Doing penance at the gym

This morning I feel like I have been coshed over the back of the head. The reason is because yesterday I went back to the gym for what I thought would be an aerobics lesson, contrite after a chocolate infused few weeks off for the Easter holidays and as usual, felt like dying a slow death afterwards. I survived the punching, high kicking, and power jogging, but when our instructor told us to pair up and give our partner piggy back rides at running pace up and down the ‘studio’ floor, I thought that my heart was about to burst out of my chest. I am not sure if this fitness technique would pass in European gymnasiums – perhaps it would contravene certain safety standards? When my mum was staying she hinted that I must be mad doing these ‘boot camp’ classes, as I always emerge re faced, exhausted and grumpy. I couldn’t explain that just having survived it gives me a huge sense of satisfaction, even it is to the detriment of the rest of the day and at the peril of the rest of the family.

Plumbing and other trials...

We have a small problem in our kitchen, because our little electric water heater that is mounted inches over the sink, with a thick cable that plugs into the wall to turn it off and on, has finally packed up. The cable that has broken free of it’s wall mountings and has been dangling dangerously close to the water in the sink for some weeks, always gave me the fear of sudden death by electric shock and it has been five years of irritation banging your head on this silly protruding water heater box as you bend down to fish out rogue knives and spoons from the bottom of the washing up water. No doubt, it has driven Gladys and Florence mad over the years too, as they put in many hours of washing up by hand each week. It’s a very Heath Robinson/1950s system that is in dire need of an upgrade. The problem is that, now we have bought the house, I’m looking at everything with new eyes. One day I’d like a new kitchen, a new bedroom for our youngest daughter who sleeps in a box room under the sloping roof, a second bathroom upstairs hell – one day I’d even like a swimming pool! Not sure if or how any of this will take place but it leaves us in a dilemma re: fixing kitchen hot water heater because one day I’d like to pull the whole lot down and start again, therefore much more than a temporary fix would be a waste of effort and money.

It’s tiresome washing up in cold water, or boiling the kettle to wash up, or carrying buckets of hot water from the upstairs bathroom, but yet another antiquated water heater system seemed so old fashioned that I asked the plumber:
‘Couldn’t we just run hot water into the kitchen from our upstairs boiler perhaps, like in 21st century houses?’
At this point I might just explain that strangely enough our water pipes are mounted on the outside of the house. There is a ground tank for water storage which is sporadically topped up by the mains supply that comes in on one or two random days of the week (if at all). We then have a small electric pump that we switch on and off to get the water from the ground into the roof tanks. The water must be routed around the house (ie upstairs/guest room extension/outbuildings) via a complex system of turning on and off of valves mounted on the pipes outside on the wall. We switch the pump off when precious water starts pouring out from the various overflow pipes onto the ground.

Finally I get to the point – the plumber shook his head and said, that my plan might be difficult; however, he said he would be back the next day with all the necessary equipment. Sure enough he returned, with a long ladder, a length of pipe and a sledge hammer. I returned from a quick shopping expedition to find that the plumber’s assistant was up the ladder and proceeding to knock a large hole in the side of the house:
‘STOP!’ I yelled.
It was then that I learned about the plumber’s ‘grand plan’, whose details were as follows: knock a hole in the side of your brown stone Nairobi house, big enough to poke a human head through in order to locate roughly where the upstairs bathroom taps are mounted. Then try to make an ancillary connection with the hot water pipe under the upstairs bath to a new pipe, that will poke out of the external wall, run vertically down the outside of the house (in amongst all the other ones in the maze). A guess will be made at roughly where the underside of the kitchen sink is, knock another hole in the house for the pipe re enter, run it up to the kitchen sink – then bodge a new hot water tap and hey presto! Hot water in the kitchen!

‘OK, forget it.’ I said to the plumber and his mate. ‘Sorry to be awkward and to have wasted your time, but we are going to have to think of another solution.’ I then proceeded to have a row with my husband, in front of the bewildered plumbers, who was insisting that all houses, even in England, have water pipes that run down the outside walls. However, at the risk of believing I was slipping into insanity yet having just been to England, I was sticking to my guns.
‘No more horrible pipes on the outside of the house!’ I insisted. ‘Houses in the developed world do not have pipes on the outside, with little electric pumps plugged into a stupid socket and valves dotted here and there. I’d rather do without the hot water than knock huge holes in the side of the house – this is crazy!’ Finally, my husband acquiesced.

On closer inspection, under the sink were two disused pipes which suggested that once there was a hot and cold water supply to the kitchen, however, we are now back to square one, with no progress made. A week later, we’re still boiling kettles for washing up and still living in the 1950s in Nairobi. It seems that I can only dream of hot running water, dish washers and no more unsightly exterior water pipes.

The male model

What I have done is, found someone who is a model spotter - my friend gave me a phone number, and that lady said she would: 'go and have a look.'
I won't try and take a pic of the security guard and post it on my blog, as 'anonymous' - told me not to and said it was sexual harrassment - he/she might be right....
I will let you know if the model spotter thinks he has potential. In the meantime, the security guard is none the wiser about my plotting on his behalf....

Opportunity knocks

There is a very handsome Kenyan security guard who works at our local supermarket. Before you go jumping to conclusions - he's not actually my type, but when my Mum was staying with me last month she called him 'a real dish' too and that was without any provocation!

The reason that I am in a dilemma about him today is because I know that the job of security guard is a pretty rubbish one; low paid and extremely boring. If someone was to say to that man:
'Why don't you take yourself along to a model agency - you never know' - it might just be the push to change his life around. Instead of standing around in a supermarket, he could be driving his own car and 'living the life'. Of course, this is all pure speculation because sadly I am not a modelling agency talent spotter, but he certainly does stand out from the crowd and since my Mum pointed him out, the thought occured to me today that he could just be holding the ticket to a better life but he doesn't know it. Any of you in the area - have a look at him and tell me if I'm wrong? You can't miss him.

I was thinking about approaching him today to say: 'why don't you take yourself along to a model agency', but chickened out completely in case didn't understand what I was on about, or in case I am wrong and he wouldn't make a good model. I even phoned my husband to ask if he thought I was mad and he said: 'Yes, you are.' But then went on to make a practical suggestion of phoning a model agency myself and tipping them off about this guy. I just tried this, found a number for a model agency in the Yellow Pages (yes! Nairobi has one), but drew a blank when the line refused to go through.

The reason for my crusade is that not only because I have not quite enough in my own life to occupy my mind, but because I've seen the story of; 'supermarket security guard breaks free from the mould' once before in Nairobi.

What happened was, there was a particularly sparky security guard posted on the door of a supermarket who always smiled and said 'Hello'. He stood around on his shift and watched with interest for months as a large new clothing store was being fitted out at the other end of the Mall. He watched and waited and kept bugging the contractors to introduce him to the managers of the store. Finally, they gave him an introduction and low and behold, he landed himself a job in retail, swapping his 'askari' uniform for a smart suit and dapper 'wide boy' tie. I chatted to him when he was working in the clothes shop and he seemed like a guy who was going places. Sadly the clothing store closed after a year, but before it did, I spotted the ex security guard drinking a cappucino in the food court (opposite the supermarket), in serious negotiation with another man who had an open lap top in front of him - presumably he was securing himself a new and even better job. I don't doubt that for this bright guy things were just beginning not ending.

It's very difficult for people to break free from poverty in Kenya. At least if you live in a big city there is always the opportunity (which is why people leave the countryside in droves to live here, however poor the living conditions might be), though I expect you have to be exceptional, full of initiative and lucky to rise up out of the quagmire. Having said all that, who am I to raise somebody's hopes perhaps falsely? But then again - shame to leave it if I am right. Any suggestions? I will try and take a covert photo of him with my phone to post up here on the blog, but only if I am feeling brave! Don't want to look like a total stalker.....

Mundane frustrations

Yesterday my husband was withdrawing cash from an atm machine. Just as it was whirring through counting out the notes, there was a power cut and the money never appeared. What are the odds of that happening! Only in Africa perhaps? He went into the bank and they told him that the money had registered in the account as having gone out - but it would be reconciled back in when the cash is counted in the machine at the end of the day. They said he should come back today to check this has been done. He did this and they said the money has not been recredited yet, come back tomorrow. It makes you wonder if there will be enough tomorrows and changes over of staff to forget the money - one wonders if returning to the bank numerous times to check the cash has not disappeared into the ether is really worth it?

In September we had a mad panic to buy our eldest daughter a ballet outfit. M&S failed to deliver the pretty pink concoction before we left England to return to Nairobi last August, so there was a huge panic over not having a thing to wear - then the school told us ballet lessons would be postponed for a couple of weeks while they sourced a new teacher. In the end, my husband's boss very kindly brought the ballet clothes out from England to Kenya - we heaved a collective sigh of relief. My seven year old daughter did one lesson (looking fantastic in pink), then the following week we were told the teacher had left town to care for a sick relative and there was no one else suitable currenly living in Nairobi, to fill her place. (Any ballet teachers out there? I am appealing to you!!!)

After making enquiries a week ago, today we were told, after careful consideration by Brown Owl, that our daughter could not join Brownies as she was too late this year and would have to wait until September. Damn, and there I was hoping to take her home to parade her new Brownie skills in front of relatives in England this summer - perhaps a helping hand, or a stitch in time? - it transpires that I might have to step up to the plate myself if I want her to perform....

It's so annoying when things are not straight forward in spite of the best laid plans and it reminded me of being disinvited to a new baby group as my baby was the wrong age, and told that the informal housewives book club was 'full'....

Expat Stereotype - The Kenya Cowboy/girl's Mother

Alison can always be found on Wednesday morning on the tennis court at the club playing women’s doubles. The four ladies are dressed neatly in their whites and short skirts, with tanned legs exposed that are not quite as shapely as they once were.
‘Well played!’ pronounces an enthusiastic spectator as they leave the court,
‘Well, some of us played well but others were not on form today’ Alison says as she shoots a sideways glance with barely disguised daggers at her partner.

By the time the round of cappuccinos arrive on the manicured clubhouse lawns afterwards, tensions have dissipated but Alison has made a mental note to swap partners next week. Alison grimaces when she realises her coffee is not as piping hot as she would as she would like, but she decides not to mention it to the waitress this time.

Conversation turns to dinner parties and it transpires that Alison is the expert on what to serve, how prepare it, how to present it and where to buy it. In fact, she is pretty much the undisputed knowledge on everything in Kenya and she knows everyone there is to know. It’s useless to argue when she gets her facts slightly skewed, as she does not brook any argument whatsoever.

The remainder of Alison’s time is spent playing golf, bridge and hard at work fund raising for local charities. She is fortunate that both her son Simon and daughter Acacia are still living in Kenya, so she manages to see them and the grandchildren when they come over for their regular Sunday lunches at the old family home which sits on five acres in the Nairobi suburbs. Her other daughter, Tana (named after the Tana River in Kenya) is currently living in England and so she goes to visit her and her husband, spending a month or so ‘helping out’ every summer and catching up with the few friends and relatives that she still knows in the UK. It’s a shame that they live in such a comparatively small house over there, but they seem happy and perhaps one day Tana will find a way to come back to Kenya.

The dreary tale of the motor sports widow (me)

Last Sunday my husband asked to be excused for the day to participate in an extreme off road buggy competition. The buggy is a relatively new toy in his arsenal of motor related toys and accessories. In light of the fact that I was in England last weekend while he held the fort admirably, I thought it churlish to say no – though every inch of me was crying out:
‘Why are these events always on Sundays? Why do they always take up the entire day? Why is it that before and after each event you decide to spend many hours modifying your ‘teen speed’ machine? Why is it that you spend more of your spare time with your friend the mechanic (see previous post) who you actually pay cash to keep you company and whose front teeth are missing, than you do with your own children?’ OK, I admit, the latter comment was a cheap shot. My mother in law repeatedly tells me: ‘But you knew what he was like before you married him.’ My retort has always been a rather whinging: ‘yes, but I didn’t really know then the extent of the obsession with engines…I thought it a passing fancy, I thought he might have got over it by now.’

As loyal supporters, we should have gone along to watch the racing on Sunday, but I’ve had some bitter experiences over the past nine years and the novelty has somewhat worn off. Once, when we lived in Tanzania years ago, my husband volunteered to run a check point during an out of town safari rally. His job was to spend the day noting down competitors’ times etc. At that point, one daughter was two years old and the other only six weeks. The sensible thing for me would have been to stay home, but instead we came along to the rally because at the time I was more terrified of being stuck at home without adult company, with a toddler and new baby to deal with in tropical heat. In retrospect, to go was possibly not the right decision.

What happened was, I spent the day convinced that the toddling two year old would be run over by speeding rally cars that were kicking up meters high clouds of choking dust and huddling in our car with the air conditioning blasting (it was sweltering outside) trying to breast feed the new baby as all the people in the surrounding village turned their attention from the rally cars to unabashed staring in at me, whilst I attempted to get my new baby to ‘latch on’ to a cracked nipple. At first I was modestly throwing a cloth around my shoulders in an attempt to maintain my dignity in the face of so many curious onlookers but by the end of the day I was way past caring and the villagers saw everything there was to see. I doubt it was a pretty sight, but obviously more engaging that rally cars.

Once before, I have driven an hour with our daughters at four and two years old, whilst also eight months pregnant only to catch my husband on his last lap of the race roll his four wheel drive rally car end over end, then climb out, all mud splattered, saying with bravado:
‘It’s really not as bad as it looks.’
In fact, the car was a write off.

On another occasion he drove the intermediate course with Granny, Grandad and the three girls all in the back of our regular road car. There were aghast expressions from the spectating crowd:

'Look! there's a baby in there!'

I have camped a few times in the name of; ‘extreme off roading’ in locations with no water and only thorn trees for shade, again with small children, fighting off boredom and sitting in plumes of dust as cars, quads and motorbikes raced by. It’s a relief when the ordeal is over and we’ve endured it as a family physically unscathed (but mentally scarred). Being pushed to the point of giving the children Fanta Orange all day to keep them happy in the full knowledge that they will then be hyperactive, organising meals on the hoof at ground/dirt level and being snagged on wait-a-bit thorns when trying to squat in the bushes are not amongst my happiest memories. I used to be a London girl!

Generally it’s a rally in itself for me to reach these events. I often have to engage four wheel drive in order to get through muddy patches and this added stress holds no excitement for me. Only three weeks ago on Sunday we decided to go and watch my husband in a one day four wheel drive ‘Quattro Charge’. We packed a picnic and set out with my visiting from UK parents and the three children to drive out of town to get to the venue, an old stone quarry. First we were snarled in traffic trying to get out of Nairobi via the Industrial area, it transpired that someone had driven off a bridge and plummeted down onto the railway track below some hours earlier. Many cars were pulling up on the hard shoulder with their occupants abandoning their vehicles preferring to stand and watch the recovery effort by police and fire engines, thus causing absolute chaos on the road. Once we’d crawled passed the rubber necking sideshow, we got caught up in road works and a diversion clogged up with heavy Lorries. To cut a long story short, after an hour and a half of frustration we turned around and wound up eating our picnic back home at 3.30 in the afternoon feeling a bit defeated.

Last weekend I was wise not to even consider a trip out to Athi River to watch the ‘Rally Raid’. On Sunday morning, when stocking up on supplies, the owner of the local supermarket quizzed me accusingly about why I was not out supporting my husband. Don’t ask me how he knew my husband was competing; suffice to say it is a small town. I felt almost totally guiltless when I replied:
‘Are you kidding me! It’s raining, there are road works down there and I have three little girls with me.’
‘The road works aren’t that bad’ he said, realising that there was no sense in fighting.

By the afternoon I had slipped into an almost comatose state, past caring that the children had been watching Cartoon Network for two hours and the time to wake the baby had come and gone an hour ago. It was blisss. The only nagging thought that was spoiling things was by that time was: ‘I wonder if our health insurance covers dangerous sports?’

I was disturbed from my reverie when I received a text from a friend saying: ‘You have remembered that it’s Savanna’s birthday party this afternoon? It started an hour ago.’ I had totally forgotten.
Suddenly it was all systems go. I pulled a present from the drawer, couldn’t find wrapping paper, but dusted down an old ‘Barbie’ gift bag that was hanging on the back of my daughters bedroom door. When I ran the present under the nose of the middle daughter she said: ‘I think Savanna has already got one of those.’ But at this late stage it was a case of:
‘Never mind, doesn’t matter, haven’t got anything else, it’s this or nothing.’
We then woke the baby, piled everyone in the car and shot off to a kid friendly activity.

Apparently the buggy race went well until the last lap when my husband broke a shock absorber, got a fleck of flying mud in his eye (he had removed his goggles) and had to drive round heroically one handed with the other clasped over his face. By the time he finished he was in agony. Lucky the trusty mechanic was with him, as he took over the driving home with the mud clogged buggy being towed behind – the only problem was that the buggy lost a wheel along the way and it took and hour to bodge it back together on the road side to get it home. For the last two days my husband has been sheepishly wearing an eye patch, as on Sunday night the eye had swollen tight shut. He got his name in the local papers though, albeit miss spelt as usual.

It’s Tuesday evening, 6.45pm and my husband is outside in the garage with his best friend the mechanic now, surveying the damage. My answer to the obsession? Write a blog!

p.s. My mother in law says I should write somewhere on this post: ' but I love him really!' - which of course I do.... goes without saying!...

Putting the world to rights - Kenya's Coalition Cabinet

When I got back from England, I was relieved to learn that after much delay and yet more uncertainty, a new ‘Grand Coalition Cabinet’ had finally been settled on by the two leaders Mwai Kibaki and Raila Odinga. After much brave talk of ‘pairing down’ the number of Ministers posts to fifteen, it transpires that forty ministers and fifty assistants have been appointed (that is 90 members of Parliament), making it appear to be simply a case of creating well remunerated ‘jobs for the boys’ in order to keep everyone happy. If this is the only peaceful way forward for Kenya then so be it, but the local press coverage have called it a ‘bloated’ cabinet and there is an underlying disappointment over the way things have turned out but that now is the time to buckle down and hope it works. A commentary in yesterday’s Standard was entitled: ‘Cabinet is an anti-climax, but for peace it will suffice.’

Strangely enough, a conversation that I had in England with a very wise old Nigerian taxi driver who collected me from Heathrow and has been resident in the UK for thirty six years, shed some light on perhaps why it would have been so tough for Kibaki and Raila to deliver a ‘lean, clean Cabinet.’ The subject of Kenya came up and I said that it was a lovely place to live, but the recent elections have upset the country deeply. He replied:

‘But everywhere has its problems, every country. I should know because I listen to the news on the radio a lot. What is important is the way you handle it the experiences personally. I think it is very interesting for a person like you to be living in Africa and you can learn a lot if you always keep an open mind.’

‘You see the problem is that the West sees Africa and her problems from a Western point of view. They will not be able to help or understand at all until they learn to see things from the point of view of the African people because the two places are completely different.’

I guess you could interpret looking at Africa from a Western point of view like trying to learn a foreign language by translating words literally from one language to another in the same order. It never works because to learn, you have to forget your own language and lose yourself in the new one, picking up colloquial expressions that make no sense when translated literally.

I said to the taxi driver that perhaps things will get better for Kenya soon and that the Government will sort itself out and free itself from corruption by the time the next generation comes along? Interestingly he said he didn’t think this was likely, in his view a more realistic estimate would be four to six generations from now. He said:

‘Thanks to the social system that the Western Governments have created where financial support is provided for the sick, for pensioners and for those who are unemployed, the state has created a population who are ‘independent’. They do not have to answer to others; children are encouraged to question their parents. You might be poor in the UK but you will never starve, so therefore you have the power to ask questions. In the West, when you become successful you can enjoy it all for yourself as an individual, you don’t have to share because you are ‘independent’. In Africa, people are necessarily ‘dependent’ mainly due to lack of choice being a consequence of extreme poverty and the lack of a Government social system for support. People are not in a position to question.’

‘In Africa, if you are a bread winner it is expected that you will provide for those in your community. Through doing this you gain respect, become a leader and nobody will question you. A lowly member of the family who receives twenty shillings from the breadwinner every day will be loyal and do as they are told as they have no other choice. It is easy to manipulate someone to do something for you when they are hungry, even if their heart tells them that it is wrong. In small communities allegiances become close. If you grow up with someone in Africa you would come to call them ‘father’ or ‘brother’, ‘mother’ or ‘sister’ when you are not literally blood relations and by doing this you are then tied to one another, accepting mutual responsibility. The concept of defining family in a precise way and calling them ‘uncles’ or ‘cousins’ or ‘grandchildren’ is entirely Western and foreign to an African. I even know Western people who visit London and prefer to stay in a hotel, when they have relatives here with large four bedroom houses. An African would always stay with family, no matter what.’

It seems that for an African your success is defined by your ability to provide for to your extended ‘family’ i.e. your family/friends/community. When you are seen to have attained wealth ‘family’ members will approach you for financial help and you are expected to contribute as it is your unquestionable duty. If there is a funeral or wedding to pay for or medical costs to be met, everyone who earns a salary will be expected to chip in without fail, it’s called ‘Harambee’ here in Kenya or ‘pulling together’. This is why it is so impossible for those in lower paid jobs to save money. There are always these tight family circles whose bonds cannot be broken. Similarly, if somebody has helped you reach a position of power or a certain level of success then you must find a way to repay them.

I know this because when I read about young people in local newspapers and magazines, who have excelled in Africa as successful fashion models, air hostesses, doctors or Olympic athletes, they always say that they will use their new found wealth to pay for their siblings’ education or medical treatment for a family member. Meanwhile a fickle Westerner might answer: ‘Good for me! I’d like to buy some designer clothes or a penthouse.’
For an expat, the number of mothers/fathers/brothers and sisters people seem to have can be bewildering and it can also be heartbreaking to loan out money or even give bonuses that will always be entirely swallowed up by the extended family and will never go towards improving the lot of the person you are directly making the payment to.

After this enlightening chat with the taxi driver, I can clearly see why the only choice for the Kenyan leaders was to appoint almost everyone involved in their parties into positions of power, creating new Ministries left, right and centre to accommodate this. To disrespect a supporter would be too difficult in a place where people work as teams in order to survive. The taxi driver agreed that the new middle class Africans are becoming more independent from strong family ties than ever before and more like their contemporaries in the West. ‘But’ he said: ‘the corruption will not go away because those in positions of power are under so much pressure to share out their good fortune and that is the way that things have always been done.’

Long haul flying

Excuse the long silence. This has been due to a highly decadent escape for a long weekend in England sans husband and children. I was overwhelmingly flattered to be chosen as a godparent for the son of a close friend and felt I should certainly take the first of my duties seriously and attend the christening, which was absolutely lovely.

It was a whistle stop tour and, as usual, much of my focus was taken up with doing as much shopping as is humanly possible in the 24 hours I had in London. Every time I go back to England, I regret my shopping obsessed behaviour. I even go so far as to speed up a leisurely coffee with an old friend who I haven’t seen for a year in favour of a quick and usually fruitless trawl through a sale rail in a random shop. Pathetic really, but time is always horribly short and I’m such an incurable craver for all things retail that are not available in Kenya.

I did two night flights in four days. In my view, a real down side of being an expat is the long haul flying. We only go home as a family once a year, but the scars of the homeward journey cut deep as I recall flights when I have been struck down with vicious food poisoning (the air hostesses were not sympathetic), flights spent doing circuits of the plane chasing after a toddler (again, air hostesses unsympathetic), and flights spent trying to cajole small children to go to sleep and stop screaming, being on the receiving end of foul looks from fellow passengers, being covered in spilt drinks and caked on baby food, trying to change nappies in the shoe box size aeroplane loos and memories are still fresh of delays, lost luggage, check in staff imposing fines for overweight bags and similar frustrations. Each time I fly, I gaze longingly at the business class section with flat beds and champagne before the thick curtain is drawn firmly across after take off but sadly after nine years I never seem to get upgraded from smelly old economy.

Sleeping whilst sitting bolt upright (or as near as damn it) is impossible for me and I envy all those who managed to do it. Last weekend, the thrill of travelling without children meant that I couldn’t resist uninterrupted channel surfing through the available range of films, in spite of the fact it was 2am and there was mainly fuzzy noise coming out of my earphones. One ear had no sound at all. The lady sitting next to me resembled Mma Ramotswe from the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, and I had to quietly burrow under the folds of her coat to find the TV controls located in the central armrest while she was sleeping.

Finally, I thought I must also turn my attention to sleep, but found that my tiny seat was filled with sharp edges and there was no room under the chair in front to stretch out my legs as there was a fixed metal box there. The ‘wings’ on the headrest that are designed to support your head while sleeping, kept limply falling back into their original positions when I tried to pull them forward in an effort to get comfortable. I tried stuffing the plastic bag that the polyester plane blanket was packed in behind the headrest wings, but nothing worked. I ended up spending the night taking ten or twenty minute snatches of sleep between changing position in a quest for comfort for a few hours, shifting around like an oversized dog in a tiny basket. Then all the lights are snapped on and you are served breakfast two hours before your scheduled landing time. In my view, night flying is like a form of drawn out torture.

Having removed my pointy zip up boots, in the morning I found it nearly impossible to jam them back onto my swollen feet. All the economy passengers are then finally spat out at the other end of the flight all with matching red eyes, dazed expression, tangled hair and a furry feeling in the mouth. All this agony is largely made up for a total change of scene at the other end and the excitement of seeing family and friends. However, it always takes days to shake off the hungover feeling that resembles having attended an all night party but without any of the fun bits.

The Beach

We jumped in the car and drove for eight hours from Nairobi non stop to get to the beach. It was an almost spur of the moment decision to come. We endured it because it's always worth it when you arrive at the Indian Ocean, albeit absolutely knackered.

Now we are wearing the tell tale 'all inclusive' hotel wristbands and sitting under a whirring fan at a huge breakfast buffet with sweaty top lips, staring unashamedly and with interest at our fellow guests. Sounds awful but everyone is happy. I've already finished my book and the children are loving the independance of ordering free lurid coloured drinks and spending endless hours wallowing in the pool or collecting things on the beach. There's even a kids club with a very persuasive organiser. We let the blasting music from pool aerobics wash over us.

If you can be bothered to escape onto the beach and take a walk, it's almost deserted as other hotels have already closed for the rainy season - only it's not actually raining much thank goodness - just the odd morning shower. We're thinking of extending and staying an extra night.

Our eldest daughter woke up in a temper because the tooth fairy failed to visit last night - and it was a front tooth that came out yesterday! Must pull ourselves together!

Social Stereotype - the 21st Century expatriates in Kenya

Nick and Samantha decided to quit the rat race and join the statistic of 5.5 million Brits currently living overseas. They relocated to Kenya on a corporate overseas posting two years ago and have enjoyed every minute of their life in Nairobi punctuated by frequent exciting safaris and playing host to many ‘green with envy’ friends on holiday from Blighty.

Samantha is often found mid morning greeting fellow expat housewives whilst grabbing a skinny latte after her supermarket stock up. She is delighted with the fact that it’s now possible to buy Italian shoes and quality new clothes from stores with recognisable high street names. She regularly works out at the gym and is thrilled that the children love their outdoor life and have settled into school beautifully. They have even taken to running around shopping centres with no shoes on, in spite of their mother’s protestations.

Now that Nick is nearing the end of his allotted contract and his employers are muttering about long term strategy, he is privately considering becoming self employed in order to stay on in Kenya. Property development could be an option, or perhaps consultancy work? It would be such an enormous wrench to leave now that the family are happy, the economy is buoyant and the memories of their days living in ‘Nappy Valley’ on the outskirts of London still send cold shivers down his spine.

Moving to Nairobi? Some questions answered

I’ve received quite a few questions from people overseas who are planning to move to Kenya. Comments and queries such as:
‘I have been offered a contract in Kenya to begin in the next few months and am not sure whether or not to take up the post. I would love to contact you to ask about the cost of housing, security, cost of living.’ Or:
‘Please would you write about the schools, cost of living, housing etc. for those who are thinking of moving to Nairobi? Now that, for me, would make an interesting post.’

If I was about to move here, my first port of call would probably be to contact someone ‘on the ground’ too, but sadly, I’m not really qualified to answer all these questions accurately and it would be too time consuming to look into the cost of living in Nairobi for all budgets. I did once do a Google search and found that the UN site on Kenya/Nairobi was quite up to date and informative as regards cost of living, security and cost of rental accommodation here. However, take it with a bit of a pinch of salt as it comes across as a bit dry and businesslike and may turn you off making the move as much as help you.

In an attempt to be helpful, I’ll try to paint a picture of how Nairobi is today.

Friendly
First, it’s an incredibly friendly place with the overwhelming majority of people being happy and approachable. Even if someone has only met you once, however briefly (ie. filling up your car at a petrol station), they might surprise you by tapping on your car window to smile and wave in a familiar manner. It’s even customary to greet people you don’t know. This can be disarming if you have recently arrived from the West where people learn to mind their own business, especially when living in large cities. In addition, the majority of people are polite. When forming a queue at the cash point, people will coyly stand ten miles behind you as you withdraw money, so as not to crowd around. Others will step aside if you are in hurrying or carrying a heavy load, many even offer to help. Your children will be welcome, fussed over and spoiled everywhere you go. Kenya and even a big city like Nairobi is a place for making friends, especially if you keep an open mind. Everyone makes time for a chat or a shared joke.

Frustrating
Living in Nairobi can also be enormously frustrating. Even the nicest, most level headed person can be driven to distraction on a particularly bad day when events seem to conspire against you. ATMs might be inexplicably ‘down’ and banks closed when you most need to withdraw money. Phone lines go dead, there’s no broadband internet connection (apparently it’s coming but major office buildings have Wireless, at home we struggle with slow mobile or landline connections). There are long hours of power outages, there’s always heavy traffic in all corners of the city with lumbering Lorries and hundreds of crazy mini buses. The roads are full of potholes and there are numerous police road blocks. The air is thick with pollution. The old fashioned bureaucracy is maddening and a task that should take one minute can take up a whole day. You might experience a total communication break down when trying to arrange something that can be enough to drive you mad.

Outdoor life
In spite of the noise and pollution, living in Nairobi is largely about being out of doors, sun on your cheeks and air. There are lots and lots of people: walking, cycling, selling things, carrying things and pulling hand carts. The sun shines all year round. It never gets particularly cold. The most you’d need to wear on a ‘cold’ day is a light sweater and jeans. When it rains, it’s often dramatic and exciting with electrical storms and tropical downpours. Children play outside all year round and it never gets too hot either. There are itinerant herds of cows and goats grazing on the roadside that look a little incongruous amongst the bustling traffic.

Economic Boom
Nairobi has been going through a significant economic boom, the flawed December 2007 election notwithstanding. This can largely be seen through the huge amount of property development going on in the shape of shopping centres, luxury town houses and apartment complexes and shiny high rise office buildings. Space is becoming a bit of an issue. The roads are also filling up as there are more and more vehicle owners and a growing population.

Housing
Much of the housing market in Nairobi is moving towards the ‘secure compound’ approach where apartments or townhouses are built on plots of land in some cases (described as ‘luxury’) with shared gym or swimming pool facilities. Even lower cost housing is now often clustered into gated areas. The further you get out of town, the more space there is. In various Nairobi suburbs it’s still possible to find old 1930s or 1950s houses standing in large gardens, but if you rent one of these, the onus is on you to organise your own security. Some of these plots have been subdivided and you might have the original house with one or two other houses built within the same garden and sharing an entrance gate in more of an ‘organic’ arrangement than you find in the modern complexes.

Security
Security is an issue in Nairobi, which is why the developments of houses or flats within walled and gated compounds are proving popular. The threat of an armed break in or car jacking is always present. Nairobi residents approach this problem, where possible, by spending as much money as is possible on preventing it happening to them. This comes in the form of electric fences, employment of night watchmen (there are numerous private firms) and living within ‘secure’ walled and gated plots. However, if you are unlucky enough to be the victim of a crime, it’s most likely going to be due to very bad luck rather than poor planning. The South Africans I know who live here think that living in Kenya is a picnic compared to the state of things down south. In addition, we don’t spend much time worrying about our children being abducted in shopping centres by paedophiles as one does when back home. From day to day living here there is a bit of innocence about the place and trust in others that perhaps has been a bit lost these days in the ‘developed’ world (…I say tentatively).

Food
Meat and delicious vegetables are plentiful and very reasonably priced here. When my family come to visit from England, they remark on how tasty all the food is and how healthily we eat which may be due to the fact that comparatively little fast food or ready meals are available. Fruit and vegetables look like they have just been plucked from the ground or trees and often they have been. Supermarkets sell local produce and lots of imported goods (ie cereals, biscuits, cleaning products, jams) but if you are tempted to buy too much of the latter, you’ll find that your budget won’t stretch very far. You can get almost everything but please note: when planning a special meal, always see what is available in the shops first. There’s nothing worse than chasing all over town for an elusive ingredient that is there one week and gone the next.

Modern Shopping Centres
Nairobi has a central business district where many office buildings and shops are located, but for some time the city has been decentralizing, with satellite shopping centres and office parks popping up outside the CBD. Some of the new retail centres are very modern and of ‘first world’ standard. They offer secure parking and inside you can catch a film, find an excellent bookshop, buy clothes, new shoes, grab a burger or a cappuccino in a food court or find a smarter restaurant for more of an occasion. Before you assume that these shopping centres are kind of ex-pat hang outs, I would like to point out that the majority of patrons are Kenyan (before I’m accused of being racist or exclusive or something….).

Hospitals and Schools
There are loads! Nairobi's hospitals are excellent (see previous post on cosmetic surgery) and so are the schools. The choice is very wide. Most people choose schools according to proximity to where they live, but if you set your heart on somewhere further afield it's always possible. Some people feel that if they are in a critical situation they would prefer to be medi-vac-ed home and choose a health insurance policy to cover this. Others choose overseas education for secondary level in order to widen their children's experience. All of this is personal choice.

It’s possible to get some excellent clothes and shoes from the second hand markets dotted around town. Crafts, fruit, vegetables and flowers are often sold on the roadside. Living in Nairobi is colourful and vibrant, dusty and hectic, it feels free from the nanny state restrictions of the West and though sometimes it's sad, most of the time it’s fun.