If you end up in hell, would you rather be grilled, steamed, or boiled? If you’re wondering whether there’s a difference, you’re not alone—I had the same question. We had been informed that all three options could be sampled at Hell’s Gate. So one Easter, feeling sufficiently energised for adventure, we headed there in search of the answer. The old road to Naivasha is said to be more scenic. We took it. It was wonderful. It is also said to have some delicious roasted maize. We bought two cobs. They were lousy. Then, as we finished littering the highway with half-eaten maize cobs, we reached the Italian church near Mai Mahiu. It could have been the ghosts of Italian prisoners of war, but our car veered off towards the church, and we stopped for a tête-à-tête with our Maker. Inside the POW church, we each repeated mea culpa, mea culpa sufficient times, concluded with mea culpa maxima, and then proceeded on our way. Knowing our proclivity for choma, it was a wonder we did not stop at Mai Mahiu for some. But in Naivasha, we bought a kilo—make it two—of the stuff and headed down Moi North Road (the same one that leads to Mau Eburu). At the turnoff to Hell’s Gate National Park, some locals tried to interest us in cycling. Some members do not cycle, so we proceeded down the gravel road to the gate. We were shocked. The gate was amazingly cool for hell. In fact, it reminded me of Mr Onyango’s promise.

A cold day in hell

Mr Onyango was the discipline master at Kangaru School. One evening, he found us skiving prep. We were in a prefect’s cubicle at Embu House, engrossed in Nderi Nduma’s utheci (Kangaru speak for tall tales). The walls were decorated with cut-out magazine pages featuring sleek cars and beautiful women. Pointing at the pictures, Mr Onyango told us, “You continue evading prep like this—it will be a cold day in hell the day you drive anything like any one of these cars.” Today, it was a cold day in Hell’s Gate. Further on, Fischer’s Tower (the “dragon tooth”) was still being climbed by rock climbers. We did not scale it—we photographed it instead and proceeded with our drive. Let’s make this simple, shall we? Yes. Here is the thing: the animals and landscape were just like those in the JW’s Watchtower magazine that you so much love, so I will spare you further narration. Refer to one.

The Gorge!

At the gate to the gorge, as you can see in the picture, they have put a big inscription that reads: HELL’S GATE: ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE I’m pulling your leg. That’s a line from Dante’s Inferno. But still, as we headed down the gorge, we were naturally apprehensive—and for good reason. A month earlier, a calamity had befallen some youthful hikers in the same gorge. To reassure ourselves, we asked our Maasai guide about that incident. It turns out he had been part of the guiding party, and he shared his version of events. “On that day,” he said, “it must have been raining somewhere on the Longonot side, uphill of Hell’s Gate. It did not look like heavy rain, and no one was thinking much of it. We had hiked quite well, although it was hectic keeping the youth together.” He continued, “Si wajua tu vijana. Wanataka kujificha wawili wawili kwa makona-kona.” I did not fully understand what he meant—but perhaps you do. Then he went on: “Karibu na jikoni (near the Devil’s Kitchen), tukaanza kusikia mngurumo mkubwa kama wa mashetani wamekata makali.” They were approaching the Devil’s Kitchen when they heard a massive roar—like a thousand demons stomping downhill while drunk on adulterated alcohol. Some hikers had already heard it and were running back the way they had come. He frantically herded the rest, urging them to climb the emergency exits out of the gorge. Most scampered and were saved. But about fifteen of them defied him. One youth said, “Wacha za ovyo, hii maji ni kukapcha kwa video,” as he pulled out his phone. He and his group took a vantage point about a metre up the gorge wall. “The video he captured has never been watched here on earth,” our Maasai guide concluded.

Grilled at the Devils Kitchen

Crestfallen, we descended into the gorge pensively—each of us reflecting on what could go wrong. But once down there, the place was so beautiful it was easy to lose oneself, soaking in the natural architecture etched into the walls. Still, the words of my mother never left my mind. On bright moonlit nights back home, when the countryside shimmered with stars so beautiful you felt like taking your dinner outside, she would remind us to retreat indoors: “Mweri ũrĩ ĩgũrũ, kĩrĩa mbũri kĩrĩ nthĩ”—the leopard hunts when the moon is bright. So, as the hike progressed, I kept one ear open for the roar of the devil—or even the pat-pat-pat of a baby demon. There was none. But there was a whiff of Satan’s perfume in the air—unmistakable, like rotten eggs. The temperature, too, reminded us that the interloper was not far off. Now and then, we encountered hot streams and pools—perhaps remnants of where a demon had taken a bath. They carried the same smell. Save for the heat, the hike in and out of the gorge was moderate but thrilling. I can comfortably say it was nothing like hell—it was wonderful.

Steamed and boiled at the Geothermal Spa

The geothermal spa was our next stop. If there was a hint of the devil in the gorge, at the spa the smell was overwhelming. Wherever the steam was coming from, someone must have been cooking something terrible. Depending on whom you ask, this is what happens down below: Geothermists: The temperature within the Earth’s crust causes molten material to rise toward the surface. Fortunately for us, before it gets there, it meets a vast underground lake a couple of kilometres below. The lava cools, and the water heats up—producing steam. Biblicists: According to the Book of Genesis and some Egyptian texts, there is a lake of fire and brimstone (sulphur) in the abyss, where Lucifer, Death, and Hades were cast after falling from God. This is where sins of incontinence are punished. Whichever version you believe, I don’t think we should be poking the underworld with pipes in the name of electricity.