Grrr. I have overdosed on children’s birthday parties over the past two weeks. We had a brief respite when one daughter thankfully contracted tonsillitis so we managed to wriggle out of a few! (only joking, of course I would rather she had not been ill!) Our running total is about seven or eight in two weeks. Normally I am happy to attend but lately the Mums’ topic of conversation is always the same; ‘schools’.
It’s very difficult not to be drawn into raging debates on whether the massively over popular Karen prep school’s new kindergarten is better than the once massively popular independent kindergarten. Yawn. In a small(ish) community it’s hard to remain unbiased and unfazed when more than 50% of your precious child’s little classmates are de-camping to the most popular school ‘du jour’ and Mums are spending endless hours waxing lyrical over why they think moving schools is best for their child. Holding fast and not bowing to pressure takes nerves of steel?!
We have seen it all before, this is the third time that fickle Karen housewives have jointly switched allegiance to a new kindergarten. The same has applied to restaurants in the area, ‘best’ supermarkets and housing estates. One day an eatery can be buzzing and the next dead as the flock of sheep have trotted off to the next cool night spot, leaving the establishment’s owners bewildered.
OK, we are all guilty of copying one another to some extent and sadly in our little Karen suburb of Nairobi, there aren’t quite enough people to keep all the restaurants, supermarkets and schools busy enough all the time. But let’s make a pact and not thrash out our preferences at children’s tea parties any more? The problem is that with the ever popular ‘Bamboola man’, clowns, face painter, jugglers, puppeteers and army of ayahs entertaining the kids, us Mums just don’t have enough to do but gossip!
The diary of a British expat living in Kenya. News, views, debate and a healthy dose of trivia.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Emigrating to E Africa, Helpful Advice
I don’t know if its ‘blog cheating’, but I wanted to remember some things from moving from London to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania (even though it was 8 years ago). The following list is made in helpful advice/point form to show, with the benefit of hindsight, how I would have done it differently:
1. When you decide to emigrate, don’t combine it with getting married, buying a flat in London and building a kit car (OK it was not me building the car, but it certainly added some stress to the situation when my fiancé decided to finish his Caterham 7 before leaving). ‘To do’ lists comprising; organise visas, get travel vaccinations, pay solicitor’s fees, make flight bookings and hand in notice at work, (spend evenings and weekends building car), can be daunting.
2. Don’t fly economy to East Africa via the Middle East. The 24 hour journey will seem like a horrendous up-y down-y bus ride (especially if the flight coincides with a 24hr sick bug) – there are 10 hour direct flights on other airlines, it’s worth paying the difference.
3. If you are flying, remember to tell the airline that it is your honeymoon in advance, if you arrive late (after your taxi breaking down on M4), there will be no upgrades possible.
4. Don’t move to the coast of East Africa in February. You couldn’t choose a hotter or more humid time of year.
5. Don’t choose eco hotels for your honeymoon. You don’t get air conditioning and staggering to a ‘not en suite’ long drop/loo in a faraway hut is not fun when suffering from dickey tummy. (p.s. Zanzibar can be dirty and smelly, in spite of its reputation of literally being paradise – don’t let the word ‘Zanzibar’ seduce you!).
6. Don’t choose a Muslim hotel, strictly no alcohol allowed.
7. Do save some money before you emigrate (this will become clear later).
8. This one contradicts no. 7. but if possible, don’t work up until days before your wedding, which will now morph into a tearful ‘goodbye’ ceremony. Life is too short, make more time for friends and family.
9. Do go and have a look at the country you are emigrating to first if possible. It helps when doing the packing. Starting a new life in Africa can be tough, especially if you have never stepped foot on the continent before. (I should know).
10. Do expect to loose your identity for quite some time. Learn how to field questions such as; ‘what are you doing here?’ answer: ‘nothing…but my husband is doing something very interesting…’ which leads to my next point:
11. Don’t try to live through your new husband’s experiences vicariously; he won’t want to always talk about work. Huge rows may ensue as you offer much unsolicited free work advice in an attempt to engage brain.
12. Do buy a car for yourself as soon as possible. Don’t fall into the trap, as I did, of walking to the local container shops, then working through Delia Smith’s complete cookery book (ingredients permitting) in sweltering 40 degree heat (100% humidity), for want of something better to do.
13. Do remember that in a largely Muslim country you should normally wear long skirts/trousers and cover your shoulders, notwithstanding the sweat trails that will seep down the backs of your legs. Spagetti strap tops and shorts won’t do.
14. Do sign up for classes to learn the local lingo a.s.a.p (Kiswahili), but don’t bank on finding best friends and kindred spirits among fellow students. This will lead to bitter disappointment.
15. Try to see the huge differences between your new life and the old life back home in an optimistic spirit of adventure. Encounters with cockroaches, geckos, snakes and nasty tummy bugs will be exchanged for escaping a crowded commute, dark winters and perpetual coughs and colds.
16. Don’t yearn for English spring, summer, winter and autumn; try to get into the rhythm hot season, short rains, long rains, cool season. Summoning images of kicking through autumn leaves won’t help you.
I’ve just realised I could go on to 100, so will stop right there….
1. When you decide to emigrate, don’t combine it with getting married, buying a flat in London and building a kit car (OK it was not me building the car, but it certainly added some stress to the situation when my fiancé decided to finish his Caterham 7 before leaving). ‘To do’ lists comprising; organise visas, get travel vaccinations, pay solicitor’s fees, make flight bookings and hand in notice at work, (spend evenings and weekends building car), can be daunting.
2. Don’t fly economy to East Africa via the Middle East. The 24 hour journey will seem like a horrendous up-y down-y bus ride (especially if the flight coincides with a 24hr sick bug) – there are 10 hour direct flights on other airlines, it’s worth paying the difference.
3. If you are flying, remember to tell the airline that it is your honeymoon in advance, if you arrive late (after your taxi breaking down on M4), there will be no upgrades possible.
4. Don’t move to the coast of East Africa in February. You couldn’t choose a hotter or more humid time of year.
5. Don’t choose eco hotels for your honeymoon. You don’t get air conditioning and staggering to a ‘not en suite’ long drop/loo in a faraway hut is not fun when suffering from dickey tummy. (p.s. Zanzibar can be dirty and smelly, in spite of its reputation of literally being paradise – don’t let the word ‘Zanzibar’ seduce you!).
6. Don’t choose a Muslim hotel, strictly no alcohol allowed.
7. Do save some money before you emigrate (this will become clear later).
8. This one contradicts no. 7. but if possible, don’t work up until days before your wedding, which will now morph into a tearful ‘goodbye’ ceremony. Life is too short, make more time for friends and family.
9. Do go and have a look at the country you are emigrating to first if possible. It helps when doing the packing. Starting a new life in Africa can be tough, especially if you have never stepped foot on the continent before. (I should know).
10. Do expect to loose your identity for quite some time. Learn how to field questions such as; ‘what are you doing here?’ answer: ‘nothing…but my husband is doing something very interesting…’ which leads to my next point:
11. Don’t try to live through your new husband’s experiences vicariously; he won’t want to always talk about work. Huge rows may ensue as you offer much unsolicited free work advice in an attempt to engage brain.
12. Do buy a car for yourself as soon as possible. Don’t fall into the trap, as I did, of walking to the local container shops, then working through Delia Smith’s complete cookery book (ingredients permitting) in sweltering 40 degree heat (100% humidity), for want of something better to do.
13. Do remember that in a largely Muslim country you should normally wear long skirts/trousers and cover your shoulders, notwithstanding the sweat trails that will seep down the backs of your legs. Spagetti strap tops and shorts won’t do.
14. Do sign up for classes to learn the local lingo a.s.a.p (Kiswahili), but don’t bank on finding best friends and kindred spirits among fellow students. This will lead to bitter disappointment.
15. Try to see the huge differences between your new life and the old life back home in an optimistic spirit of adventure. Encounters with cockroaches, geckos, snakes and nasty tummy bugs will be exchanged for escaping a crowded commute, dark winters and perpetual coughs and colds.
16. Don’t yearn for English spring, summer, winter and autumn; try to get into the rhythm hot season, short rains, long rains, cool season. Summoning images of kicking through autumn leaves won’t help you.
I’ve just realised I could go on to 100, so will stop right there….
Monday, March 26, 2007
Does Kenya need Aid Money?
Since the disastrous ‘Amazing Grace’ film premier we went to last year, the recent blockbusters and award winners; ‘The Constant Gardener’, ‘Blood Diamond’ and ‘The Last King of Scotland’ have really blown audiences away with wild Technicolor tales about Africa, based on true stories. All excellent entertainment, edge of your seat plot lines, brilliantly portrayed.
There is so much ‘Africa’ atmosphere to soak up; red earth, humidity, banana plants, wide brown rivers, cows in the road, overcrowding, buses and noise. The films start out by seducing you with beautiful Africa, filled with friendly and simply heroic people but then you get pulled into a darker, tragic side of life and wind up leaving the cinema in a state of stunned shock. Are we really living here?
The question is, how best to depict the reality of living here?
First it’s important to dispel a little of the preconceived ‘mystique’. The press are in love with concepts of ‘White Mischief’ and ‘Happy Valley’ but they are 90 years too late. Ok, some people have affairs, do drugs and even get involved in crimes, but aren’t these themes universal and not particular to expats in Kenya?! Kuki Gallman’s ‘I dreamed of Africa’ (or, ‘I Dreamed up Africa’ as it is locally known) is a pure indulgence, as is Francesca Marciano’s ‘Rules of the Wild’. Aidan Hartley’s ‘Zanzibar Chest’ is a hugely educational read and gritty in it’s realism but the bulk of the book is set in newsworthy war zones, conflicts and famines where he worked as a journalist. Karen Blixen’s ‘Out of Africa’ and Elspeth Huxley’s ‘Flame Trees of Thika’ are beautiful books, but were written a very long time ago.
The day to day reality of living here for most expats is to find yourself working in a burgeoning Kenyan economy, with a university educated Kenyan middle class growing exponentially. Heads of banks and insurance companies are often the sons of high rolling Kenyan politicians and civil servants who have benefited from an excellent education and are doing their jobs effectively, in spite of problems with corruption in government etc. The number of white Kenyans is small enough to be almost insignificant in business and competition for jobs is tough out there. The number of people sent out here by foreign companies is decreasing and they are viewed more as temporary consultants. We are fiercely proud of our six year old’s (albeit privileged) school, whose policy of one third Asian, one third Kenyan one third white pupils per year group is strictly adhered to.
What the Kenyan Government collects in tax revenue is sufficient to run the country without any foreign aid, and the 2007 budget has been balanced without factoring any money from the donor community – the government simply lacks the political will to address the major problems here.
Yes there is devastating poverty and are huge social problems to address, but there is also some hope that the country will help itself, without being given the opportunity to skim money off charity donations and pledges of aid money.
There is so much ‘Africa’ atmosphere to soak up; red earth, humidity, banana plants, wide brown rivers, cows in the road, overcrowding, buses and noise. The films start out by seducing you with beautiful Africa, filled with friendly and simply heroic people but then you get pulled into a darker, tragic side of life and wind up leaving the cinema in a state of stunned shock. Are we really living here?
The question is, how best to depict the reality of living here?
First it’s important to dispel a little of the preconceived ‘mystique’. The press are in love with concepts of ‘White Mischief’ and ‘Happy Valley’ but they are 90 years too late. Ok, some people have affairs, do drugs and even get involved in crimes, but aren’t these themes universal and not particular to expats in Kenya?! Kuki Gallman’s ‘I dreamed of Africa’ (or, ‘I Dreamed up Africa’ as it is locally known) is a pure indulgence, as is Francesca Marciano’s ‘Rules of the Wild’. Aidan Hartley’s ‘Zanzibar Chest’ is a hugely educational read and gritty in it’s realism but the bulk of the book is set in newsworthy war zones, conflicts and famines where he worked as a journalist. Karen Blixen’s ‘Out of Africa’ and Elspeth Huxley’s ‘Flame Trees of Thika’ are beautiful books, but were written a very long time ago.
The day to day reality of living here for most expats is to find yourself working in a burgeoning Kenyan economy, with a university educated Kenyan middle class growing exponentially. Heads of banks and insurance companies are often the sons of high rolling Kenyan politicians and civil servants who have benefited from an excellent education and are doing their jobs effectively, in spite of problems with corruption in government etc. The number of white Kenyans is small enough to be almost insignificant in business and competition for jobs is tough out there. The number of people sent out here by foreign companies is decreasing and they are viewed more as temporary consultants. We are fiercely proud of our six year old’s (albeit privileged) school, whose policy of one third Asian, one third Kenyan one third white pupils per year group is strictly adhered to.
What the Kenyan Government collects in tax revenue is sufficient to run the country without any foreign aid, and the 2007 budget has been balanced without factoring any money from the donor community – the government simply lacks the political will to address the major problems here.
Yes there is devastating poverty and are huge social problems to address, but there is also some hope that the country will help itself, without being given the opportunity to skim money off charity donations and pledges of aid money.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Donor Fatigue
Kibera slum - home to 700,000 KenyansI am battling with donor fatigue. Our ex night watchman’s wife is having a run of illness and it’s hard to know when to scrutinise and question what he needs money for, and when to just roll over and hand it out, whatever the sum may be. He ‘flashes’ me with his phone (v. common here, you dial a number, let the phone ring once, then wait for the recipient to call you back), and it’s another six or seven or eight or ten thousand shillings for medical bills please. We now meet at the matatu stop incognito, to prevent the house staff here from getting suspicious and possibly jealous.
The thing is; he is just such a worthy man! He has participated in countless ‘Living with HIV’ seminars and conferences. He and his wife are now trained HIV awareness counsellors in Kibera slums. He came into my husband’s office the other day in a bright red Amref t shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Living HIV Positively!’ the other day. That’s bravery!! To admit you are HIV positive is still social death in Kenya.
Apparently comic relief on March 16th was focussing on problems of sanitation, HIV, slum living and malaria in Kenya and Tanzania, and here I am taking my kids to and from school and employing a handful of house helpers. I owe my sister money, she said ‘please donate it to a worthy cause in Kenya!’ as she said the comic relief film footage was so moving. How humbling. When will I move out of my comfort zone and really do something to help around here??
There are major problems with ‘giving’ in sub Saharan Africa. So much money is skimmed off by administrators and even private enterprises looking to service aid contracts, that it’s easy to become quite cynical. There is a blind belief here in the often used Swahili saying; ‘Mungu atasiadia’ ‘God will help’. This can easily be twisted and means that if that ‘help’ one day comes your way in the form of a fat envelope that you are meant to be passing on to worthy cause (ie a school, orphanage or hospital), then maybe you have already half talked yourself into being justified in taking the cash for yourself (or at least a percentage)?! Unfortunately it's endemic, but it will gradually change, as long as people work harder on accountability.
Working for DFID in Tanzania as part of the local hire administration staff was a huge shock to me. When we sent money to Africa from England I assumed it would really help the fly blown children (as seen on TV documentaries). Instead, I watched as consultants employed from the UK on short term contracts jostled with each other for the best ‘package’ possible, newest car, best house (with swimming pool), business class flights, breather visits (ie funded holidays) and all at the expense of the British taxpayer. At the UN, you see the same scenario. Salaries are sky high and every ex-pat would love the chance of a ride on the gravy train. You don’t even need to prove your worth at work with profit and loss accounts, it’s just ‘spend, spend, spend!’
Training and nurturing employees through running a successful business is far more help in my view. At a recent pan African conference I went to held in Nairobi, employees were paying homage to a retiring uk chairman who had been championing African offices for 25 years. A Malawian delegate whispered in his ear; ‘thank you for enabling my three children to go to university’.
Back to the home front, I have found myself in the position of employing a very skilled and friendly cook who was out of work. Not wishing to take him on full time (I can be a kitchen control freak and frankly to employ another member of staff full time is bordering on outrageous), I committed to him coming to our house once a week thus filling my freezer with delicious home cooked food. In an attempt to help him cobble together a decent monthly wage, I’ve found myself becoming his ‘pimp’, in a manner of speaking. Whenever I see friends, I try to mention what a boon it is to have such help in the kitchen and have found him odd days at other people’s houses, for cash in hand. The poor (and not too youthful) man is bouncing all over Nairobi to different kitchens and is so efficient during his day’s work, that he’s producing enough food for two or three weeks and therefore never gets a weekly commitment from anyone else. He has school fees to pay in April. Each time I commiserate that his work is coming in so erratically he says to me; ‘Mungu atasaidia’.
how to blog?
I have been trying to figure out this blogging business.
Having been outside an office environment for seven years and my computer skills are rusty (at best). I want to find readers but have been flummoxed by blog speak; ‘SEOs, Technoratic, Picasa’. I haven’t mastered event the most basic downloading of photos, or even how to edit my posts once they are published?
Apparently I should take part in discussion forums, create links (how?), use clever titles for my posts, create a Myspace page. What are labels and tags? So far I have only managed to download Statcounter (I think?).
All this and my crackly and very fragile African land line telephone link has been clocking up the minutes and hours. Am not sure I have what it takes, but its time to educate myself out of the housewifely ‘I only know how to email’ dark ages before our next phone bill causes a divorce!
- OOps - I've just worked out labels and editing! the only way is up?!
Having been outside an office environment for seven years and my computer skills are rusty (at best). I want to find readers but have been flummoxed by blog speak; ‘SEOs, Technoratic, Picasa’. I haven’t mastered event the most basic downloading of photos, or even how to edit my posts once they are published?
Apparently I should take part in discussion forums, create links (how?), use clever titles for my posts, create a Myspace page. What are labels and tags? So far I have only managed to download Statcounter (I think?).
All this and my crackly and very fragile African land line telephone link has been clocking up the minutes and hours. Am not sure I have what it takes, but its time to educate myself out of the housewifely ‘I only know how to email’ dark ages before our next phone bill causes a divorce!
- OOps - I've just worked out labels and editing! the only way is up?!
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Hallo Hallo? Kenyan Radio
School runs are the perfect time to switch into neutral and lose yourself in the radio banter of Capital, Easy or Kiss fm (Nairobi). The stock lists of songs are played in such quick rotation that you can be word perfect in fifteen songs in no time. Akon, Beyonce, Pussycat Dolls, Fantasia and Jojo are regular favourites spiced up with some Kenya rapping classics (‘hallo, hallo?’ being one of them). Driving along with the volume turned up singing in full belted, tone deaf (air conditioned) privacy is a real pleasure. Listeners’ phone-ins are compulsive and new cash prizes are offered for easy to win games, with generous regularity. Forget the ipod, I’m an addict. When chatting to a Nairobi taxi driver last night, I discovered that his whole day was mapped out in terms of best times to listen to various radio stations, making me sound like an amateur. When I enquired which his favourite station was I got an answer along the lines of; '7 to 10 am classic fm, 10 to 12 capital, 12 to 2 wakamba, 2-4pm etc etc'.
Following the safari where my car aerial snapped off when hacking through some particularly stubborn bush, my choice of station has now been limited to Easy fm exclusively. They broadcast from the Ngong hills near Karen, so the small stump that is left of my aerial can pick up the signal without too much interference.
The ‘Busted’ phone in each morning leaves me loitering in the school car park, agog. Its purpose is to catch out cheating spouses and partners, by way of tricking them. The radio dj poses as a member of hotel or restaurant reservations staff and claims the poor, unsuspecting ‘cheater’ has won a luxury weekend away or meal out. She then simply requests the name of the ‘other half’ in order to confirm the reservation ‘who would you most like to take with you?’ and Bingo! A simple ruse, but when the offending party has been ‘busted’ then she or he is then connected on air to the cuckolded other half and a verbal show down ensues. It’s better than big brother, though sometimes it gets a little too voyeuristic even for me (a reality tv fan), especially when there are the sounds of tears being shed as hearts are broken.
Another excellent game is ‘the secret sound’, where cash builds up every day as listeners attempt to interpret a particular scrapey or scratchy or banging sound, that is a car door being slammed or a photocopier in operation or someone leafing through a magazine rack. Mr W and I tried to phone in when prize money reached 80,000 kenya shillings (£650), convinced we had the right answer. But after a few goes we reflected that the prospect of a cash rich ex-pat snatching the grand prize might not go down well and we weren’t sure we could pull off all the whoops and screams of delight on winning. I also have a niggling feeling that we had the wrong answer all along.
There are occasional lapses into Swahili, but it’s good practise to try and follow the gist. Mostly it’s Sw-english, known as Sheng (a bit like Franglaise). Today the ‘talking point’ was ‘does witchcraft really work when it comes to love?’ Riveting!
Following the safari where my car aerial snapped off when hacking through some particularly stubborn bush, my choice of station has now been limited to Easy fm exclusively. They broadcast from the Ngong hills near Karen, so the small stump that is left of my aerial can pick up the signal without too much interference.
The ‘Busted’ phone in each morning leaves me loitering in the school car park, agog. Its purpose is to catch out cheating spouses and partners, by way of tricking them. The radio dj poses as a member of hotel or restaurant reservations staff and claims the poor, unsuspecting ‘cheater’ has won a luxury weekend away or meal out. She then simply requests the name of the ‘other half’ in order to confirm the reservation ‘who would you most like to take with you?’ and Bingo! A simple ruse, but when the offending party has been ‘busted’ then she or he is then connected on air to the cuckolded other half and a verbal show down ensues. It’s better than big brother, though sometimes it gets a little too voyeuristic even for me (a reality tv fan), especially when there are the sounds of tears being shed as hearts are broken.
Another excellent game is ‘the secret sound’, where cash builds up every day as listeners attempt to interpret a particular scrapey or scratchy or banging sound, that is a car door being slammed or a photocopier in operation or someone leafing through a magazine rack. Mr W and I tried to phone in when prize money reached 80,000 kenya shillings (£650), convinced we had the right answer. But after a few goes we reflected that the prospect of a cash rich ex-pat snatching the grand prize might not go down well and we weren’t sure we could pull off all the whoops and screams of delight on winning. I also have a niggling feeling that we had the wrong answer all along.
There are occasional lapses into Swahili, but it’s good practise to try and follow the gist. Mostly it’s Sw-english, known as Sheng (a bit like Franglaise). Today the ‘talking point’ was ‘does witchcraft really work when it comes to love?’ Riveting!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Influx of visitors
I must admit that being a housewife and mother in Kenya is normally an easy ride, especially as we are backed up by stacks of help around the house and garden. However, hosting house guests means taking on a stack of extra roles thus stretching our ex-pat comfort zones more than a little.
It’s all a bit of a shock to the system to have friends and family to stay for extended periods. Unused to such extra exertion it can, over the weeks, can bring us hosts to our knees. Friends and neighbours look on in sympathy as we scream out of the school car park at high speed and squeeze in a frenetic supermarket sweep with trolleys spilling over, between driving guests to see the elephant orphanage and signing them in for a swim at the club.
The new jobs include; full time chauffeur, food co-ordinator (and cook if you are unlucky enough not to employ one), day planner and personal guide (day trips/beach holidays and safaris also must be organised) and all this alongside other daily chores such as school runs. Making sure we have bread, milk and eggs every day is sometimes above and beyond normal capabilities. Used to early nights and early mornings, visitors are dispatched to their quarters in short order and given an early wake up call by our three children, as Mr W drums his fingers at the breakfast table.
When guests arrive with children the meal quotas double and children’s supper becomes a military operation. Little noses turning up and mouths grimacing at homemade spaghetti bolognaise sends my blood pressure soaring. Planning self catering holidays is also not easy, as you strain to remember salt and pepper, then arrive and proceed to become an autocrat in charge of meal planning with food strictly rationed as shops are usually a good few hours drive away. Predicting how much is enough drinking water is a nightmare.
Overseas ‘work’ visitors assume things must operate like clockwork in the home, especially in light of all the lovely help we have. Children generally should not be seen or heard as the finer points of office politics are thrashed out on the veranda, beer in hand long into the late evening. The truth is often a little different at bedtime as the three children decide to hit a sugar high and scream around the house after supper, or they insist on hearing the umpteenth story when supper for the adults really should be under way.
It’s impossible to send a guest out for a pint of milk as the unfamiliarity of the potholed roads, indigenous driving style, ad hoc shops and weird looking groceries floors everyone, reducing usually perfectly capable people to prisoners under virtual house arrest. It’s only with excessive hand holding that visitors are tempted to venture out, negotiating through street hawkers, beggars and strange denominations of foreign currency.
The upsides of having house guests are the lengthy chats over jovial dinners, or whilst looking out over game filled waterholes at sun downer time. Finding time to embark on intrepid adventures into the bush or relaxing at the coast with good company. Children are in heaven with friends to play with 24/7 and/or grannies who patiently read endless stories and make time for colouring in. When guests leave the house is quiet and there is a flat feeling for a day or two, before we get caught up again with the humdrum of the next arrivals.
It’s all a bit of a shock to the system to have friends and family to stay for extended periods. Unused to such extra exertion it can, over the weeks, can bring us hosts to our knees. Friends and neighbours look on in sympathy as we scream out of the school car park at high speed and squeeze in a frenetic supermarket sweep with trolleys spilling over, between driving guests to see the elephant orphanage and signing them in for a swim at the club.
The new jobs include; full time chauffeur, food co-ordinator (and cook if you are unlucky enough not to employ one), day planner and personal guide (day trips/beach holidays and safaris also must be organised) and all this alongside other daily chores such as school runs. Making sure we have bread, milk and eggs every day is sometimes above and beyond normal capabilities. Used to early nights and early mornings, visitors are dispatched to their quarters in short order and given an early wake up call by our three children, as Mr W drums his fingers at the breakfast table.
When guests arrive with children the meal quotas double and children’s supper becomes a military operation. Little noses turning up and mouths grimacing at homemade spaghetti bolognaise sends my blood pressure soaring. Planning self catering holidays is also not easy, as you strain to remember salt and pepper, then arrive and proceed to become an autocrat in charge of meal planning with food strictly rationed as shops are usually a good few hours drive away. Predicting how much is enough drinking water is a nightmare.
Overseas ‘work’ visitors assume things must operate like clockwork in the home, especially in light of all the lovely help we have. Children generally should not be seen or heard as the finer points of office politics are thrashed out on the veranda, beer in hand long into the late evening. The truth is often a little different at bedtime as the three children decide to hit a sugar high and scream around the house after supper, or they insist on hearing the umpteenth story when supper for the adults really should be under way.
It’s impossible to send a guest out for a pint of milk as the unfamiliarity of the potholed roads, indigenous driving style, ad hoc shops and weird looking groceries floors everyone, reducing usually perfectly capable people to prisoners under virtual house arrest. It’s only with excessive hand holding that visitors are tempted to venture out, negotiating through street hawkers, beggars and strange denominations of foreign currency.
The upsides of having house guests are the lengthy chats over jovial dinners, or whilst looking out over game filled waterholes at sun downer time. Finding time to embark on intrepid adventures into the bush or relaxing at the coast with good company. Children are in heaven with friends to play with 24/7 and/or grannies who patiently read endless stories and make time for colouring in. When guests leave the house is quiet and there is a flat feeling for a day or two, before we get caught up again with the humdrum of the next arrivals.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Kick Box Kenya
Our ‘step’ teacher at the Karen Club who I love and admire, but who obviously finds me utterly maddening, was away for a couple of weeks, so I booked a kick boxing class, a one on one session with Isaac the instructor.
In Kenya we can pretend we are celebrities and hire a personal trainer to help us get in shape, without having to pay astronomical amounts for the privilege. My lesson did seem like the height of decadence, but hey ho, what’s the harm in trying something new once?
If you are ever tempted to do any one-on-one fitness training I would advise shaving your armpits especially if planning to wear a sleeveless top. Don’t be tempted to think; ‘not too bad’ as I was, then spend more than an hour regretting it during the course of the lesson, with arms firmly fixed by my sides. Second, make sure that your level of fitness is passable, as there is no escape and excuses won’t do when asked to repeat another set of ten sit ups or press ups. Joining a packed aerobics class and staying near that back is much easier, as you can easily skip some moves when out of breath whilst mopping your brow with a towel or taking some water.
As my hands were being bandaged to protect my weedy knuckles and wrists and the gloves went on I did feel a surge of girl power although these thoughts quickly slid away when I felt the sensation of a drippy nose, an irritating itch that needed scratching and a desperate urge to grab my water bottle and have a long drink. Instead I was incapacitated by foam and red leather mitts wondering whether that was indeed cramp developing in my index finger. Isaac kindly held the water bottle to my lips and I felt this whole ‘personal trainer’ experience was getting a little too personal for both of us.
The punching and kicking was quite fun but having someone stretch out your legs and arms for you whilst lying on the floor was weird…and painful, especially the arm lock?! A five minute back massage was unexpected and very welcome, but when my hands were freed from the gloves they started uncontrollably shaking like those of an old lady. Applying post work out mascara was impossible.
After a few days, when the arthritic feeling in my fingers had finally passed, I decided I had enjoyed it, but perhaps the session should be a once a month thing, or bi monthly, maybe annual! A worse result of the lesson was that I went through a crisis that really life is too short for kick boxing and I should be doing something more worthwhile with my time, like charity work (as my Mum reminded me). All this keeping fit stuff is a drag, but working exercise into a daily routine is nigh on impossible, as we drive everywhere and are completely spoiled, never doing housework etc. I do think it was worthwhile giving a deserving Isaac 1,000 shillings, cash in hand, so perhaps that justifies the whole experience.
In Kenya we can pretend we are celebrities and hire a personal trainer to help us get in shape, without having to pay astronomical amounts for the privilege. My lesson did seem like the height of decadence, but hey ho, what’s the harm in trying something new once?
If you are ever tempted to do any one-on-one fitness training I would advise shaving your armpits especially if planning to wear a sleeveless top. Don’t be tempted to think; ‘not too bad’ as I was, then spend more than an hour regretting it during the course of the lesson, with arms firmly fixed by my sides. Second, make sure that your level of fitness is passable, as there is no escape and excuses won’t do when asked to repeat another set of ten sit ups or press ups. Joining a packed aerobics class and staying near that back is much easier, as you can easily skip some moves when out of breath whilst mopping your brow with a towel or taking some water.
As my hands were being bandaged to protect my weedy knuckles and wrists and the gloves went on I did feel a surge of girl power although these thoughts quickly slid away when I felt the sensation of a drippy nose, an irritating itch that needed scratching and a desperate urge to grab my water bottle and have a long drink. Instead I was incapacitated by foam and red leather mitts wondering whether that was indeed cramp developing in my index finger. Isaac kindly held the water bottle to my lips and I felt this whole ‘personal trainer’ experience was getting a little too personal for both of us.
The punching and kicking was quite fun but having someone stretch out your legs and arms for you whilst lying on the floor was weird…and painful, especially the arm lock?! A five minute back massage was unexpected and very welcome, but when my hands were freed from the gloves they started uncontrollably shaking like those of an old lady. Applying post work out mascara was impossible.
After a few days, when the arthritic feeling in my fingers had finally passed, I decided I had enjoyed it, but perhaps the session should be a once a month thing, or bi monthly, maybe annual! A worse result of the lesson was that I went through a crisis that really life is too short for kick boxing and I should be doing something more worthwhile with my time, like charity work (as my Mum reminded me). All this keeping fit stuff is a drag, but working exercise into a daily routine is nigh on impossible, as we drive everywhere and are completely spoiled, never doing housework etc. I do think it was worthwhile giving a deserving Isaac 1,000 shillings, cash in hand, so perhaps that justifies the whole experience.
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