Drug and alcohol fuelled Kenya Cowboys?

Christmas is coming up and since getting home I learned that two people I know have had break-ins while they were at home at night, one at gun point. Anything like this always sends ripples across the community and you hope it’s not going to be you next. However, I also heard about friends in London being threatened by teenaged girl gangs, or even mugged outside their children’s schools whilst dropping off and picking up. One friend’s friend had their hospital bag stolen from their car when going in to have a baby, which seems a bit desperate. After all who really wants breast pads, disposable pants and tiny baby vests? Also, we are quick to assume that it’s just our friends and neighbours in the small expat circle who are targets for robberies, but when I was moaning about a rise in crime to a bank teller in Karen she said ‘well I was held at gun point in my house last year’. Statistics say that the middle class Kenyan professionals are worst hit by crime in Nairobi.

There was another annoying article in the UK newspapers a couple of weeks ago. It was in the Guardian G2 on 26th October and talked about whites who say they are Kenyans but send their children to school in England and talk of ‘drug and alcohol fuelled Kenya cowboys’ who are involved in tourism and conservation in Kenya. I’m not a white Kenyan, but still feel quite offended on their behalf. It’s so often the case that a journalist comes over from Europe, interviews a few eccentrics (with an average age of 80) whose views are at best slightly old fashioned, who then creates a picture parodying ‘ex-colonials’ living in ‘happy valley’, who are oblivious to the world that is going on around them and totally stuck in a time warp, unable to move on. If you interview anyone of 80 they are invariably stuck in a time warp, whichever country they live in. Their houses have not been redecorated since the 1950s and they still refer to the war or in the case of Kenya ‘the Emergency or Mau Mau’ on a regular basis. Most whites in Kenya are getting on with living in a multi cultural society. They are not land owners but are working together in businesses with bottom lines and profit and loss accounts, exactly like the rest of the world. If a thirty to forty year old was interviewed, black or white, they would probably have similar goals, aiming to earn enough to educate their children to the highest level achievable within their budget. There are many wealthy black Kenyans and Asians who send their children overseas to be educated and many whites in Kenya who find they cannot afford to do this. Finally, it’s not quite fair to make drugs and alcohol peculiar to white Kenya cowboys. I suppose it just makes a good story and sells newspapers to drum up extra racial conflict and make Kenya sound like a backwater.

London Rediscovered

What a thrill to jump in a taxi and go to the airport on Monday morning. The memories of six and a half years ago before I had children came flooding back. The prospect of sitting back, selecting a film to watch and flipping through the in-flight magazine for eight hours, uninterrupted, was down right exciting! Weirdly, the airport was whisper quiet and I almost thought I’d got the wrong day or time but in fact the flight (and airport) was just fairly empty. While sitting in the waiting room with café latte in one hand and exchanging final texts with granny in the other, I noticed that there were no children in evidence at all and everyone was just staring into space, patiently waiting. Without the noise and humdrum of three children dropping crumbs, asking for drinks and needing to go to the loo, I felt a bit like I had forgotten my left leg.

London was a bit of a mystery at times too. Now there are ‘oyster cards’ to use on the buses and tubes. I went up to the West End one day and found I couldn’t get on the bus from Victoria to Piccadilly because I needed to buy a ticket in a machine first (now found at all bus stops) and the machine said; ‘exact money only’ ‘no change given’. There were no handy shops around on Grosvenor Place to find change, so I got on the bus and asked if I could buy a ticket from the driver and he simply said; ‘No’. Sheepishly I got off again and hailed a black cab instead, which was obviously twice the price of the bus fare. Pay phones ask you to put in minimum 30p instead of 10p. There are really futuristic machines to buy train tickets from at Victoria Station (and at Heathrow airport for printing your own boarding pass) and if you are lucky someone in uniform offers to help ‘just this once, so that next time you can do it on your own’. Even at the photo shop, I had to select pictures to print by touching a computer screen.

Everyone’s wearing different clothes too. Skinny jeans tucked into knee high boots (we’re still doing bootleg outside boots in Kenya). Warm coats and gloves (which we never need in Nairobi). I was lucky it stayed dry as I had to make do with layering jumpers, cardigans and a granny knit woollen scarf to stay warm, although ‘layering’ is in I understand? The shops are full of ‘girl boxer’ knickers and other odd garments and it’s dark by 4pm. It felt strange to set out on a shopping trip in the dark.

I had a wonderful time and quickly slipped into ‘spinster’ mode, doing exactly as I pleased. A 12 hr sick bug befell one daughter while I was away; otherwise it seemed to go without a glitch. I kept asking if the children wanted to know ‘how many sleeps ‘til Mummy gets home?’, but I gather they never asked. It was such a treat.

A highlight of the week at home, I learned on my return, was the 4 x 4 competition on Sunday that B had taken part in, in MY car, with all three children and granny in the back, and granddad with his eyes shut in the front seat. Apparently they were scaling the sides of a chalk quarry when someone shouted out ‘there’s a baby in that one!’ They returned triumphant having taken first place, but couldn’t stay for prize giving, as they needed to get home for kids supper.

Lost Passport ...

I had this plan to escape. I’ve never left the children before but with my parents-in-law ensconced here for a few weeks I had the bright idea of hot footing it to London to meet my new niece. My in laws offered to do school runs and keep the home fires burning in my absence – hooray! The prospect of flying alone and uninterrupted and cruising around London without three small children in tow seemed almost too good to be true.

Plans were progressing well when a spanner was thrown into the works as I glanced into our passport drawer and discovered that mine was missing. Countdown began, as I had three working days until leaving the country, but I was fairly sure that the passport was in the safe hands of my husband in his office, as it had been needed occasionally through the missing suitcase fiasco with Kenya Airways. The first day I looked vaguely around the house and asked if the passport might be at the office, but by evening he had forgotten to look as it had been a crazy day at work. At lunchtime on Thursday I received a phone call to say that my passport was definitely not in the office and must be at home. My heart sank and I felt completely sick. I didn’t know whether to tear around the house lurching from one possible hiding place to the next, or sit down and think rationally about how to get to England without a passport. After many frantic short telephone calls comprising of dialogue like; ‘have you checked X?’ answer; ‘yes, oh and have you checked in the Y?’, ‘No, but I’m sure I won’t find it there!’

My father-in-law reasonably suggested I get in touch with the British High Commission and held the phone until we got through. Apparently the High Commission is closed to the public on Fridays and it was suggested that I cancel or change my flight. Oh no! Alternatively I could quickly do a Krypton factor like challenge and get two passport photos with white backgrounds, a police abstract stating the loss and the relevant BHC forms from our local representative by 7.30am the following morning, and if the computers and phone links were up to it at the High Commission, I might get a temporary document to travel. So my afternoon was spent speeding first to the down at heal Karen police station where I was asked; ‘do you think you can make it?’ (i.e. to London) answer; ‘yes, I hope so, with your help of course’; then numerous visits to the photo shop where there is no photo booth, but someone holding an antique camera with a flash and then come back in half an hour to collect the snaps. I went through this whole procedure twice as I’m so vain and the first photo looked like I had just started chemo therapy. Passport photos here tend to be a little over exposed for us mzungus (whites). Last, I disturbed a very elderly gentleman and his wife at home and asked them to search for British High Commission forms, which they kindly did but I felt silly and disorganised nonetheless.

Guiltily, B came home early to help ‘look’ and his mum suggested he check one more time through his already thoroughly searched and many pocketed laptop case, that travels between home and office every day. Sure enough my passport was inside ‘deep down’ in one of the flaps. His punishment is that I have written it all down in this blog.

Before going to England we watched tons of firework displays and went to a huge party at the Karen Club with live jazz, salsa dancers and disco. The dance floor was packed with three hundred people in their best clothes and some impressive national dress costumes too. A highlight was dancing to ‘chunga viazi’ (peel the potatoes), a favourite Kenyan disco hit of the moment about not being able to pay the bill in a restaurant. The members of the club are mostly Kenyan middle class businessmen and women who are keen on playing golf.