Post office in Kenya and the trials of dealing with local emergency services

My husband announced last night that he might like to be a postman one day. I said that’s fine but he’d be hard pushed to be one in Kenya since there’s no postal delivery service here.

It brought to mind the story from a year ago.  The 5 year olds in my daughter’s kindergarten class did a school project which involved writing and posting a letter to their parents. The parents dutifully filled in an address on a form, then the children wrote out a (brief) letter and addressed an envelope. Then followed a class trip to the local post office to ceremonially post the letters, after which 10 tots crossed the road to buy a bag of crisps in the shop.

We use my husband’s work P.O. Box, so the letter from our daughter had some distance to travel, but other parents held their own P.O. Box in the exact same local post office – which meant that letters had only to travel from the post box, to an individual numbered box in the same room.

A good friend’s daughter was so excited about the prospect of her parents receiving her letter, that the next morning she absolutely insisted that she and her mother check their mail box before going to school. With trepidation, they opened the box with their small key from the outside, then imagine their delight and surprise when an actual HAND was on the other side, putting the little girl’s kindergarten letter in the box at that very moment! Not such an arduous task for the postal worker on that occasion!

We don’t really miss the door-to-door postal delivery here, but there are plenty of aspects of the local (admittedly reasonably priced) service which, not to put too fine a point on it, fail to measure up to standards we would like.

1. My father-in-law sent a postcard from Kenya to England last year. It arrived in England 6 months later. The recipient asked; “did you have a lovely holiday?” Reply; “What holiday?” He now puts all of his postcards in envelopes as they tend to arrive quicker.

2. Family and friends have sent birthday and Christmas presents from England via the conventional postal service here and the gifts, mysteriously, never arrived. This caused awkwardness when friends/family fished for a thank you and we had to admit that we hadn’t received anything, thinking they had forgotten. This happened the other way round too when we sent parcels from Kenya to England - cue more fishing emails and text messages on 'did you get the package'.  It's all most disappointing.

3. If parcels do arrive in Kenya from overseas, then you are summonsed to the post office to pay duty on the package. If the sender has written an accurate ‘perceived value’ on the postage label (or bumped it up to look generous), then you end up having to pay that same price again in local currency as an import tax, in order to get your package released. Top tip: get relatives to write ‘no commercial value’ on the ticket at the post office their end.

4. Personal magazines received in clear plastic packages via subscriptions, tend to be distributed on the street via a street vendor. At the very least, your ‘free gift’ will be long gone.

So what is the answer? We try to ask friends and family to post parcels to whoever is due to come and visit us next in person, or send important letters with somebody who might be going to England next. This system is not without its drawbacks too: –

1. If you are the unlucky person who happens to mention a UK visit, then you are inundated with requests to post unstamped letters and parcels by all and sundry – which necessitates a special (and expensive) visit to queue up at a UK post office immediately you arrive (jet lagged) at the other end. Nobody in Kenya ever knows how much a first class stamp in England costs these days, since Royal Mail don’t put it on the face of the stamp any more.  So friends who want their mail posted in England tend to foist a handful of Kenya shillings on you just as you are headed to the airport, an amount that bears no relation to the cost of the UK postage.

(Top tip, buy a book or two of first class stamps in advance when you are in England, there is then a Royal Mail website that allows you to calculate the cost of posting your package fairly accurately based on dimension and weight.)

2. Alternatively you might be the hapless visitor to Kenya who plans to go for some winter sun at Christmas. Within days of booking your flight, curious parcels addressed to not just family who you know, but also total strangers (friends of friends) will start appearing at your door, or pouring through your letterbox. You’ll end up bringing at least one, if not two entire suitcases filled with someone else’s parcels leaving no room for your clothes or toiletries . When an official at Heathrow asks you; “is there anything in this bag that you did not pack yourself?” You are at a loss to answer truthfully. Who knows what’s in there?

The upside of our local postal service in Kenya is that you tend not to be swamped by junk mail.  You only receive the bare minium - local bank statements/bills etc.

***

In fact, we European and US citizens are thoroughly spoiled by services that we take for granted when back home. No offense but if you dial 999 in Kenya or indeed the correct number for your local police station etc, then you will invariably get an automated message saying: ‘The number you require is out of service/not accessible’.

When a wailing ambulance pulls up behind you on the road in Nairobi, you are surprised at the sight of it (it’s so rare), to the point where you forget what you are supposed to do (get out of the way) – the ambulance in question will generally be a small mini-van from a private hospital.

If you are worried about being in an emergency situation yourself whilst in Kenya, the best thing to do is have your local doctor/clinic numbers on your phone so that you can contact them in an emergency to ask what to do/where is the best place to go.  GPs will often recommend known experts at a particular hospital that specialise in broken bones/heart problems etc.  It's not a bad idea to familiarise yourself roughly with the route to the nearest private hospitals (Karen, Nairobi, Aga Khan, Gertrudes Garden). Also, join AMREF flying doctors and store their numbers in your phone too.

It's not just ambulances.  Police often like to catch a lift to a crime scene in your car because they rarely have fuel for their own vehicles. In Tanzania an expat’s house was burning down. A private security firm’s fire truck arrived after a tip off and asked the individual in question to give credit card details before they were willing to tackle the fire since the guy in question was not a subscriber to their services. City council fire services are pretty desperate and let's be honest, fire engines can take hours to arrive, if at all.

The YouTube clip below taken from the local news recently speaks for itself! At least the newsreader has a sense of humour, though not so funny for the ones who were actually there!

Prince of Wales and Camilla sweat it out in Zanzibar

Charles and Camilla arriving at Zanzibar airport.

Seeing this photograph of Charles and Camila in Zanzibar brings memories flooding back.  First time visitors to the island, nothing can prepare you for the extreme humidity and heat.  And they are actually wearing jackets poor things?!  'Hot' does not even nearly begin to describe it.

In 1999, my husband and I came from February in England to Zanzibar on honeymoon - I nearly died (not literally, but felt pretty close thanks to a bout of food poisoning).  I'd never been far beyond Europe in my life, or to a developing country.  Not at all well travelled, it all came as a huge shock.  Pale and sweating, after two weeks in un-air conditioned 'eco' huts and bandas, we caught the ferry over to the mainland, to Dar es Salaam,  in order to start a new life in the tropics.  At the time, I can't understand why it never occurred to me that we must have been stark, staring mad to attempt such a transition.  12 years later and still in East Africa, the culture shock of first arriving in Zanzibar is still as fresh and clear in my mind as if it were yesterday.

The Telegraph article did say that Camilla had to withdraw from her tour round the Sultan's palace in order to have 'a little rest' for 5 minutes, but otherwise she seems to have coped admirably.  I'm sure that the pearl encrusted jacket/dress she was wearing was a bit to heavy though - and doesn't look like a natural fabric (sack the stylist) - perhaps she could have taken a leaf out of Kate's book and chosen more of a breezy, summer frock.  It's always a tricky balance in strictly Muslim Zanzibar and Dar, but cool linen shirts and unlined long skirts were my staple in those days.  It was always agony to be so hot and yet compelled to cover up at the same time. 

They even threw themselves into the dancing - well done!

Charles dancing/throwing shapes in 90 degree heat

They were then due to attend a garden party at the British High Commissioner's residence in Dar yesterday, which would have been be very civilised - barring the toxic smell of effluent that invariably washes over that garden from the direction of Salander Bridge and the estuary.

My husband grew up in Mombasa.  His Dad's advice for any lengthy, formal occasion in the tropics (and he endured quite a few) was always, "sit or stand absolutely stock still, as still as you can - then you can cope.  Fidgeting just makes the heat worse."

Dark/airless gift shop in Zanzibar

The dark, airless gift shops are also typical and haven't changed in decades.  I spent many an hour in these places, desperately figuring out how these sort of christmas presents might go down in wintry England.

I gather that there was a lot of brow mopping between the royal couple.  Camilla's hair would have started to flop as sweat tricked down her back and thighs.  My guess is that the royal couple will be relieved to be boarding a plane to the cooler climbes of Kilimanjaro today.

Emerging from the House of Wonders, beginning to look dishevelled

Family fun day - volunteering

Fireworks Ban in Nairobi

It was an odd sort of November 5th and Diwali in Nairobi this year, with all fireworks banned due to possible confusion over security threats and grenade attacks that have been threatened by Al Shabaab since Kenya began its 'incursion' into Somalia to flush the terrorists out.

A strange atmosphere pervades.  There was a real worry that the Safari Sevens that took place in Nyayo Stadium last weekend might be a target for attack but fortunately all went smoothly.  Somebody summed it up for me yesterday,

"Are you still shopping?" they asked.  I was in a large shopping centre (quieter than usual).

"Yes, of course." I said, trying to show some famously British bravado in the face of adversity. "why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, it's okay until it happens" he said, "...if you know what I mean."

****

To be honest, while the cancellation of fireworks display might have come as a huge disappointment to many children, it was an equally huge relief to plenty of adults, especially those responsible for the pyrotechnic displays.

1.  On the upside, cancelling fireworks meant that nobody got killed or maimed at the Karen Club fireworks display, which usually takes lack of health and safety measures to a new level - with small boys throwing firecrackers and lighting their own fireworks willy nilly; toddlers and teenagers alike all disappearing into the poorly lit wooded area, mud, chaos, parents drinking heavily and failing to keep an eye.

2. Our (better policed) school fireworks display was reduced  to a 'family fun day' from 1pm-4pm, in aid of charity (Kigulu school in Kibera) and despite fears that the whole thing would be a damp squib without the firework crescendo - it was in fact a great success.  The school does normally lay on a 'family fun for charity' organised by the parents association, from 4 until 7pm when the fireworks take place, but this year the whole thing was moved forward in the day so that it included lunch and we were all safely long gone before dark.

****

Every year I promise myself that I will join the school parent's association (especially since I now have 3 children at the same school) and every year I somehow manage to swerve it.  This time I failed to turn up to the first meeting because I didn't read the newsletter, so then managed never to enter the loop of organising anything.  I don't like meetings or commitment but have to admit that I do have a bit of a weakness for volunteering on the day.  You are generally supposed to just do an hour of volunteering but I'm a bad example.  I get very possessive over my 'pitch' and often find it hard to hand over, then walk away saying in loud, martyred tones; "do you know, I was stuck there for two and a half hours!" - but obviously it was only because I wanted to be..and just want everyone to know how marvelous I am.

My all time favourite is the lucky dip where I'll selflessly give hours of my time to collect money and watch little faces light up at each gift and tell the kids to put their rubbish in the bin.  There's always a rumour amongst the children that inside the lucky dip is at least one mobile phone (I think there was one once, in the past) - so it's always by far and away the most popular stand.

lemon tart (not mine!)

On the family fun day on Saturday, I arrived feeling ultra sheepish because not only had I omitted to 'sign up' on the PA volunteer sheet but I'd also forgotten to bring my much slaved over Jamie Oliver lemon tart for the PA coffee shop stand.  Frustrated and angry at myself, I stood around for a bit, sorely tempted to get back in the car and do the minimum of an hours round trip back home to get the tart.  My husband was gainfully employed running his rhino charge car rides (that's a whole other story) and a very efficient rota of teaching staff had been roped in to help.  My kids ran off and disappeared with their friends immediately.  I felt like a spare wheel.

My fortunes changed when I was distracted by noticing the Head of the PA negotiating with the men who had been hired to turn up with the giant inflatable hamster balls that children could get inside and roll around, also known as 'Zorbs'.  She was trying to hand over tickets and sort out a system but it looked like chaos, she was already mobbed by children who angling for the first go while the balls were being inflated. 

Zorb in motion

Seeing an opening, I swooped.

"Need any help?" I asked innocently.

The head of the PA was efficient;

"Um, why don't you go and stand over there and get all the children to follow you" she said, "then get them to queue up and group into bunches of five.  We want the balls to start over there so that they can roll down the hill."

I took up my position in full sun without a sunhat, but not before first trying (and failing) to steal a stake and ropes queuing system from another, less popular ride (that stallholder was most indignant).  Undaunted I strode off to my position like a pied piper with children following and arranged some rounders posts for effect.  After I'd got the children into sort of a rough queue that they kept falling out of in boredom, I stood awkwardly at the top of the hill wondering what to do.  The hamster balls were still being laboriously inflated - it was taking ages.  Undaunted I wrestled the ticketing system and float from the head of the PA's able teenage assistant and started selling advance tickets furiously.  The problem was that when I'd sold all the tickets and the first ball turned up, there was a scrum of children all claiming that they were first.  Using the numbering on the tickets was also hopeless becuase they all wanted to go with their friends.

"Have you got any kind of system going here?" One dad asked pointedly.

Why anyone would want to climb inside and inflatable ball in the midday sun, then roll down with four friends tumbling on top of them was beyond me, but boy - they kept coming.  It soon became clear that we were NOT going to be using the harnesses that were inside the balls.  I had to group the children roughly by age mates to prevent crushing, fortunately to some extent they did this themselves.  Some protective parents looked concerned.  One dad (but only one) pulled out his crying child from the ball and told me that he "didn't think it was really suitable for the younger ones".

loading zorb

Hey ho.  Meanwhile, I was having a ball - literally.  Yes, I had also forgotten to bring my hat so I was burning up, it was hot, no shade - my own children kept running up to me every five minutes asking for money for other rides and stands and I was getting a little confused between the PA money and my own - but at least I had a job!  I was manhandling children in and out of the balls (some quite heavy), getting them to take off their shoes - was given responsibility of holding the odd bag or pair of glasses as they rolled, trying to make sure the balls didn't crush the tree sapling that was in the way and all the while shouting at the top of my voice;

"Look out Below!" as the two children filled balls went hurtling down the hill ready to knock down innocent passers-by.  Then,
"Push harder, put your back into it!" when they had to roll it back up again.

I chatted to other kids in the queue while they patiently waited, sold more tickets, counselled smaller ones who had bought tickets but suddenly (and understandably) had second thoughts about getting in, put an emergency call into the chief organiser when I ran low on tickets or high on cash.  I was in heaven.

As usual, when a reliever turned up, I wouldn't go - when I did finally hand over, I kept popping back to see if she was okay, only to find that she had implemented a much better queueing and ticketing system than me..I guess I should have simply been grateful that nobody suffered any broken bones.

As I put my feet up in the evening and bit into some lemon tart, I had the warm and noticeably smug feeling wash over me of a good job well done.  Roll on next year...ha ha..

Reading books and visitor season

I'm ashamed to say that it's been ages since I've actually read a book.  Following the Eurozone crisis and the local news avidly, then reading lifestyle columns online is one thing  - but getting inspired and lost inside a book is something else - and much better for the soul I imagine.  Plus they say that you can't write without reading - so that's where I'm going wrong!! - I say to myself...

So, I went off to the library yesterday and got 'The Hare with Amber Eyes' by Edmund de Waal and am already totally stuck in.  I recognised the book cover from a magazine profile and grabbed it hungrily from the shelf.  From what I can make out so far, it's a family history woven around a collection of inherited Japanese netsuke which crosses continents; Europe and Japan, and generations.  Review here.  My only problem now is a husband who likes to snap the light of as soon as his head hits the pillow - so I'm having to find stolen moments to read during the day.

In the meantime, we are all entering the expat 'visitor season' that will reach its climax at Christmas but for many people may well trail on until February or March next year.  Having had a wet week or two here in Nairobi with accompanying frequent power cuts and dreadful traffic, the sun is now very definitely shining, the sky is blue and this week my parents-in-law arrive, followed closely by my own parents - both sets keen to escape the English winter gloaming for as long as possible.. They generally arrive pale faced, then do lots of sleeping and read copious numbers of books while here - and where normally I'd make a quick sandwich or instant noodles to be eaten by my computer at lunchtime when the kids are in school, it's now my duty to put my book to one side, step up the in-house catering stakes and get organised. 

Last night we realised that we'd got the date wrong of my parents-in-law arrival.  It's not the first time we've done this - my parents once had to call us from Dar es Salaam airport when they got here one sweltering February morning to say 'just wondering if you are on your way? Are you collecting us?  My husband dropped everything at work and there was a frightful scuffle at home as we rushed to get beds made and flowers put in the guest bedroom.  So we realised last night that the parents-in-law are getting here tomorrow morning, not Friday - and I've invited friends for supper the same evening...(something I'm rarely organised or energetic enough to do).  Not sure where we are all going to sit.  Oh well.  A friend suggested hiring a freelance cook - I'm sorely tempted.

I wonder if I can take my book to my daughter's rounders match this afternoon?

My husband was sent the links to these two old (circa 1990s) French & Saunders comedy skits on expat wives - horribly un-politically correct - but just had to share!  WARNING - EXPLICIT CONTENT, SOME VIEWERS MAY FIND OFFENSIVE.