The Film Premier

We were invited to a film premier through work last Friday night and it had to be the worst film I have ever seen in my life!

First of all, I didn’t know what to wear. I know that’s not relevant to the film, but I’m just setting the scene. There was no dress code specified but previous ‘premiers’ have been black tie events and the advice that filtered back to us was that in Kenya people generally veer toward the smarter end of the scale. So, dressed to the nines, we headed to the relevant shopping centre/cinema complex and duly milled around watching the pre film entertainment which comprised; men on stilts, fire eaters, African drummers and ladies in traditional dress. Quite a spectacle, though it dragged on a bit. Shoppers who were piling out of the supermarket with their stacked trolleys stopped and watched and I began to feel overdressed and a bit chilly.

The event was laid on to mark the launch of festival to celebrate six recently made African films. It became apparent that many of those invited had decided to stay at home and shoppers were heavily outnumbering guests. As the speeches began, we had our first reservations about the film we were about to watch. Produced in Nigeria to ‘international’ standard, it was called the ‘Amazing Grace’ and was about a man named John Newton (circa 1700), who was a slave trader… Ok, John Newton was played by someone of Lock, Stock and 2 Smoking Barrels fame, but boy, has he fallen on hard times? As we headed up to Screen one, the manager of the cinema chain felt compelled to pre-warn us about the film, ‘of course, this is the weakest one of the festival, and a bit cringe making at times. It makes you wince a bit, but it’s ok’. Great.
So, seated next to a row of Kenyan staff from my husband’s office we sat through a lame, low budget, two dimensional film about kidnapping, killing and raping slaves taken from Nigerian settlements by white traders and how the protagonist, John Newton finally came to the realisation that the slaves were after all humans, and not actually the ‘animals’ that he first believed. The whole film was based on a highly tenuous premise that the hymn ‘Amazing Grace’ was inspired by a tribal song heard by John Newton whilst ‘slaving’ in Nigeria, thus proving how he had come to love the people he enslaved. However, the postscript to the film stated that he carried on trading in slaves for the following five years after penning the famous hymn. This seemed to disprove any theory that John Newton had seen the error of his ways. We left in an embarrassed hurry with our heads bowed low and decided to be more discerning with work invitations in future.

In the meantime, the whole of the Karen suburb of Nairobi have decided to loose weight and get fit. Rather than making new years resolutions, we start in September, the beginning of the academic year (more time, as kids back at school) and after the lengthy summer holidays (having over indulged in the delicious ‘home’ cuisine of Europe). There is a ‘boot camp’ that you can sign up to which involves a strict diet, daily exercise timetable and parting with a large amount of cash for in return for that one on one supervision. Or you can do it yourself, and visit one of the plentiful gyms where exercise classes are packed with jostling housewives full of good intentions. It’s hell. We are crashing into one another whilst grapevine-ing across the ‘studio’ and are at risk of neighbourly impact whilst performing tae bo kicks. You are lucky if you catch a glimpse of the instructor at the front of the room or have the faintest clue how to follow the routine going on around you.

Last week I had a ‘toys out of the pram’ moment, when the advertised instructor was replaced by a new man who dared to hold a ‘step’ class instead of ‘body conditioning’. After loud protestations to the manager of the gym of; ‘I hate step, it’s bad for my knees, why is he doing step?’ I stalked out of the studio and headed off to the treadmill for a run. A bit embarrassing in hindsight, but it was the principal of the thing. We usually round up the work out with a ‘fat’ (rather than skinny) latte and discuss current issues concerning school and children. However, with all this exercise one knee is twinging and I am beginning to realise that I’m running out of time for anything else, like being with my one year old daughter whilst her sisters are at school, or writing this blog. Plus, I’m so exhausted at the end of each day, as if waking up for the school run at 6am is not bad enough. So my ‘September’ resolution has lasted precisely four weeks and I’ve decided it’s better to be heavier, happier and less tired. Although perhaps I will miss the lattes?

While England was sweltering through a heat wave, the residents of the Karen suburb, outside Nairobi were starting a new fashion for wearing locally made sheepskin boots. UK summer is Nairobi’s winter and here the sun struggles to break through low grey cloud on most days. We wrap up in jeans and jumpers and light the log fire by lunch time. Because July and August are ‘summer’ holidays, most expats escape the gloom to go Europe for the duration.

The ankle height sheepskin boots resemble those that your granny might wear when all other shoes are ‘too tight’. They intended to be worn as slippers I think, but are popularly seen out coupled with jeans or even summer dresses. There are even children’s sizes available for the fashion conscious kids and they are undeniably cosy, but incredibly unattractive. A friend’s visiting mother commented ‘are those what they call ugly boots darling?’ (I think she was referring to Ugg boots).

Expats and white Kenyans here are highly fashion conscious, but as accessibility to UK high street fashions is limited, we have resorted to a home grown sort of look. Popping down to the local Karen supermarket, mums and daughters are clad in full skirted minis made from local kikoy and kanga fabrics, wide leather beaded belts, flat suede knee boots with bare legs, spaghetti strapped vests or embroidered kaftans thrown together with strings of beads and all topped either by a froth of long unkempt hair or a leather cowboy style hat. It’s hard to keep up. Wearing discernable makeup is a definite no no and definitely uncool. Brightly coloured swirling patterned tunic shirts made from local cotton fabrics, with occasional scattered sequins; leather skirts with hand stitched Maasai beads and cowry shells and long suede coats; woven sisal handbags and Indian silver rings and bangles. De rigueur, is a round the year tan with a coating of red dust that conjures up the impression that you have just stepped out of a Landrover, straight from a wild and extended camping safari! Oh yes, and incidentally the pashmina never seems to go out of fashion here. (So versatile!)

To go in search of a supply of more conventional clothes means venturing into local mitumba (second hand) markets. It’s possible to buy not just cheap clothes but toys, shoes and curtains all freshly shipped from Europe in forty foot containers. Many items still have their ‘Oxfam £1.50’ paper labels attached, but at the markets here you are often paying a fraction of even that price. Containers of donated second hand clothing are distributed via traders who pay the cost of clearing the freight and then re-sell the bales of clothes to stall holders.

Shopping at these markets has all the thrill of the chase that you might get on an English city high street during the sales. The excitement of uncovering a barely worn OshKosh or Ralph Lauren dress for the children, or a ‘normally out of my price range’ pair of Diesel jeans in excellent condition is quite a rush! Burberry mackintoshes, Timberland boots and Calvin Klein sweatshirts can often be rooted out. Entrepreneurial housewives have made businesses out of buying up mitumba clothes, then selling them on via a word of mouth/text message network from home. The concept is successful as it saves customers from braving the heat, dust and smells of the markets.

In fact, the mitumba shopping experience is quite unique and not for the faint hearted. During rainy season Wellington boots are a must and standing in the hot sun sorting through all descriptions of skirts, trousers or t-shirts is no easy task. Wise shoppers remove jewellery, tuck cash in pockets and bras, stringing a mobile phone around their necks. There have been occasional muggings and car jackings, but the stall holders are always friendly and open to bargaining. Clothes and shoes are piled on tables along narrow muddy or dusty walkways. It can feel a little claustrophobic when one wanders deep into the maize of ally ways. Often the traders specialise exclusively in jeans or only trainers, or belts, fleece jumpers, or linen clothes. This makes searching a little easier. More sophisticated stalls hang clothes on hangers then string them up on ropes for easier viewing. You can occasionally find a small designated changing area, but these luxuries are reflected in slightly higher prices charged. Heavily laden hand carts come careering past and there’s gossip, food cooking and radios blaring. The key is to look out for quality labels, good condition and bring plenty of change or you will be stranded as your stall holder disappears for hours in search of fifty bob.

The Maasai market is a good venue for gifts and accessories and a similar shopping experience to ‘mitumba’. Alternatively, there is a limited choice of more conventional clothes shops in Nairobi. One can either visit Indian or traditional African outfitters, overpriced shopping centre chain stores or go to vastly expensive chi chi boutiques tucked away in private gardens who sell local designs produced by white Kenyan fashion goddesses. Leather and beads are usually the theme. The Maasai tribesperson look is in. However, it’s a sanitised version without the smelly red shuka (traditional cloak) or car tyre sandals! Needless to say, all the goods in the shop are ‘stunning’; ‘unique’ and individually crafted ‘works of art’, ‘authentic’ and inspired by the indigenous peoples of Kenya. Each item is handmade, or embellished by the small gaggle of Maasai women who can be seen sitting outside on the grass outside happily conversing in Maa. You cannot help but wonder what their share of the £100 share of the price tags might be?
With high taxes impeding the import of new mainstream clothes, we must continue to either shop ahead for a twelve month supply of clothes, shoes and bags whilst on annual trips to Europe, or run the risk of looking very strange to those khaki clad tourists who pass through the ‘safari capital’ Nairobi. In fact I did wear my sheepskin boots out of the house this morning, but just to drop my daughter to the 7am school bus.

In car dvd player is no more

Living in the Karen suburb of Nairobi has it's up sides. Large gardens, proximity to adequate shops and schools, distance from the smog and chaos of the city's traffic. But it also has down sides, small community, endless gossiping and a 'not very international' group of friends. However, it's enjoyable and daily life can be fairly eventful.

Just before travelling to England for a summer trip (we missed the heatwave), our landcruiser was broken into whilst sitting in the drive outside the house. The two on duty askaris (night watchmen) were unaware of any perpetrators wandering through the plot, getting into the car (ok, we did leave it unlocked) and ripping out our stereo, in car dvd player (invaluable for keeping the kids quiet through long journeys) and pocketing my ipod. The first indication we had that anything was amiss was when my husband jumped into the car to go to work, and reached to switch on the radio only to find a tangle of wires hanging from a gaping hole in the dash board, and lots of muddy footprints on the floor. Damn it!

After an agonising hour or two, we decided to switch to another security company who employ our nightwatchmen. This had been the final straw that broke the camel's back, as there have been quite a few cases where in spite of the house alarm screaming and emergency backup vans beeping at the gate, our guys were later found tucked up asleep and oblivious to any disturbance. This is understandable, as it must be almost impossible to stay awake all night doing nothing but trying to keep warm and dry but we decided to try out a better equipped security company with more backup and systems where watchmen have to punch in hourly etc.

It was sad to say goodbye to our existing guards. We agreed to continue contributing to the medical costs for one nightwatchman and his wife who are HIV positive and obviously wrote off our contribution to the funeral cost's of another watchman's father (who recently died of drinking illegally concoted booze) and the loan he had agreed when we bought him a bicycle so that he could get to and from his computer course quickly between shifts.

Went to England for a holiday and bought a new in car dvd player and ipod. Then the security alert hit the news and was forced to put these valuables in my main baggage. Having struggled through check in with three children and 5 bags plus one car seat, tasted baby food and kids drinks in Heathrow security, endured 8 hours of trays of food and cups of tea hitting the deck, trips to the loo and disapproving glances, children lying on the floor fighting and screaming through Nairobi passport check it was almost inevitable that one bag might go astray. Watching the conveyor belt go round and round minus the holdall with my clothes, shoes, dvd player and moulinex blender was almost more than I could bear. Reporting a lost bag took more time and two and a half weeks later I am still waiting for news. My daughter had to start her new school in a frenzy after locating a Kenyan supplier of name tapes at the last minute and wearing school shoes half a size too big. (At least I had those). I suppose a large electrical item and a selection of moulinex blender knives made sure the bag would go no further than Heathrow. I should have known; but living abroad means you must use every last gram of luggage allowance shipping locally unobtainable things home.

My husband went to the main Toyota dealership yesterday to see if they could replace or reconstruct our smashed dashboard. The answer was unfortuately no. 'what happened to that landcruiser?' he asked when he spotted a vehicle peppered with bullet holes being patched. 'He was having a bad day' came the laconic reply.