Floods and Plastic Bags

Living in Africa today is a little like living in mid 20th century Britain. My parents remember periodic shortages of certain goods in the shops, power cuts, gas bought in cylinders and rubbish pits in the garden just as is common in urban east Africa today. The difference is that in the 1940s and 50s, there wasn’t the problem of bulky plastic containers and bags. Rubbish pits and fires were do-able sixty years ago without the plastics, disposable nappies and polystyrene of today, whereas now these fires set to dispose of rubbish exude toxic smoke and fumes.

In Kenya the lightweight bags (anything less than 3 microns) that litter the countryside and have become known as ‘the flower of Africa’ were recently been banned and heavier gauge bags are now carrying a new tax. This bag ban has been in force in South Africa for some time and I read in the newspaper that a small town in England has voluntarily followed suit. Maddeningly I can’t remember the name of this town, but do recall that they have the highest number of registered lesbian residents in the country….

There is something of a panic in Nairobi, as up until now, each item you buy seems to have been dropped into a thin plastic bag, and then the bag gets reused time and time again until it winds up fashioned into a football made up of plastic bags or used for waterproofing or something. How will the flying toilets system now operating in the slums continue with no more small bags?

Watching television news in England about the terrible flooding also reminded me of home. The newsreader in Gloucester was using words like ‘bowser’ for the first time, when describing homes that are now relying on water being delivered to their homes by truck because the water treatment plant in their area also flooded and is now out of use. Many homes in East Africa rely on water being delivered in bowsers by private companies, if the homeowner can afford it. Gloucester residents were advised that they should not drink this water (welcome to our world in Africa!) but can use it for washing etc.

There is deep shock in England at the state of the roads after flood waters have subsided, as the tarmac has broken up leaving deep cracks and holes. The cost of mending roads will be huge. Local councillors and newscasters are talking in millions. Each rainy season in East Africa the roads become flooded, are sometimes impassable and wind up broken. It’s an ongoing problem that needs to be addressed at least twice a year. Eventually varying attempts are made to fix them according to the area budget and they range from patching to re-carpeting and the clearing of clogged drainage ditches.

In fact, in light of the UK flooding it’s even possible to feel a little sympathy with the Kenyan Government for the first time, rather than just feeling the niggling annoyance at their general inefficiency when bumping over potholes.

English Summer

It’s pouring with rain in England. We looked pretty ridiculous in Cornwall with no raincoats or waterproofs, heads bent down against the driving rain walking around the harbour wall of St Maws, or crabbing on the quayside in Mylor getting drenched. Ours were the only kids on the beach in St Agnes without wetsuits. Yesterday we braved the play park but only lasted five minutes before another downpour struck and we all got soaked again walking home. We’re considering a shopping trip today, but the prospect seems like madness. I think that there’s been another severe weather warning.

Joking apart, it’s not always wet weather here, but there certainly has been a lot this summer. Living in England seems to be all about having the right gear and being prepared for all weathers. Holiday-ing in the UK must be a mother’s packing nightmare, with fishing nets to remember, waterproofs, sunsuits, wetsuits, boats on trailers, surf boards, extra kids beds to put on floors of self catering cottages, sun cabanas, buckets and spades, beach towels and wellies (or rather ‘crocs’ this year). Days on the beach necessarily involve trailing endless waterproof bags down to the beach in a series of heavily laden trips from the car park and all the while hoping that the rain holds off and you don’t have to pack up and go home at a moments notice. Most people bring there dog too, which means poop scooping and unsavoury jobs like that to do.

The long light English summer evenings are a boon though, even if our ‘only just two’ year old insists every night that it’s NOT bedtime when we sling her into her cot. It’s so nice to be pottering around hanging out washing (when it’s not raining) and thinking ‘Oh, it’s 7pm already – by now it would be dark at home and the mosquitoes would be starting to bite’.

Another nice thing about England is that you can almost guarantee good loos wherever you are, for instance; in petrol stations, on trains, airports or in shopping centres. What is normally a perennial dread of mine when living in Africa, becomes almost a pleasure. ‘Oh look, this soap comes out of the machine as foam! Or, if I put my hands here I will have them washed and dried for me automatically, if I wave my hand about here the loo will flush’. In fact, you never need to do without a flush loo or running water – hooray!

Downsides are that to pick up a coffee or sandwich on a shopping trip will practically bankrupt you. Last night we ordered ‘homemade bread and dips’ in the pub for £5.90 and got six slices of whole grain bread with a small ramekin of olive oil and another of balsamic vinegar. I think we were ripped off. Shopping is bewildering, especially during the summer sales where there are just so many over spilling rails you can face, all displaying a daunting array of colours and styles. There are jostling crowds and snaking queues for the till. Our youngest wont spend more than five minutes in a push chair, because she’s never had to before and doesn’t feel like starting now. You tend to get easily duped by buying the wrong kind of rail cards etc. because you don’t know what the dickens you’re doing and systems have changed since you were last here.

It’s fun to drive on endless smooth roads and spot flashy, sporty cars that you would definitely buy if you had loads of money and lived in England one day. I’m afraid that as each year passes we get more and more ‘out of it’, out of the loop and out of the England rat race which is a relief and quite scary at the same time.

Mass Exodus

Phew – the end of the school year has finally arrived and there will be no more concerts, plays, speech days and birthday parties (with the now pre requisite security van parked outside – no balloons on the gate). There is always a rash of children’s birthday parties at the end of term because all those born in July or August will have early celebrations so as not to run the risk of not having any friends available on the actual day.

Lots of expats left last night on the first possible flight out of here, where they will lead a sort of parallel existence in the UK for a couple of months. It’s a mass exodus. Some privileged few have furnished houses (complete even with children’s toys) which sit empty waiting for owners to return for the long holidays. Others (like us) will be going to stretch the patience of family and descend on them for an extended visit, cramming an extra five people under one roof and all the while trying to dart around catching up with friends and other relatives too.

It might be a sign of age, but some are using the long holidays to discreetly go off and get their boobs done - quite tempting after three children, if it wasn’t for the surgery involved! It was a disaster when one friend went off to have the same procedure during term time last term, relying on husband and friends to do school runs etc. By the time she came back the town was buzzing with the news and no one could draw their eyes up from her chest.

The weather is kind of cold and grey as it is winter here. People who are staying put for the summer (especially for working parents) will be experiencing feelings of rising panic as they are now faced with how to entertain the children for two solid months. Fortunately there’s the odd art workshop and holiday camp on offer. Speaking to a fellow school Mum yesterday, she asked if I was going to England. When I said yes, she said; ‘you’re mad, you will work like a dog!’ I think she underestimates my capacity of soaking up the kind hospitality of others and putting the whole family in wrinkly clothes to avoid ironing. Everyone is excited to be travelling but we all admit to having concerns about leaving our ayahs (nannies)…. We’re just being honest.

It’s a bit of a rush trying to think of suitable/original presents to take back to England. Like Christmas, I’m sure that friends and relatives are heartily sick of receiving yet more rubbish from Africa.

Hey ho – before we come back ‘home’, there’s a few days left for lie-ins, cinema trips and wearing sheepskin boots. It’ll now finally be possible to park at the local shops, go the most popular local restaurant without having to book ahead and chat to people you don’t often see (because they’re the only ones left to talk to).

Richistan - getting used to house staff

I was reading about rich people hiring modern butlers in a Sunday Times news review article entitled ‘Welcome toRichistan’ (an extract of a book 'Richistan' soon to be published by Robert Frank) and it reminded me of the weirdness of getting used to having staff working in your house:
‘Just as new butlers need training, so do the New Rich. Most of today’s Richistanis are not used to having servants. They’re used to doing things themselves, and they’re uncomfortable with the stuffy formalities that often come with hiring house staff.’

Now whilst being an expat certainly (sadly) does not make you a ‘Richistani’, you do have to immediately face the fact that there are people working for you, in and around your house every single day. For ‘in control’ super mums from UK and Europe, having house help can be difficult to graciously accept. A couple of people I know have actually rejected having any house staff in Kenya, preferring to continue bringing up children and keeping house alone. Others have house staff, but struggle with letting go of some of the mundane household chores. These are the ones that still load the washing machine themselves and refuse to have anyone dust their dressing tables. Others have unnecessarily high expectations of those working for them, where they prefer to manage a perfectly organised/stacked fridge or colour coded knicker drawer.

Personally, I was delighted not to know the whereabouts of our washing machine for some weeks after moving into this house, in spite of washing miraculously appearing clean and ironed in the airing cupboard. I’m happy to shrug off the odd colour run accident which I was often guilty of committing whilst living alone in London. In return I have no tiresome washing responsibilities (except for the occasional bit of hand washing) and more time to do the things I like doing, unfettered by laborious housework!

Cooking is another matter. I find myself constantly plotting to find a way of dodging this often boring chore, but to be honest am often creeping into the kitchen as an excuse when faced with the choice of bouncing on the trampoline or entertaining hungry children by pushing them on the swing endlessly. ‘I just have to get the kids supper ready….’ I shout over my shoulder, when I know that boiling spaghetti would be an easy task to delegate. I’ll be a terrible granny when the time comes, forever sidling off doing other jobs in order to avoid hands on childcare.

One thing that the Richistanis have to face, along with us expats, is the loss of privacy that comes with house help. Not wishing to sound too spoiled but it’s difficult not to feel self conscious when sheepishly greeting the night askari (who is about to finish his shift) in your dressing gown at 6am, as you let the dogs out. Lie in days are worse because when the children have been sent down to watch mindless tv for hours, you emerge dishevelled from slumber at 9am, knowing that your house help has had to get up at dawn in order to be at work on time (as usual). There are no locks on our bathroom doors (in order to be childproof) so it’s never very relaxing to know that someone may burst through the door brandishing the Harpic bottle at any moment. Our shower is downstairs and opposite some French windows, so every day we must necessarily leg it up the stairs in only a towel in an effort not to get spotted. As we sit down as a family to a weekend fry up late morning, there’s generally the sound of sweeping just outside the window, which never fails to make me feel guilty.

On top of this there are pay rolls; medical expenses; leave time and overtime payments to manage. Occasionally one staff member is disgruntled causing a bad atmosphere and it’s up to you to smooth things over (either that or spend your whole time out of the house in order to avoid the problem – this tactic has been known).
It’s the old timer expats who have the system cracked and no one seems to know how they manage it! They can effortlessly knock up breakfast for twelve followed by Sunday lunch for twenty, have house guests staying for weeks and still have fresh flowers arranged everywhere too. Beautifully presented picnics and self catering safaris are organised with mathematical precision and home comforts like gin and tonics served in director’s chairs at sundown are always laid on. These people can make an afternoon golf game turn into drinks and a late dinner out with friends, without worrying about putting the children to bed (it will get done, systems are in place). On top of that, their staff are all happy and bright, secure in the knowledge that they know what they are doing and they are doing their jobs well. It’s us uncomfortable newcomers used to doing everything ourselves who hover around awkwardly, often stressed, obstinately refusing to hand over responsibility to others and necessarily suffering the consequences.