10 worst wildlife stories - that I've heard from other people

10 worst wildlife moments that have happened to other people (but I’m pretty sure they are true):

Tiger shark in Oyster Bay – In Tanzania we lived in a beautiful house over looking ‘Oyster Bay’ beach. The beach was infamous for muggings and the sea pretty dirty as water drifted from the city’s huge estuary around the corner (perfect Tiger Shark territory), however, it was picturesque and the best ‘public’ beach for miles around. We did used to walk there with our kids and our Alsatian (having removed all watches & jewellery) and occasionally paddled in the shallows. It was a popular weekend venue for swimming and hanging out until a Chinese medical student was attacked when surfing and disappeared in a pool of blood, then a fisherman lost his leg in shallow water. Signs were posted along the beach; ‘No Swimming, No Sunbathing, No Hawking’ and police patrolled up and down to implement the new rules. The perpetrator was never caught, though numerous hunting expeditions were launched to catch the beast.

Deadly snake coiled in house – Snakes are commonly found along the East African coast. An old Tanzania hand, took great delight in describing to us newcomers how he found a vivid coloured green mamba coiled next to his windsurf and he almost went to grab it, mistaking it for a rope. Any snake found in Africa is dispatched swiftly. An innate sense of self preservation dictates that there seems no sense in trying to figure out whether it’s a harmful species first. When seeking local opinion, all snakes are described as ‘very dangerous’ or 'khali'. Generally they are severed in half by a panga (machete) then thrown onto an open fire.

Snake rears head through car air vent – my parents in law also lived by the sea in Kenya. They have a great story about a tricky snake that dropped out of a tree above their parked car and quick as a flash seemed to disappear inside. The car was turned inside out; even the seats were removed in search of the pest. The gardener lit a small fire under the chassis in an attempt to smoke the snake out of its hiding place. In the end, they gave up the search and tentatively began to drive the car again. A few days passed, when to the drivers horror, the cheeky snake poked its head through the air vent in front of the windscreen and waggled around! The car was immediately evacuated and the serpent was never seen again, perhaps scared off by the screams.

Lion charges Landrover – another such ‘parents in law’ story took place whilst on a game drive with guests and children on board in Tsavo national park. A female and male lion were strolling companionably down the track in front of the landrover, but taking their own sweet time. Eventually the increasingly restless and frustrated occupants of the vehicle began to goad their driver to get closer and closer to the lion; ‘make them trot, make them run!’. No body noticed when the male peeled off to one side, until somebody called out and all eyes turned left to see one lion charging at the side of the car, leaping up and raking both his forepaws from the roof right down the side of the car. The vehicle rocked onto two wheels before touching back down again. The passengers were contrite and the lion nail filings caught in the rain water channel in the roof, became an excellent souvenir.

Lion’s smelly breath – A classic tale I heard not too long ago was recounted by friends who had recently been camping in Kenya in a national park. They arrived at the camp site in good time and set up, had dinner, then turned in early (as you do when there’s not much else to do in the bush during hours of darkness. Just as they were drifting off they heard another car arrive, then proceed to pitch a tent just nearby. Apparently it was a man travelling alone. Later in the night my friends heard their neighbour calling out; ‘Hello! Hello? Are you OK?’ ‘Yes’ replied my friends ‘are you ok?’. ‘No!’ he replied ‘Lion!’ he squeaked. It transpired that he had set up his tent, leaving the flysheet off as he was fairly confident that the night was dry. He went to sleep and was awoken by the foul breath of a lion huffing through the thin gauze of his tent. Our friends had sensibly parked next to the exit of their tent (a worthwhile tip for camping in a game park). They woke up their daughter, all piled into their car then slowly reversed over to the opening flap of their neighbour as he gratefully scrambled out. It was only then that they counted fourteen more pairs of lion’s eyes circling their camp site, patiently waiting for their supper.


Leopard hunts human baby – in Ruaha Tanzania, our lodge owners/hosts told us about the time when a leopard had heard their baby crying in their small house within the camp. The huge animal started to scramble through the window (which was an opening covered only by mosquito gauze) and had to be beaten back by the child’s father, who fortunately woke up and had a panga (machete) to hand. Leopards are known to be attracted by children’s cries as the sound is not unlike that of a wounded animal and they assume that there is an easy meal available.

Many ‘worst wildlife stories’ have ended in tragedy. Since living here I’ve heard of people when walking in the bush have unsuspectingly disturbed a lone buffalo, hippo and elephant. Consequently they were attacked and killed. But now I’m getting too morbid so will sign off. They say that when you are walking in the bush, you should clap hands loudly to warn wildlife of your approach and thus avoiding the element of surprise.

10 Worst Wildlife Related Incidents

In case anyone is planning to move to Africa, and thinking ‘what is the worst that can happen?’ I thought I’d helpfully list a few of my worst ten moments involving wildlife that have happened to me since living in Africa. My next post will be top wildlife horror stories that I’ve heard on the grapevine and which I’m 99% sure are absolutely true:

Puff adder - Apparently a puff adder is a deadly snake. When estimating in terms of minutes how long you have to get an anti-venom shot after being bitten, the answer is usually 'not many'. We had a narrow escape during a river walk with a local guide in Kenya. The kids ran ahead along a narrow path when the guide sharply stopped us in our tracks. It seemed the forerunners had jumped over a puff adder snake, which was wending its way slowly across our path. It’s an unattractive squashy looking reptile and our guide tapped the ground with a stick until it slithered away into the undergrowth (see photo). We asked ‘what if we had trodden on it and it had bitten one of us’ (we were half an hour’s walk from the car at this point). He shook his head, not much hope. I guess we might owe that guy our lives?

Mango worm – This is a particularly revolting fly’s egg that transfers itself onto your clothes then burrows under your skin and grows into a larva creating an agonising boil. Fortunately I’ve only had one, though I’ve heard it’s common to have quite a few at once. The boil has a little black dot in the centre that shrinks away when you try and dig it out or squeeze. The black dot is the maggot’s head. Covering the sore with a thick layer of Vaseline suffocates and kills it, but you will still be left with the problem of extracting the thing. All clothes, towels and underwear are meticulously ironed to try and kill off the larvae before they make a new home under your skin.

Jellyfish sting – Wading through the shallow waters of the Indian Ocean when fairly new to Africa, I got long clear jellyfish tentacles wound around my foot. Feeling a stinging sensation I decided to get onto dry land quick. Peeling off tentacles with little dotted suckers, I began to feel excruciating pain. If only I’d known or had the presence of mind to ask someone to wee on my foot, it would have neutralised the acid burn. Instead I was stoic and had a swollen foot in attractive Velcro sandals for three months. There were many mild jelly fish stings to follow whilst living at the coast, but none so agonising as that first one.

Gecko in coffee – This is my favourite, grossest story. When you live in Africa, you must necessarily share your house with geckos. They run around your walls and ceilings, living among curtain fabrics and behind picture frames. Some people like the little opaque lizards that eat mosquitoes and other little bugs but I think they look kind of fleshy, goggle eyed and yuk. Plus they leave small pellets of toxic black and white gecko poo everywhere and occasionally perfectly formed white spherical eggs hidden among the children’s toys. One day having made a perfect mid morning coffee, I was called away to answer the phone and got a bit distracted. When I returned to the cup, I took a large swig, only to find the coffee cold and undrinkable. Planning to make a fresh cup, I tossed the contents into the sink and out flopped a dead ‘poached’ gecko with blanched eyeballs. At what point did it fall into my mug, I wondered?

Scorpion plus babies – When staying in an island lodge, famous for having many snakes (we saw quite a few of those) we crawled into bed to find a large scorpion on the inside of the mosquito net around the bed. Not wishing to spend the night with this unwelcome guest, we emptied half a can of doom bug spray to kill it. The scorpion released it’s grip on the net and fell down to the floor only to strangely mutate and multiply, as hundreds of babies seemed to appear from the dead body. It was quite a job trying to get them all before they dispersed. Scorpion stings are among the most painful and searing agony can go on for up to twelve hours after the sting.

Lone buffalo and Charging Elephant – Over the years we’ve had a few chance encounters with lone buffalo and elephant in the road whilst driving through national reserves and game parks. Both of these species are notoriously grumpy when alone, often old men who have been chased out of their herds by a younger fitter model. Key advice is to wait quietly and try to back away until the beast has passed. Do not, as we have tried to our cost, beep the horn impatiently as you will find yourself in a ‘charging elephant/buffalo’ situation which is infinitely worse. It’s difficult to reverse along mud tracks.

Lion Baiting – Driving in convoy with a hire car around a national park can be hazardous when the hire car is prone to breaking down. As we stopped to watch a pair of lions in the Mara, our guests from England switched off their ignition and found that they couldn’t restart their landrover engine. Feeling responsible, Mr W headed out through the bush to attach a tow rope to our guest’s car in order to pull them to safety. Meanwhile the kind driver of an official lodge vehicle pulled up alongside the two cars to act as a barrier between us and the lions. Just as the job was speedily done, a third lion came up past our car to join the original pair in a sort of enter stage left manoeuvre. Another lucky escape.

Baboons – baboons are often a picnicking hazard and generally a menace. They are big with long sharp teeth and an inflated sense of their own importance. On many occasions they have snatched sandwiches out of the children’s hands. A camping supper was sabotaged when a troop made off with our ‘baked over an open fire’ potatoes. Once I was elbowed out of my own car by one such primate whilst it searched around the interior for biscuits. The only upside is that when cajoling small, straggling children into the bath, or into the car the; ‘monkey will come and get you,’ or ‘a monkey will come and bite your bottom’ threat actually sometimes works.

Ants – tiny sugar ants can get everywhere. At the sweltering coast it’s necessary to keep all sugary things in the fridge (and rice and flour because of weevils). Leave a cake on a surface for five minutes and it’s alive with ants and on the move. Guests on many occasions have been oblivious to dishes of food being banged repeatedly on the kitchen surfaces to get rid of rogue ants before serving.

Rats and Frogs – more common household wildlife incidents that stick in my mind are finding a smelly dead frog jamming up the U bend under the kitchen sink during rainy season. We took the bend away, to find a pair of frogs legs hanging down.
After being on a trip back home to the UK, copious amounts of washing and ironing were done (not by me) as we attempted to ‘catch up’ from our trip. The following day I opened the airing cupboard door to be confronted by a fat rat that had been nesting in the clean laundry over night. The clothes were alive with fleas. Ughh.

Staff party

Went to the most amazing party last week. We were invited to a leading Kenyan local supermarket chain’s staff party with 2,000 guests sitting down for a four course dinner. If you find it difficult to picture 2,000 in a room, imagine two football pitches crammed with tightly packed tables of ten, eight food stations and an awful lot of fairy lights. Free food, free drinks, the most popular stand up comics of the day (known as ‘Ridiculous’), dancers, singers and an Oscars style award ceremony.

All the branches of the store closed early that day and many were still in uniform having come straight from work. The atmosphere was electric as cash prizes were given out equally to all staff of the three top performing stores. Three government ministers were present and when called up on stage were suitably ribbed by the comedians; ‘Hey, Daktari! Kuja hapa!’ (the ‘daktari’/doctor prefix was ironic, as it’s their job to fix the nation – I liked that.) The minister for information was compelled to croon the popular tourist classic ‘Malaika’ to his wife for the benefit of the 2,000 strong audience. And all this on Sunday night.

The invitation stipulated 5pm-9pm and far from the drunken brawl that might have ensued, guests began to filter out into the night at 9pm prompt, presumably to begin the two or three hour walk home.

Africa -'Recycling Kings!'

The raging debate over food miles, with Tesco slapping pictures of aeroplanes onto their imported produce, threatens to debilitate Kenya’s second largest industry after tourism. Having read a little about it, the arguments seem clear. Some environmentalist or other thought up the ‘food miles’ catchphrase and the press have taken it and run wild, leaving poor Kenyan farmers with their livelihoods in the balance. Farmers here were encouraged move away from subsistence crops some time ago and grow more profitable roses, French beans (known in France as Kenya beans) and mange tout for export. Now UK supermarkets are keen to buy flowers from Holland rather than Kenya in an attempt to cut ‘air miles’, but conveniently they ignore the fact that the artificially heated greenhouses in Europe are far less environmentally friendly than their sun fuelled African counterparts, (using more than five times more energy on heating and lighting).

The Kenyan High Commissioner to UK, Josheph Muchemi said; ‘The response of European retailers to consumers concerns about ‘food miles’ could undermine Kenya’s social and economic development’.

Perhaps the press should stop whingeing about food miles and carbon footprints and instead highlight that fact that Africa is in fact the world ‘king of recycling’ and is an example to us all, with carbon emissions per head at 200kgs as opposed to in UK where figures per head are almost reaching 10,000.

It’s easy to see why carbon emissions are so low here. Most clothes worn are recycled, shipped from Europe and sold in second hand markets in Africa (mitumba). Paraffin lamps are made from old tin cans, plastic bottles and cups are used time and again, inner tubes from car tyres are cut into strips to make useful straps (like bungees). Even car tyre treads are fashioned into Maasai sandals. Many people have few possessions at home. Children and adults commonly walk for hours every day to school or to work. Bicycles are popular and the mini buses (matatus) ferry millions around the country. The Lorries and trucks loaded with building materials are often on their last legs, driven within an inch of their lives they limp along crabwise until ultimate breakdown. Roadside snacks like sweet corn are roasted on makeshift barbeques; peanuts are sold in wraps of used paper. Children’s toys are fashioned from odd bits of wire and cloth, footballs made from plastic bags and string. Ingenuity is the name of the game.

There are also more conventional large recycling plants for materials like paper and glass. Sadly, when rubbish bags are put out, you’ll often see someone picking through the waste for objects that can be recycled and the huge inner city toxic rubbish dumps are peopled with children and adults scratching out a living from recovering recyclable materials.

If you need to throw out an old oven, broken tv or stereo someone will willingly take it off your hands and these objects will miraculously be given new life. Furniture is a boon for anyone and always gratefully received. We have already had an offer to be relieved of the ten year old unwieldy and defunct satellite dish that we finally prised off the roof last weekend. Christmas is a time to hand over old clothes, towels and shoes and a home will be found for everything.

So why not give Kenya a break and buy their beans and flowers, don’t let ‘food miles’ destroy a developing country’s chances of finally having an independent and buoyant economy.

Dreaded Dentists

I went to visit a friend yesterday whose face and neck had blown up like a balloon due to teeth problems. She said that as soon as the swelling had gone down, she would be booking in for root canal surgery (and she’s pregnant). The woeful tail reminded me of a nasty dental experience I had in Tanzania and I begged her to get a second opinion before getting back onto the dentist’s chair. She protested; ‘the dentist is so nice, trained in the US I think and only 500 shillings for a consultation!’ (£3.50). Alarm bells began to ring… I’m sure that this dentist is more than capable, but tried to convince her that a second opinion might well be worth while.

After my first baby I got some sort of infection in my wisdom tooth which was agony. I’ve never been very keen on dentists, and when you’re a long way from home it’s easy to conveniently forget about keeping up regular visits. It’s not unlike renewing vaccinations. It was only when one friend contracted Hepatitis A and another Typhoid recently that I looked at our old record cards and realised that some of our jabs should have been redone eight years ago. Booking in to receive a guaranteed achy arm for one week somehow always slips down the priority list, though at least having some injections helped me empathise with my poor pin cushion children a bit more.

Anyway, I digress. After a day or so of having an agonising mouth, finding it difficult to swallow and numerous salt mouthwashes, I asked around a bit and settled on a dentist in town named Dr Zaro (it seemed there was only a choice of two recommended dentists in Dar, most expats preferring to make dental appointments on their annual visits home). When I arrived a very glamorous eastern European lady in a short white dental assistant dress and upswept hair came to greet me; ‘how are you going to pay? How are you going to pay? Insurance? Bupa? Credit card? Cash?’ Then the dentist himself appeared in reception with an Einstein style hair do and another pretty assistant; ‘how are you paying today?’ I felt like a rabbit in the headlights. What I’d been hoping for was; ‘you poor dear, I can see you are in pain, come through here and I will help you’ – or words to that effect. Instead, things were beginning to resemble a Benny Hill type sketch and I started wondering how this crazy Eastern European had wound up in East Africa. Struck off the register in his mother country perhaps??

I got into the dentist’s chair and he concluded that I’d need to remove all my wisdom teeth and have six fillings to boot. He proceeded to fill two holes and prescribed some antibiotics for the infection on the proviso that I book in for more work when the course was finished. This came as a bit of a shock, as I’d never had a filling before in my life and thought it must be down to having had a baby when they say your teeth get weak or something (or is that some old wives tale?)

After 24 hours of taking the pills I was forced to take to my bed feeling one hundred times worse. I dragged myself to the doctor, who said that I must stop taking these pills immediately. She prescribed a more suitable drug and recommended a very nice Nordic dentist instead. Visiting him was an altogether more heartening experience and he said that there was no need for any fillings or to remove any wisdom teeth. GRRRrrr. Sadly he left the country soon after so I never got the chance to go back for a follow up.

It took me six years to summon up the courage to visit a dentist again after that. I know that in UK, with the rise of private dentists, Den-Plan and the difficulty of tracking down an NHS, you can fall into these traps anywhere. How I long for the days when the NHS dentist would say; ‘nothing much needs doing, lets not bother with braces, lets wait and see what happens’.

The worst danger we face here is to have ‘brown staining’ on our teeth, due to the excess amounts of fluoride added to the water. It’s a common problem here and something to bear in mind with the kids as they may well end up with very strong, slightly brown teeth, but what to do?

Boating weekends in Dar

When we moved to Dar and had finally ingratiated ourselves into the local ‘yacht club’ our attentions turned away from the pretty sandy beach, which was fun for a swim at high tide (as long as it wasn’t sea urchin or jelly fish season) to the hundreds of boats parked both on shore and off and the smartly dressed boat boys milling around (often actually old men) in navy sailor shirts and shorts. The beach is fun for a few hours, but owning a boat could give us much more entertainment during the sweltering weekends. What a great excuse to get out onto the water and, more importantly, tiresome maintenance could be delegated to the full time boat staff at a relatively low cost. Just off the Msasani Peninsular where we lived and where the yacht club is located are two pretty islands, ideal for day trips and picnics; and further out is a stunning sand bar that only reveals itself at low tide.

Our first foray into the boating delegation of yacht club members (as opposed to the fishing lot) came in the form of an aged Wayfarer aptly named ‘Far and Away’ (because we always ended up far & away from where we had intended when setting out). A perfect little sailing boat for two, easy to handle, or so we thought. What we hadn’t banked on was that two amateurs heading out to sea in a small boat was almost a sure fire recipe for divorce. Many an argument broke out as we both felt we knew more than the other, which unfortunately totalled not much. To add extra stress, we would often take our Alsatian along too because she loved the beach and was a strong swimmer. On the face of it, it should have been easy. We would ask our boat man, Rajabu, to make the little craft ready at a certain time and he would expertly hoist sails and sort out the confusing tangle of ropes, then, with his help we towed the boat down to the slipway and hey presto!

The reality was that we crashed the boat around against the concrete slipway for a while, if a gust of wind caught us we sped off out of control into the maze of rather smart motorised fishing yachts moored off shore or worse, became becalmed in an inlet just behind the slipway and where other members were thoroughly enjoying the free entertainment as they tucked into beers and pizza above. If we managed to start heading in the right direction with the wind behind us and finally reached the ‘little bit further away than we thought’ island, we usually were beset with problems coming home. The wind would not be right or we would have jammed the centre board up with coarse sand and be bobbing about, terrified, like a cork. After many an unplanned capsize, the rescue boat was often called out to tow us, sheepish but relieved, back to the club. On the bright side, at least this return to the slipway was calmer than the usual panic where, having timed our arrival around other sailing traffic, one of us had to leap trustingly onto where we thought might be solid ground, rope in hand and prevent the boat from smashing other vessels or hitting the concrete. Being out of control and in charge of a boat is not a good combination.

The Catamaran was by far the sportier and fashionable choice among the young. Racing took place every weekend followed by beers and bragging. Wayfarers were welcome to join in but from memory we only braved one race and after arriving back in second from last, that experience was enough for us (the last boat had technical difficulties). Mr W was invited to crew on a friend’s ‘cat’ one weekend but whilst swinging out on the trapeze the rope snap, causing him to fall ungraciously into the water and then later the entire mast fell in half (though, to be fair, that was just bad luck). The friend declared Mr W a ‘Jonah’ and invitations were no longer forth coming, however, I’m proud to stay that we managed to hold on to the friendship notwithstanding.

Conveniently I soon got pregnant, so we decided to cut our losses and sell the Wayfarer in favour of a more ‘family friendly’ motorized fishing boat called ‘Tramp’ (also aptly named because it was by far the scruffiest fishing boat on the water). Having a husband who is knowledgeable about motors was a plus, but we soon realised that owning a motor boat that sits bobbing on the water day in, day out is like throwing a bundle of cash to the four winds and never recovering a cent. Our heavy, hard wood ‘tramp’ was a financial black hole. We tried to smarten it up by repainting (I think it was the wrong kind of paint, as the blue colour thereafter always rubbed off onto our clothes), redesigning seating and constructing a shaded area, but we were always flummoxed by the under performing and temperamental twin engines. There were days where, heavy laden with picnic, life jackets, small children, dog and invited friends, we never got off the mooring as the engines inexplicably refused to start.

There were a few successful outings but most were marked by some adventure or other and we were usually chugging out into the bay on half power or less. We even managed to get to the sand bar once. However, one island day trip with our six month old baby and faithful dog is indelibly printed on my memory (and this child is now seven). We had an enjoyable day from what I can remember, though I was always a little nervous of leaping from the slipway, to the yacht club dingy, to our boat on its mooring and later, onto the beach, with a little baby strapped into a car seat or onto my chest (she was too small for a life jacket). After a relaxing afternoon on the island, we noticed that the weather was beginning to close in a little. The wind was getting up and storm clouds were gathering. By the time we had packed ourselves into the boat it was raining. I strapped the baby into her car seat below decks and sheltered with her as we set off for home. Our dog, Hannah, hunkered down too. Before long I was violently lurching around while simultaneously holding onto our screaming but nonetheless precious cargo and stopping her from flying about the cabin. I vaguely recall yelling up to our driver to slow down, be more careful and other helpful comments of this nature and receiving some inaudible (and unrepeatable) replies. Meanwhile, above us on the ‘poop deck’ Mr W, having miraculously managed to get the engines started, was trying to ride the high waves ‘crossways’ to minimize the battering and bouncing. with driving rain and sea spray stinging his eyes he was finding it impossible to see, so he came up with the temporary solution of wearing his diving mask as eye wear (which annoyingly kept misting up), topped off by a floppy sun hat.

To give a bit of background, on very rough days the smart 400 seater, air conditioned Zanzibar ferry would go back to port along the inside curve of these three islands, to give passengers a more comfortable ride (sea sickness was always a bit of a problem on that boat).

Deep in concentration, Mr W was heading for the yacht club which was just visible on the horizon, when the sound of the mother and father of all siren like horns filled the air; ‘HOOONK! HOOONK!’ Our driver looked up to see 100 feet of ship wall bearing down on our little boat and proceeded to swerve out of the way as best he could, blinking behind snorkelling goggles. Below decks, all I could see through my porthole was a wall of steel. As you can imagine, riding the wake of that beast after the ship had safely passed added to our misery.

Exhausted and soaked, we arrived back at our mooring in one piece, thankful for having our boat intact but overall thankful for having escaped with our lives!

My Perfect Weekend

My mother in law kindly sends us Sunday supplements every week and one of my favourite columns is in the Telegraph Weekend where a celebrity describes their idea of the most perfect weekend imaginable.

More often than not, an author or an actor is interviewed and they talk about dog walking, theatre trips, big Sunday lunches, spending time with family etc. Pretty simple. However, last month when Tara Palmer Tomkinson was interviewed she managed to cram London, New York, Dubai, Bali, Klosters and the family home in Dummer into 850 words. In fact, a few celebrity names were thrown in too. As an old school contemporary of hers, I cannot deny that I might have been feeling a hint of envy but on the other hand I also couldn’t help thinking that it all sounded a bit like pie in the sky?!?

As an expat, the one thing that you miss most at weekends is family. Being thousands of miles from home can have its advantages when dealing with complex family politics or feelings of guilt when an elderly relative is due a visit. However, we do miss out on making arrangements to meet up with a sibling, get our children together to play, or go off home to parents or in-laws for a family roast. Catching up with brothers and sisters, glimpsing their children and seeing old friends usually involves many hours in the car and happens once a year, within one day. (Unless of course you can persuade them to come to Africa for a holiday).

The fact is that expat weekends can sometimes be quite difficult to fill. When quizzing friends who have just moved out from England over what their perfect UK Sunday used to entail, they said that they might typically arrange to meet friends for a pub lunch in the country, tying in a long walk afterwards to wear out the children. Here in Nairobi we just don’t walk, it’s too dangerous to stride out for long walks in town (thieves and pickpockets), or suburban woods (armed gangs) and walking in wildlife rich conservation areas cannot be recommended (there have been quite a few fatal accidents where a lone buffalo, hippo or elephant have been disturbed by unsuspecting and badly briefed walkers).

There’s nowhere to take bikes in town, no pubs, no playgrounds. We do have some restaurants and most are child friendly but there’s not a huge choice and for some reason weekends here are considered ‘family time’; meaning people keep themselves to themselves. It often takes a minimum of one year of friendship, before you are ready to reach out and make weekend arrangements. Meeting for a picnic in the national park is a good day out or visiting one another’s houses for lunch. There are clubs to be members of and while away the hours next to the pool. When the kids are older there are school sports matches, riding lessons and birthday parties to endure.

The worst case scenario is when your husband is away. Many expat housewives find that their husbands travel a lot and it can be agony for those who have been left home alone. If a solo weekend (plus kids) stretches ahead of you it’s necessary to make your weekend status a known fact and fish around wildly for invitations. If arrangements have not been made by at least Wednesday – you can forget it. If you can find a friend whose husband is also travelling, you might just be able to muddle through together but it’s not much fun. Otherwise there’s a danger of finding yourself in the doldrums with your sainted staff on half time, feeling loath to pick up the phone or send a text, for fear of rebuff. In this situation in England, I always muse that I would go and stay with Mum or phone one of my sisters or an old friend and basically call in the cavalry, but here it’s not so simple.

What we gain in easy access to babysitters, we lose in escaping on weekends away with our spouses, leaving children safe with the grandparents. However, the grass is always greener and one really mustn’t grumble….

Tree cutting phase 2

The nail biting has continued today, with the biggest tree of the eight being felled. This huge task warranted ten men and TWO chain saws. I’ve been cowering in the house all afternoon, heart in mouth, wondering if someone might get crushed today and I would be piling someone into the car and off to hospital. These guys seemed to have an impossible task of bringing the trees down safely in a small area. Our dogs are furious at having been shut up in the house all day.

I asked Mr W how much we were paying the tree cutters. He said ‘not enough’ (which I thought was generous after the wood shed incident).

Felling the huge tree took the best part of the day and the chain saws were refuelled many times. All came to a thundering crescendo at 5pm. Gladys and I made a big sufria (saucepan) of milky, sugary tea for everyone and jam sandwiches. She was particularly grateful to see the big brute that had ominously been overhanging her house, finally come down;
‘uta lala salama leo’, (You will sleep peacefully tonight!) I said. Gladys laughed.

No more wood store?!

Tree felling, Africa style

In our Karen suburb of Nairobi, the Australian eucalyptus or ‘blue gum’ has become a scourge in the landscape, just as the infamous leylandii tree has terrorised the Home Counties in England.

For some reason blue gums were planted willy nilly in Nairobi. They grow very tall, very fast (up to 40 meters) and drink a lot of water. Then they get some nasty invisible sickness or rot in the heart of their trunks and snap in half or fall over. When we moved to our house we had about forty of these 150-200 foot trees towering over us. Pushing the baby’s pram up the drive, was a test of nerve as these giants creaked and whined high above us. Then on a sunny afternoon, quite inexplicably, the top half of one of the trees lining our drive fell down with the most earth shattering boom. Panicked I screamed the children’s names hoping that they were nowhere in the vicinity. Thankfully we were all safe, no buildings or cars had been hit either, but we were stuck at home with a huge tree lying across the drive awaiting the nearest chainsaw wielding fundi (specialist).

Anyway, it wasn’t difficult to see that the lot of them had to go. The first batch was taken down a few years ago and we carelessly let some more at the bottom of the garden get too big, so have had to call the tree cutters in again. One large specimen near the staff housing has recently been dropping saturated branches ominously for the last few (rainy season) months. Poor Gladys, our ayah, said she lies awake at night fearing that she might get crushed by the unstable tree at any moment.

A band of men arrived to cut down eight trees with one chainsaw, hundreds of meters of rope (tied together with Heath Robinson style knots) and a few pangas (machetes). They are all from a tribe heralding from the wooded terrain of Western Kenya and are obviously particularly brave, fit and possibly immune from vertigo. They remind me of the black and white photos of the American Indian steeplejacks who put up New York’s sky scrapers in the 1950s. No hard hats, no measuring equipment, no safety harnesses, no cranes.

I watched the whole process of taking a eucalyptus tree down this afternoon with butterflies in my stomach in a toe curled and terrified fascination. The six men take it in turns to heroically scale the trees unaided with the strength of an acrobat. It’s incredible to watch. Barefoot they shimmy up the wide trunk securing a rope further and further up as they go. Systematically they lob off ancillary branches with a panga. The next stage is to throw down the panga and sling the rope over a branch to pull up a dangling chain saw. The ‘climber’ will then chain saw off the top section of the tree, hoping it doesn’t fall on his head, or anyone else’s. If it is possible the tree is sometimes left whole and the climber will continue to chop off branches until he reaches the top, leaving a shorn trunk with only branch stumps for footholds, swaying in the wind. Then a stronger rope is hoisted and fastened to the top of the offending tree. This will be used to guide the trunk if it starts toppling the wrong way. After speedily descending the rope like a fireman on a greasy pole, the task of cutting wedges out of the base of the trunk begins. Then before you know it; ‘TIMBER!’,a deafening crash and the tree is mathematically felled into a clear space, presumably having judged the height of the tree and the stretch of land below ‘by eye’.

Well, that’s what is supposed to happen. What actually happened is that we happily waved off the tree cutters until tomorrow when they come to finish the job, then went to the bottom of the garden to find that we lost a few indigenous trees into the bargain, a wood store (flattened) and a chain link fence. At least we won’t be short of firewood for a while?!

All this and today our entrance gate rusted off its hinges too. Trying to find a long enough extension cable so that it can be re-welded has been a nightmare.

Missing Aircraft Found (after 36 hours)

The missing Kenya Airways plane was found in pieces on Sunday night, debris scattered far and wide, and three quarters buried in a swamp, only 23 kilometres from Douala airport, Cameroon. Apparently the plane crash landed only minutes after take off and there are no survivors. It sounds like a desperate job trying to recover personal belongings and bodies from the muddy, waterlogged site.

One news story that stood out concerned a twenty five year old Kenya Airways stewardess, with a BA Hons in social sciences. Apparently she had been discussing with her parents how she planned to help out with her younger sisters’ school fees, just before boarding the fated flight.

If a young person in Kenya has managed to gain a good education and has found a decent job then they are expected to contribute to the family’s costs long after leaving home. I can’t imagine many graduates in the western world who are saddled with having to help parents and siblings out financially when they are working, but here it is commonplace.

'Rhino Charge'

The Rhino Charge is coming up. This huge charity event hangs over me like a spectre every year. It’s a four wheel drive competition (not unlike the Paris-Dakar but held in one day) that takes place every year ‘somewhere in the bush’ in order to raise funds for ‘The Rhino Ark Trust’, a conservation charity. The location is varied every year and can be anywhere in Kenya. The concept is that the cars blast through the landscape like a charging rhino, flattening everything in their path.

The reason it bothers me is that it means ‘camping’ and not just camping in normal circumstances, but camping in some remote part of the African bush, without running water, among hundreds (sometimes thousands) of other people, in a generally very hot, dusty, thorny place with a husband who is 100 percent preoccupied with getting his custom made 4x4 vehicle through the crazy competition with five equally mad friends. Believe me, it is not a ‘small children’ friendly scenario – not only coping with the rigours camp life (including things like long drop loos) but trying to prevent the children from being run over 24/7. I’ve done a few of these Kenyan motor sport camping events and none of them have been easy.

The competitors love it. They stand around the day before the event comparing customised vehicles and shooting the breeze over a Tusker beer or ten. The competition day comprises reaching thirteen check points or guard posts within ten hours, using the most direct routes (ie through dry river beds, up and over precipices and through thorny bush). This involves employing extreme driving methods and honed navigational skills; winching up and down slopes, negotiating over large boulders, getting dirty and drinking lots of water and re-hydration salts in the scalding sun. It’s exhausting but for some reason they all come back for more, year after year. On the third day there is prize giving and then a long drive home.

In the run up to the competition, the sixty odd teams (six people per car) are committed to raising thousands of pounds for the charity, for they pledge a certain amount in order to be eligible to compete. Each year teams pledge more and more and the bar is raised. Most of the team members live in Kenya, though some come from overseas. The huge sums of money are spent on the fencing of the Aberdare National park. This forested highland area represents the main source of Nairobi’s entire water supply. The electric fence allows wildlife to continue living safely in the forest, protects villagers from wildlife rampaging over their crops and prevents any illegal cutting down of trees, or ‘logging’ from taking place. Fence posts are made from recycled plastics.

The teams are always hard pushed to raise the funds, but generally find local businesses sponsor and donate generously. Otherwise, those employed in the ‘high end’ safari business will squeeze their wealthy clients for a few dollars. All will appeal to friends and family to chip in too.

One year I met a flushed looking lady from Edinburgh at the camp, struggling with a double buggy. At one of the check points, she had just finished conscientiously slathering the one and three year old respectively in sun cream when the event helicopter began it’s descent nearby, whipping up a cloud of fine dust which then stuck to the poor kids like glue. This was her first time in Africa and she said that she didn’t think her children had ever before been so hot or so dirty. Somehow, incredibly, she was still smiling.

p.s. A dvd following our car no. 39 through the rigours of the Rhino Charge competition is on sale online at: www.dvdr.co.uk/rhino with all proceeds going to the Rhino Ark Trust.

Missing Kenyan Aircraft

The Kenyan Sunday newspapers are full of details about the missing Kenya Airways aircraft, lost en route from Cameroon to Nairobi. There’s a weird hiatus whilst the search continues over the weekend, to no avail. The new Boeing 737-800 took off in bad weather on Friday night, apparently losing radio contact within an hour of departure. It is assumed that the aeroplane must have crash landed in very thick forest somewhere in the Congo Basin. Search efforts are being hampered by heavy rainfall and motorcyclists have been sent out to scour the area and interview villagers in the hopes of finding information. Air rescue teams are being hampered by rain and thunder storms.

You can’t help envisaging scenes from popular TV disaster programmes like ‘Lost’ and wondering if survivors are toughing it out in the jungle as we speak. There might be passengers thinking; ‘where the hell are the helicopters? what about a rescue mission? has anyone noticed that a plane has gone missing yet?’

Kenya Airways is a great airline. In the ‘70s and ‘80s it was known locally as ‘Kenya Scareways’ but a lot has changed since then. The airline was privatised in 1996 and has been going from strength to strength ever since taking over more routes across the continent and making Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta airport a transit ‘hub’ in Africa. The air crew are always friendly, accommodating and tolerant when we travel with the worst of all accessories (small children). The managing director of Kenya Airways, Titus Naikuni, even got personally involved over the trifling issue of my missing luggage (see previous post – it was eventually found mixed up among BA bags).

Relatives of the missing passengers have been desperate for any news since Saturday morning. It makes you wonder how, in this age of high technology, that a plane carrying 114 people can just disappear?

Missing Kenyan Aircraft

The Kenyan Sunday newspapers are full of details about the missing Kenya Airways aircraft, lost en route from Cameroon to Nairobi. There’s a weird hiatus whilst the search continues over the weekend, to no avail. The new Boeing 737-800 took off in bad weather on Friday night, apparently losing radio contact within an hour of departure. It is assumed that the aeroplane must have crash landed in very thick forest somewhere in the Congo Basin. Search efforts are being hampered by heavy rainfall and motorcyclists have been sent out to scour the area and interview villagers in the hopes of finding information. Air rescue teams are being hampered by rain and thunder storms.

You can’t help envisaging scenes from popular TV disaster programmes like ‘Lost’ and wondering if survivors are toughing it out in the jungle as we speak. There might be passengers thinking; ‘where the hell are the helicopters? what about a rescue mission? has anyone noticed that a plane has gone missing yet?’

Kenya Airways is a great airline. In the ‘70s and ‘80s it was known locally as ‘Kenya Scareways’ but a lot has changed since then. The airline was privatised in 1996 and has been going from strength to strength ever since taking over more routes across the continent and making Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta airport a transit ‘hub’ in Africa. The air crew are always friendly, accommodating and tolerant when we travel with the worst of all accessories (small children). The managing director of Kenya Airways, Titus Naikuni, even got personally involved over the trifling issue of my missing luggage (see previous post – it was eventually found mixed up among BA bags).

Relatives of the missing passengers have been desperate for any news since Saturday morning. It makes you wonder how, in this age of high technology, that a plane carrying 114 people can just disappear?

Weddings in East Africa

Weddings are a big deal around here. It would be very unusual to have a low key registry office do, or an LA style ‘chapel of love’ style quickie. Don’t assume that matrimonies in the developing world are not as flamboyant or extravagant than those held elsewhere. Extended family are all expected to chip in to the wedding budget of a relative, helping to foot the bill for the dress, bridesmaids outfits, a huge crowd of guests, fleet of decorated wedding cars, film crew, flowers, brass band, sumptuous feast etc.

Last weekend was the much awaited ‘Kiss 100 Victorian Wedding’, where a pair of radio listeners won an ‘all expenses paid’ dream wedding (see photo). The venue was the ‘Marula Manor’ in Karen, once home to Sir Jock Delves Broughton and Diana Delamere and one assumes the setting for many a ‘happy valley’ party in its hey day. The house has not been occupied for the last 25 years, but is occasionally hired out for private functions.

The wedding did not disappoint, I stood on the roadside watching with the kids (and many other onlookers), whilst liveried horses trotted past pulling a carriage ready to collect the glamorous bride who was getting ready at the Karen Club. The groom and his ushers were dressed in top hat and tails, the bride’s train was purportedly longer than Princess Diana’s, there were 500 guests, 80,000 flowers, 120 waiters, a 30 tier cake and the likely candidate for next Kenyan president was present with his wife (in the press here he’s referred to as the President ‘aspirant’). This spectacular event may seem incredibly extravagant, but expectations are normally high for weddings here. A work colleague once said; ‘if you don’t have a Benz (i.e. a Mercedes Benz) at your wedding you are nobody.’ The Benz is the preferred wedding transportation in Kenya.

In Tanzania, the wedding convoy is likely to include an open ended pickup truck carrying a brass band that are playing loud jolly tunes as they are driven around the city streets. There is often a cameraman hanging off the back too, eagerly filming the newly weds as they are chauffeured along. It’s a veritable party on wheels and is a common sight every Saturday afternoon! Part of the wedding itinerary in Dar es Salaam always includes a stop off at one of the stunning public beaches, for some formal wedding photography set against the Indian Ocean. Watching the oyster pink, sky blue or orangey gold satiny colour coordinated bridesmaids and accompanying wedding groups congregating on the beach is always quite a spectacle.

In spite of all this romance, I had an interesting conversation with the manager of a popular wedding venue in Karen, Nairobi. He said that many of the happy couples he has dealt with have insisted on total privacy for their weddings, hidden behind high security walls and armed guards. Bridal parties are often known to go to great lengths to ensure that only the strictly invited guests will be granted entry. The uninspiring cement walled field that he hires out is ideal for such occasions. I asked why privacy was an issue:
‘Ah’ he said; ‘they are afraid of a previous wife or husband turning up to the wedding and making a fuss.’
Apparently, its common practice to get out of an existing marriage by paying a bribe and getting it legally dissolved. Often, the partner has no knowledge of this until all the arrangements have been made and they discover without warning that they are divorced! The offending partner is then free to take up with anyone she or he likes and then to remarry.

Of course this ploy only works when your spouse is not wealthy, otherwise there is a danger of being pursued through the law courts to contest the divorce and reinstate the marriage. Hence brides and grooms are often terrified of previous wives or husbands turning up to their new wedding and creating a huge scene, so prefer to hold their weddings in secret.

Which, I suppose leads us full circle back to the Kiss 100 radio phone in ‘busted’, where listeners can publicly expose their cheating spouses. (see previous post: Kenya radio).

Witch Doctors and Medicine Men

In the Monday Standard yesterday, in the ‘crazy Monday’ section was a large centre page spread on a successful Mombasa witch doctor (or ‘herbal’ doctor) called Kalama. This popular medicine man uses chickens as his main aid to healing the sick, sometimes burying them alive for up to seven days, communing with the fowl and taking advice on what treatments to prescribe. Apparently many high ranking politicians, armed forces officers and business people visit him seeking help to gain promotions at work or resolve domestic issues. The witch doctor has recorded all of his client’s names in exercise books and keeps their contents confidential by allowing his chickens to wander around on top of the books clucking, squawking and pecking at intruders. The newspaper claimed that the rich and powerful ‘clients’ will book into swanky coastal hotels where they will leave their families, then go and visit this mystic man for days on end. Sometimes the witch doctor will prescribe burying his clients alive for three days in order to complete ‘treatment’, although there is an option to substitute a chicken in your place if you are really unhappy about the ‘burying alive’ thing.

On the outside, many would like to distance themselves from witch doctors and medicine men, but in reality, when conventional medicine fails or if a problem concerns marital disputes, career hopes, financial concerns or family fallouts, this alternative treatment is often considered a solution. It’s a kind of pro-active form of therapy.

In Dar es Salaam there’s an ancient baobab tree overlooking the sea, which is always festooned with ribbons, talismans and little hand written notes. Apparently it is a very sacred site and favoured by witch doctors. One day we found a little bottle washed up on the beach and stupidly opened it finding a note and a little piece of fabric soaked in blood.

Our first house help in Tanzania was a fun, sunny girl my age with a good sense of humour. We got on well, but things started to go wrong for her when her father died. She inherited a piece of land and other family members were jealous. Soon she got sick and we sent her off to hospital for tests and committed to paying all her medical costs in full. It sounded like it might be a stomach ulcer and she got some treatment for the problem but I’m not sure she stuck to the course of treatment. This was because she did not believe in this western medicine and truly thought that her jealous family had cast a bad spell onto her. Each time she had any money or went off on leave, she would disappear for many days and visit a ‘herbal’ doctor, who made cuts in her chest and inserted leaves and goodness knows what else. It was so tragic and frustrating. She lost weight and became sad, then she stopped coming to work choosing instead to rejoin her husband as wife no. 2 in Tanga. I’m ashamed to say I don’t know what happened to her after that.

Similarly there was a bizarre scene at the office. Initially everyone rejoiced as the tea lady finally fell pregnant. She had wanted a child for years. One day, when she was heavily pregnant, a lady arrived screaming at the office with a ‘medicine man’ in tow. They were apparently casting a spell on the tea lady and there was a huge scene. The local police were called to try and resolve the dispute, sending everyone home and it transpired that the tea lady had been having an affair with the other woman’s husband (who also, conveniently, worked in the same office – he was looking on, sheepish). Anyway, the baby was born but tragically died at six weeks. Within six months the tea lady was also dead – which makes you stop and wonder whether there actually is a little more to this ‘alternative medicine’ in Africa.