Sheng Kali

I first discovered the theory of ‘semiotics’ during my post-graduate studies. The discovery was a great boon to my academic career. It let me get away with murder!

Let me explain:

‘Semiotics’ says that all words have two aspects: The first is that they have no precise meaning of their own;  a word is always a ‘metaphor‘. The second is that the ’metaphors’ vary (with place and time).

So, simply, words have no ‘meaning’ of their own. Only the ‘reader’ can create meaning from a word. For example, Chinese means nothing until you learn Chinese. Yes?  The ‘meaning’ of a word therefore exists in the mind of ‘the reader’ not in ‘the word’. 

And, obviously, readers vary.  Therefore, … meanings vary.

My strategic use of these two concepts allowed me to interpret essay topics in a variety of ways and, as long as I skirted the real issues with a bit of semiotic claptrap, there was not much any lecturer could say about it. As I said, I got away with murder. However, I also earned a bad note in my academic record for my troubles. But that’s another story …

Putting this sad academic history aside for a moment, let me regale you with a lovely example of the semiotic thesis in action. It’s an example from Nairobi Sheng – the slang, street Kiswahili of this city - and it (mainly) concerns the term “jua kali”.

The term literally means “hot sun” and can be used as an exclamation of outside temperatures in Nairobi:

“Jua kaaaaaaali!” [as in, “Sheesh, the sun is hot today”].

In this case, the truth of your comment might be affirmed by:

“Saaaaaaaaana!” [very!]

[Accompanied by a little laugh.]

Now the metaphor starts to shift:  Because the local metal foundries and informal furniture factories are usually situated in roadside sheds, and the work is largely done in the hot sun, employment in the informal sector has become known as “jua kali”. If you work in the ‘informal sector’ anywhere, you describe your work as “jua kali” … even if you are forging US Dollars in a dark basement.  Isn’t that cool?

Now, because of the range of occupations associated with the ‘informal sector’, the term has gained overtones of being ‘home-made’ and perhaps a bit suspect. In this sense, one would differentiate the work of someone considered a ‘fundi’ (Kiswahili for ‘expert’) from the work of ‘jua kali’ (in this sense, ‘an amateur’).

[Accompanied by a slight shrug, as in: “Well, you choose who you want to do the job”.]

Ruth’s brother, Steven, showed me his two-year-old USB Flash Drive one day. It was wrapped so severely in insulation tape that it had started to become round. His comment, with the usual dry wit, was that his repairs over the years have been a bit ‘jua kali’.

Over the last few months, Kenya’s hard-core ‘street rap’, called Genge, has been dominated by an artist calling himself  ‘Jua Kali’. His meaning of the term is most likely ‘home-made’, more akin to ‘home-grown’ talent.  Just another addition to the lexicon of the term.

The term ‘kali’, too, has a few meanings in local use. In Sheng, it can mean ‘hot’ as in ‘overt sexuality’. It can mean ‘hot’ as in cha’ngaa (moonshine). It can mean ‘hot’ as in ‘hot tempered’ (as in Somalis).  These uses are all common.  Hard drugs (and strong medicine) are both ’dawa kali’.  But, my sources tell me, if you’re prone to chemical abuse you are likely to earn the moniker of being kidogo “chemi-kali”!  I love it.

And, as always in Kiswahili, it is less about the word itself than how you say it:

“Kaaaaaaaaali ………. !!!

………………..

…………..

…….

“ ………………….Saaaaaaaaaaana!!!”

… is used like the use of “Mambo Mbaya” and the rejoinder, "Sana”, that I rejoiced some time ago (see prior blog). It’s a mutual affirmation of how totally ‘wicked’ the situation is.

Ever beautiful, ever dynamic, the people play with their shared language and make it new. On the streets of Nairobi Kiswahili mutates into a joyous, shared communication, across tribe and ethnicity. The Swahili language takes on a new, urban flava. The flava is Sheng. And when your use of Sheng has ‘an edge’, it’s “Sheng kaaaaali!”.

The language is hip and happening.  From what I know (which is very little), it is a patois that is evolving very fast. Hip mums, trying to stay ‘with it’,  use the terms all messed up when talking to their teenage daughters.

They land up using adjectives where nouns should be!

[accompanied by a slightly embarrassed teenage giggle]

Amani na upendo

B-)

In-DFID-ent to Childrens' Education

Today (Tuesday 15^th December), the UK’s international development fund, DFID, announced it has suspended further support for education in Kenya. It is withholding quite a few billion shillings until the Kenya government can account for the few billion that has so far disappeared. This while kids all over Kenya are trying to get an education without textbooks.

This is what I meant a while ago about Kenya’s government stealing from the people – and this time it’s their children! I seriously suspect this is the first of many such changes in the future funding of Kenyan politicians and government officials. Changes are coming but it's the people that are going to suffer, not the politicians!

And President Kibaki today got on a plane to Copenhagen. He’s going to lecture the international community about climate change, no doubt in order to ask for money again. Just like Prof. Saitoti and the urgent need for police reform (see below).

Asked whether DFID should reconsider its position, a whopping 69% of Kenyans who texted their response to KTN News said no, DFID was right in their withholding of funds!

One viewer commented:

“Asking the Kenya Government to administer funds for education is like asking a hyena to look after your sheep”

The Kenya people know exactly what’s going on. They have seen it for years and years. The question is WHAT ARE THEY GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?

Sheesh. I just don't know how Kenyan officials (of any description) can even show their faces in public ....

B-)

Boda boda na bara bara

Like Kampala and Kigali, Nairobi is seeing the emergence of the ‘boda-boda’ – the motorcycle taxi. Found mainly along the really intolerable stretches of Nairobi roads, they are almost all of Chinese origin (as opposed to the Indian bikes in Kampala).

It makes sense to use a motorbike to get through the interminable traffic in Nairobi. But the boda-boda is certainly not without its risks. Matatus (minibus taxis), in particular, pose a grave risk to the cycles and, so far, I have only seen motorbike accidents involving matatus. 

The matatus seem prone to turn in front of the boda-bodas (or bump them off the road from behind), throwing the rider off and sending the bike spinning in another direction. Mercifully, so far, the riders I have seen have all been back on their feet (albeit limping) after the brief ordeal.  

But there was one sad, and avoidable, fatality reported on radio the other day. It involved a young woman. She was recently from the salon and had refused to wear a helmet because it threatened her hairstyle.

She had died after a boda-boda skirmish with an unnamed (and guilty) vehicle, si jui gani (of unknown type). 

The boda-boda driver was OK and was interviewed briefly:

“I am sorry for the madame. But she didn’t want to wear the helmet. Boda-boda na bara-bara (motorcycle taxis and the road) … Hatari sana (very dangerous!) Boda-boda users have to wear boda-boda hairstyles. And wear the helmet  ... ” he said.

Thankfully, most riders here have sense enough to wear a helmet, even though it is generally not an enforced legal requirement.

But from my limited witnessing of these events, I would guess that at least the owners of the Chinese motorcycles are less likely to crash than Yamaha, Honda and Suzuki riders.  Kwani (because why)?  Simple really:  It’s a statistical fact that when you push your motorcycle on the sidewalk a lot of the time, you are less likely to crash on the road! The Chinese bikes are notoriously unreliable.

Interestingly, I don’t recall seeing anyone pushing their cycles, in Kampala or Kigali ... I don’t recall seeing any accidents either. Maybe it has something to do with the Nairobi matatu’s style of driving more than anything else. They drive well, but 'reckless' ain't the word. It's the unkept state of the roads (due to the 'amazing disappearing road fund'), of course, that causes otherwise decent people to go just a little crazy on the blacktop.

Better roads = better behavior on the roads. Surely?

I hope so. Nairobi roads are getting better, eventually!

Amani na upendo.

B-)

Dead Evidence

In February this year, the UN’s Special Rapporteur, Philip Alston was in Kenya to investigate, and report on, the spectre of so-called ‘extrajudicial killings’ in the country (see prior blog). It seems the UN had become quite concerned about what it was hearing about lethal fire being leveled (more-or-less at will) at members of the Kenyan public: You see, an extrajudicial killing occurs when someone dies at the hands of the security forces without recourse to due process in the law. No charges are laid. No evidence is led. The person is simply shot down and purposefully killed.

"Killings by the police in Kenya are systematic, widespread and carefully planned”, Alston said. “They are committed at will and with utter impunity.”

The Kenya government's reaction was simply typical:

"The government finds it inconceivable that someone who has been in the country for less than ten days can purport to have conducted comprehensive and accurate research on such a serious matter".

I mean, what did Alston actually need to research? It's all pretty much in the open and freely reported. You don't need a Ph.D. to hear or read all about it ...

Take last week Wednesday as a case in point. It was a rather spectacular example that I woke up to on radio news (and was later reported in one or two sidebars in the newspapers): Five ‘suspected thugs’ were gunned down and killed in the ‘vicinity of’ the Delamere farm. This, after police received ‘an anonymous tip-off’ that they were ‘going to rob’ households in the area. ‘A pistol was found in their possession’.

‘Anonymous’ means, of course, that the source cannot be traced. That they were ‘going to’ commit a crime means that no crime had in fact been committed. That a lone pistol was found with them perhaps points to the same pistol I have mentioned before (see prior blog). No mention was made in the reports of any rounds of ammunition.

It is widely suspected here that these killings are simply a means for Kenya’s government to rid itself of unwanted opposition, spent resources, or ‘evidence’ in certain cases (see blog on ‘John’ the Baptized, below). It has not yet happened with Maina Njenga (but he is reportedly very scared after having spoken to Alston). It DID happen a few weeks ago with Mungiki’s second-in-command after an alleged ‘argument’ at a downtown shop. The man was shot dead by his unidentified assailant (in a society where virtually no one other than the police carries a gun). No investigation followed ...  It never does.

What bothers me the most in the ‘Delamere incident’ (other than the deaths themselves) is that there was absolutely NO report as to who the dead actually were. No names were released. No press reports detailed the grief of their families. No claims were made by family members themselves. I would imagine that the ‘suspected thugs’ were actually ‘gunned’ beyond recognition and that the family members are simply too scared to ask what happened to their father or brother. The victims might well have been senior Mungiki members. And, if so, I’d say that they might have had a few facts pertaining to the sponsorship of Mungiki by senior politicians during Kenya’s post-election violence in 2007/8 ... Facts that the government doesn’t want out in the open right now.

So why all this now …?

The International Criminal Court is due to act against certain (as yet undisclosed) ‘names’, placed in an envelope by (ex) Chief Justice Phillip Waki nearly two years ago. These ‘names’ are purported to belong to senior politicians (MPs and others) suspected of having organized and sponsored the post-election violence in Kenya in 2007/8 - violence that left more than 1300 Kenyans (of all tribes) dead.

Luis Moreno Ocampo, the man who successfully prosecuted members of the Argentinean junta some years back, is the chief prosecutor at The Hague. He now has the envelope with the ‘names’ in his possession. He evidently loves horses. But you can see, just by looking at him, you wouldn’t want to face him in a court of law. The words gritty and tenacious come to mind.

Quite a few senior Kenyan officials must be terrified right now.  They should be. The pursuit of justice at The Hague might not be swift but the results are likely to be enduring for the main protagonists of the post-election violence. You see, they are to be charged with genocidal acts and crimes against humanity! And Ocampo says he wants to make ‘an example’ of Kenya.

Ocampo came here a few weeks back to establish whether a ‘local tribunal’, to try suspects in Kenya, was going to be established. Word from Harambee House (the Sate President’s office) was that no, it was not going to happen. Fine, Ocampo said, and promptly jumped back on his plane to present pre-trial evidence at The Hague.

Kenyan politics can sometimes be so transparent that it’s laughable* … I don’t think Ocampo’s plane had even landed back in Holland by time President Kibaki and others were backtracking and saying they WERE in fact going to establish the local option. Too late, Ocampo cried.

Aside from Kibaki’s sham statement, there actually have been a few attempts to establish a local tribunal to try suspects. So far, they have been without success: the scheduled debates are being boycotted in parliament. So far, there has not even been a quorum of members in attendance (for a variety of reasons).

The international community sees a local tribunal as the preferred option (rather than the ICC) and just two days ago, Hawkeye Annan bemoaned the fact that the local option had not been established. But if Hawkeye knew anything about the reality of politics, and the current judiciary, in Kenya, he would actually be rather glad … The most likely outcome of the local tribunal would be that the envelope gets stolen!

But, jokes aside (and I guess it’s not really a joking matter), if anyone were actually to stand trial locally (already a very doubtful prospect), it would be beyond 2012, for sure. You see, things here move slooooooowly. But 2012 is the year of Kenya’s next general election and the habit here is to treat parliamentarians like gods. The result would be that everyone of note (by then re-elected public officers) would be found innocent. This would be for a variety of fabricated reasons.

The most likely reason for lack of convictions would simply be due to a lack of evidence. Well, not exactly a lack of evidence but, as I have tried to say above, …

… a large pile of dead evidence ...


Extrajudicial killings may be ‘aimed at’ (if I may use the term) slightly less desirable members of this society. But, if truth be told, the instigators of those killings (not the ‘executors’ themselves) are perhaps a lot less desirable in this society. If this society is to break the shackles of enslavement from years of political, economic and social repression, it has to rid itself of the forces that purport to be its ‘elected’ leadership but which are really just nefarious individuals (and groups) playing a very dangerous game of power politics, for personal gain.

With that, I am requesting anyone who has one, please to send me a used (but not TOO USED) South African bulletproof vest for Christmas. I saw on TV the other night that they are the best!

B-)

(* On exactly the day that Kofi Annan flew in last week, Minister of  Internal Security, Prof. George Saitoti, found it necessary to make a comment on the urgent need to reform the police force. A strange coincidence indeed, because Saitoti has not said much about this urgency before Annan’s arrival. But, he added, Kenya just cannot afford the reforms and will need help from the international donor community. Funnily, he fell short of telling the world that Parliament is about to redecorate its chambers at a cost of over a Billion Shillings!)

Dignitaries and fashion 'dignity'?

There’s quite a lot I could write about the recent departure of Kofi Annan and Graca Machel from the shores of Kenya. I could write about misguided faith in the judiciary. I could write about their level-headedness while the nation is screaming. I could write about the truth behind petty politicking for powerful positions. I could write about the fact that the nation is NOT divided at all; the divisions are created by the politicians for their own miserable ends. And so on, and so on.

But I am not going to write about any of this. It is too frustrating and almost brings tears to my eyes. A nation flounders while the rich drown in the fruits that belong to the people.

Instead, I am going to write (very briefly) about something that has just come to my attention ... through something said on Capital FM. It is vitally important to the future of this country:

The woman of Kenya need to get some dress-sense beyond the straight-laced grey, brown and black suits that they wear every day to work. Why is it that a nation of such beautiful women land up wearing such dreadfully dreary clothes to work? The point was noted on the radio and suddenly I was hit, like the proverbial bolt from the sky.

“That’s it”, I thought. “That’s why, despite all these beautiful women, everything looks so dull on the streets”.

As I have noted before, it happens at least once a day that I am struck by some woman’s beauty on the street. And Kenyan women know they have pride of place in the African beauty stakes, for sure. But why do they all dress so conservatively? I know it’s a church-going nation, for sure. But, hey, Jesus never said you can’t wear a bit of colour in your cloth …!

Sheesh. It has taken me an absolute age to realize the absolute dreariness of the fashions here. I am amazed I didn’t see it before. I must have been blinded by the ‘order of things’ in Kenya, and perhaps by the facial beauty of so many that live in this incredible country.

I mean, God populated Kenya with 42 tribes in a very particular way. Here are a few of his preferred choices:

He put the Kikuyu here to run things, and to make sure business boomed (despite the greed of the leadership).

He put the Luhya (and gave them a surly disposition) to work mainly in the police force. Never smiling, always seemingly miserable, they keep order on the roads particularly.

Then He put the Maasai to look after the cattle and goats (and also to prevent unwanted visitors at your home). And He thought the little colour they give the place would help (in the face of dreary fashion sense).

He put the Kamba here to look after the inside of your house and the garden. He also put some of them here to spread a little ju-ju when things get a bit too materialistic!

He put the Kisii here just to upset things every now and then with a temper tantrum. To help them he put the Meru – just in case anyone gets too big for their boots (the Meru arrogance usually sorts it).

He put the original Swahilis here just to smile on, benignly and knowingly (and to chew a lot of the miraa).

Then, finally, he dragged the Luo from the Nile basin and put the men here to buy the shiny suits and drive the Hummers (even when there’s no food at home). He even put one of them here so he could become president of the United States.

Then, in one of His last decisions, He put the Luo women here to keep the place looking goooooooood when all else fails.

He in His infinite wisdom.

If South Africa is the Rainbow Nation then Kenya is the Kaleidoscope.

What a beautiful country. Wild, for sure.

Beautiful people (lakini, kwanini hakuna fashion sense?).

But a fantastic place it is. I love it ...!

With that, amani na mapenzi to all.

B-)

‘John’ the Baptized

As of Sunday 6^th December 2009 he shall be known as ‘John’ Maina Njenga; for he has been ‘born again’ and baptized such at Bishop (and Assistant Minister for Housing) Margaret Wanjiru’s ‘Jesus is Alive Ministries’. Until recently, he was boss of Kenya’s horrific Mungiki sect (see a few previous blogs). Now he says he’s “a fish”. ‘John’ is clearly a changed man.

Bishop Wanjiru took the trouble of telling us on TV that ‘John’ was ‘serious’ about his new self and that the landscape of Kenya was forever changed. I thought this was quite strange because never before have I heard of a newborn being given high-level support regarding the genuineness of his infant status. There she was, smile fixed on her face, eyes darting from side to side, as she made public her statement on ‘John’ the Baptized. John’s brief swim (in what looked like a cattle dip pen) was reportedly followed by a brief swim by a few hundred other Mungiki members (or should I say ex Mungiki members?). Not all were dipped into the flock. Some will have to come back again next week.

Until 40 days ago, Maina Njenga was sitting at King’ong’o maximum-security prison in Nyeri. He was previously at the infamous Kamiti Prison and while at Kamiti he had threatened to ‘name names’. Among those names were reputed to be senior government officials and MP’s responsible for sponsoring Mungiki in certain ‘dirty deeds’. Maina was moved to Nyeri. Everyone thought he had disappeared. As in, permanently disappeared … But no, he was safe in Nyeri.

Then, just as suddenly again, Maina was released from prison. And he was released on the same day that saw the release of Thomas Cholmondeley (pronounced ‘Chomly’), grandson to Lord Delamere (now-deceased), one of the “Happy Valley” (as in “Rift Valley”) group that the book and movie “White Mischief” was based on.  Cholmondeley had been given a term of 8 months after being convicted for the murder of an alleged poacher. This happened on the 57,000 hectare Delamere farming estate, near Naivasha and was his second charge of murder. He served a little less than the allotted 8 months …

It was of course hoped that by releasing Maina and Thomas together on the same day, the peoples’ outcry would surround Cholmondeley’s premature release and no one would notice that Maina had been sprung too. The fact is that there was hardly an outcry about either release. A bit on TV. A front page of the daily papers on the Friday they got out. But no follow up. No analysis pertaining to why they might have been both released on the same day …

So what is one to make of all of this?  

‘Street opinion’ is that Maina's threat to ‘name names’ was met, quite simply, with a very serious threat upon his life.  But he could not die mysteriously in prison. In this case, Mungiki would have made one of their notorious revenge attacks – perhaps in Loresho or Karen – and perhaps one or two of local MPs’ family members would have been found, sans head, in the street (or perhaps with their eyes gouged out). Rather than face this possibility, it is widely believed that the guilty MP’s thought it wiser to organise the release of the Mungiki leader ...  But with an offer he couldn’t exactly refuse. 

The script would go something like this:

“We release you, and you shut up. You go with Margaret and get born again. Then everyone will think it’s legitimate. Or … we send the hit squad (with their AK47’s) to kill you in the street (as has just happened to Mungiki’s second-in-command) and we say we got a tip off that you were about to commit a crime. And you see this pistol …? We will plant it on you after you are dead, to prove that you were up to no good.

Whaddya say Maina?”

[Maina nods in solemn agreement (in what's known as a 'win-win' situation!)]

Upon handing down Thomas Cholmondeley’s sentence, the judge said there could only be “one justice” in Kenya and there should not be favouritism before the law, just because of historical roots, blah blah blah.

Interesting observation really.

Maina was facing something like 28 charges of murder (not sure exactly how many, because we didn’t get to hear the docket read in court). His historical roots are contemplated with terror by a great many people here. There was no way he was going to defend himself successfully against all the cases (even WITH the threatening of witnesses). And murder carries the death sentence in Kenya. 

Very strange too that he was released after serving much less time than old Tommy (who eventually faced only a manslaughter charge). The police didn’t even bother to defend themselves (not that there was any outcry, as I have said).

Let’s face it. They both should have been convicted and should have served very long terms.

Murder aside, if we look in another arena of ‘equal justice’, it is interesting to note that there has NEVER been a successful prosecution of high-level corruption in Kenya (and I don’t think there’s been much by way of indictment either).

And more: Wednesday (December 9^th) is World Anti-Corruption Day. There is a big exhibition today, with displays by the many (and effective!) interested parties. It is being held at ‘Integrity Centre’ (sic), the head office of Kenya’s Anti-Corruption Commission (sic). I am very excited. I really must go.

Footnote: ‘Equality before the law’ is an ideal towards which every society should strive. But the realization of this hope is really a dream (virtually in every society).

The concept is a joke.

In Kenya the joke is truly hilarious. But as President Kibaki would put it, this is simply "Our Kenya".

With concerned thoughts …

B-)

Clean Water Exhaustion

Like much of Africa, Kenya has been experiencing severe drought. In areas to the north, like Garissa near the Somali border, and the regions of Samburu and Lake Turkana, even the camels have been dying from dehydration! The recent ‘short rains’ have relieved some of the pressure, but the drought is by no means broken.

In Nairobi, the effect of the drought has been the introduction of water rationing on a well-regulated, now-you-have-it-now-you-don’t basis. One minute you hear water gurgling through the pipes … next minute you’re carrying a bucket of water to flush the loo. Plastics companies have made a fortune through the manufacture and sale of storage tanks that stand everywhere in peoples’ houses. And when it’s been a-gurgling there’s a massive rush for everyone to fill up their tanks. One wonders if the rationing has any effect at all with the amounts that are drawn when there IS water.

Be that as it may, the rationing has heralded some quite discomfiting times. There have been days when some areas have been devoid of the sacred maji for more than two days at a stretch! And water needs treatment with Water Guard to prevent bacterial outbreaks while it stands stagnant in the house. Thankfully, PSI (Population Services International) from the US, sponsors much of the cost of the water treatment and it can be obtained for 20 bob a bottle at most small outlets.

Of course, many Kenyans can’t afford even the 20 bob and have had to suffer as a result. Several (thankfully, small) outbreaks of cholera have been experienced. Maybe 100 people have died. Many of them have been children.

Until recently, the outbreaks have been quite mystifying, affecting only small parts of a particular community or perhaps just one small residential area. But, after a while, the source of these isolated occurrences became clearer.

Let me explain as best I can …

There are three main types of tanker trucks seen in Nairobi. The first is the common-garden petrol tanker that takes petrol, paraffin and other flammable, petro-chemical products from Mombasa all the way through to the Ugandan capitol of Kampala or even Kigali, in Rwanda. Using what are sometimes extremely bad roads, these tankers are prone to capsize. Kenyans are incinerated quite regularly when the liquid cargo catches alight as scores of villagers busily fill their buckets from the tanker’s prostrate hull.

Now, because of the drought, it has become common to see ‘water tankers’ on the roads. These blue-painted behemoths bear the legend ‘Clean Water’, emblazoned in white on their sides. They are charged with delivering maji to houses, hotels, commercial areas and residential ‘estates’. And along Ngong Road, there is something of a Tanker-Stop where 20 or more of these tankers can be seen at any one time, waiting for the call to action.

Then there is the third type of tanker: the ‘exhaust tanker’. Because water-borne sewage systems are uncommon in Nairobi, septic tanks require emptying, and residential estates (what the US calls ‘projects’) have to rely on ‘exhaust tankers’ to come and relieve the build-up of human waste and effluents. Also along Ngong Road, one sees these exhaust tankers parked in their plenty too. Many of them carry the charming legend of ‘Honey Sucker’ emblazoned on the side. These tankers are painted … you guessed it … brown.

But, lo-and-behold, there has been the recent, anomalous emergence of a new style of tanker: ‘the hybrid’. This style of tanker is two-tone. It has a freshly painted blue tank that says, like all the others, ‘Clean Water’. However, the tank itself stands on a chassis and frame that is suspiciously BROWN …!

You work it out!

Ever-keen to make a buck where possible, it seems that many of the tanker owners have resorted to what Kenyans are wont to call ‘unscrupulous’ business practices. It’s amazing what a bucket of blue paint can do for an erstwhile Honey Sucker’s business!

I’m just glad that it wasn’t my child that fell victim to the stuff of the two-tone tanker!

With love.

B-)

Mombasa Raha!

I thought at first that there had to be a circus in town, or maybe it was this year’s Mombasa-Male-Model Pageant. Within a minute of first seeing the sea soaking the Mombasa sand, Black Adonis appeared from nowhere, walking the beach and flexing his muscles (seemingly to himself). Then, nonchalantly launching himself onto his hands, he proceeded to execute an extended hand-walk past myself, Ruth and Hasua. On the opposite bank of the small inlet next to Pirate Beach there was another guy doing fake Kung Fu moves in the sand, occasionally falling over when attempting a particularly ambitious roundhouse kick. Then a Rasta with impressive dreadlocks came jogging past. Then another.

It was only when Ruth went for a little splash, and was casually approached by another Adonis wannabe, that I realized this was no warm up for any kind of competition. No, this was the warm up to finding a ‘john’, a customer. Bodies on show; I was witnessing the ritual of a male prostitution parade, in full swing.

Being my first time here, I only heard later that Mombasa is famed for its ‘beach boys’ – guys who look out for lone-travelling European (men and) women willing to spend their Euros for the privilege of attentive male ‘company’. Later on, I realized the full extent of this. I now know that Mombasa must be heaven for sex tourists of any persuasion. It really dawned on me as Ruth and I sat eating mahamri (the Coast version of the mandazi) at the small local restaurant. An obese German lady came walking past, her ‘company’ politely carrying her beach bag. She was smiiiiiiiiiiiiling and chatting to him in German. Note: the job of the Mombasa male malaya is taken seriously. Quite a few of the guys speak more than a smattering of two or three European languages!

The Mombasa malaya chicks, too, are not shy. It would have been obvious to anyone that I was in Mombasa with Ruth and was not ‘looking for company’, yet just about every young girl who passed me (whether Ruth was with me or not), ‘hit’ on me in some way or another. Some were blatantly open in their quest. Others, a bit more subtle. And over the next two days we saw one particular young thing at least three times as she trawled the high class beach hotels and bars. Pretty girls, no doubt, but in another country one might land up with a statutory rape charge if you were to take things beyond a casual drink or two. Some of the girls are well dressed in casual chic: quality beach attire, slipslops and good sunglasses. Others, however, are as out of place as an Angel in Nairobi (see earlier blog, “Kwa Malaya na Malaika”) … Like the 30-something Luo chick that got hold of the mzungu in the room next door. At ten in the morning she emerged in a TIGHT, purple, one-piece mini-skirt number, with stockings (!), and pendant earrings that would have been the main attraction at a Coronation Ball (if they weren’t fake). Shrieking for support, her stilettos sank suddenly into the sand.

We came to Mombasa on an overnight bus. At 800 bob (R80 at the current exchange rate) it’s value that’s hard to beat for a 800km journey. You can get super-luxury bussing at 1000 bob, but for a night journey the aircon isn’t really necessary. The T.S.S. service is good and we made excellent time on the occasionally rutted road. The driver, a strikingly handsome Coastarian Swahili, chewed miraa voraciously throughout the journey, as did his flight engineer, seated just next to me. They were both miraa chewers of the silent variety (see earlier blog, “Miraa miraa on the Floor”) and not a word passed between them during the eight hours we were on the road. Only once did I hear the flight engineer’s voice when he said “twende” (let’s go) at the driver’s request for an assessment of oncoming traffic as we pulled out of our only refreshment stop.

Much of the land mass between Nairobi and Mombasa comprises the Tsavo National Park and aside from one small town (Voi), the road is almost entirely bushveld. Unlike in Nairobi, where the only form of wildlife is the White Elephant, the bus headlights regularly caught the form of zebra and wildebeest grazing at the side of the road (we had the front-most seats on the bus, next to the driver). Just after crossing a small bridge near Voi, we briefly caught sight of a baby hippo with its ass just skimming the roadside. I guess Tsavo doesn’t have much of a perimeter fence …

I’m told the road to Mombasa is a lot better than it was. As in Nairobi, the Chinese are doing their thing for African development - in exchange for massive tracts of land and trade concessions! Kenya’s roads are indeed getting better. But at an exorbitant price not yet realized! A story for another time perhaps …

The most striking non-wildlife feature of the nocturnal journey was the number of truck stops along the way, and their respective populations. Literally hundreds of trucks line the roads at night and I would seriously hate to drive the Mombasa road on an ordinary weekday! Most of the road is single-lane in both directions and the delays caused by the huge, lumbering form of the container truck must be hard to handle. The style of driving is, however, very polite and considerate in contrast to the Place of Clear Waters (sic), Nairobi.

The bus got into Mombasa early, just as the sun was rising. By time we had alighted, men (mainly) were emerging from the small mosque next to the bus stop, wearing the loose-fitting male version of the kanga (the ‘leso’), and the ornately decorated Muslim head-dress (the ‘kofir’). It was around 6.30am when I called Hasua and woke her, asking where we should go to find the hotel she had got for us. Sleepily, and with her usual verbal exuberance, she said “I will come”, and promptly hung up.

Waiting for Hasua’s imminent arrival, Ruth and I enjoyed a Swahili breakfast of mahamri, chapatti, and chai. Unlike the mandazi you get in Nairobi, which tends to be a little doughy and ‘tough’ at times, the mahamri at the bus station restaurant were entirely different. Puffed up like a quarter-size Italian calzone, and with a thin layer of crisp dough making up each side of the ball, it was delicately spiced with what, I don’t know. But the chai (read ‘spiced tea’) was perhaps the best cup I have tasted. Not just spiced with ‘tangawizi’ (ginger), there seemed to be traces of cardamom and other things infused within. It was genuinely delicious, and refreshing, as the morning started already to heat up.

Opposite us sat the perfunctory ‘village moaner’, bitching about this and that, in Arabic, as the staff around him chuckled at his interminable banter. Soon he was joined by a few others – perhaps just from mosque – and breakfast began. They, too, ate mahamri and chapatti. One of them started an early-morning meat feast consisting of beef strips with whole chilies spilling over the sides of his plate. Conversation in Arabic was brisk and loud. Contributions were from all over the floor.

Other than Ruth, and what was obviously another Kenyan ‘visitor’ to Mombasa, there were no other women in the place. We had obviously found ourselves in a largely male preserve. Everyone had ‘shinyface’ (of humidity, not miraa). We were there for a half hour when Hasua appeared, looking strikingly beautiful in the black abaya of the modest Muslim woman. She joined us for a quick cup of chai and within minutes we three were safe in a three-wheeler tuk-tuk, journeying up the north coast.

To The Big Tree on Pirate Beach.

It was still very early for the regular staff to make an appearance. So we took our time and sat at the makuti (palm frond) bar on the sand. It must have been a spring high tide because the beach was about a metre wide and the water almost lapped the wall of the bar where we sat. By six that evening the water was so far out that boats were stranded on the sand, 700m or more from the distant water. But at 7am, it was hot already. The sun burnt and the water was as warm as a baby’s bath. Little flat-bottomed boats were anchored everywhere, bearing British, Italian and Australian flags next to the Kenya counterpart. On the beach, small stands were being erected for the display of swimming costumes (for hire) and for rubber tubing of various sizes, with which to float if you do not know how to swim (which is common in Kenya).

Doing a short jog on the beach was a young woman, obviously Kenyan and professional looking, with a bag that looked like it was actually genuine leather (but I could be wrong). After doing two lengths of a 50m jog, she stopped her extreme workout and entered the water, wading out to where the small swell was just forming. To her left, some 400m away, a guy was swimming lazily across the shoreline. About ten minutes later, he got to where she was. A brief conversation ensued and after a minute or two it looked like they were having quite a lot of fun together. I smiled, as only an mzungu in a strange land can; knowingly.

When the day staff arrived, we checked in, paid our KSH5000 (R500) for two nights stay and enjoyed a small rest from the bus journey. The hotel ‘room’ comprised one half of a large beach bungalow, situated about 50m from the beach. The room itself was huge and the bathroom similarly so. With a high ceiling, and suitably tiled, the fanned room was cool respite from the already-searing heat outside. There was no ‘hot’ water, but quickly I noted that a hot shower in Mombasa would be ridiculous to even contemplate. The water from the shower was like the water from the sea … tepid (and similarly salty!).

During our first day, we didn’t do much. We lazed on the beach and at the makuti bar. We chatted to young female malaya and watched the passing parade of young male malaya (obviously prohibited from plying their trade on-premises). We ate at the small restaurant up the road and listened to the Kiswahili spoken as it is at Coast (way different from Nairobi Kiswahili). And just about everywhere guys were chewing miraa.

In the early evening we went with Hasua to a bar called Cheers (with signage 'borrowed' from the set of Kirstie Allie’s sitcom of the same name) where we chewed a little miraa and watched young Coastarians playing pool and eating nyama choma. Later that night we went to a huge nightclub on the north coast road called Bomba. A sprawling place with thatched roof and no sidewalls, it is obviously a popular meeting place for Coastarians of all persuasions. With a huge dance floor, great sound and lighting, it gave me a definite feel of what is known locally as “Mombasa Raha” (Mombasa Fun). But after a grueling day of sun and seawater, we were tired and left around 1am. Hasua, being the devout Muslim that she is, gravitated towards the bar. Word has it that she emerged at sunrise.

On Day 2, we woke to a stunning sunrise permeating through a haze that disguised the intensity of the rays. Needless to say, I got myself a little pink-faced and by 11am I knew I had been fooled by nature into thinking the radiation was not all that damaging. By lunchtime, even Ruth’s skin was showing a clear tan line (difficult for someone of part-Sudanese descent!). We decided to take it easy with the exposure and took up Hasua’s offer of a guided tour of Mombasa.

Well, it was not so much a tour of Mombasa as a tour of Mombasa’s more exclusive spots. And they are plenty. From the estuary where the restaurant patrons were all red-faced wazungu, to a glimpse of the grounds of the Mombasa Serena, looking like it was dressed for the remake of a Tarzan movie. I would have preferred a more ‘local’ insight into Mombasa but I guess this type of sightseeing is what most people of lighter skin prefer.

Coming from the heart of Niali (where the Serena is situated) we ate lunch at a ‘local’ Swahili diner situated behind the incessant row of mitumba (second-hand) shoe and clothing stalls and tourist stalls. Business at the diner was bustling and for 200 bob (R20) we all ate! I chose the pilau rice – a Swahili speciality - consisting of spiced rice, sprinkled with strips of beef, and accompanied by ‘soup’ (read ‘gravy’) on the side. Ruth ate the same while Hasua ate chicken pieces and samoosas.

From here, onwards downtown.

The Portuguese built Fort Jesus in the mid 16th Century. This, of course, after the Arabs from Oman had been trading with the people of Mombasa for a few hundred years already! The Fort overlooks the entrance to Mombasa’s harbour and provides a very good vantage point from which to spot the Huns as they arrive. The Huns have been vanquished but meantime Fort Jesus itself has been invaded by tour-touts who give you the ‘guided experience’, whether you want it or not. Twice I had to quite forcefully tell the (obviously non-Coastarian) tour guides that I didn’t actually WANT the tour and REALLY preferred showing myself around; I was quite capable of reading the information about Fort Jesus posted on the walls (which they were reciting back, badly). Any question I posed – before getting thoroughly pissed off – got a stock response that did not actually answer my query. It’s a small Fort. The visit did not take long.

From the open promenade at the Fort’s entrance, you get a glimpse of what Mombasa once was. The Old Town peeks at you from around a corner. While Hasua’s nephew was yet to return from showing off the car he was driving for the day, we took the opportunity to explore Old Town, kidogo tu (just a little). It is quite special and very – nay, extremely – reminiscent of the older, Malay parts of Cape Town. The same architecture, the same people, the same street life. The only difference is perhaps that the drug trade is not so apparent here as in Cape Town (although heroin addiction IS taking a major toll in Mombasa). The first building you come to has been the subject of a preservation battle for some time and features the most amazing carved Swahili door that must be, like, 400 years old! As you pass, the people of Old Town are warm and friendly, and not at all concerned by the presence of strangers in their special enclave. It is a lived-in part of town. It’s not a museum. But it is clearly quite special.

The last stop for the day was the Florida nightclub. Obviously, it was not ‘open’ but I had heard about it … Like Bomba, it is also ‘open-plan’, sans outside walls. Like Fort Jesus, it faces the water and also looks onto the entrance of the port. I didn’t witness it just then but I believe when ships come into port it is quite something to see – the looming bulk of a cargo or passenger carrier, passing a few hundred metres from the dance floor!

By time I was done seeing the club we were exhausted from the travel and the high levels of thermonuclear radiation. We went back to the hotel. Ruth and I planned to go for a drink at the makuti bar later in the evening but, as sun and seawater would have it, we passed out until the morning. We woke to another spectacular sunrise and a tide that was hundreds of meters out. There wasn’t a lot of time before needing to get on the bus back to Nairobi. We ate coconut each on the beach, took a warm bath in the sea, and then a slightly cooler shower, and packed for departure.

Back at the bus station we found a bustling cameo of life in Mombasa. Tuk-tuks everywhere. Swahili women, out and about, laughing and having fun, selling coconuts, mitumba, and just about anything that one can purchase. Hawkers selling maji baridi (cold water) to passengers through the window of the bus. Kids riding bicycles on the busy streets. This is the Mombasa I would like to see more of. Maybe, just maybe, I will be able to spend a little more time in the ‘real’ Mombasa in a future not too far away.

But, hey, the beach was great. I have sorely missed splashing around in the sea. The Mombasa experience was enlightening and I really needed the break. I want to see more of Mombasa. And next time, maybe I’ll even go up the coast a little, to Malindi, where the malaya speak more Italian than Kiswahili and where the mahamri don’t just look like calzone, they are!

Until next time.

Amani na mapenzi,

B-)

Ju-ju visions and near-death experiences

(Note: I have added a ‘blog search’ tool to this page so that if there’s any unexplained terminology – or references to prior blogs - you can find the guilty party easily)


Ju-Ju in a matatu

It was approaching nightfall. I worked my way through the usual hubbub of humans and found a half-filled matatu that was going the same way as me. I took a seat at the back and was blessed with a window that opened halfway. As dusk descended, the small, single-bulb ceiling-light illuminated a dim interior. People climbed in and took their seats. The matatu filled quickly, as usually happens at this time of the evening.

There I was, just chilling out, pondering the congested street next to me and not noticing much else, when the matatu took off. The makanga (conductor) fluttered in the wind for a few seconds before swinging himself inside and sliding the door closed.

With everyone settled inside and his makanga safely indoors, the driver proceeded to set the scene for the rest of the trip. The ceiling light went off and, with the blip-blip of fluorescent technology, a light mounted on the interior side panel came on. Just then, Bob Marley’s “Stir It Up” started up on the powerful sound system.

The blip-blip turned out to be what they call a ‘black-light’ or an ‘ultra-violet’ light. And, lo and behold, stenciled everywhere on the bare paint of the matatu interior, in day-glow paint, were little shining motifs of cannabis sativa leaves – you know, the five-pointed star that signifies Jamaican Ju-Ju.

Amongst the black bodies in the matatu you couldn’t see a thing but for an occasional square of white collar sticking out of a jacket top. There was that usual ‘haze’ that ultra-violet seems to bring with it. With the cannabis plantation in front of me, Bob Marley piped at high volume, and a haze that could have been mistaken for what used to be called a ‘hot-box’ (of ganja smoke), the illusion was entirely convincing.

Images came flooding back to me: of nights at a reggae club called Scratch, in Cape Town in the late seventies. When the Wailers were fresh, and Chris Blackwell’s Island Records (the ‘Island’ being Jamaica) was just starting to boom with Bob’s new boogey …

The scene was complete. A stony (stoned?) silence descended on the matatu’s entranced travelers. The makanga just rocked in his seat, happpppeeeeee. The driver proud he had stage-managed an effect that would have had any seventies student skanking slowly. But, it seems, something was still missing…

The driver leaned imperceptibly forward and with a little twiddle of this left hand he almost blew the entire rear of the matatu onto the road. Clearly, Aston 'Familyman' Barrett’s four-string figures weren’t big enough in the boom of the bass bin in the back. Forgive me for thinking something HAD just been blown onto the road because the rush of air at my legs would have fooled anyone. Shite, he’s not serious, I thought.

Everything slowed to a low frequency trance. When I signaled the conductor that I wanted to alight, it must have taken another fifteen seconds for him to register. He eventually gave the usual smacks to the side of the matatu, signaling the driver. Nothing happened. The makanga had to repeat the action. The message eventually reached the driver’s brain and we slurred to a stop.

I had to walk a kilometer back to where I should have been dropped….

I was still suffering from subwoofer shock when another memory seeped out from the mists of my disorientation: Driving and listening to reggae. Preparing myself properly for a visit with some Rasta brethren in Khayalitsha, Cape Town. Neglecting to turn off at Vanguard Drive on the M2 freeway. Landing up in Bellville, some twenty kilometers further on. And wondering: “was I on the right road in the first place ……….?!”

Sheesh.

Mambo mbaye! …………………….. Sana.

I have a dream …

Like a few other cities on the continent, Nairobi is aspiring to become a world-class African city. But Nairobi, unlike the others, is only hoping to achieve this by 2030! Maybe it IS a realistic timeline but what I find strange is that, to my knowledge, there is no Vision Committee, or similar, that has set any milestones to be reached along the way. Maybe it is hoped that The Vision will somehow miraculously appear. And like other miraculous visions, it will probably take a Vatican investigation – or serious investigation, at least - to establish whether it did in fact happen!

I think the powers that be are hoping that by fixing a few roads (that should have been fixed decades ago) and promoting the growth of the IT sector, it’s going to be spontaneous combustion. Never mind that unemployment is so rampant that the government doesn’t actually measure the statistic, or that the Kenya Power and Lighting Company can only provide power on two or three days a week, or that the roads in Industrial Area are still so bad that it is costing millions a month just in vehicle repair and upkeep for those that ply the route. Never mind all of that, the Vision is coming!

A very good piece of airbrush art I saw on the back of a bus the other day expressed the Vision perfectly and succinctly: Just like you say that someone has “20:20 vision”, the legend at the top of the picture said “Vision 20:30”. And below it was a depiction of one very cross-eyed cat staring blankly out. Pole, mwananchi, (sorry, citizens) but I had to laugh at the aptness of the image.

Anyway, it seems to me that the vision is just another obfuscation of the REAL facts that need to be looked at in the city, and in the country as a whole. Forget becoming a world-class African city … Just give the people jobs. But I’ll probably never get to see Vision 2030 anyway. But then I suspect a lot of others won’t either!

(Talking of 20:30 vision, I have been wondering whether it is just my imagination or do I see more Luo wearing spectacles than any other of the Kenyan peoples? Is there something in the Nilotic eye structure that predisposes the Luo more towards eye problems? It’s a small and totally insignificant observation but I’d still be interested to know if there’s anything in it. Perhaps one of the numerous Kenyan opticians that read this blog can answer my query…?)

Baton charged

Still talking of sight, a hilarious one in town is watching what the policemen get up to sometimes – particularly in the pursuit of orderly traffic flow … Firstly, though, I tend to think that half the traffic problems experienced in this city arise from the fact that none of the policemen have ever driven a car, and probably never will. The result is that they do not understand the sheer frustration that arises from sitting completely stationery in traffic for fifteen minutes before being given the go-ahead to move. Secondly, they also don’t understand that when you allow too great a flow of traffic in one direction you ‘clog the artery’ and actually CREATE a traffic jam rather than alleviate it.

This ineptitude of some aside, what is really funny is what you sometimes see following an obvious contravention of a policeman’s directions …

Policemen on the traffic beat carry wooden or rubber batons. When I first got here I wondered how come the wooden ones were so worn out at the end. The human head is generally soft enough not to inflict damage upon a baton, so I was left wondering. Some of the rubber batons too, I noticed, are actually ‘frayed’ at the ends. It took a little downtown observation, on Moi Avenue particularly, to see the reasons behind the degenerated condition of the Nairobi policeman’s baton.

Imagine the scene: A matatu driver doesn’t see the figure of a policeman behind the bulk of a bus in front of him. He drives a little too far over the intersection and blocks the path of vehicles now coming from his right side. The policeman, nerves shot from directing the completely reckless procession of public service vehicles (PSV’s) and private vehicles alike, blows his top.

The policeman strides with obvious malicious intent towards the driver of the matatu. He raises his baton. He serves two or three firm blows – not to the driver - but to the side of the matatu! The driver sees it coming and lunges to his left in mock avoidance of the blows - blows that will obviously not strike him.

This little pantomime done, everything returns to normal: The policeman has vented his (usually justifiable) frustration and returns to his post somewhere amidst the congested throng. And the driver has accepted his punishment with enough feigned fear to appease the policeman. Peace has been restored at the cost of a dent and a sliver of wood.

Thus, Nairobi policemens' batons become as frayed as the nerves of the policemen who wield them!

A brush with death

This little piece of levity aside, some mention has to be made of more serious traffic contraventions on the part of matatu drivers. Heading out of town on Thika Road the other evening, around 8pm, traffic was as thick as usual for that time – maybe a little more so. In the first half hour of our journey we traveled roughly 200 meters - from the taxi rank to the first traffic roundabout heading out of town – amidst the compressed convergence of competing cars. Anyone can imagine what this does to the psychological state of a driver, particularly seeing as he is now driving in a haze of exhaust fumes that looks like The Moors in a Hammer Films horror flick.

Coming to the first part of Thika Road itself, the driver sees a steady stream of tail lights dotted from here to eternity. Patience blown completely, and with a will to get home before midnight, the matatu driver decides that everyone’s life is worth as little as his makanga values his own life (he who willingly risks his life and limb a great many times a day.) So what does the driver do?

Instead of going AROUND the roundabout and joining the traffic at the far end, he chooses instead to make a sharp right turn (what we sometimes call a hairpin turn), directly into the face of the oncoming traffic circling the roundabout. With reggae blasting through the sound system, the one-drop rhythm is now punctuated with the sound of car hooters and screeching tyres, plus the gasps and exclamations of the passengers.

I now go into replay mode: my childhood experience of driving ‘Dodge-em’ cars on the Durban beachfront! Who will yield first?

The matatu driver is doing the macho thing and calling everyone’s bluff, driving sans deviation in the left lane (the lane that is actually the RIGHT lane for vehicles coming towards us!) He’s going like the blazes and clearly intends to intrude into the gap he sees forming between a bus and another matatu, roughly a kilometer up the road …

I can make light of it now but it wasn’t a comfortable experience. Cars swerving right and left, hooters sounding, passengers praying. And the matatu making a straight line – the shortest possible distance – between the gap and the impending demise of us all!

A kilometer up the road, he hardly touches his brakes before mounting the paving stones of the island that separates the two left hand lanes from the right. The island itself is not actually an island but is more an unremitting collection of dongas, each one big enough to fit a prostate cow. He proceeds to bounce us all mercilessly across the divide. I smack my head on the metal ridge above me.

Apart from my cry of pain, there was an audible exhalation of relief from us all as the bus calmly gives way to the intruder from outside. Our driver carries on as if nothing has happened.

But he puts a gospel CD on the player.

The downtown shopaholic

Shopping on the streets of downtown Nairobi never ceases to amaze me. Not only are there some great little shops tucked away in the strangest of places but the strangest of things are sold in tucked away places.

Firstly, you can buy the most amazing selection of Chinese DVD’s for Ksh150 a time (R18). Whether you want the complete works of Arnie the Terminator, or every Charlie Chaplin movie ever made, you will find it on Tom Mboya Street. Especially interesting are the collections that no-one else wants. The complete collection of Bond movies features every movie, from “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” to “Quantum of Solace”. Every one! What I hope to find again is the complete collection of Viet Nam movies that includes “Apocalypse Now”, “Full Metal Jacket”, and even “Forrest Gump”!

On the downtown streets, the most common shop is a little kiosk, not much bigger than a broom cupboard that sells anything from cellphones to ‘bling’ watches. Increasingly, the cellphones are Chinese knock-offs of Nokias and Blackberry’s and, by all accounts, they work fine. They just break down easily! The best bling watch I saw had a dollar sign so big on the face that you couldn’t see the hands! And every fourth kiosk is an M-Pesa agent, as I have noted before.

Slightly more uptown there are the ‘tourist’ shops that sell Maasai blankets, kikois, kangas and kitengis, and the perfunctory array of wooden wildlife sculptures. But if you want to see the most amazing array of African fabrics you have to go to the Mombasa Rest House (a name from former times) and climb the thirty steps to the first floor. At the top of the stairs you will find two rooms, 3m X 3m, where every inch of the walls and the floor too, is covered by the most colourful array of fabrics you will ever see. On the few tables set in front of the fabrics you will find contemporary ‘inyangas’ (herbalists) who will mix up a concoction of cosmetics for a woman’s every need. The prices of everything are half of what you’ll spend uptown.

The wares of pavement hawkers have been mentioned here before but what I neglected to say last time is that the sidewalk newspaper sellers have the best books and magazines you will find in Nairobi. Of course, the novels of Danielle Steele and Jackie Collins are bought quickly by the schoolgirls. But those of D.H Lawrence, Joseph Conrad, and Ernie the Hemingway, among many others, seem to lie there forever. Many of these ‘hawkers’ have licenses to sell newspapers of the sidewalk. But they don’t really do that any more. They sell books aplenty. Many of them obtain their stocks from the ‘car boot sale’ that is held at the Village Market every month (bought from departing U.N. employees). And their magazines include back-issues of the New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Mojo and ID (all available for Ksh50-Ksh100 – R7-R12)!

Last, but not least among the shops, are the ‘local’ restaurants you find downtown. As opposed to the Ksh100 you’ll pay for a plate of chips uptown, you’ll get one here for Ksh35. Coffee costs Ksh25 as opposed to Ksh100 plus. But be careful how you order. Coffee is most often consumed black in Kenya (white coffee might cost extra). Tea – or ‘chai’ as it is known here - is often so light in colour you’ll think they forgot the teabag. And, if you’re new to East Africa, avoid the meat dishes! You DON’T want to get what we call ‘stomach’ in Nairobi…

Tragedy in the making?

For the last part of this blog I am taking a suitably grave tone. It’s a little note of alarm:

The entire expanse of land that constitutes the northern reaches of Kenya (perhaps a third of the country’s total land mass) is experiencing an unprecedented drought. Cattle and zebra, in particular, are dying rapidly while the vultures and hyenas are getting fat!

There is already a major food shortage in Kenya and it is estimated that up to 10 million Kenyans in the north face starvation if things don’t get better soon. The food shortage is also not being helped by the hundreds of thousands Somali refugees that are streaming steadily across the border. Cattle are being allowed to die because humans come first. But still, neither cattle nor humans are doing too well.

It has happened before that there has been drought, of course. But this time there seems to be gravity to the situation that is scary. Even camels, the favoured form of transport in the region (after old Series III Land Rovers), are battling under the extreme dry conditions.

As seems to be something of an African malaise, survival after the last drought did not bring any planning with it, and whatever survival plan the government might be putting in place now, I fear it’s going to be too little, too late.

I suspect that Kenya is going to face starvation on an unparalleled level if the coming season of ‘short rains’ don’t bring more than what their name portends …. But I really hope I’m wrong.


With that sober thought it is, as always, peace and love to you all.

Amani na mapenzi.

B-)

The Heir Who Came From (No)Where?

In many ways, I am not qualified to 'comment' on Kenya politics but, surely, as a relatively recent guest in this country, I can ask a few questions ...

The main, over-arching question, for me, concerns the ‘legitimacy of political ascendancy’ in Kenya (if I may be a little verbose). I refer to events that happened some time back already. I have asked this question of a few people but so far haven't got a satisfactory answer. This leads me to wonder more ...

And the exact nature of this question is this:

In Kenya, what gave that group now known as the ‘political class’, their legitimacy? By what birthright, or other credential, were they able to ascend to the thrones of political control? From what I have heard, and from the little I have read, the families that seem now to control the mechanics (and substantial fruits) of the political-economy of Kenya are not descended from the ‘royalty’ in of old. And neither are the descendants of the real ‘freedom fighters’.

The ‘freedom fighters’ that really won independence for Kenya and liberated Kenyans from Colonial rule – the Mau-Mau – are today little more than a group of aged men and women, struggling (on their own) to gain some form of reparation from the old Colonial masters who incarcerated them, and tortured many in despicably inhuman ways. The names of these Mau-Mau fighters are hardly – if at all – known to the Kenyan people today. Their families live in the same poverty as many of their original number do.

And where is the pre- (or post-) independence 'tribal royalty'? Where are the blue-blooded descendants of Kenya’s 40 or so tribes (depending how you count them). Were these ‘kings’, ‘chiefs’, and ‘paramount chiefs’ somehow marginalized, just as Kenya’s freedom fighters were?

Certainly, among the rank-and-file Kenyans I know, there seems to be no knowledge AT ALL of who the members of Kenyan ‘royalty’ are, or were! For example, whatever happened to the families descended from Karen Blixen’s friend, Chief Kinanjui? He was certainly around ... I have seen pictures of him.

Where I come from, everyone knows about the Madiba clan and the 'royalty' status of those descended from the Tembu name. The Sigcau chieftainship, and royal house, is also quite familiar to many, as are many Venda, Sotho and Tswana royal families, running all the way to the great "Rain Queen" herself. The name Zwelithini is recognized as belonging to the legitimate leaders of the Zulu people. And in the cities, even the taxi-driver heir to a chief is commonly recognized and known by the general populace.

Further, those who played a genuine role in the South African liberation struggle have been – and remain - recognized by the State, and often hold significant positions in politics, or perchance in the economy. This applies not only to ‘people of colour’ but even to the waZungu 'freedom fighters', with the late Joe Slovo perhaps being the most prominent example (but not excluding others like Albie Sachs, et.al.).

Yet in Kenya, the 'chiefs' and the 'freedom fighters' seem both to have disappeared from sight! From the little I know, today's ‘political class’ - the ‘ruling elite’ - seem to have come initially from almost nowhere! I stand grossly corrected if I am wrong and I would like to be enlightened if I am, indeed, wrong.

Post-independence history books in Kenya don’t seem to deal with claims to power at all. Maybe for good reason? Am I over-simplifying the situation when I ask whether the 'royalty' and the Mau-Mau were not both perhaps deliberately excluded from claims to power? Both seem to have been submerged by a self-styled bunch of shrewd political operators who emerged quite suddenly ... But from where exactly?

So where did Kamau Wa Ngengi really come from (other than a British-run prison) and what role did he really play in the liberation of Kenya? How did he rise to power in the post-colonial Kenya? And what role did the changing of his name - to Jomo Kenyatta - have in gaining him (perhaps new-found) legitimacy? The new name, alone, would have given him legitimacy that would otherwise have been absent. Was it a very shrewd political ploy? Who exactly might have been behind it? To me at least, these questions are a mystery indeed.

The machinations, allegiances and connivances of Kenyan politics, past and present, are certainly something to behold, but nowhere do I hear claims of proper political legitimacy being made. Least of all do I know of any history texts dealing with this, either. And perhaps this is the most revealing fact of all ...

In South Africa, despite the stooges that were put in place by successive Apartheid regimes, the legitimate heirs to various ‘thrones’ were always known. And the ‘freedom fighters’ - however insignificant any of them might have seemed at the time - remain recognized.

In Kenya, nepotism - taken to a level of an enduring ‘nepotocracy’ - has existed to such an extent that successive generations of certain families have been politically 'empowered' to the total exclusion of others. This continues to be the case - to the extent that the youth, particularly, feel they have 'no right' somehow to be in politics!

How did this all come about? I certainly don't know. And I have yet to hear decent answers from those I would I expect to know. Those who have come through the Kenyan education system - those one would expect to know - certainly don't know. And I'll happily publish a decent answer here. If I can get one ...

With some confusion, amani na mapenzi brethren,

Until later,

B-)

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-)