We survived the camping! I was a little disappointed that the camp site was so far from the Naivasha Lake, but this was largely because the water has receded so far over the past few years. We were warned that hippos may wander around our tents at night and indeed we did hear them but that just goes to show how far they venture to graze at night. I must admit that walking over the flood plains for twenty minutes to the water’s edge was stunning as there was so much game grazing all around. We strolled between giraffe, zebra, wildebeest, bush buck, impala and the odd herd of cows. The birds were also spectacular. The owner of the camp site told us that ten wildebeest were introduced to Naivasha in the 1980s by a film crew who were shooting: ‘Zena, Queen of the Jungle’ (or something like that), and now there are four hundred of them milling around.
The family that accompanied us had supreme camping equipment with flat packed, pop up ‘in tent’ shelving, large camping utensil kits and a hundred matching Tupperware with tasty, exotic treats inside. They were faultlessly organised (but they did forget loo roll, so we managed to save the day on that one) and they were generous is sharing out their Italian buffalo mozzarella and delicious dried fruit and nut mix. We were camping under acacia trees and in a ‘coup de grace’ my husband strung up a hammock which was squabbled over quite a lot but provided hours of children’s entertainment – that is until my husband came along and claimed full time ownership of it with his binoculars and bird book in hand. Overall, the kids managed well with all the excitement and took camping in their stride. The only exception amongst the six children was my eldest daughter, who, increasingly buoyed with confidence through being with her school friend 24/7, switched to obnoxious showing off overdrive, demanding of the grown ups:
‘Where’s my egg and bacon?’ as us parents slaved over the stove and searched through numerous cool boxes. ‘Where’s MY chair?’ ‘I want to sit here!’ ‘Where’s my plate?’ ‘where’s my fork?’ ‘I want the sweets!’ as she started burrowing in the car ‘Let me have them!’ when I said, ‘No, not now’ the response was, ‘Why not, I’m going to get them anyway?’ My eldest was behaving liker Veruca Salt from Charlie and Chocolate Factory and I was appalled that a whole other family was witnessing this.
I notice that everyone gets territorial over their possessions while camping (ie my husband and his hammock) and I had become territorial over the sweets (among other things). In fact I regretted bringing so many but my kids had rumbled me as I was packing so there was no way out. Before leaving home, I had thought that sweets would be a welcome reward/distraction while camping but I had underestimated the tendency to over cater especially when two families of five are pooling resources and we really didn’t need them. The other family had healthy snacks and I had brought all the bad stuff.
On our return to Nairobi I looked back despairing at my eight year old’s loud demanding and diva-ish behaviour over the weekend not least because she had quite obviously been driving everyone in the camp mad. I wanted her to quickly morph into a more socially acceptable quietly spoken, polite and helpful child in the few precious days that we have left before she gets back to school. I had watched with admiration the kind eleven year old girl in our party who took care of the little ones, pushed them on the hammock and actually offered to wash up every day and wondered where I was going fundamentally wrong.
As a knee jerk reaction and as soon as we got out of the car on our return, my husband and I came up with the idea of compiling a list of ‘rules’ to be stuck to the fridge and my eldest daughter contritely offered to write them out. There are about eight and they consist of ‘do not try to be first all the time’, and ‘do not push and shove’, ‘do not interrupt’. Writing this has reminded me I must add, ‘do offer to help!’ Now that the dust has settled, I think that much of the fault can be blamed crazy amounts of excess sugar (that I provided) and sleep deprivation because now we’re home she is calm again.
Having accused my daughter of bad behaviour, I must admit that I also had a camping tantrum about wanting to go out onto the lake in a boat. No body else was interested and it was going to be expensive so they tried to talk me out of it but I was belligerent. They said,
‘Look, it’s raining; we will be cold and miserable in a boat’
I said,
‘But look, over the lake is clear sky, it’s going to be a beautiful evening, Lets go!’
We didn’t go on a boat in the end and instead of accepting that I was outnumbered I got quietly madder, but then perhaps camping brings out the worst in some people (especially my eldest daughter and I). After all, we were coping with smelly long drop loos, spidery, spluttery showers that ran dry on the second day of our stay and two utterly sleepless nights of kids needing wees but being scared to go out because of grunting wildlife and a pack of farm dogs chasing impala around our tents all night and barking. As my friend put it:
‘You sort of have your eyes closed pretending to sleep, but in fact you are completely awake and listening hard to all the noises the whole night.’
I should think it will be another six months before we decide to load up the car again for our next camping trip. Before hand I will remember to do the ‘everyone must help with chores’ pep talk and perhaps not pack bags of sweets and hundreds of chocolate brownies to prevent a repeat performance of kids on a sugar rush children getting boisterous and embarrassingly out of hand. On the upside, going camping is as dirt cheap as a holiday can get so as an option it cannot be ignored. Next time we go to Naivasha with our tents, I might first try and join the Sailing Club so that we can camp there. On one of our long walks not only did I see that the Club House is situated right on the lake with fantastic views over the water, but I noticed that they had flushing loos, better showers and a kitchen with a fridge and microwave too. Now that’s my kind of camping!
The diary of a British expat living in Kenya. News, views, debate and a healthy dose of trivia.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Going Camping tomorrow...
We have made the rash decision to go camping tomorrow. We have even roped another family into the deal. Even though we are not going far the prospect has sent me, as a lover of creature comforts, into a complete dither and I lay awake last night thinking about packing kettles and washing up bowls. You must think of everything and faced with that task my brain tends to go into shut down rather than overdrive. Packing up for camping is like being told,
‘Take every object that you use at home on a daily basis a cram it into or onto the car somehow.’
The mind boggles. Tea bags, tea spoons, washing up towels, loo roll, pillows, duvets (will we be cold?), mattresses, food, water. Some people have lists and delegate the tasks but I feel alone in my disorganisation, unable to think past running around the house aimlessly for hours. On the up side, we have chosen a camp site with what are billed as ‘clean loos and hot showers’, this will be almost a first for me. Previous experience has had us boiling water to put in a bucket for a shower, this time I learn that we will have a kuni booster (ie. you put wood in one end, set fire to it then just wait for hot water to spring from the tap.). There is the possibility of riding expeditions (must remember riding hats!).
On arrival we will doubtless find that we have forgotten half a dozen items or more, for instance, a child’s precious toy that they can then use as an excuse to refuse to sleep without, or we might forget to bring a crucial bottle of wine or bar of chocolate to help the adults through the ordeal. Then we might torture ourselves by envisioning it lying there on the shelf in the fridge at home as we sit by the fire in the cold outdoors. Our travelling companions will doubtless be far better catered than us (they have a cook at home) and we will be drooling at them over our tuna mayonnaise sandwiches. I know this because I have seen their picnics before. Fortunately they are always very kind about sharing but my husband always shoots me a look and mutters:
‘why do we never have delicious sandwiches like this, or why can’t you make this delicious special healthy nutty, seedy, crystallized ginger mix?’
It doesn’t help that I’ve already planned to stock up on school uniform today before next weeks rush. There is also a dental appointment for the kids that I cannot change and I absolutely refuse to cancel a children’s play date at my friend’s house at tea time – mainly because I just fancy chewing the fat with my friend for a couple of hours because we never get around to seeing each other enough. That leaves little pockets of time today to hurriedly shop and pack and realistically not much will get done. My husband will come home jauntily because it’s Friday, then will innocently ask,
‘Have you packed?’ which will send me into a spontaneous fury (because I won’t have), then he will follow with,
‘Why not? You have had all day.’ Which will make things a lot worse.
Hey ho, far be it from me to shy away from adventure! Rows will ensue; packing the car will be stressful. The children will probably wonder whether it is really worth going as their parents have gone into melt down, snapping at them at every turn. We (as parents) will tell ourselves we are doing it for the kids of course because they will absolutely love it, and I will report back next week to tell you how it went.
‘Take every object that you use at home on a daily basis a cram it into or onto the car somehow.’
The mind boggles. Tea bags, tea spoons, washing up towels, loo roll, pillows, duvets (will we be cold?), mattresses, food, water. Some people have lists and delegate the tasks but I feel alone in my disorganisation, unable to think past running around the house aimlessly for hours. On the up side, we have chosen a camp site with what are billed as ‘clean loos and hot showers’, this will be almost a first for me. Previous experience has had us boiling water to put in a bucket for a shower, this time I learn that we will have a kuni booster (ie. you put wood in one end, set fire to it then just wait for hot water to spring from the tap.). There is the possibility of riding expeditions (must remember riding hats!).
On arrival we will doubtless find that we have forgotten half a dozen items or more, for instance, a child’s precious toy that they can then use as an excuse to refuse to sleep without, or we might forget to bring a crucial bottle of wine or bar of chocolate to help the adults through the ordeal. Then we might torture ourselves by envisioning it lying there on the shelf in the fridge at home as we sit by the fire in the cold outdoors. Our travelling companions will doubtless be far better catered than us (they have a cook at home) and we will be drooling at them over our tuna mayonnaise sandwiches. I know this because I have seen their picnics before. Fortunately they are always very kind about sharing but my husband always shoots me a look and mutters:
‘why do we never have delicious sandwiches like this, or why can’t you make this delicious special healthy nutty, seedy, crystallized ginger mix?’
It doesn’t help that I’ve already planned to stock up on school uniform today before next weeks rush. There is also a dental appointment for the kids that I cannot change and I absolutely refuse to cancel a children’s play date at my friend’s house at tea time – mainly because I just fancy chewing the fat with my friend for a couple of hours because we never get around to seeing each other enough. That leaves little pockets of time today to hurriedly shop and pack and realistically not much will get done. My husband will come home jauntily because it’s Friday, then will innocently ask,
‘Have you packed?’ which will send me into a spontaneous fury (because I won’t have), then he will follow with,
‘Why not? You have had all day.’ Which will make things a lot worse.
Hey ho, far be it from me to shy away from adventure! Rows will ensue; packing the car will be stressful. The children will probably wonder whether it is really worth going as their parents have gone into melt down, snapping at them at every turn. We (as parents) will tell ourselves we are doing it for the kids of course because they will absolutely love it, and I will report back next week to tell you how it went.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Reading and escapism
If anyone was a contender for the prize of talking about, researching, going to lessons, thinking about and even writing about writing something without actually doing anything but the occasional blog update, then it would be me.
A lady editor from Random House publishing company in London who was invited to Nairobi as part of the Kwani Literary Festival and who I actually paid to spend 45 minutes reading my work then talking personally to me, about me, me, me and my writer's aspirations (such an indulgence!) advised spending one month reading lots and lots of books in the general style/ball park of the one you would like to write, then sit down and write your own novel. Needless to say E M Forster, Jane Austin and Graham Greene are not in my new library – I don’t have any illusions about tackling literary fiction.
The editor was very kind and encouraging but then I did have the nagging feeling that of course she would be wouldn’t she, since I was actually paying her to read my rubbish and talk about my writing on a one to one basis. However, I was excited about the reading project as it is the second month of the children’s long school holidays and achieving anything more than reading books over the next few weeks would be an unrealistic goal. She suggested a couple of authors I might try for commercial fiction and I tracked down some books but now I find myself speed reading this popular women’s fiction in a hasty, disinterested fashion, skipping through the highlights to the last chapter just for the relief of knowing what’s going to happen, then putting the book to one side. I admire the fact that these women have written successful novels, their discipline and can see their skill in making a story come to life but I can’t really be bothered to read all of it. Am less certain of being able to a thing like that myself. Rather than finding clarity, I’m getting confused.
My friend lent me ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ at the weekend and I have strayed into that book, soaking it up with enthusiasm. It describes a wonderfully indulgent (and true) journey of a woman my age who has success as a writer under her belt but has shunned the marriage and kids bit. The book has been a worldwide success and I even saw Oprah devoting a program to it when I was in England (though I wasn’t interested then so didn’t watch). I think that its universal appeal perhaps boils down to escapism – so far I can easily picture myself in Rome, in an apartment, enrolling on a language course and travelling miles in search of the most perfectly delicious pizza.
Back to Nairobi and the city is out of water (again). It is worryingly/unseasonably dry and dusty and while we have the luxury of resorting to paying for trucks of water to come to our door, what does everyone else do? Boreholes are running dry too. A friend came back from holiday this week to find she had had a break in, apparently one of a spate of burglaries by a gang of ten that have been taking place in the area. There was also a break in to a house opposite us on Sunday night. One of the ladies who works in our house arrived on Monday and said that her step uncle was murdered in Karangware slum over the weekend. He was selling chips from a street stand and apparently some youths came along, ate chips then shot him dead when asked for payment. In our suburb, an 18 year old boy was tragically killed in a car crash, only yards from his home. Meanwhile, the same weekend (my source would kill me for passing this on!) a couple of fifteen year old Kenyan kids (one of whom has a high profile parent involved in politics), landed a helicopter on somebody’s land outside Nairobi, the pilot got out and asked the landowners if they could direct him to the paintballing centre - it seems that the kids were bored and fancied a bit of adventure.
Of course none of these stories can be claimed by me and are all fairly unrelated but they beg the question 'what is the world/Kenya coming to?' Instead of brooding I will get back to pizza and Rome and escapism and will probaby continue to put off doing any structured writing for a bit longer. At least until the beginning of September which I fondly look at as the 'Housewives New Year' as this is when the kids finally go back to school and occasionally peace will reign in the house once again.
A lady editor from Random House publishing company in London who was invited to Nairobi as part of the Kwani Literary Festival and who I actually paid to spend 45 minutes reading my work then talking personally to me, about me, me, me and my writer's aspirations (such an indulgence!) advised spending one month reading lots and lots of books in the general style/ball park of the one you would like to write, then sit down and write your own novel. Needless to say E M Forster, Jane Austin and Graham Greene are not in my new library – I don’t have any illusions about tackling literary fiction.
The editor was very kind and encouraging but then I did have the nagging feeling that of course she would be wouldn’t she, since I was actually paying her to read my rubbish and talk about my writing on a one to one basis. However, I was excited about the reading project as it is the second month of the children’s long school holidays and achieving anything more than reading books over the next few weeks would be an unrealistic goal. She suggested a couple of authors I might try for commercial fiction and I tracked down some books but now I find myself speed reading this popular women’s fiction in a hasty, disinterested fashion, skipping through the highlights to the last chapter just for the relief of knowing what’s going to happen, then putting the book to one side. I admire the fact that these women have written successful novels, their discipline and can see their skill in making a story come to life but I can’t really be bothered to read all of it. Am less certain of being able to a thing like that myself. Rather than finding clarity, I’m getting confused.
My friend lent me ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ at the weekend and I have strayed into that book, soaking it up with enthusiasm. It describes a wonderfully indulgent (and true) journey of a woman my age who has success as a writer under her belt but has shunned the marriage and kids bit. The book has been a worldwide success and I even saw Oprah devoting a program to it when I was in England (though I wasn’t interested then so didn’t watch). I think that its universal appeal perhaps boils down to escapism – so far I can easily picture myself in Rome, in an apartment, enrolling on a language course and travelling miles in search of the most perfectly delicious pizza.
Back to Nairobi and the city is out of water (again). It is worryingly/unseasonably dry and dusty and while we have the luxury of resorting to paying for trucks of water to come to our door, what does everyone else do? Boreholes are running dry too. A friend came back from holiday this week to find she had had a break in, apparently one of a spate of burglaries by a gang of ten that have been taking place in the area. There was also a break in to a house opposite us on Sunday night. One of the ladies who works in our house arrived on Monday and said that her step uncle was murdered in Karangware slum over the weekend. He was selling chips from a street stand and apparently some youths came along, ate chips then shot him dead when asked for payment. In our suburb, an 18 year old boy was tragically killed in a car crash, only yards from his home. Meanwhile, the same weekend (my source would kill me for passing this on!) a couple of fifteen year old Kenyan kids (one of whom has a high profile parent involved in politics), landed a helicopter on somebody’s land outside Nairobi, the pilot got out and asked the landowners if they could direct him to the paintballing centre - it seems that the kids were bored and fancied a bit of adventure.
Of course none of these stories can be claimed by me and are all fairly unrelated but they beg the question 'what is the world/Kenya coming to?' Instead of brooding I will get back to pizza and Rome and escapism and will probaby continue to put off doing any structured writing for a bit longer. At least until the beginning of September which I fondly look at as the 'Housewives New Year' as this is when the kids finally go back to school and occasionally peace will reign in the house once again.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Slow internet connection - sorry!
Receiving comments is always a joy and I just wanted to take a moment to explain why sometimes I am slow or do not respond to them - it's because of my damn internet connection! Also, my computer is also very slow. I switch it on, put in my password then go and take a shower or do some cooking, as sitting and watching the thing boot up is like pulling out my finger nails. I can't really justify getting a new/faster computer, as otherwise it works perfectly well and I am not earning any money of my own so feel foolish upgrading on the basis of blogging only.
To get online at home here in Nairobi means using a phone connection, either with the landline or a mobile phone. This means it all goes at a snails pace. To open the 'comments' page take hours and often I write something in and press publish only to get the 'this page is not available' message. To load a photo on the blog takes a morning. Often the power goes off while writing and for the past year or two I have been managing without a UPS to beep at me to tell me the power has gone - plus my computer only survives on battery power for two minutes, so I often lose pages of ramblings. Tonight I have been trying to reply to comments and have managed two in an hour as my husband mumbles words like 'starving' and 'supper?' in the background. Flicking around internet pages send the machine into a sulk and the whole thing hangs.
Yesterday my husband received a very sassy party invitation for the upcoming launch of 'broadband at home'! the invitation itself doubles as a fridge magnet and it says things like 'Party of the year!' and 'dress to impress!'. Now, I'm not very sure about the party, or if it will ever reach my suburb, but the promise of little individuals like me finally getting broadband at home sends me into shivers of delight. For now, many apologies for coming across as an arrogant blogger who never writes back.
To get online at home here in Nairobi means using a phone connection, either with the landline or a mobile phone. This means it all goes at a snails pace. To open the 'comments' page take hours and often I write something in and press publish only to get the 'this page is not available' message. To load a photo on the blog takes a morning. Often the power goes off while writing and for the past year or two I have been managing without a UPS to beep at me to tell me the power has gone - plus my computer only survives on battery power for two minutes, so I often lose pages of ramblings. Tonight I have been trying to reply to comments and have managed two in an hour as my husband mumbles words like 'starving' and 'supper?' in the background. Flicking around internet pages send the machine into a sulk and the whole thing hangs.
Yesterday my husband received a very sassy party invitation for the upcoming launch of 'broadband at home'! the invitation itself doubles as a fridge magnet and it says things like 'Party of the year!' and 'dress to impress!'. Now, I'm not very sure about the party, or if it will ever reach my suburb, but the promise of little individuals like me finally getting broadband at home sends me into shivers of delight. For now, many apologies for coming across as an arrogant blogger who never writes back.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Spring cleaning
I would really like to write more (and more and more) about last week’s writing course tutor, but obviously I am very discreet and more to the point, would not want to get myself in hot water! Better to try to focus on the positive rather than the negative. Grrr. Plus, I have been boring everyone I see or speak to about my traumatic week, ad nauseam - so time to desist. My kind parents assure me that doing anything ‘creative’ is bound to be difficult and frustrating. If it had been a fine art workshop I imagine it could have been a lot worse because at least you can fiddle around with words for longer than paint on canvas in an attempt to get them right.
Annual leave is always a big event and long anticipated. The long haul flight and complete change of scene is hugely exciting at the end of the school year and we always have so much fun catching up with family and being spoiled rotten. Sadly, we never quite manage to put in the required effort in to see all the friends in England that we would love to catch up with and frighteningly the years are slipping by so quickly. Every time I go back to England I feel nostalgia for my old life and this year it was underpinned by the fact that we’ve been living in East Africa for nearly ten years now. I had a slight panic about the prospect of never actually ‘going home’, much to my husband’s annoyance.
Since completing the fiction writing course, I’ve been spring cleaning like mad because returning to Nairobi after visiting the UK makes everything look different. After the homely clutter of English houses full of very nice things, ornaments, pretty colours, fitted carpets, mod cons etc. the parquet floor here seems cold, I find myself wondering how we continue to live with no carpet on the creaky stairs, how we tolerate the poky, dark kitchen, the scruffy curtains that were chewed by puppies years ago now look like rags. The old sofas and cushions look scruffier, the walls seem bare and dirty and there are always far too many depressing hidden corners filled with dust and utter rubbish that we have been busy accumulating.
Gladys and Florence who work in our house must have been inwardly swearing on Saturday morning as I spent hours holed up inside cupboards throwing things out with abandon, kicking up clouds of dust in the process and failing to return anything back inside. Sweating and filthy, I dropped a heavy box on my foot and head butted a wooden shelf in the process. As the once immaculate upstairs corridor became clogged with increasing piles of junk, they were probably concerned that their usual half day of work was going to run into the afternoon and evening. In the end no overtime was necessary and I tried to counter the fact that I was behaving like a woman possessed by giving out the finally unpacked new radios and scarves that we brought from England as gifts for everyone. Phew. That is only one room tackled (an important one because my computer is in here) and so many more corners and cupboards lie in wait. I wonder how long my tidying fervour will last?
Soon, the urge to spring clean will fade and I will fall back into scruffy indolence. Eventually I’ll stop noticing the million stains on the piece of white ‘off cut’ carpet in the sitting room that I bought ill advisedly after our UK visit last year in a desperate attempt to brighten up the wood floors. Magasines, newspapers and paperwork will pile up everywhere again. It takes time to settle back in to expat life and sometimes a lot of imagination to make Nairobi look more like home.
Annual leave is always a big event and long anticipated. The long haul flight and complete change of scene is hugely exciting at the end of the school year and we always have so much fun catching up with family and being spoiled rotten. Sadly, we never quite manage to put in the required effort in to see all the friends in England that we would love to catch up with and frighteningly the years are slipping by so quickly. Every time I go back to England I feel nostalgia for my old life and this year it was underpinned by the fact that we’ve been living in East Africa for nearly ten years now. I had a slight panic about the prospect of never actually ‘going home’, much to my husband’s annoyance.
Since completing the fiction writing course, I’ve been spring cleaning like mad because returning to Nairobi after visiting the UK makes everything look different. After the homely clutter of English houses full of very nice things, ornaments, pretty colours, fitted carpets, mod cons etc. the parquet floor here seems cold, I find myself wondering how we continue to live with no carpet on the creaky stairs, how we tolerate the poky, dark kitchen, the scruffy curtains that were chewed by puppies years ago now look like rags. The old sofas and cushions look scruffier, the walls seem bare and dirty and there are always far too many depressing hidden corners filled with dust and utter rubbish that we have been busy accumulating.
Gladys and Florence who work in our house must have been inwardly swearing on Saturday morning as I spent hours holed up inside cupboards throwing things out with abandon, kicking up clouds of dust in the process and failing to return anything back inside. Sweating and filthy, I dropped a heavy box on my foot and head butted a wooden shelf in the process. As the once immaculate upstairs corridor became clogged with increasing piles of junk, they were probably concerned that their usual half day of work was going to run into the afternoon and evening. In the end no overtime was necessary and I tried to counter the fact that I was behaving like a woman possessed by giving out the finally unpacked new radios and scarves that we brought from England as gifts for everyone. Phew. That is only one room tackled (an important one because my computer is in here) and so many more corners and cupboards lie in wait. I wonder how long my tidying fervour will last?
Soon, the urge to spring clean will fade and I will fall back into scruffy indolence. Eventually I’ll stop noticing the million stains on the piece of white ‘off cut’ carpet in the sitting room that I bought ill advisedly after our UK visit last year in a desperate attempt to brighten up the wood floors. Magasines, newspapers and paperwork will pile up everywhere again. It takes time to settle back in to expat life and sometimes a lot of imagination to make Nairobi look more like home.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Drained
The writing course is stimulating so much thought that I'm lying awake at night. It is an amazing journey but not a pleasant one. The idea is that after this week we all leave better prepared to describe a three dimensional character, but whether we can pull it off or not remains to be seen. Some of the writers in our class were pretty good in the first place.
The uncomfortable tendancy for our tutor to tell the assembled group that dreams of being a big selling author, fame and fortune simply won't happen, is humbling.
'These big name authors who churn out a book a year are not even writing them themselves. It is a marketing machine. Their publishers have invested in a focus group of ghost writers who construct stories in the author's style too keep up with demand. What is more, the author attained success because they are marketable. To succeed you must be white' (this is the second time he has said this, all eyes look down at the desk once again and as the only white person in the class, I feel like a villain). He continues ...
'To sell books you must be attractive, so you look good on the dust cover of the book and in the newspapers and magasines that are pushing your novel, that is what is important. Therefore it is just not going to happen for an African writer.'
I applaud the success of 'blog to book' stories like 'Wife in the North' and 'Petite Anglaise' who seem to have had only to giggle their blogs around a little to make a book. Rather green faced at this point I wonder if they re wrote their material seven times until reaching the final product as we are being told one must do to seek our best, most evocative writing? I guess that anything that stretches you is always worth doing. A fellow student said:
'you can be drowning in heaps of praise but only criticism will save you'
or something like that?! - Not that I am bitter or anything of course!
The uncomfortable tendancy for our tutor to tell the assembled group that dreams of being a big selling author, fame and fortune simply won't happen, is humbling.
'These big name authors who churn out a book a year are not even writing them themselves. It is a marketing machine. Their publishers have invested in a focus group of ghost writers who construct stories in the author's style too keep up with demand. What is more, the author attained success because they are marketable. To succeed you must be white' (this is the second time he has said this, all eyes look down at the desk once again and as the only white person in the class, I feel like a villain). He continues ...
'To sell books you must be attractive, so you look good on the dust cover of the book and in the newspapers and magasines that are pushing your novel, that is what is important. Therefore it is just not going to happen for an African writer.'
I applaud the success of 'blog to book' stories like 'Wife in the North' and 'Petite Anglaise' who seem to have had only to giggle their blogs around a little to make a book. Rather green faced at this point I wonder if they re wrote their material seven times until reaching the final product as we are being told one must do to seek our best, most evocative writing? I guess that anything that stretches you is always worth doing. A fellow student said:
'you can be drowning in heaps of praise but only criticism will save you'
or something like that?! - Not that I am bitter or anything of course!
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Still writing..
Our genius and somewhat eccentric tutor threw his proverbial ‘toys out of the pram’ today. After arriving around 45 minutes to an hour late again, he first asked if we had all completed our character re-writes. When he walked in it was clear he was spoiling for a fight. You could almost see the dark clouds around his shoulders.
‘Ok, who has not done their re-writes?’
A few brave ones shyly half raised one hand.
Miraculously, I had actually done my re-write. I had composed it inside ‘Children’s World’ play centre which is where I took the kids out of sheer guilt yesterday afternoon after returning from my ‘school’ late as usual. The atmosphere was not conducive for writing due to the loud, cloying sung nursery rhymes blaring from a speaker system over ridden by piercing screams in a huge echoing room with a play frame covered in primary coloured plastic constructed in the centre. However, I was on track. I thought I had done my best, though in retrospect I learned that it wasn’t very good and rather missed the point of the exercise.
Our furious tutor spewed vitriol about the fact that we were not ‘artists’ dabbling at our craft and that writing was a discipline and why bother to teach anything if no one was willing to put in the slightest effort. By now I was thinking, now hang on a minute!
‘I’m leaving’ he announced. ‘I am leaving you all for at least one hour to complete an assignment that you should have given at least two good hours to yesterday.’
Now, I could feel anger and frustration prickling up on the nape of my neck. I admit to being a little late on the first morning and being a little stupid on continuing to pick the wrong table, taking too much time to find where I should be, but damn it we were giving up our time too and I wasn’t going to sit in a classroom watching people doing their homework for another wasted hour! Our tutor was out of the door and heading down the stairs:
‘And what about the people who did their assignment!’ I called out after him, trying not to sound too squeaky.
He took some steps back toward the classroom door waggling his finger,
‘Well now you see! You can all see how some failing to do their work has a direct impact on all of you! You should be working as a team and some members have let the others down. Now you can all see this!’
‘So what do we do?’ another asked. We were reduced to begging.
At this point I was considering going home.
Fortunately the storm seemed to be clearing and our tutor began to soften. In conciliatory tones he asked those who had done the assignment to come and sit outside to do some reading. It was a sunny morning afternoon. I was getting the impression that one of the things he was angry about was the sterile classroom environment. Later we divided into small groups to critique our re writes as the tutor bounced from group to group handing out his wisdom in short, precious snatches. It was a little unsatisfactory but less laboured than twenty people commenting on each piece.
Last night I considered that all my constructive criticisms had been about splitting hairs and not particularly helpful. Everyone must hate my lame imput:
‘A jungle of shelves?’ is that correct, are shelves not by definition ordered?
‘Acrid smell of books’ do they really smell?
‘Slimy snake?’ they don’t really leave slime do they?
‘Ok, who has not done their re-writes?’
A few brave ones shyly half raised one hand.
Miraculously, I had actually done my re-write. I had composed it inside ‘Children’s World’ play centre which is where I took the kids out of sheer guilt yesterday afternoon after returning from my ‘school’ late as usual. The atmosphere was not conducive for writing due to the loud, cloying sung nursery rhymes blaring from a speaker system over ridden by piercing screams in a huge echoing room with a play frame covered in primary coloured plastic constructed in the centre. However, I was on track. I thought I had done my best, though in retrospect I learned that it wasn’t very good and rather missed the point of the exercise.
Our furious tutor spewed vitriol about the fact that we were not ‘artists’ dabbling at our craft and that writing was a discipline and why bother to teach anything if no one was willing to put in the slightest effort. By now I was thinking, now hang on a minute!
‘I’m leaving’ he announced. ‘I am leaving you all for at least one hour to complete an assignment that you should have given at least two good hours to yesterday.’
Now, I could feel anger and frustration prickling up on the nape of my neck. I admit to being a little late on the first morning and being a little stupid on continuing to pick the wrong table, taking too much time to find where I should be, but damn it we were giving up our time too and I wasn’t going to sit in a classroom watching people doing their homework for another wasted hour! Our tutor was out of the door and heading down the stairs:
‘And what about the people who did their assignment!’ I called out after him, trying not to sound too squeaky.
He took some steps back toward the classroom door waggling his finger,
‘Well now you see! You can all see how some failing to do their work has a direct impact on all of you! You should be working as a team and some members have let the others down. Now you can all see this!’
‘So what do we do?’ another asked. We were reduced to begging.
At this point I was considering going home.
Fortunately the storm seemed to be clearing and our tutor began to soften. In conciliatory tones he asked those who had done the assignment to come and sit outside to do some reading. It was a sunny morning afternoon. I was getting the impression that one of the things he was angry about was the sterile classroom environment. Later we divided into small groups to critique our re writes as the tutor bounced from group to group handing out his wisdom in short, precious snatches. It was a little unsatisfactory but less laboured than twenty people commenting on each piece.
Last night I considered that all my constructive criticisms had been about splitting hairs and not particularly helpful. Everyone must hate my lame imput:
‘A jungle of shelves?’ is that correct, are shelves not by definition ordered?
‘Acrid smell of books’ do they really smell?
‘Slimy snake?’ they don’t really leave slime do they?
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Kwani? Literary Festival - a writer's workshop
My Dad recently gave me a quote:
‘all writing is vanity’ or something like that….
Writing a blog is the ultimate vanity. You can wax on about anything, unchallenged and from your exclusive perspective just like in a diary. To then press ‘publish’ and put your writing out there on the web is irresistible. The possibility of feedback in the form of comments is thrilling.
Many blogs I have read I suspect are written by aspiring authors. My dirty little secret is that at the moment I’m trying to be one of them and this week have been abandoning my homely duties and escaping to take part in a five day writers workshop (9.30am to 1.30pm) organised by an African publishing organisation called ‘Kwani?’, right here in Nairobi.
So far, for me, the week as a student has been playing out like a comedy. I arrived back in Nairobi with the family on Sunday night. Having paid for the course before I left for our England holiday but still vague on details I immediately fired up my computer to see where Monday’s literary festival would be held. Setting my alarm clock for what was 5.30am in English time (but an unimpressive 7.30 here) I shot out to the supermarket to buy bread, milk, eggs etc. and fill the fridge then pulled a carefully thought out cooked bolognaise from the freezer for the kids lunch, leaving various instructions for the unwaveringly patient Florence regarding cooking, unpacking, state of the still sleeping children etc.
When I left home I knew that I was going to be late. What I didn’t know was that I was a half hour late before I had even started because the Literary Festival itinerary had at some point been changed unbeknown to me. I was excited as the ‘Advanced Fiction’ workshop I had signed up for required a ten page manuscript to be sent in ahead of time. I had spent weeks perfecting my ‘chapter 1’ of my upcoming novel of which I hope to sell film rights and become a millionaire. Monday’s venue was some nightclub in Nairobi’s town centre. Unfortunately the entrance gate was positioned along the side of the veranda where chairs and tables were laid out for writing students in cosy groups. I willed my husband’s shiny Landrover to look less conspicuous and sound less chugging. Everybody was seated and already deep in debate. As I suspected, there were no familiar faces.
I rushed in, newly bought Nakumatt note pad and biro in hand, to ‘register’.
‘I’m doing fiction,’ I said,
‘That table over there’ whispered the helpful organiser.
Fortunately a few others were arriving late in dribs and drabs. In total there were about seventy divided into tables of twenty-ish. After we had finally introduced ourselves giving reasons for wanting to participate in the workshop, our group leader (and published author/expert), sombre faced and serious (quite possibly irritated by late comers like me) threw out a question.
‘Who can tell me what they think creative non fiction is exactly?’
Ever the ‘keen bean’ I was the first to shout out an answer,
‘It’s a story, with imagined characters, following a plot with a series of crises leading to a climax then finishing in a tie it all up ending or resolution!’
My neighbour turned to me and said:
‘I disagree, I think that ‘non fiction’ means giving accounts of events from real life?’
The penny dropped – what a prize ass I felt in front of my twenty fellow ‘creative non fiction’ students.
‘I’m so sorry, I think I’m on the wrong table. Where’s fiction?’ I asked.
‘Over there’ someone helpfully put in, but it wasn’t the tutor.
Much chair scraping later I joined another table and was asked to introduce myself again:
‘Um, housewife, non African, no job, blogger etc etc.’
After twenty minutes my heart sank when I saw a folded piece of A4 in the centre of the table that read: ‘Starting to write.’
This was not what I had signed up for either. We discussed things like writer’s discipline and the fact that none of us would ever make money from writing. It was useful, but it was still the wrong bloody workshop. I decided to stick it out until the tea break out of embarrassment, whilst in the knowledge that I was missing out on my own class. Break came at midday. I switched again.
This time I found my tutor and my class. This tutor asked me to introduce myself again and looked nonplussed at my answer. Within minutes I was struggling. We had to read out loud around the room from a text. Our genius style tutor with dreadlocks and African shirt kept slipping in and out of Swahili for the benefit of every single other student in the room. I followed it, but I struggled. We got late.
‘Anyone up for reconvening after lunch, maybe for 45 minutes?’
‘Yes’ they all said.
‘I can’t’ I thought and scuttled off, skipping lunch too as it was already 3pm. Once again I was manhandling the huge car out of a tiny parking spot and back past my fellow students.
Today was a little better… and a little worse. This time I was not late – but I found, to my horror, that the others had been set homework during the afternoon session. I asked around and scribbled something that I hoped would do. Thankfully our tutor was late. We were supposed to describe a character, not by telling, but by describing him or her through their actions. We had to read out our work and everyone was required to make comments. We started all saying ‘lovely writing’ ‘I enjoyed it’, then our tutor said,
‘this is not some church meeting, you are here to learn something so give a proper critique!’
My hands shook for three hours in anticipation as I was one of the last to read. I said conspiratorially to a fellow student over mid morning coffee:
‘I’m dreading reading mine out!’ to which she replied,
‘Oh really? I can’t wait to do mine!’
Needless to say her piece was sheer brilliance and our super laid back tutor was moved to clap heartily and bang his fists on the table in appreciation. After class ran over time, once again I scuttled off back to the kids with feelings of guilt for leaving them all morning, but at least this time with proper instructions for homework.
This evening I rushed back to the venue for a billed talk by a Random House editor, a Zimbabwean lady now based in the UK, it was called ‘how to make a publishable material from your raw manuscript’. The Literary Festival organisers were excited to have got this lady – an absolute coup and invaluable advice for aspiring writers! I arrived at 8pm only to be told,
‘I’m so sorry, we changed the time to seven. We announced it over lunch. You’ve just missed it!’
My stress levels are on super high, as are my guilty, ‘terribly bad mother’ feelings but being a student again for a week and thinking in a ‘really straining to think’ kind of way is fantastic. Wish me luck!
‘all writing is vanity’ or something like that….
Writing a blog is the ultimate vanity. You can wax on about anything, unchallenged and from your exclusive perspective just like in a diary. To then press ‘publish’ and put your writing out there on the web is irresistible. The possibility of feedback in the form of comments is thrilling.
Many blogs I have read I suspect are written by aspiring authors. My dirty little secret is that at the moment I’m trying to be one of them and this week have been abandoning my homely duties and escaping to take part in a five day writers workshop (9.30am to 1.30pm) organised by an African publishing organisation called ‘Kwani?’, right here in Nairobi.
So far, for me, the week as a student has been playing out like a comedy. I arrived back in Nairobi with the family on Sunday night. Having paid for the course before I left for our England holiday but still vague on details I immediately fired up my computer to see where Monday’s literary festival would be held. Setting my alarm clock for what was 5.30am in English time (but an unimpressive 7.30 here) I shot out to the supermarket to buy bread, milk, eggs etc. and fill the fridge then pulled a carefully thought out cooked bolognaise from the freezer for the kids lunch, leaving various instructions for the unwaveringly patient Florence regarding cooking, unpacking, state of the still sleeping children etc.
When I left home I knew that I was going to be late. What I didn’t know was that I was a half hour late before I had even started because the Literary Festival itinerary had at some point been changed unbeknown to me. I was excited as the ‘Advanced Fiction’ workshop I had signed up for required a ten page manuscript to be sent in ahead of time. I had spent weeks perfecting my ‘chapter 1’ of my upcoming novel of which I hope to sell film rights and become a millionaire. Monday’s venue was some nightclub in Nairobi’s town centre. Unfortunately the entrance gate was positioned along the side of the veranda where chairs and tables were laid out for writing students in cosy groups. I willed my husband’s shiny Landrover to look less conspicuous and sound less chugging. Everybody was seated and already deep in debate. As I suspected, there were no familiar faces.
I rushed in, newly bought Nakumatt note pad and biro in hand, to ‘register’.
‘I’m doing fiction,’ I said,
‘That table over there’ whispered the helpful organiser.
Fortunately a few others were arriving late in dribs and drabs. In total there were about seventy divided into tables of twenty-ish. After we had finally introduced ourselves giving reasons for wanting to participate in the workshop, our group leader (and published author/expert), sombre faced and serious (quite possibly irritated by late comers like me) threw out a question.
‘Who can tell me what they think creative non fiction is exactly?’
Ever the ‘keen bean’ I was the first to shout out an answer,
‘It’s a story, with imagined characters, following a plot with a series of crises leading to a climax then finishing in a tie it all up ending or resolution!’
My neighbour turned to me and said:
‘I disagree, I think that ‘non fiction’ means giving accounts of events from real life?’
The penny dropped – what a prize ass I felt in front of my twenty fellow ‘creative non fiction’ students.
‘I’m so sorry, I think I’m on the wrong table. Where’s fiction?’ I asked.
‘Over there’ someone helpfully put in, but it wasn’t the tutor.
Much chair scraping later I joined another table and was asked to introduce myself again:
‘Um, housewife, non African, no job, blogger etc etc.’
After twenty minutes my heart sank when I saw a folded piece of A4 in the centre of the table that read: ‘Starting to write.’
This was not what I had signed up for either. We discussed things like writer’s discipline and the fact that none of us would ever make money from writing. It was useful, but it was still the wrong bloody workshop. I decided to stick it out until the tea break out of embarrassment, whilst in the knowledge that I was missing out on my own class. Break came at midday. I switched again.
This time I found my tutor and my class. This tutor asked me to introduce myself again and looked nonplussed at my answer. Within minutes I was struggling. We had to read out loud around the room from a text. Our genius style tutor with dreadlocks and African shirt kept slipping in and out of Swahili for the benefit of every single other student in the room. I followed it, but I struggled. We got late.
‘Anyone up for reconvening after lunch, maybe for 45 minutes?’
‘Yes’ they all said.
‘I can’t’ I thought and scuttled off, skipping lunch too as it was already 3pm. Once again I was manhandling the huge car out of a tiny parking spot and back past my fellow students.
Today was a little better… and a little worse. This time I was not late – but I found, to my horror, that the others had been set homework during the afternoon session. I asked around and scribbled something that I hoped would do. Thankfully our tutor was late. We were supposed to describe a character, not by telling, but by describing him or her through their actions. We had to read out our work and everyone was required to make comments. We started all saying ‘lovely writing’ ‘I enjoyed it’, then our tutor said,
‘this is not some church meeting, you are here to learn something so give a proper critique!’
My hands shook for three hours in anticipation as I was one of the last to read. I said conspiratorially to a fellow student over mid morning coffee:
‘I’m dreading reading mine out!’ to which she replied,
‘Oh really? I can’t wait to do mine!’
Needless to say her piece was sheer brilliance and our super laid back tutor was moved to clap heartily and bang his fists on the table in appreciation. After class ran over time, once again I scuttled off back to the kids with feelings of guilt for leaving them all morning, but at least this time with proper instructions for homework.
This evening I rushed back to the venue for a billed talk by a Random House editor, a Zimbabwean lady now based in the UK, it was called ‘how to make a publishable material from your raw manuscript’. The Literary Festival organisers were excited to have got this lady – an absolute coup and invaluable advice for aspiring writers! I arrived at 8pm only to be told,
‘I’m so sorry, we changed the time to seven. We announced it over lunch. You’ve just missed it!’
My stress levels are on super high, as are my guilty, ‘terribly bad mother’ feelings but being a student again for a week and thinking in a ‘really straining to think’ kind of way is fantastic. Wish me luck!
Culture shock
Just forgot to add a couple more impressions from our England visit:
1. Horrendous rise in UK knife crime - big 'NO to KNIVES' campaigns and police patrolling the streets in stab jackets.
2. 'Would you like a bag?' - all cashiers in UK ask you if you would like to take a bag at the checkout. This cleverly makes you think twice. Sometimes you haven't thought ahead and have to say 'yes' to a poisoned plastic bag. One response was 'that will be 10p'. I said, then I will do my damnedest to fit everything in one skinny, small guage bag, to which the lady at the till said 'Once I've charged you 10p you can take as many bags as you like.' ?!?
Having said all that, we had a fabulous holiday and coming back to Nairobi has been hard. It's grey, cold and damp feeling - but it hasn't rained here for weeks, which is a worry as water suppiles are low. On my first trip to the shops with the kids I was beset by hawkers who first try to sell you something, then try to get money by spinning you a long yarn. They are persistant. When you make a cup of tea, it tastes strange. There's little convenience food. It all seems like hard work in contrast to a UK summer - but deep down, I know we saw the best of England and on balance, we are pretty lucky here in Africa.
1. Horrendous rise in UK knife crime - big 'NO to KNIVES' campaigns and police patrolling the streets in stab jackets.
2. 'Would you like a bag?' - all cashiers in UK ask you if you would like to take a bag at the checkout. This cleverly makes you think twice. Sometimes you haven't thought ahead and have to say 'yes' to a poisoned plastic bag. One response was 'that will be 10p'. I said, then I will do my damnedest to fit everything in one skinny, small guage bag, to which the lady at the till said 'Once I've charged you 10p you can take as many bags as you like.' ?!?
Having said all that, we had a fabulous holiday and coming back to Nairobi has been hard. It's grey, cold and damp feeling - but it hasn't rained here for weeks, which is a worry as water suppiles are low. On my first trip to the shops with the kids I was beset by hawkers who first try to sell you something, then try to get money by spinning you a long yarn. They are persistant. When you make a cup of tea, it tastes strange. There's little convenience food. It all seems like hard work in contrast to a UK summer - but deep down, I know we saw the best of England and on balance, we are pretty lucky here in Africa.
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