Chewing, travelling and muttering

Mirraa, miraa on the floor

The effects are two …

The most common response to a cheek full of well-chewed miraa, or khat, is absolute silence. The chewer gets kinda introspective and seems incapable of saying much – or anything at all - for a few hours at least. The imbiber sits still, with a slightly surprised look spread across his face – a look that South Africans would likely call that of "thinking too much".

The second response (thankfully, less common) is that the chewer becomes an instant and irrepressible 'story-teller' and waxes non-stop, for hours on end, about his life, its general condition and then, perhaps inevitably, about the inevitability of Kenyan politics.

The two responses are, of course, highly complimentary, with one large group sitting hakuna story, listening (feigning a deaf-mute condition), while one or two of their number rambles on in solo mode, stopping only to pop another ground-nut-accompaniment, or piece of sweet Big-G chewing gum into his mouth. These, to alleviate the khat’s bitter flavour.

In downtown Nairobi there is no shortage of miraa sellers (and certainly no shortage of consumers). Every few doors, the full length and breadth of the downtown streets, there is a ‘duka la miraa’ (miraa shop) that usually moonlights also as a general ‘kiosk’ (selling sodas, sigara, maji and mandazi) or a ‘wine and spirit’ merchant, selling lots of Kenya Cane or Kenya King (hard-core white spirits, alternatively called cane and gin, but probably closer to a neutral ‘witblitz’ or 'moonshine' than anything else).

Particularly on a Friday afternoon, one will see literally hundreds of one-kilo packets of miraa, fresh from Meru, and wrapped neatly in fresh banana leaves, being unloaded from any number of trailers or one-ton pick-ups. And the number of buyers well-exceeds the number of packs being unfurled. Chewing miraa is more than a national pastime among the workers of Kenya – it amounts to an obsession (or perhaps a national addiction!).

Competition is stiff between the various miraa shops and their daily custom is dependent, obviously, on the quality of product being sold. Generally the product sells fast, and only here and there you will see an unhappy customer complaining about the low grade of the narcotic being sold, or perhaps moaning that the kilo seems to have mysteriously lost some of its volume! For the rest, it’s a matter of buying one’s stash and then finding a decent place to chew. For many, chewing will start on a Friday afternoon and might end a day-and-a-half later, on Sunday morning. Abstinence from Sunday morning onwards is somewhat forced - or else the chewer is unlikely to get any sleep before work starts on Monday. Miraa is often referred to as ‘African Cocaine’ and it shares many of the properties of its Andean counterpart.

While there are lots of miraa ‘dukas’ (shops), there are far fewer 'chewing taverns', if I may call them that. I mention this because, while miraa chewing is not particularly unacceptable as a social pastime (notably among the working classes), it is also not condoned as an activity that can be indulged anywhere or everywhere. Interestingly, in Tanzania, miraa is a strongly prohibited substance, while the smoking of marijuana tends to be tolerated. In Kenya, on the other hand, miraa is completely legal and marijuana smoking tends to be indulged in for fear of death (well, almost). Anyway, if you buy miraa, you cannot simply stop at any spot to indulge your narcotic fancy. Rather, you have to find a pub or club that allows such, or you have to buy from a shop where there is also place to chew.

Not always though …

One particularly popular downtown miraa seller is on Duruma Road, in the area called "Coast Bus" - the terminus for the luxury buses that ply the route to and from Mombasa and Malindi. Recently, the miraa sold at this duka has tended to be 'halele', comprising long stalks of soft, almost-leafless miraa that is chewed right up to the short, hard piece at halele's-end. Unlike the miraa seller over the road, which sports a chewing ‘space’ - not much more than a simple, rough-hewn corridor - this particular duka la miraa is merely a one-meter-wide sidewalk shop-front.

Having a very popular 'brand', the plentiful patrons have, of late, been lining the sidewalk, sitting on stairs and shop window ledges, chewing pretty much everywhere on the street. This style of chewing would not be tolerated in uptown areas but the patrons can get away with it here. The result is that the sidewalk has, of late, become a carpet of the short end-pieces.

A new friend of mine – an ex-‘Coastarian’ Swahili, devout Muslim and permanent downtown hotel resident - Hakim, tells me the following story:

Coming back from prayers last Friday night at the Jamia Mosque - a rather beautiful building at the centre of Nairobi - he wanted to cross the street to avoid the throng of miraa junkies… Looking right (or was it left?) before stepping off the sidewalk, he failed to notice the thick pile of stalks that were about to be felt (briefly) under his feet. These short, hard sticks of miraa can act somewhat like little ball-bearings …

The next moment, Hakim had his right foot in the street while his left was still on the sidewalk, three steps up (downtown sidewalks vary in their height off street level).

Uncomfortable as his stretched tendons now were, he regained his composure (despite his embarrassment and rage) and stormed to the little wire-fronted window where the miraa was being sold. Here he found a sheepish Somali sitting with a puffy cheekful, a shiny face, and a handful of Hundred Shilling notes in his hand.

Hakim vented his justifiable anger and told the shiny Somali fella that the habits of his halele patrons were particularly uncool and, if the stalk-throwing were to persist, Hakim was going to call the local constabulary to put an end to it all. The Somali was evidently suitably contrite and promised to put a stop to the offensive behaviour of his patrons, by whatever means he could.

The last time I passed this duka, on my way uptown the other night, I saw that the patrons have each been issued with a little cardboard box and it’s now these cartons that litter the sidewalk, rather than the stalks of miraa. Hakim tells me that the patrons have also been issued with strict instructions to use the boxes and there should be “no more miraa on the floor".

Being lighter, and not so easy to throw into the boxes, it is now only the red and yellow Big-G wrappers that litter the sidewalk on a Friday night!

And they are many.


Una enda wapi? (you are going to where?)

Downtown Nairobi is the ‘original’ Nairobi, built between the turn of the last century and the end of the Deco era. The buildings that line the river (that same river that once had Nairobi named ‘place of clear waters’) feature an amazing array of architectural styles, from Arabic, through Hindu, to Colonial and classic Deco, in a hodge-podge of aan-mekaar structures. But it’s the small ‘kiosks’ and variety of dukas that catch ones attention initially and you have to look just a little skyward to get a glimpse of what the former glory of a bygone era might have been. Quite stunning, actually.

But the best part of Bus Station (as it is sometimes called) comprises those features for which it gains its informal name:

The intersection between Accra Road and Duruma Road is known as ‘Coast Bus’ and is the terminus for coaches going (mainly) to Mombasa. Luxury buses, in various states of repair, line the streets. Some of the transport services have buses that leave every hour, on the hour, ten hours a day. Many of the buses are at least partly filled by Muslims, at various levels of fundamentalism, making their pilgrimage back to Mombasa. Some of the pilgrims are dressed entirely in the black abaya (often replete with burka) while others are dressed in long floral dresses, with only the scarf betraying their religious affiliation. Lately - now approaching the European summer - one is seeing more and more backpack-bearing mZungu couples, notable for the slightly dazed – or is it amazed – looks on their faces. (Last week there was a particularly successful music festival at the coast – the first of its kind in Mombasa – which accounted for at least some of the waZungu(pl.)).

The buses are filled quickly by ‘touts’ who are intent on recruiting anyone who happens to be traversing the streets. As you pass by – and particularly if you’re white - you are likely to be asked a very simple question, in a slightly plaintive tone: “Mombasa?”

I got used to supplying a simple reply (in Swahili, to avoid any further harassment):

“Si leo, asante” (not today, thanks),

to which the reply is often:

“Sawa, kesho” (OK, tomorrow).

(Caucasian advisory: In uptown Nairobi, if you’re white, you have to avoid looking regular taxi-cab drivers in the eye or else you’ll spend your day saying “no thanks” to the incessant plea of “Taxi…?”. The Toyota Corollas and Coronas stand everywhere with their drivers predating on your wandering gaze. And, by the way, Nairobi probably has as many Toyotas as Tokyo. In all seriousness, I would hazard a guess that four out of every five vehicles in Nairobi is a Toyota and, incidentally, they are a LOT better made than the ones I have encountered back home).

Just down the road from 'Coast Bus' is the area devoted to journeys to-and-from ‘Kamba-land’, somewhere between the coast and the capitol. And just down the road from this, again, is an area given to buses that ply the route past the Kenyan mountains, via Eldoret, to the lake-side Luo haven of Kisumu, and then on to Kampala.

The energy in this area – night and day – is quite astounding and if ever there’s a hint that the area is ‘dangerous’ to walk at night, this is quickly negated by the fact that there’s so much action on the streets that a mugging will generally be hard to come by. The range and speed of the frenetic to-ing-and-fro-ing gives one the feeling of a perpetual African market. During the day, the only real danger you face is the possibility of being nudged by a matatu. But even that is very rare ... and certainly not a mortal threat.

The restaurants, diners and lay eating houses that line the sidewalks of Coast Bus (mainly) are all strictly halaal and serve mild yellow curries in the Malaysian style. Biryanis and other mild curries are served from impeccably clean kitchens, with plates piled high with pilau or pishoti (basmati) rice and topped with pieces of chicken or beef (perhaps with a chapatti on the side). The prices are very reasonable (being ‘downtown’ Nairobi as opposed to ‘tourist’ Nairobi) and a substantial plate of food will cost you between 150 and 250 Shillings (R17 – R30) - which is very cheap by Nairobi standards.

In these restaurants, before you start eating, you are brought a plastic basin over which you will wash and a waiter will pour water steadily over your hands as you soap and rinse. Taarab music (the music of ‘Coast’ that doesn’t seem to feature anything but an endless verse), and more fundamentally Muslim sounds, come at you gently through the sound system. The place is full of Muslims in a variety of styles. And at 1pm, many of them will be seen rising from their tables to join the throng of worshippers in the makeshift mosque out back,

But there are also Christians and members of the general Kenya populace in hungry attendance, all wanting a full meal for half the price of what they’re used to paying uptown. “Malindi Dishes”, just off River Road, is particularly good, by the way.

Accra Road, running down from the Kenya National Archive to the river, is lined with matatus that do regular long-haul shuttle services. Fares range from Ksh140 (R160) to Ksh280 (R320) for most trips ‘up-country’. These matatus carry both overnight visitors and day trippers into town on a very regular basis. And there are plenty of commuters who travel something like 160km, or more, a day, just to get to their place of work! The more expensive transportation comprises matatus that have been customized to take less than the allotted 14 passengers. They might carry 7 or 10 passengers, with slightly wider seats in fewer rows. These vehicles usually feature the most hideous heavy, over-adorned Arabic-style curtains, perhaps reminiscent of an old tea-room cinema that didn’t change its décor since the 1940’s.

In this part of Nairobi, just about everyone seems to be going somewhere in a hurry, except perhaps the policemen, with their AK47’s, who always seem to be going nowhere slowly. What is really amazing is the mix of people and cultures that one sees down this end of town. Nairobi Muslims, wearing pillar-box hats vie for sidewalk space with women in the latest chic hairstyle, who vie with somewhat belligerent trailer-pushers in broken sneakers and torn jeans, who vie again with abaya-clad women from Coast.

Recently, coming back from visiting Hakim, I was heading uptown again when I was faced with a sight that came straight out of a re-run of Laurence of Arabia:

There were six guys in all. They were heavily laden with traditional-looking backpack-type things and had equipment of various descriptions hanging from every pouch, pocket and Velcro-clasped loop in sight. The two at the back were carrying between them what seemed to be tent poles, narrowly avoiding passing pedestrians - but causing mayhem among the Nairobians that always seem blithely to be crossing ones path.

The truly striking feature of the troupe was the heavy turbans they were all wearing. In a range of beautiful pastel colours, the turbans extended almost beyond the width of their shoulders (almost). A handsome bunch of guys, their facial features and tone of skin showing they were clearly from up-North somewhere. Were they looking for a bus to the Ugandan border, from where they might catch another bus to the Sudan, Niger or Mali? Or perhaps they were going somewhere towards the centre of the Sahara?

I could only guess from their appearance they were Tuareg nomads of some sort, looking for some friendly place to pitch a tent, to cook a meal or perhaps to smoke a shisha (a traditional pipe for smoking tobacco and/or hashish)!

It was a truly wonderful sight to see on a crowded, downtown Nairobi street. And no-one seemed really to notice them at all. They just walked-on-by, with the occasional Nairobian stopping just short of decapitation as he tried a forty-five-degree foray between the two at the back. (In Nairobi you walk as you drive – with a particular eye out for the random, unpredictable movement of the one in front).

But such is the cross-cultural melting pot of Nairobi that the Tuaregs attracted no particular attention! Everyone was just going about their daily business with not much of a thought for the nomads among them.


An extended ninety minutes

I was traveling out of Nairobi along Ngong Road recently when I witnessed a football match in progress, on a particularly lush green field. The standing rules of football had been stretched somewhat and there were easily twenty players, of both genders (as seems to be something of a norm in Kenya), on each side. The field was full, kabisa, with yellow and green jerseys. The game was lively, with a lot of screaming and shouting going on.

I was going to a meeting a few kilometers up from the field, in an area called “Racecourse” (not surprisingly, because that is where Nairobi’s equestrian racecourse is found). My meeting didn’t last very long and quite soon I was on my way back down Ngong Road - back towards town. I thought the football match quite a sight and as I passed, I looked again towards the field where it was being played.

The game had mysteriously stopped … the sidelines were peppered with players, sitting in various groups, talking to each other. Here and there I could see some players sitting on their own, heads bowed in solitary silence. The joviality of the previous scene of the soccer was clearly absent. From the little I could see the mood was definitely disconsolate.

Why the sudden halt? Why the sullen looks of misery on the faces I could see?

I scoured the landscape for clues as to possible causes …

And then I saw ‘it’.

At the far end of the field, some distance away, I made out the red clothed figure of a Maasai herdsman leaning on his staff. All around him were the brown and black shapes of perhaps twenty cows that seemed intent at reducing the lush, long grass to little more than stubble.

For the herder, the situation was one of relaxed ease. He wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry and neither were his languid ruminants. He was chilled in the extreme, leaning his chin on his staff and looking on. For the now-semi-retired football players the mood was not quite the same. Relative to the herder there was an almost palpable being severely pissed off.

But in Ngong it’s the “Maasai Rules” that govern most things, not just the conduct of football. And if it be that the cows are hungry for lush green grass and they find your pitch, you have simply no choice but to suspend play until the cows are done with their temporary role as groundsmen.

In Nairobi, goats are seen to wander around almost any place in their slightly skittish mode. But cows – they’re another thing completely.

I was just passing by, so I didn’t see, but I would venture a guess that it may have been quite some time before play in this particular game got to resume.


End piece

It’s the range of people, doing different things, and the cross of cultures from all over East Africa, that gives Nairobi a very particular flavour. From the Maasai couple I saw the other day, fully adorned from head to toe in beadwork, headdresses, necklaces, and earrings - set against red-and-purple swathes of Maasai blanketry (with their child dressed in jeans and t-shirt) - to the Tuareg nomads I have described above, Nairobi is very definitely the cultural melting pot of East Africa.

People are passing through Nairobi at an amazing rate, with amazing frequency; some just staying long enough to walk from the Kampala bus terminus to a ‘Coast Bus’; others perhaps staying long enough to try and find their fortune in this notably ‘hard’ and unforgiving city. The refugees; they are many, and growing. Those from the Sudan and Somalia seem to be finding their place here, while others might be struggling to do the same.

People pass through and people stay; each with his or her particular ‘mission’, undisclosed to the next person. You just have to sit in a ‘local’, downtown restaurant (one with street frontage) for a half hour to witness the sheer range and magnitude of visitation to this exciting city … It is ‘cosmopolitan’, in an African sense, beyond anything you will see elsewhere. And, for me at least, it’s an ongoing case of “watch. And learn”.

As ALWAYS, brothers and sisters, peace and love to you all.

Amani na mapenzi,

B-)