The Worst Bar.

I have always loved the idea of a pool bar. Not that I'm any kind of swimmer, but the idea of someone swimming to a bar and ordering a pint of their preferred malt-based alcoholic beverage has always evoked an image of easy leisure. You can't even be bothered to get out of the pool, towel off and then call for a waiter to bring you your Heineken in a tall, frosted glass any more; all you have to do is swim to the bar and your pint will be waiting for you!

I am writing this while stewing in rage. I do not - DO NOT! - like hotels. They are impersonal, full of strangers, and their mission in life is to separate you from your wallet's contents in the manner that a Mungiki separates a matatu conductor from the wages of his labour. I find them to be inhospitable; even the finest fine-dining hotel with the highest number of stars does not hold a candle to my hovel that is, despite its serious shortcomings (which Mrs Mwangi should address), welcome, comfortable and...mine. I am also several drams into the inebriating effects of my least favourite alcoholic beverage: Tusker Malt.

Since arriving at the Eden Rock Resort and Spa (it is neither resort-ish or spa-like), I am confronted with one indignity after another. I do not feel safe, let us start by acknowledging that. The hotel is too empty. Kenyans have been offered #TembeaKenya by the asylum-escaped mandarins of Phyllis Kandie, but none of them has thought to take a chance on the Eden Rock. It is eerie sitting in an empty restaurant and an abandoned pool bar. (It wasn't really empty; Mwongeli, Ndinda and their two companions chose to assault me with an unending stream of joyous, lugubrious Kikamba.)

A hotel, I believe, is known by its bar. Let us begin with the unpardonable sin of not stocking up on my favourites: Heineken, Corona, Pilsner or Absolut. Then comes the fact that it took the ndauwo fifteen - Fifteen! - minutes to find the barman - barwoman. She turned out to have the disposition of an accountant with haemmorrhoids. She was no fun. Then it took her a further fifteen minutes to find the key to the fridge, and a box of matches. (Dunhills do not light themselves, see?)

But what discombobulated me was the deserted bar. I was the only patron until that shady lady with the thirst for my Dunhills turned up. I know she was not really interested in them, but in the absence of even a transistor radio tuned to BBC Swahili service, I had lost all interest in human interaction for the night.

The facilities are shit. No, really.They are crap. Corroded fixtures. Leaky taps. Too hot/too cold shower-heads. Non-communicative remote-controlled A/Cs. Tasteless, banal fare. Spectacularly lazy - even by Mombasa's notoriously lax standards - hotel staff. I hate this place. I want it razed to the ground and the property handed over to Serena or Sarova for a fresh start. I hate it, hate it, hate it! I want to go home. I wanted to leave the instant I set foot in the dingy, dark, small reception area. That my employer allowed me to be bivouacked in this shit-hole is unpardonable.

I will lay the blame squarely on the shoulders of Joseph Ole Lenku, David Kimaiyo and al Shabaab. The fucked up tourism sector now consigns me to this hell. I wonder how many Kenyans are suffering these petty indignities. Not that Eden Rock's proprietors should go Scott-free. They have managed to turn a potential gold mine into a pit. It is a shit-hole. I'd advise them to leave the service industry and enter the more lucrative transport sector as silent partners in the Mungiki's extortion enterprise. It is the only way that they will feel right at home. I am in hell. It is the high season down here, Yet this place feels like it would be right at home among the sell-as-many-covers-as-you-can operations on Accra Road. Yes, it is that bad. The worst place in the world.