Living dangerously in Kenya - or not as the case may be...

Last week was slightly fraught with a daughter who cracked her head open, my iphone died (it got wet on a boat) and then someone was nearly killed in our ‘temporary’ kitchen as building stones came crashing through the skylights. This week in Nairobi kicked off with an improvised ‘fertiliser’ bomb going off in the city centre and I’ve received messages from family in England asking if we are alright – but to be honest (and obviously all my sympathies goes to those who were injured – some badly) that incident, or security threats in general, have been the least of my worries. 


Keep those tent flaps closed!

Travelling in Kenya, more specifically camping – has always brought me out in hives. It’s the thought of all that shopping, cooking and planning I resent. Coupled with the fact that you are bound to be far from medical help (hospital or doctor) in case of emergency. Self-catering weekends are not too different - every time we pack the car for weekends like these, we seem to have enough provisions for all 5 of us to survive for weeks on the remotest desert island, even though we're just travelling an hour and a half down the road. You know that once you get there, a restful weekend away from home can be the perfect tonic for traffic filled, hectic city life.  I thought I loved adventure and seeing new places, but because I’m responsible for of all the shopping, packing and cooking I balk and we rarely go anywhere.

So – having given one Friday over entirely to shopping, packing and cooking (don’t forget that anyone else who is half a sane could actually delegate a lot of this work) – we headed out to a self catering house to meet friends. We left town late – there was a thunderstorm and traffic was hell. We arrived at the house in the dark – I was supposed to be doing supper for 10 (though, thank heavens – there is a cook waiting at the other end – so really it’s just a case of handing the food over) – within 5 minutes, low and behold, our middle daughter has cracked her head open. She appeared; dramatically bloodied, having been jumping on the bed through sheet delight at having arrived safely and seeing her friend.  However, it wasn't long before she got her leg caught up on the bedpost before careering head first into a cupboard door.

You know when you see an injury and the word ‘stitches’ just springs to mind straight away. It was a moment I’ve been dreading since having children. Ever since my older sister cracked her head open on a metal window frame when we were about 8 years old, and had to have her head shaved and stitches – I’ve always surreptitiously pushed dangerous looking open windows closed at children’s tea parties.

Now I’m making this sound bad. It actually wasn’t. My friend kept her head and dialled a neighbour of the rented house, whose number she had quickly found in the house ‘blurb’. As I dabbed blood off the floor with inadequate pieces of tissue, my husband stepped in to staunch the flow of blood and deal with the injury generally – which fortunately was right on the hairline.  We could rest assured that our daughter will not be too badly maimed for life. On calling the neighbour, we were told that there was a hotel close by which had an on-call doctor. We duly headed back out into the thunderstorm in search of treatment and ultimately, everything was okay – although, taking one look at the whitewashed hut with the corrugated iron roof, and then the frightening tray of paraphernalia required for stitching a wound – my husband and I said in unison, “does she really need stitching?”  So we ended up with just a dressing - (only to regret that decision when we took the dressing off later - but that's another story).  However, all's well that ends well - she's ended up with just a small scar and made a full recovery.

Just being at home is fairly dangerous these days too, with builders everywhere (the building stones falling through roof was fairly dramatic), however, I’m secretly relieved not to be accompanying my husband on the Rhino Charge this weekend.  Again, it’s the shopping, packing and cooking for 5 – then the prospect of being miles from anywhere in case of an accident.  But this is crazy because it’s yet one more opportunity to adventure across Kenya and once again, I'm passing it up for a couple of stir crazy days at home.

I do regret the fact that we are living in Africa and I have a strange aversion to travel. The problem is that camping or self-catering is really the only option for families, since staying in a lodge or hotel for more than a nano second is so cripplingly expensive. I've also never been good at spur of the moment decisions. Even when the odd travel assignment gets offered, I am reduced to a quivering wreck at the prospect of re-thinking childcare arrangements and asking friends for help to do school runs.  I think I’m getting old - the big 40 is looming at the end of this year!

African child welfare experts say the number of international adoptions of children from Africa has risen dramatically in recent years

"African child welfare experts say the number of international adoptions of children from Africa has risen dramatically in recent years"  BBC Africa.  twitter.com/BBCAfrica/statuses/207407629058834432

Just heard this on the radio today. 

I have to say, walking around either Yaya or Junction shopping centres in Nairobi for the past year or so has been an eye opener - you can actually see the reality of this adoption craze playing out in real time.  (Do we credit Madonna for this?)

It's a phenomenon that is so noticeable that I (and my friends) can't help commenting on it regularly.  I've actually seen bus loads of European couples arriving at these shopping centres, carrying African babies in papooses, eating in fast food restaurants, some arriving and leaving on foot, others just hanging about.

For every European couple dressed in comfortable sandals, pocket blazoned shorts in various hues of khaki, washed out t-shirts and dodgy caps (the sort of standard 'traveller' outfits that frankly look quite scruffy in what is a rather smart, professional and conservatively dressed Nairobi), sipping latte's or biting into burgers - there are invariably one or two babies in tow.

I am not sure whether there's a big children's home in the area, or perhaps Kilimani and Kileleshwa are just a good places to rent a short term apartment, because as I understand it, overseas couples who are adopting a baby from here, have to be resident in Kenya for six months before they are allowed to take the child out.

I'm not saying I'm pro or against Europeans or Americans adopting African babies - but I'm just saying - it's huge, it's happening.

Real Life Beckons....Going back to work

These intermittent posts are all related to our house build, however I am aware that life continues beyond the banging and the shifting walls of ours.

(*Okay, I can’t help it. Right now they are doing the roof. I am fully expecting the leg of a builder to appear through the roof above my head any minute now. The ceiling boards are shifting – I feel like I am on the set of Alien or some horror movie. A minute ago there was the most almighty crash – do I have an ambulance number handy?!).

Nonetheless, I do know that last weekend EU forces were strafing pirate strongholds along the Somali coast (that ratchets things up in our area a notch or two). That a grenade was thrown outside a Mombasa nightclub on Monday night, killing a security guard. That Greece has failed to form a coalition government and is now on the brink of being forced out of the Euro – and this uncertainty is causing ripples in financial markets all over Europe. I know that police are pressing charges against Rebecka Brooks accused of perverting the course of justice, hiding evidence of the NoW phone hacking case.  I know that Sarkozy is out and Francois Hollande is in – and that Hollande’s plane was struck by lightning when he headed off on his first day of office to meet with Angela Merkel (to discuss austerity). Meanwhile, I know that Kenyan MPs have just proposed a bill to give them absurdly big payouts at the end of their term of office (K Sh 3.7 million) – and Raila Odinga (PM) has denounced the move by MPs as unconstitutional. And that Kenya might have more oil than was once thought.

(I also know that Danni Minogue had an affair with Simon Cowell so has split with her dishy boyfriend (the silly fool) and Jessica Simpson finally had a baby after the longest pregnancy ever.)

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Women considering going back to work - scary

So anyway – on an entirely new subject – I wanted to write about Mums of a certain age (like me), facing the yawning prospect of going back to work.

For the past few years I’ve been gradually building up to getting back into the work market (ie by online re-training, working for free, networking, researching, trying to write a blooming book etc), after a horrendous absence from paid employment of, oooh, I’m ashamed to say, at least 12 years!

How spoiled I’ve been! But I’m not alone. I know that there are lots of (expat) wives and mothers who see that their kids are growing up fast and would now like to dip their toe back into the job market to earn some extra cash. This topic is currently a discussion ‘du jour’ at most get togethers – but how best to make it work? Having been out of the job market for so long, we tend to want it all on our own terms. (i.e. not full time, hours that suit school holidays etc etc)

I’ve nothing but the highest respect for women who have managed to sustain a full time career throughout their children’s childhoods. Heck, since life at home with small children has quietened down, I’m even in awe of the fact that my husband has been working full time without a break for the past 20 years! But in the case of mothers, I think that their achievement is incredible. You read about clever, multi-tasking people in magazines – running their own businesses, mothers of four children, juggling constantly, managing high levels of stress - now I’m meeting quite a few examples through working part-time and I’ll be honest, they are intimidating.

I’ve noticed that women in the work place who are also parents are; tough, focused and no nonsense – they get their job done with a minimum of fuss and definitely no dithering. At first I thought that going back to work would be impossible, however I’ve been lucky. I work freelance so can dictate my own hours and recently work has been flowing in. I can just about cobble together a smart-ish outfit for the odd office meeting – but last week, when the idea of a business trip was mooted I tried not to let my face show that I was falling apart inside – it wasn’t the idea of deploying the school runs that worried me but rather; what on earth would I wear?!?

When considering going back to work, one stumbling block in Kenya is the obligatory permit required to undertake any kind of work here. Permits are costly so it helps to know that you are capable of earning enough to justify the expense. Plunging into full time work seems terrifying but a couple of friends of mine have done it recently, and after a period of some adjustment – they seem to be surviving.

I am sure it is important for our mental health to work – whether on a voluntary basis or paid, from Open University studying to selling. Otherwise the inevitable mid-life crises beckon – for men it is facial hair, long hair and marathons – for women it is the lure of the triathlon/iron man competitions, golf, cosmetic surgery, adult braces (I’ll tell you about that one later!)

The house is taking shape!



The trees are still standing.  Note the wobbly/homemade ladder.

  

looking forward to having coffee on the balcony off our new bedroom





old kitchen downstairs, new one on the left seems huge and caverous

 The house/palazzo is taking shape, very exciting!  Enormous crashes and bangs going on around my ears as I type - but no death or injury yet?!  (We are all getting good at scaling up wobbly ladders that don't look to be able to stand our weight).

Home renovation work in Kenya - and the rain keeps on falling

I think that it is fair to say that we are currently living 'in extremis'.

Persistent Rain in Kenya - readers currently experiencing flooding in UK can sympathise!

As I sat working on my computer this morning, in the small room which is now doubling up as one daughter's garret style bedroom, while needing a wee fairly desperately after my second cup of coffee – I wondered where on earth I might go to the loo.

I had already headed out to a 7am exercise class, expressly for the purpose of having access to a hot shower afterwards and being able to wash my hair. The exercise wasn’t much fun, but it was worth it for the plentiful hot water.  As of today, the whole family will have to don raincoats and wellies in order to get a hot bath in our guest room, that is now no longer linked to the rest of the house.  It rains daily on or around 3pm - almost like clockwork.

Since getting back from school, our eldest daughter says it's okay - "it's like pretending we are in the olden days."

"I think we might be at the most difficult point of the build," my husband said down the phone from the comparative comfort of his office.  "You must make sure that they get that loo under the stairs working."
I stifled a response.

Our difficult loo situation at home was exacerbated by the fact that one downstairs bathroom was, at that moment, having its septic tank pipes cleared (blocked again through heavy use by the whole family, plus the usual tree root problem) and the one other loo option had no running water.  I'm also still rather dubious about the temporary corrugated iron manhole cover that has been placed over the re-routed waste pipe, right next to where the builders are working.

I crossed my legs and thought about whether to go shopping – just to use the shopping centre loo. Then I thought about the time a few weeks ago, when after a 7 hour drive back from our Easter weekend – my husband retreated to the ‘wrong’ loo – where the waste pipe at that moment was sticking out, exposed, into the newly laid foundations. The memory of that night time fall-out (or should I say clear up) doesn’t bear thinking about.

In the past few weeks we have had record rainfall (it was predicted to be low). The thunderstorms have been spectacular. Water has been pouring in through the open roof and in through all sorts of nooks and crannies, many that we had no previous idea about.

Critically, rain water has been running over the newly installed and upgraded electrical distribution board. My husband got a major electric shock on Sunday, while trying to flip a fuse causing smoke and sparks to appear. We are both learning more than we ever wanted to know about electrics (much of our house still has 1930s wiring with cotton insulation apparently) and plumbing – and building in general. Oh and we’ve run out of buckets. All buckets are employed in water collection. Buckets are a precious commodity in this house!

On the radio this morning, news played out that a 4 storey building in Westlands (central Nairobi) that was under construction, had collapsed. Fortunately no one was hurt. I wondered briefly if our house would withstand an earthquake, then I quickly switched channel.

The Asian foreman made an interesting discovery during the demolition phase of the build. 3 boxes of large American Weatherby magnum ammunition - brass bullets for hunting circa 1950/60, were hidden under our old bath - wrapped in a plastic bag and in pristine condition. On the boxes is the image of an elephant.  The Asian foreman was extremely worried that they belonged to us.

“Very dangerous”– he kept repeating.
"Not ours" I said repeatedly.  We were nodding and shaking our heads at each other furiously.


The Weatherby 'elephant' bullets found under the bath

My husband meanwhile was beyond excited. We wondered if they had been hidden under the bath at some point after Kenya’s ‘Emergency’.  My husband searched for similar ones on Ebay immediately.

“Wonder if we’ll find the rifle next?” he asked hopefully.

Sadly, we've found nothing more exciting than a bat skeleton in the old, disused chimney and a dead rat or two have appeared.  The dogs look miserable.  The rest of the family have lost their minds and out-voted me in the decision to buy a puppy (not due to move in until July fortunately!).

But I can’t complain. A palazzo is taking shape around us at top speed. Hidden in amongst the difficult cash flow decisions, constant power outages, site meetings, mud, wellies and my trying to meet deadlines and get some work done, amid all the madness – there are glimmers of what the house promises be like at the end.

And every time the 25 builders get soaked in yet another daily rain storm – I feel so sorry.

And when I see the watchman patrolling at night and stop him at around 9pm to chat and give him his bread and milk - and then say “sorry for the rain.”

When he replies, “it’s okay Madam. Let it rain – it’s very good for us.”

Then my heart bleeds.

So I absolutely can’t complain at all.


(p.s. I just emailed the bathroom fitting supplier thinking it was my husband I was writing to - and signed off with two kisses. (The bathroom fittings guy is about 23 and a bit shy)  Only realised my mistake when the reply came back - I think my wheels are definitely falling off!).