era, meant for royal parades, but rather a working-class camel used to carrying heavy loads of food and water. I sensed the camel’s growing impatience, but all I needed was a quick photograph, not a full ride back to the hotel.
Mombasa, we realized, is much more than what the tourist magazines show. It’s a place full of hidden stories, waiting to be uncovered by those with an inquisitive heart. I wholeheartedly endorse tourism—but the kind that goes beyond the glossy brochures and dives deep into the real life of the city.