A guide to khat/miraa in Kenya (well, Nairobi mainly)

For some travellers, a Nairobi safari wouldn't be complete without at least one night of chewing khat (miraa). Kenya is very civilised in that it's entirely legal to get high on this African cocaine and it's a pastime that a great many Nairobians enjoy over the weekend. Dukas (shops) selling fresh miraa are spread throughout downtown Nairobi and there are quite a few in Westlands too. I used to wonder what the smell at Woodlands Place was. It smelled to me like South African 'biltong'. Like pickled meat. Then I got the smell when I was downtown, as they were unpacking. Then I knew.

 

Miraa has the same active ingredient as the drug cat (cathenone), but in much smaller quantities. A miraa session therefore usually involves a good few hours of ruminating. The active ingredient acts as an aphrodisiac but not exactly a male performance enhancer. But reports vary and I suspect if you can properly focus your mind it might be okay, sexually speaking. But usually you are so far away that sex seems unimportant.

The substance is grown in Meru and Maua mostly and is a cash crop that has made many a millionaire. It comes from an ugly gnarled tree. The crop is precious. They call it green gold.

There are four or so main varieties, and the potency of the miraa plant diminishes rapidly after it has been harvested. If you spend a little time in Nanyuki you may see three-ton pickups loaded with 10 tons of miraa racing through the town, on the way to Wilson Airport in Nairobi. The pick-ups sway under the load and nothing gets in their way. Daily flights from Wilson to Somalia and England put huge amounts of money into the economy of Meru and Maua but you'll never see much evidence of it.

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 ruminator sits still, with a slightly surprised look spread across his face.

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 complementary, 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 na mandazi) or a ‘wine and spirit’ merchant, selling lots of Kenya Cane or Kenya King. 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 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.

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 diminished in 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, 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).

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. 

Klub House, aka K1, on Museum Hill, is nice. Good music too. 

Some More Regular Stuff

There are very few Internet services here with any kind of ‘cap’. Internet here is ubiquitous. You go to a mall (and there are a few!) and you usually find there’s two or three unlimited wireless access points. If the wireless signal is hosted by the coffee shop, all you have to do is get their access key and away you go! (Thereafter, the access key gets remembered by your computer and you don’t need to re-enter it). And just like the popularity of the Internet, is the popularity of the Blackberry or similar, with lots of people sipping coffee and surfing the net from wherever they are sitting.

Because of the lack of an Internet cap, I’ve been listening to BBC 1Xtra – the BBC’s so-called ‘black’ music station - all day long. The live stream is 90% reliable and in the morning I listen to the morning drive show, which is hilarious (11.00am here is 8.00am there). And there’s not an ad within earshot! If you don’t want to listen live, you can listen to all of yesterday’s programming – whether it’s soul, R&B, dancehall, garage, UK hard core, or whatever else they offer.

One of BBC 1Xtra’s best is the Africa offering which covers Africa East, West and South and at least keeps me in touch with what the boys back home are doing. I just heard a Shaggy remix of one of the kwaito tracks I was hearing coming down the Rockey road from the taxis (that Cajun-type number featuring the accordion, if any of you know it). There’s some very cool stuff coming out of Tanzania tho’ – going by the name of Bongo Flava. There’s a Bongo Flava track that Shamim translated for me after I heard the mention of South Africa (Souze Ufreeeeka) in the lyric. It’s about a girl who goes to South Africa and gets rich but when she comes back to East Africa, she’s poor again (end of story!). As we know, our homeland has a special place in the hearts of Africans - as the place where you can make money (if you survive the xenophobia, of course). And I have already mentioned that Swahili rap-hop thing I heard the other day (which is being played more and more on the local airwaves).

I went clubbing downtown last night with Elizabeth, the promotions lady from Nakumatt. First I had to pick her up from the district of Karen (named not after Karen Blixen herself but evidently after her niece – or something like that – of Out of Africa fame - “I vunce hat a farm on de Serengeti”). This is the ‘suburb’ of Nairobi (although it’s quite far out to the West) where the giraffe roam free. Coming back to town, after collecting her, we got stopped at a roadblock. I had failed to bring my International Driver’s Permit and she wasn’t wearing her seat belt (while I was, would you believe!) The cop flashed me in the eyes and started talking to me in Swahili (probably seeing the corporate logo on the side of the car and thinking I was that much local). Elizabeth took over and it was at least ten minutes of haggling about the size of the bribe before we were out of there (there’s only ONE Africa, folks, and it’s the same). He was telling her that I was mZungu so I must have money. There was a further assumption, Elizabeth told me, that she was a prostitute – so even more so that there was money available.

Anyway, she handled it nicely, if just a little petulantly, and we got away with Kshs500 (and not the Kshs3000/R400 he was initially asking). Her attitude did worry me a bit and she railed me for the next ten minutes about how much she hates this bribery thing. I just had to assure her that it was the African way – one that I already knew quite well. The difference is that our guys go for high turnover rather than high margin. In the ten minutes this cop took to get R200 off me, our guys would have stopped 5 cars at R100 each. Ode to the differences in business practices!

Once we got to town, Elizabeth and I club-hopped, with Elizabeth very intent on showing me the local club scene. Well, we wouldn’t call them clubs as much as pubs. Not a dancefloor in sight – and the DJ hidden behind some glass-paneled booth in the corner. But there are lots of people in attendance (probably 300-400 on average) sitting and drinking – and undeniably having a very good time. A popular track comes on, and everyone is immediately on their feet and dancing next to the table, in between the chairs, bumpin’ an’ grindin’, and constantly being hustled out the way by waiters and ‘snack’ salesmen (selling samoosas, kebabs and hot dog sausages). But tolerance is very much in evidence. The kebabs go by the name of nyama choma (as opposed to nyama shisa) and are also cooked outside on the pavement, just like at home.

Excuse the pun, but downtown Nairobi (on Moi Avenue) positively cooks. Here I’m talking about hundreds, if not thousands, of guys and girls on the streets – they too going from club to club to find the hottest spot for the night. And very few of these clubs charge entrance. If they do, you get a drink poured into the bargain. Lots of prostitutes walking the streets too. The clubs are often called quite exotic names like Ibiza (pronounced with a “z” rather than the Greek “th” sound) or St.Tropez (pronounced, again, with a “z” on the end, rather than being silent). But, hey, this is Nairobi, not Monaco, and we can forgive the slightly lesser global literacy!

Eventually we settled down at Maagi’s which was playing a mix of my favourite hard-core ragga and dancehall tracks. I was a bit self-conscious at first, being the only mZungu there, but what the hell, I too got up and danced. No-one noticed a thing I’m pleased to say. At about 1.00am I dropped Elizabeth and her friend Mary at the matatu rank where they caught a No.46 home. I offered to take them home in the car but Mary assured me I would get highjacked where they were going (no further details supplied).

Talking of matatus, before coming here I read on the Internet that the government had cracked down on them, requiring all to conform to white, with luminous stripes. Not a chance, folks! Watching from the balcony of one club last night, I have never seen such a garish display of taxis and buses this side of Bombay (not that I’ve ever been to Mumbai, but you know what I mean). Purple, orange, green and red, some with a chequerboard of flashing disco lights, paraded the street below. Some are like the taxis we know from Jozi. Others are like big, decorated American school buses. And many of them carry names like Obama, or Fabulous, or even Dangerous, emblazoned on the sides and windscreens!

And for the first time, last night I made it back from downtown Nairobi to Westlands without a single wrong turn! I wasn’t so lucky yesterday though (ironically, in the day time). Coming back from dropping Shamim, I again got horribly lost – this time in the lush green Embassy suburbs – and must have driven something like 60kms trying to find my way out. I knew I wasn’t far from home because Westlands, like the areas I was driving in, rests well above the city. But with the trees and forests surrounding me, and the occasional office block, I sure as hell wasn’t able to see where I was supposed to be. Eventually I found the Uhuru Highway and saw the new Safaricom (MTN) building, realizing I was now about 10Kms north of where I was supposed to be. But the highway got me home safely! But there was the usual truf eek jum in Westlands and it took me twenty minutes or so to cover the 200m from the highway to the apartments where I stay,

It’s getting quite hazardous walking down to the mall these days. The street urchins now recognize me and as soon as I head out, I’ve got two-or-three six-or-seven year olds following me, all saying “Meestah, meestah, a few shillings meestah”. I don’t mind at all but for the fact that I seldom have coins on me: They’re worth so little I prefer not to carry them. I’ll have to make a special place in my pocket for coins (spaah kush) when I walk down to Westgate. And walking is way better because, for instance, right now there’s a truf eek jum all the way from here to Nairobi central (about 10 kms). And, as I’ve said a jum is a jum like we never see in Mzansi. The radio stations cover the traffic situation quite closely and as soon as there’s a jum in one area, everyone diverts to create another jum somewhere else!

And while we’re talking about jums, after a client meeting I attended with one my of my team on Thursday, we stopped for some good Kenyan coffee at an Italian Ristorante in town, waiting to be collected by our driver. We were talking about the concept of work, and jobs, in general. Suddenly, in the middle of the conversation, she seemingly changed the subject and asked me if I’d ever been sucked! I had to refrain from answering, thinking she might be about to make some kind of indecent proposal. I just wasn’t sure what to say! Eventually, she said: “at least if you work for government you’ll never get sucked”. OK, I get it; you mean “fired”… “sacked”… “dismissed”….! I had to tell her that I had only been sucked once. More on the beautiful Kenyan accent some other time!

And as for Kenyan coffee, it took me a few days to work out why the hell I couldn’t sleep at night – even when dead tired. It was Mueni who asked, quite simply, how much coffee I drink. After telling her I’ve cut down to four or five cups, day or night, she simply laughed, saying “and you want to know why you can’t sleep?!” Quite simply, Kenyan coffee is so kick-ass strong even I can’t have more than one small teaspoon per cup. And you can’t get ANY coffee here that is mixed with chicory (like Ricoffy). So now it’s no more coffee for me after 6pm! Bring on the Chai Tea rather!

Coffee used to be the leading export crop here but it has been overtaken by horticulture at number one (remember me telling you about the flowers from Lake Naivasha), tea at number two, with coffee in third place. The Ugandans have made big inroads to the international coffee market and have stolen quite a bit of Kenya’s trade in that area.

From coffee, to two-wheeled transportation….

There are a lot of locals who ride bicycles around. And every bicycle has a little ‘platform’ welded on the back so that the rider can (precariously) transport his nearest and dearest to wherever they are going. And it’s not unusual to see a whole household being transported on a bicycle (including the kitchen sink!). Sometimes you get a major horticultural display coming towards you – looking like a camouflaged army unit on exercises - with the rider and consort both totally obscured by bouncing leaves and branches.

I hear, but haven’t seen, that the Chinese have sponsored a whole wing at Nairobi’s biggest hospital – the Aga Khan Hospital - for the benefit of those unlucky souls who have bought a Chinese motorbike and have had the lack of sense to take it on the roads here during the day (and, of course, having a license doesn’t seem to be much of a requirement here). There is evidently also something of a large informal steel sculpture outside the new wing – comprising the wrecked bikes themselves! The Westgate Nakumatt has quite a bit of floor space devoted to Chinese motor cycles and you can get a moped-style one for Kshs15 000 – that’s about R2000! Must say that I am tempted, despite my own little mishap in June (and the shoulder is STILL hurting me at times). Riding a bike here would be the ultimate rush. But, actually, the jums are so bad I’d probably be fine most times (apart from the drivers who take to the dusty sidewalks at a moment’s notice). And, of course, the jums are the motivation behind finding an alternative means of daytime transport.

Just briefly some more about driving here: traffic lights mean absolutely nothing! I am being completely serious about this. Only if there is a traffic cop at a roundabout (traffic circle) do the drivers pay the remotest heed to the traffic light. And occasionally, in town, drivers seem to pay some attention. I haven’t yet got the discreet, informal code as to which ones you obey and which you disregard completely but I suspect it has something to do with the perceived danger inherent in your negligence, or otherwise. You just GO, GO, GO and hope like hell that the oncoming traffic has seen you (which invariably, and Thank God, it usually has).

Friday night was Rachel’s party, and I’m proud to say I found my way over there (almost entirely by accident but) without a single wrong turn! And, yes, as I suspected, it was almost entirely attended by expatriates, with a small smattering of black faces in the 30-strong group. (I mean, the white mentality here is such that the folk call their townhouse ‘complexes’ compounds – like they’re there to keep the restless natives out. Anyway.) And here I learnt that Chantal is actually Charlene, and like the other Charlene we know, this one is also from South Africa – as were many of the guests. Charlene, the wispy blonde … bimbo. But, I’ll say that Rachel can cook. What a spread – all created in her own kitchen with the help of the staff. Exotic Moroccan fare (her dad is Moroccan), with lots of South African wines. I did meet two people who were great. The one – Shakila (“if there was an ‘r’ in it I would be a singer”) – and the other, Dion Gaigher from Tshwane/Pretoria.

Shakila works for Barclays in Kenya now, but has worked – would you believe - with the bass player from my Geezer band (the one I had with Dax) who has been working for an agency in Uganda for some time. A very perceptive woman she is, immediately asking if Nick didn’t perhaps have a slight obsessive-compulsive disorder! Boy, was she on the money with that one! I just had to correct the word slight. Somehow, she knocked over his alphabetized CD collection and got into a lot of trouble.

And Dion is hilarious. A self-confessed (Catholic!) boereseun, from “Woester”, he is involved with training Kenyans to install mobile telephone base-stations. He loves the country as much as I am learning to, and spends much of his time in far-flung areas. Nyeri is the latest area to get cellular and you must just see the ad for Orange Telecom in the paper… It features a full-page colour photograph of a snow-capped Mount Kenya (the view from Nyeri), and simply says “Hello, Nyeri” with the corporate logo at the bottom. Gawd, what a sight it is. I should be able to get to see Nyeri soon enough.

Note that cellular telephony is HUGE in this part of the world. My major client, Zain Telecoms, has operations in Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Mauritius, Malawi, Zambia, Niger, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Gabon and a few other places besides. And incidentally, my company does work in all those places, with moi responsible for ‘Anglophone’ – mainly East – Africa, and another team in charge of ‘Francophone’ – mainly West - Africa. My only problem with Zain is their choice a corporate colour – a garish cherise/purple – that is emblazoned on every shack that sells pre-paid airtime (that’s roughly every third shack), from here to Somalia. It stands out horribly and is so un-African. But I believe Zain are headquartered in the Middle East, so that might explain some of it!

And, yes, I managed to escape the party, intact, at 1.00am.

(I also met Loren Bosch (and his very pregnant wife), who is setting up iBurst Africa, and who tells me that iBurst back home is in quite big shit, what with network overload and huge billing problems. So don’t move just yet, guys!)

I’m coming to the end of this little missive, battling as I am to concentrate, what with the generator throbbing a few meters away from me. Once again we are victim to the lack of maintenance by Kenya Power. The good news is that my unhealthy provisions have come to an end, and when my salary cheque clears on Monday or Tuesday I’m gonna buy me a whole lot of fruit! This, in honour of the ever-expanding waistline!

Zapiro was just on Al Jazeera, with footage from the 702 interview where he confronted our President-to-Be (or not-to-be?) on the impending court case regarding the Rape of Freedoms. The ANC’s assault on press freedom is very similar to what is happening here right now too. But, thankfully, there seems to be some backing down by President Kibaki – encouraged, I hear, by the words of a far more reasonable Prime Minister Odinga. And it’s interesting to note that the Prime Minister gets referred to in the press often by his first name – Raila – as opposed to the President, who is simply Kibaki. Something like Madiba versus Mbeki….

Till next time.

Amani na mapenzi folks.

B