Sugar ants, geckos, frogs

Nairobi is dry, dry, dry at the moment.  Red dust, the grass is yellow and crispy to walk on.  While the daily sunshine is nice, what I do object to are the tiny ants all over the kitchen and the breakfast table in the morning.  If you put anything down for more than three minutes, they're on it.  They seem to be particularly partial to the butter dish.  Whenever I put an ant trap or some poison down, thus cutting off one route of entry, they'll quickly find another.  This pains me since it seems a waste of the Ant-Rid that, with some foresight, I bought in England.  Seeing food blackened and pulsatingly alive with ants reminds me of our years spent living in Dar.  I should be grateful for small mercies.  At least in Nairobi (unlike Dar) there are one or two ant-proof places where food is safe because the ants have not yet discovered them.  For instance, on top of the microwave.

My mother-in-law says words to the affect of; 'first year in Africa when you find an ant in the sugar, you throw the pot of sugar away.  In the second year when you see an ant in the sugar, you carefully remove the ant with a teaspoon.  Third year, you mix it in.'

This is certainly true for me - I've almost got used to them but my eldest daughter still cries out shrilly at 6.30am on sight of an ant when she's having her pre-school breakfast.  It's most irritating so early in the morning and I'm not a mornings person.  My tactic is to take the offending ant ridden article out into the garden and bang it violently until all the ants scurry away - though this method is time consuming and there are generally a few stubborn stragglers who refuse to budge, making the butter impossible to save.  I found it disheartening yesterday, to see the clean washing up (that somehow I'd persuaded my husband to do!)standing in the rack covered in ants but hey ho, such is life in Africa.

My husband's London boss came to stay with us (regularly) when we were living in Dar.  On one occasion, at breakfast he shuddered, swiped at his arm and said,
'I just feel like I have tiny ants crawling all over me the whole time.' 
Admittedly, the ants particularly liked his downstairs guest bathroom, but I thought this was rather tactless so felt like saying, 'so why not try a hotel then?!'  No sympathy. (I can say that because this boss has since retired).

While I'm relatively cool with ants; geckos get me down.  I cannot fathom how some people regard them as sweet and adorable.  Testament to this fact are the endless gecko images on gift items everywhere.  These people obviously don't have to live with the wretches.

The problem with geckos is that they like to hide behind picture frames, curtain rails, toilet cisterns and give you a hell of a fright by dashing out when you unwittingly disturb them.  They lay their little spherical eggs in amongst the children's soft toys and poo indescriminately; on bedcovers, pillows, towels, books and magazines.  When my eldest daughter was a crawling baby, someone in my babygroup told me that part of their poo constituted a lethal poison (the white dot) - so you can imagine - that got me wound up into a right old a state.  Needless to say, even though my daughter was partial to picking up the odd dried up gecko poo with some curiosity, she somehow miraculously survived the ordeal. 

Geckos not only have bulging eyes but a livid sort of translucent, anaemic look which makes me shiver.  Lizards (who respectfully prefer to live outside) are so much more palatable don't you think?  Talking of palatable, I think that my gecko dislike was accelerated into a phobia when, while living in Dar a gecko fell into my mug cup of coffee.  I had no idea.  I'd drunk half then the cup of coffee then left it standing around for a while.  When I took a sip and found the second half was cold I decided to throw the dregs into our stainless steel kitchen sink.  Imagine my surprise when a decidedly blanched gecko with white, milky eyes flopped out into the sink with the coffee.  Yuk!!  Had I actually drunk a gecko infused hot water based beverage?  Undoubtedly I had!



While living in the same house in Dar, my father-in-law took it upon himself to construct a pond in the garden, right underneath our bedroom window.  He argued that a pond would attract the prettiest of tropical birds.  What he didn't know was that in Dar all the pretty birds had already been eaten by Indian House Crows, so his mission was hopeless from the outset. 

What the pond did end up attracting was bullfrogs.  Sociable bullfrogs who croaked loudly to one another all night long.  Even the old fashioned boxy air-conditioning unit in our bedroom failed to drown them out.  It was deafening.  Things reached breaking point when, utterly exasperated from sleep deprivation, my husband stormed out into the garden during the early hours of the morning with a tennis racket in hand and started dispatching the offending amphibians over the fence into the neighbour's garden.  I think my husband figured the neighbours wouldn't mind since they kept cows and goats in their garden anyhow. 

Since this method of dealing with the noisy frogs was somewhat unsustainable, we came up with the idea of giving our night watchman a plastic bucket.  During the night, helped by our Alsatian, he put the noisiest frogs into the bucket and once inside they miraculously quieted down (no doubt the poor things were in shock).  Next morning my husband would regularly take the frog filled bucket to work with him, then he would empty it on Kenyatta Drive just before Salandar Bridge, right outside the British High Commissioner's house.  This system worked admirably until we found an opportunity to move house....  Funny that it never occured to us to fill in the pond.  I wonder if it's still there today?


Add cockroaches, rats, scorpions and the odd snake to the mix of sugar ants, geckos and frogs and you've got the whole picture.

Good Intentions

Somehow I managed to persuade my husband to come to an aerobics class last night.  He's not usually a fan of dancing about to Lingala music - preferring a gentle jog around the block but he has done it before.  January is always a good time for New Year's Resolutions; we are both predictably keen to lose the big tummy and get fit. 

Helping my argument last night was the fact that the gym was packed and all the machines were occupied.  What didn't help much was when a macho man wearing a singlet behind the desk, just as we were signing in, said laughing;

'Ah, but aerobics is only for the ladies.'

'There were two men in the last class I went to last Friday!' I blustered.  There were.

Anyway.  We all danced about and got hot.  There were about seven of us.  My husband was indeed the only man, except for the instructor.  You could tell that a lot of us, panting, were working on New Year's Resolutions in there.

'I'm glad you did the class,' I said at the end as we left, stretching stiff muscles in the night air.

'Did you think that if you laughed at me I'd walk out in a strop?' He asked.

'Probably,' I said, 'but at first you were making me giggle on purpose.  I had to stop looking at you.'

'I wouldn't have walked out,' he said. '...but I really don't know how you do it.  When that instructor just stands there in the front, doesn't bother to do half the routine then says lift your leg higher, or jump harder - I just feel like punching him in the face.'

'Right.' I said.  'By the way, when is all this testosterone going to just melt away with age?'

'You just don't understand, you're not a man.' He said.

We then locked ourselves out of the car and after trying to break in with the alarm sounding for some time, had to go home in a taxi to fetch some spare keys. 

My husband's first thought was to phone a friend to come out and rescue us. 

'What sort of friend would be willing to come out after dark to drive us all the way home?' I asked.

We settled on the taxi and waited.

I think that might be our last, 'husband and wife' aerobics lesson for some time.

Tying myself in knots...

Many thanks for all your constructive comments on hand-outs, all extremely valid.  I'm afraid to labour a point and promise not to discuss this again in future posts for some time (at least a week or two), but still, I am in hot water!  Don't get cross!  If nothing else, I think it does help to illustrate what it's like for the well meaning expat living here in Kenya.

This week's dilemma has found me trying to manage a self inflicted situation that I've got myself in vis-a-vis my house helper's daughter who didn't do very well in her exams but was keen on hairdressing or doing something to do with hair and beauty.  After she finished school, she found herself just sitting around at home and so, like a fool, I got involved.

I found a place for the girl in question, doing some work experience at a local salon, under a lady whose training at 'Revlon Hair and Beauty' was paid for entirely by a local charity.  I thought, this would be a good starting point, ie. to work for someone who has been helped enormously by other people's good will.

The cost of transport was going to be a lot to get to and from the salon (100/- per day) so, to start off with I offered to pay.   Initially this plan went well.  The salon is always busy, the house help's daughter was enjoying the work but after around 3 months, I wanted to know how the situation might become more sustainable, so I raised the subject of what might come next.  Would the lady with the salon consider paying her intern's transport?  Or perhaps contribute something toward the cost of her doing a short hair and beauty course in town, if her intern promised to fill her spare time working for the same salon?

My plan backfired.  The Salon lady said that the intern should strictly speaking have been paying HER to be getting all this free experience and there is no way she can pay anything toward transport or training. (Nice, considering she got to where she is today due to other people's charity).

I suggested, the intern (our house help's daughter) raise her transport costs herself by doing some hairdressing for people near where she lives at home.  Our house help said that this wouldn't work because her daughter didn't have money for the materials she needs.  I said,

'why not get customers to buy their own materials (ie hair extensions etc) and let your daughter charge for labour only - surely this would be a good deal for customers as it would work out cheaper than visiting a salon?'

'Maybe' was the answer.

Now I am faced with the dilemma of whether to continue paying for transport to the salon where she continues to work for free.  Or whether to pay 20,000 for a short course on hair and beauty training myself.   Everybody seems to love to have certificates here and they assume this is the only way to get yourself a job.

 - What I have decided to do is;
1.  stop giving transport money and suggest our house help's daughter find a Salon she can do work experience at nearer to home.  I said,
'Since the lady is not interested in helping your daughter, then I would rather be investing in scissors and equipment for her so she can do freelance work than pay this transport any more.'
(having said that, I hope that the 3 month work experience has been a help).
2. Postpone any idea of doing a course as she would have already mastered a lot of its contents through her practical experience anyway.
3. Stop giving away my husband's hard earned cash, which is consequently playing havoc with our budgeting.  I should sort myself out with gainful employment instead!

The nice house help (who has worked for us for years, who by the way, is a really valued employee) has another daughter who has just completed a costly 2 year course, training to be a pharmacist.  I did not help at all with these fees or get involved.  The graduation was a few months ago and our house help took the day off to go and watch her get her certificate. 

But, needless to say, after all the training, a job has not been forthcoming.  I suggested our house help ask around at our local chemists to see if there might be any job leads.  Apparently there was one.  The househelp's second daughter followed it up.  The job was in town.

Apparently the prospective employer had said, 'I can only pay you 5,000 per month.' 

The daughter said, 'well, it's going to cost me 3,000 in transport per month - so no thanks.' 

When I heard this, I feel like wringing my hands!

'At least your daughter would have been getting practical experience, this job might have led to more money later.  At least you daughter would have been working with her transport and lunch covered.  She would have been better off than just sitting at home!  People who have graduated are always very proud because they have worked hard to get their qualification.  I was like this too but practical experience is always so important!'

Our house help said she told her daughter all this, but apparently it hadn't helped.

On a lighter note, here is a picture of our (almost) finished pool!!  It has been fantastic, especially during this hot spell (for hot spell, read: dry season or even more pertinent: drought).  But  there are still a few workmen hanging around - doing finishing jobs here and there.  They are roofing a gazebo that was originally sitting redundant in another corner of our garden.  These gusy seem to be taking their time, enjoying the 11 O'clock tea and jam sandwiches that they get.  So, over the past couple of weeks, whenever the kids swim after school (quite often either screaming with hilarity or else having embarrassing physical fights) it's in front of a wrapt audience.  I haven't been in in weeks.

My youngest daughter spent a week and a half wearing her 'uniform', of jeans, shirt and tie but over the past two days, abandoned it which must mean she's feeling more confident and has adjusted back into school life.  I even managed to get her into a pretty skirt yesterday which was nothing short of a miracle!

The eldest is enjoying her violin.  She's had two lessons so far.  I went to one and the teacher was surprised to see me - obviously a communication problem there with the head of music who had told me that I should attend.  I just read something in a UK newspaper supplement about 'Chinese Dragon' parenting - where it says you should be strict with your children in order to achieve results, never let them give up and this will drive them to be motivated people in future life.  As you can imagine after the week I've had, the message really hit home. 

As a result, the short bursts of revision we've sandwiched between other homework, music practise, birthday party dates etc have been fraught.  However, she's only 10.  I think I need to take a chill pill. 

Disparity of Wealth in Kenya

Our gardener's wife had a baby over the weekend. I just went to visit them in hospital (so that I could pay the bill). There is a catch 22 situation here in Kenya where you have to pay costs in full in order to 'check out' of hospital. For those who can't pay, the rule is; 'you can't leave', so ironically the bills just keep on mounting. There are rumours of patients who owe millions of shillings in Kenyatta National Hospital and have to live there because they can never leave as there is too many backdated bills owing. What kind of a system is that?

The baby and mum in question looked bonny and well, which was a relief after I'd heard that it was quite a difficult birth. Plus the first pregnancy had ended in miscarriage not so long ago. While I was happy to help out financially, it has been an interesting opening to the year, highlighting the reality of living with this endemic gulf of means between the haves and the have nots, with not a support system in sight.

One of the hardest parts about moving to a developing country is coping with being faced by such a startling disparity of wealth, especially seen in an urban capital with sprawling slums like Nairobi. I think that there are no answers; everyone simply has to find their own balance. There are good days and not so good days. When I am feeling particularly bad, I tell myself that living in the West, comfortably removed from the harsh injustices of the developing world, is not necessarily better. My husband despairs of my need to indulge myself by watching trashy E! TV, reality series with celebs living out their lives only worrying about which shoes to wear for the next party, or when they are possibly going to fit in ‘hair and make-up’ in their busy schedule.  I love it for its escapism. Anyway, I digress....  Here are some examples to illustrate the 'disparity of wealth' gap.


The Gardener

Our gardener, a young, very nice chap. Evidently he saved some money to pay for the birth hospital fees (but I guess he also must have known that 4,000/- was never going to be nearly enough) and I was very glad that he admitted his wife into a place with good doctors and care. I was aware that our gardener's wife was pregnant again since we stepped in to help over the miscarriage too, but to be honest, neither the gardener nor I had had a real discussion over how the inevitable hospital fees were going to be tackled. I think we were both in denial. In the event we got a phone call early on Sunday morning, and so took a diversion on the way to a kids biking event (that was a nightmare - another story!),and met him on the road to throw all the cash we had in our wallets through the car window at him, promising to pay any balance later.

At hospital today, I paid said balance. I asked is his wife had anyone to help her at home, then offered some extra cash for the journey back to his house not far away.

‘1,000/- please. I think it’s best if we take a taxi.’

I felt like saying ‘sorry, you’ve cleaned me out.’ \
Instead I say, ‘I’ll give you 600/-.’

In the absence of a state welfare system or free medical care, and as employers, we are obviously happy to help, but it seems that the old 'God will provide' adage, rather than boring old forward planning, is still very much alive too. Lets face it, it turns out that very often rather than God, it’s us.

Our Ex-Askari

Our ex-nightwatchman paid us a visit. He’s the guy who lives in Kibera who borrowed our car for his 'renewal of vows' Kibera wedding recently (see numerous previous posts). We provided sodas, crisps a driver etc too. The latest is; he said he needed medicine for what had been diagnosed as early onset osteoporosis. He had managed to have hospital scans (a Swiss lady/missionary who he met in Kibera had apparently paid for these) and said that a 6 month course of pills would cure him completely - but as things stood he could barely walk around or leave his house. Again, we handed over cash.

Let me tell you, having paid out 13th month bonuses for current employees and had a lot of visitors recently, plus Christmas, school fees and a self catering week at the coast - it gets increasingly hard to part with hand-outs - but I ask you, how can you argue when you are sitting in a lovely garden, next to a pretty house, having just had a swimming pool built with a guy who lives in Kibera?!

So, having just agreed to pay for medical treatment, our ex-nightwatchan turns around and says;

'My wife and I have been discussing something recently. We talked about how you have been helping us for very many years and decided that we would very much like you both to give us flights to England, so that maybe we can walk around with you for perhaps a week or so and look at the place.'

My husband and I nearly spat out the tea we were sipping.

'What?'

I’ll be honest with you. For a moment there, I thought he was talking about giving us flights. It took a while for the message to sink in. The ex-askari repeated the question.

'My wife and I think it would be good to visit England. We have been to Uganda and Rwanda but never England. Maybe you could take us as your guests and we could have a look around?'

My husband says; ‘he honestly thinks we are some sort of bottomless pit of giving. He hasn’t worked for us for over five years!’

Before giving him a lift to the nearest bus stage, I notice he's asked the gardener for any old plastic containers.  I give him a few more plus a packet of biscuits then ran him down the road.


Drought in Kenya

The La Nina weather phenomenon that is contributing to the heavy flooding in Australia and Brasil is conversely the cause of drought here. El Nino means rain here, La Nina can mean drought. The Kenya Red Cross are currently trying to persuade the local Government to address the drought problem officially, but they seem too busy worrying about raising ICC legal defence costs, The Hague and party politics to notice.

When it’s dry you see herds of cows right inside town, blocking roads, grazing on verges. I had once assumed that owners and herdsmen somehow drove cows here in search of pasture but recently I learned that there is more to it than this.

‘Because of the drought, cows in Eastern Province are now selling for 6,000 shillings per cow where once they were worth 100,000/-. They are selling the cows off because they cannot feed them. I have seen very many trucks full of cows coming into Nairobi, bought by businessmen who buy them cheap. They have money for feed. This is how business works during these times.’

'We used to be able to read the seasons, the signs of rain coming, the clouds and the birds.  Now it is very difficult to predict the weather.  No one knows what is happening.  Planters plant at the wrong time.  Global warming is very dangerous for us.  Things have changed so much over the past few years.  We have to learn how to adapt for our children.'

Staying on the Kenya Coast.

We stayed in Watamu over New Year week. There were no teenagers between us so we stayed low key eating lots of fish. On New Year itself we had a family meal, watched fireworks from our poolside, played charades with the kids. Between that and dealing with the punchy fish dealer who had tripled his prices for high season, dodging teenagers riding on the back of landrovers or speedboats, we couldn’t help but notice that there was also a pretty serious water shortage going on.

My husband said something along the lines of:

‘Never before has it hit me so hard, that this situation over water has become really serious. Seeing plastic water containers lined up everywhere along the side of the road, watching women carrying water on their heads, it makes you realise how precious a commodity it is, that one day fresh water really is going to run out, and then what will we do?’

'That's cheery.' I said.

Meanwhile, back to disparity of wealth – we had rented a house so that we could swim, take beach trips, read and relax. The rent we paid was pretty high by our standards – but conversely, we couldn’t help but notice how water containers were quickly squirreled away by the guys who worked in the house. How Faniki, the cleaner’s flip-flops had completely worn through and were stapled in place – how life in the village directly behind the house went on with a fire burning all day, women making makuti (roof coverings made from palm leaf), or washing clothes, sweeping, eating ugi. On one hand you have Flavio Briatore, on the other .... a mud hut.  I wonder if he notices?

Back online...

I almost cannot believe it. Today, the house is quiet.

Apologies for total failure to write. The reason? I’ve had both of my sisters out to stay with their respective husbands and kids in close succession (there was change-over on xmas day – just enough time to wrap presents & change sheets between guests). For the past month solid, the house has been noisy and busy with never less than 5 children screaming at one time (okay, I exaggerate). It has been full-on, all consuming and above all, fun.  We must have worked our way through a truck load of food between us and my husband put in curiously long hours at the office but today the mattresses on the floor will be stowed away, the kids are finally back in school and I look forward to a more sedate second half of January. Perhaps time to get my head down and think about New Year resolutions etc.

My eldest daughter arrived back from school with a violin yesterday. Oh cripes. Worse, the new violin teacher apparently wants ME to accompany her to her lessons! My sense of elation at new found freedom is already slipping away. Taking up violin is odd since we've had years of near physical fights to get said daughter to practise the piano (she plans to drop piano once she has done her Grade 1 in June).  In fact, her level of resistance to my bribery and coaxing to work at piano has been legendary.  Last term her head of music said,
'I think she should find another instrument.  Watching her struggle at this year's tea time concert was difficult.  In fact, I feel quite strongly about this.  She should try something else before it's too late.'
Smarting; my own memories of piano playing for seven years flooded back, as did the words in my school report which symbolized the final nail in the coffin of my musical career,
'She works hard ...... but has no natural talent.'

So why the violin? I hear you ask. Answer; because my daughter (and the head of music) wore me down and, needless to say, it subsequently turns out that her best friend is taking violin up too. With prospect of the ‘vile-din’ ringing in my ears at home (add this to the middle daughter’s drum playing) and school exams looming, I fear that realistically, we may be in for a shocking January. Even though we optimistically brought all the school books home in December, holiday revision was nil.

The youngest (5) is currently in a state of utter confusion/panic at the prospect of moving on to her big school, while at the same time doggedly exploring the concept that school might be optional.

‘Do I have to go to school?’ she asks.

My husband says, ‘yes.’

‘But what if I’m sick?’

‘Well, you’d have be sick, sick, sick all through the night and then MAYBE you would get ONE day off school.’

This morning she went to kindergarten for her second day dressed the big school’s uniform of shirt and tie that she has stolen from her sisters' drawers, paired with scruffy jeans. I tried to tell her,

‘you don’t have to wear that until SEPTEMBER.’ But no use. She won’t listen.
'You will BOIL in those clothes.'  Still nothing.

‘Are you going to wear a tie Daddy?’ she asks holding one of his ties in her hand. ‘Like me?’

‘Alright then.’ Says my husband who prefers to avoid the tie where at all possible. ‘I’ll put on a tie.’

In the car this morning she said;

‘What if bring all my books home Mummy and just do the work with you?’

‘But I am not a teacher darling.’ I said – a note of undisguised desperation in my voice. I had been really looking forward to my quiet morning. Then I wheeled out my favourite line,

‘If we were in England and I didn’t send you to school, the police would have to put me in prison.’

Frown.

During this holidays we had two very successful day trips to the Nairobi National Park. On both occasions (after the usual stress of preparing the expansive picnic) we headed in to the park at around lunchtime. We were dismayed to find that the quiet picnic spot under the JKIA flight path that we normally get to ourselves, is currently under KWS renovation and drastic expansion. It always used to be known as the 'secret' picnic spot, though most people I know have been there.  A half finished loo block is now rather a blot on the landscape and trees and bush have been replaced by large bins, water tanks and metal picnic tables. Anyhow, we did see lion on both visits (a lion on a kill, a lion in the road, a pride of 5 lion on a hill top), as well as rhino, buffalo and lots of plains game.  'Budget safari!' my brother-in-law said, delighted.

On both occasions we were in two cars. On the second visit, at the baboon cliffs viewing point, my sister and I decided to stay in the car while kids and husbands ventured out. When the children in our car left our rear doors open, afraid of baboons, my sister and I gingerly shut them and thank goodness, because in front of our eyes and quick as a flash, a huge male baboon made a beeline for an open door in my husband’s car and clambered in.  Utterly incensed, my husband slams the door of the car, shutting the huge brute in, thinking it might panic once trapped and serve it right, but as the beast leapt about the interior, I watched as my husband had second thoughts and flung the door open instead. There was a lot of shouting from my husband and some wide open mouthed disbelief amongst the children and other adults. Eventually the baboon screamed out of the car like a scalded cat, empty handed.   Even counting the lion, it was the most enjoyable game viewing that my sister and I had had all day.