Just when I thought nothing could top my weekend sleeping in Prince William’s bed, I was proven wrong. Three birthdays four days apart, six girls, one luxury resort, a coastal town overrun with lecherous Italians, and more gelato than you can shake a stick at combined for my best Kenyan adventure yet.
A few months ago, we realized that my friends Jess, Sam, and I basically had the same birthday – a weird, yet awesome coincidence. Then and there, we decided that we had to do something epic to celebrate. We settled on a girls’ weekend in Malindi, a resort town about an hour north of Mombasa. Joined by the girls’ roommate Wanda, as well as their friends Soraiya and Diane, we prepared for a weekend of sun, sand, and much, much alcohol.
We flew in on Friday night, and despite being denied a package of mixed nuts by an incredibly rude airline steward, I was very excited. Wanda had arrived a few days before for work and fortunately got to scope out the place before we arrived. She ended up switching our booking to the much nicer Coral Key Resort, which was an excellent decision. The long pool stretched right up to the beach, and it was lined with thatched two-storey huts. Sam and I got the second floor of one of these huts, and I couldn’t decide what feature I liked more – the four poster bed with mosquito netting, or the lovely balcony with the most comfortable couch ever.
We didn’t have too much time to admire our surroundings as Wanda had made a reservation at Tangine restaurant. We ended up being the only people there so we got to enjoy each other’s company while sitting on the rooftop patio and listening to the waves crashing on the beach. Unfortunately I had a chicken burger and beer before we flew so I had completely spoiled my appetite. Undaunted, I ordered an Eskimo pie as my entrée, much to the amusement of everybody. I recommend that everyone order dessert as their dinner at least once in their life – live a little!
Finally, it was time to party. Following the advice of the waiter, we piled into a couple of tuk-tuks and headed over to Stardust. Note: tuk-tuks are little three-wheeled vehicles that are basically motorized tricycles with a roof. They are very loud, and as we found out later that evening, they can go very fast. But I get ahead of myself. Stardust was dead so we headed across the street to a bar called Morgan’s. A number of men hanging around outside called out some pretty crude comments, but when we got inside we realized why. Not only was Morgan’s a total dive bar (let’s just say, 1970’s chic), it was dead except for old Italian men and their very young local ‘escorts’. We were stunned. However, being the only place that actually had people in it, we decided to stay for one drink before booking it. Perched on barstools with a clear view of the dance floor, we watched as two or three people busted some moves. One of these people was a very old Italian whose moves were actually pretty impressive. The girls and I soon became entranced. Even when he ended up being the only person on the dance floor, he kept right on dancing. And then an amazing thing happened – this old man’s enthusiasm, or charisma, or dare I say it, raw sex appeal? – actually DREW people onto the dance floor. Before we knew it, the place was pumpin’ and we were all up there dancing our little hearts out. A couple times the old man actually approached us to dance, but while we admired him excessively, we preferred to do it from a distance and promptly closed ranks. The best part about this story – I ACTUALLY MANAGED TO GET VIDEO OF IT. It will be posted on my facebook shortly so stay tuned.
Exhausted, we decided to head home. We jumped in a couple tuk-tuks and soon we were racing each other. At first it was good clean fun, with the occupants of each tuk-tuk cheering when they overtook the other. I’m not quite sure when things changed but suddenly the driver of our tuk-tuk, apparently obsessed with winning, sped off into the pitch blackness while chanting, “We’re number one!” We were soon flying down the heavily pot-holed street in the middle of the night with only the tuk-tuk’s pitiful headlight to guide us. The tuk-tuk bounced and swerved crazily and soon our cheers turned to screams of “We’re all gonna die!!!” Although I admit, I didn’t even realize I was screaming that until we pulled up to the resort door. As we walked through the resort lobby laughing about the escapade, we noticed a lone statue illuminated at the end of the hall. As we approached we realized it was a huge metal gorilla, staring vacantly at us. “It looks so disapproving”, someone said, and our late night relationship with Disapproving Gorilla was born. After thinking up some things Disapproving Gorilla might say (“Why are you home so late? You’re making too much noise!”), we crawled into bed exhausted, but satisfied.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Weekend in Malindi Pt 2 OR, Loving You with Force
We spent the next day lazing about the resort, and my love affair with the pool was born. The pool was unusually warm, which I loved. It also had a lot of character. Let me explain: the pool was long and slim, snaking its way through the centre of the resort. At one point you had to climb over some rocks to get to the next section. At another point, you had to swim through a tunnel that went under the pool deck. Soraiya was my official pool buddy and we would often turn to each other when bored and say, “Hey, wanna go swim through the tunnel?” However, this wasn’t even my favourite feature. At the end of the pool closest to the beach there was a ‘perch’ about two feet deep where you could sit and look out at the ocean. About 85% of my time spent in the pool was spent sitting on the perch. It was pure heaven.
When we weren’t in the pool, we were eating. For dinner Saturday night we reserved a table at The Old Man and the Sea, a highly recommended restaurant. While the food was good and unusually cheap, we soon become embroiled in a battle of wills with the waiter. It turns out that the Old Man and the Sea closes promptly at 10. We didn’t think too much about this until the waiter began standing uncomfortably close to the table glowering at us. After ordering a round of drinks that never materialized, we decided to be as slow as we possibly could. Our desserts were thrown in front of us, accompanied by the comment, “The chef is finished”, just in case we had any sneaky ideas about ordering more. Jess’ request for an extra spoon was also shot down, again with the aforementioned comment, much to our amusement. After several of our party leisurely visited the washroom, we decided it was time to go. The doors were quickly locked behind us and the street lights turned off, leaving us to flag down a tuk-tuk in the dark. Charming.
On Sunday we rented a car and drove down to Watamu to see if we could catch a glimpse of any whale sharks that frequented the marine park. On the way we stopped at the Gede ruins, the 700 year-old remains of a lost city. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the sprawling ruins of an obviously wealthy settlement slowly being encroached upon by the forest. It was eerily silent, which made it even more beautiful. There were mosques, bath houses, and even a palace, all enclosed by city walls. It was amazing and we even climbed up to an observation platform at the top of a huge baobab tree to take it all in.
After that, we definitely needed a dip in the ocean to cool off. We stopped in at Hemingway’s resort, which was beautiful and even closer to the beach than ours. It was idyllic – the waters were turquoise and the sand white and soft. I would certainly miss that private beach after we got back to our resort.
Unfortunately, our beach was not private and therefore overrun with beach boys. I was confused though, because these guys weren’t carrying anything. “What are they selling?” I asked Soraiya when we first arrived. “Themselves”, she replied. OH. They waited for us at the foot of the resort property to step onto the beach, at which point they promptly followed us while saying absolutely anything to engage us in conversation. After Soraiya and I were called Beyonce and Shakira, I was content to stick to the pool. Jess and Diane, who skipped the Watamu trip, had some interesting stories about them when we got back. “One of them said they wanted to love me with force!” a slightly traumatized Jess said. After getting back into the pool I realized we still weren’t immune to their overtures as one particularly persistent beach boy kept calling “Hello!” over, and over, and over again, his head barely poking over the small wall separating the resort property from the beach.
We woke up early Monday morning to head back to Hemingway’s in Watamu after making arrangements the previous day to go dolphin watching and snorkelling. After a battle over final costs (it can be really aggravating that everything is negotiable here), we were taken out on a small, glass-bottomed boat. We were off to an ominous start – it was raining, the water was choppy, and there were no dolphins to be found. I’m not sure how long we looked, but not long after the sun finally came out, Wanda cried out, “Dolphins!!” We soon followed them to an area where several other dolphin watching boats had gathered. They were all packed with people, which made me feel pretty fortunate that we girls had our boat to ourselves. Suddenly, the other boats took off, leaving us alone with the frolicking dolphins. “Can we swim with them?” we begged. The captain nodded and suddenly I was underwater looking at a pod of dolphins swimming directly below me. A mother and her baby swam up closer to take a good look at us, and soon we were being circled by several. The most incredible part – I could hear them talking! Amazingly, our day trip was not even over yet and we were taken to a picturesque sandbar to stroll and lounge in the shallow water. Our guide found an octopus, which I reluctantly held (very slimy!). We then headed over the to coral shallows where we saw fish of every shape and colour imaginable – and an old man standing naked on the top of one of the sightseeing boats as he got changed. Eww.
Despite the horrendous sunburn I incurred, it was an incredible day. We were all loath to head back to lame old Nairobi but at the same time, I was a little relieved as I don’t think I could have sustained the constant parade of pizza, pasta, gelato, and drinks in pineapples that I was consuming. All in all, a resounding success.
When we weren’t in the pool, we were eating. For dinner Saturday night we reserved a table at The Old Man and the Sea, a highly recommended restaurant. While the food was good and unusually cheap, we soon become embroiled in a battle of wills with the waiter. It turns out that the Old Man and the Sea closes promptly at 10. We didn’t think too much about this until the waiter began standing uncomfortably close to the table glowering at us. After ordering a round of drinks that never materialized, we decided to be as slow as we possibly could. Our desserts were thrown in front of us, accompanied by the comment, “The chef is finished”, just in case we had any sneaky ideas about ordering more. Jess’ request for an extra spoon was also shot down, again with the aforementioned comment, much to our amusement. After several of our party leisurely visited the washroom, we decided it was time to go. The doors were quickly locked behind us and the street lights turned off, leaving us to flag down a tuk-tuk in the dark. Charming.
On Sunday we rented a car and drove down to Watamu to see if we could catch a glimpse of any whale sharks that frequented the marine park. On the way we stopped at the Gede ruins, the 700 year-old remains of a lost city. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the sprawling ruins of an obviously wealthy settlement slowly being encroached upon by the forest. It was eerily silent, which made it even more beautiful. There were mosques, bath houses, and even a palace, all enclosed by city walls. It was amazing and we even climbed up to an observation platform at the top of a huge baobab tree to take it all in.
After that, we definitely needed a dip in the ocean to cool off. We stopped in at Hemingway’s resort, which was beautiful and even closer to the beach than ours. It was idyllic – the waters were turquoise and the sand white and soft. I would certainly miss that private beach after we got back to our resort.
Unfortunately, our beach was not private and therefore overrun with beach boys. I was confused though, because these guys weren’t carrying anything. “What are they selling?” I asked Soraiya when we first arrived. “Themselves”, she replied. OH. They waited for us at the foot of the resort property to step onto the beach, at which point they promptly followed us while saying absolutely anything to engage us in conversation. After Soraiya and I were called Beyonce and Shakira, I was content to stick to the pool. Jess and Diane, who skipped the Watamu trip, had some interesting stories about them when we got back. “One of them said they wanted to love me with force!” a slightly traumatized Jess said. After getting back into the pool I realized we still weren’t immune to their overtures as one particularly persistent beach boy kept calling “Hello!” over, and over, and over again, his head barely poking over the small wall separating the resort property from the beach.
We woke up early Monday morning to head back to Hemingway’s in Watamu after making arrangements the previous day to go dolphin watching and snorkelling. After a battle over final costs (it can be really aggravating that everything is negotiable here), we were taken out on a small, glass-bottomed boat. We were off to an ominous start – it was raining, the water was choppy, and there were no dolphins to be found. I’m not sure how long we looked, but not long after the sun finally came out, Wanda cried out, “Dolphins!!” We soon followed them to an area where several other dolphin watching boats had gathered. They were all packed with people, which made me feel pretty fortunate that we girls had our boat to ourselves. Suddenly, the other boats took off, leaving us alone with the frolicking dolphins. “Can we swim with them?” we begged. The captain nodded and suddenly I was underwater looking at a pod of dolphins swimming directly below me. A mother and her baby swam up closer to take a good look at us, and soon we were being circled by several. The most incredible part – I could hear them talking! Amazingly, our day trip was not even over yet and we were taken to a picturesque sandbar to stroll and lounge in the shallow water. Our guide found an octopus, which I reluctantly held (very slimy!). We then headed over the to coral shallows where we saw fish of every shape and colour imaginable – and an old man standing naked on the top of one of the sightseeing boats as he got changed. Eww.
Despite the horrendous sunburn I incurred, it was an incredible day. We were all loath to head back to lame old Nairobi but at the same time, I was a little relieved as I don’t think I could have sustained the constant parade of pizza, pasta, gelato, and drinks in pineapples that I was consuming. All in all, a resounding success.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Sleeping in Prince William’s Bed: An Exclusive Insider Account
Hello and sorry for the delay between postings. I think my day to day life here is pretty unexciting so I don’t like to write unless something awesome happens. Which it just did.
Last weekend saw me, my partner in crime Jess, and 6 work colleagues head up to the Rutundu Log Cabins on the slopes of Mt Kenya. It was a 4 hour drive from Nairobi, and once we hit Mt. Kenya National Park we spent another 2 hours traversing what I can barely call a dirt road. It was slow and painful going as Jess and I were flung from side to side of the car every time we hit a bump or pothole. Which was often. We basically just held onto the roof handle for dear life while our necks snapped from side to side. Occasionally we came across incredibly steep climbs or descents, which I could only deal with by squeezing my eyes shut and emitting a high pitched groan.
When I wasn’t a human bobble head doll I could occasionally look out the window and admire the landscape. We slowly ascended above the tree line and were surrounded by dense scrub, some of it taller than me. The brochure said that the park was home to elephant, buffalo, zebra, and leopard, but I found that hard to believe. How could all these animals live in such a desolate place with nowhere to hide? Nevertheless, I kept a sharp eye out. I was rewarded as we approached the cabins when I spotted a zebra in the distance. We stopped the car to watch it when suddenly we realized that there was not one, but twelve! You would think twelve large black and white animals would stand out in this desert landscape but it was quite the opposite, we nearly drove past them without noticing!
We arrived at sunset, exhausted and hungry. But no, our adventures weren’t about to end just yet. Turns out there was the small problem of a gorge separating the road from the cabins. We ended up sending our luggage over on a zip line (!), where four staff members collected it and brought it to the cabins. We were not as lucky and ended up having to hike over.
The cabins were the most isolated place I’ve ever been to. No electricity, no phone signal, and at least a 2 hour drive from the nearest community. The cabins themselves were incredibly luxurious despite (or because?) of this. There were two – the main cabin had a kitchen, common room with fireplace, couches, and large dining room table, and a bedroom with a double bed and 2 bunkbeds. The second cabin was basically just sleeping quarters, again with a double bed and 2 single beds. Of course, knowing that Prince William and Kate got engaged here only a few months previous, the question on everyone’s mind was WHERE DID THEY SLEEP??? Well, it may not have been the question on everyone’s mind but I was certainly thinking about it.
Cabin life was pretty sweet. Our breakfasts were eaten at a large table outside on the porch overlooking the lake. Occasionally, brightly coloured sunbirds would zip by. At night, we would cozy up by the fire after having a delicious dinner. We told funny stories late into the evenings before bundling up in bed where the staff would leave hot water bottles under the covers to warm up our feet. Bliss! I was especially thankful for this as I packed like a doofus for my relocation to Kenya and only packed three pairs of pants, no coat, and one pair of socks. Yes, one pair. I was obviously thinking like a champ that night. Anyway, as you may have guessed, the environs around Mt. Kenya get pretty cold at night. I ended up wearing two sweaters and my pyjama pants under my regular pants. It wasn’t too bad actually.
I will spare you the details of our 5 hour hike up to Lake Alice on Saturday, as I wanted to kill myself about 20 min in. Once we got to the top I couldn’t be bothered to do anything but eat some food and pass out. This resulted in a pretty weird sunburn as the chilly winds caused me to wipe my nose often on the way up, thus wiping off all sunscreen in that general region. I capped off this triumphant afternoon by face-planting into a shrub on the way down. We did find a chameleon though, which was really awesome in my opinion.
I decided that the only way to recover from this experience was to go fishing in the lake by the cabin. Five of us set out along with two of the staff. It was not long until Jess and I began to regret this decision. The sun was starting to set and the winds were picking up, and to top it off we noticed our boat was leaking. There were not enough rods to go around so Jess and I basically just sat there eating Pringles and staring at each other. We rowed silently back and forth across the lake, dragging the flies behind us. Every time we approached one of the three docks, Jess and I would longingly think of being dropped off, but to no avail. I’m not sure how long we spent in complete silence freezing out butts off and shifting our legs to avoid a rapidly spreading puddle in the bottom of the boat, but it was too long. Ironically, as we begged the staff to take us back, we caught a trout! And yep, we ate it, and yep, it was awesome.
And now, the details you’ve been waiting for! After the hike, we basically cornered a poor staff member and forced him to give up all details on William and Kate. He told us the following
-the staff didn’t even know who William and Kate were at the time!
-they drove up, alone (which is pretty impressive I think)
-they brought their own food and cooked it (he couldn’t remember what they ate)
-they only stayed one night instead of two because it started raining pretty badly and the roads can get washed out
-they went fishing but didn’t catch anything (guess they didn’t feel like spending an hour in silence with the staff as the boat slowly sank)
-and finally: JESS AND I WERE SLEEPING IN THEIR BED!!!
In short, pure win.
Last weekend saw me, my partner in crime Jess, and 6 work colleagues head up to the Rutundu Log Cabins on the slopes of Mt Kenya. It was a 4 hour drive from Nairobi, and once we hit Mt. Kenya National Park we spent another 2 hours traversing what I can barely call a dirt road. It was slow and painful going as Jess and I were flung from side to side of the car every time we hit a bump or pothole. Which was often. We basically just held onto the roof handle for dear life while our necks snapped from side to side. Occasionally we came across incredibly steep climbs or descents, which I could only deal with by squeezing my eyes shut and emitting a high pitched groan.
When I wasn’t a human bobble head doll I could occasionally look out the window and admire the landscape. We slowly ascended above the tree line and were surrounded by dense scrub, some of it taller than me. The brochure said that the park was home to elephant, buffalo, zebra, and leopard, but I found that hard to believe. How could all these animals live in such a desolate place with nowhere to hide? Nevertheless, I kept a sharp eye out. I was rewarded as we approached the cabins when I spotted a zebra in the distance. We stopped the car to watch it when suddenly we realized that there was not one, but twelve! You would think twelve large black and white animals would stand out in this desert landscape but it was quite the opposite, we nearly drove past them without noticing!
We arrived at sunset, exhausted and hungry. But no, our adventures weren’t about to end just yet. Turns out there was the small problem of a gorge separating the road from the cabins. We ended up sending our luggage over on a zip line (!), where four staff members collected it and brought it to the cabins. We were not as lucky and ended up having to hike over.
The cabins were the most isolated place I’ve ever been to. No electricity, no phone signal, and at least a 2 hour drive from the nearest community. The cabins themselves were incredibly luxurious despite (or because?) of this. There were two – the main cabin had a kitchen, common room with fireplace, couches, and large dining room table, and a bedroom with a double bed and 2 bunkbeds. The second cabin was basically just sleeping quarters, again with a double bed and 2 single beds. Of course, knowing that Prince William and Kate got engaged here only a few months previous, the question on everyone’s mind was WHERE DID THEY SLEEP??? Well, it may not have been the question on everyone’s mind but I was certainly thinking about it.
Cabin life was pretty sweet. Our breakfasts were eaten at a large table outside on the porch overlooking the lake. Occasionally, brightly coloured sunbirds would zip by. At night, we would cozy up by the fire after having a delicious dinner. We told funny stories late into the evenings before bundling up in bed where the staff would leave hot water bottles under the covers to warm up our feet. Bliss! I was especially thankful for this as I packed like a doofus for my relocation to Kenya and only packed three pairs of pants, no coat, and one pair of socks. Yes, one pair. I was obviously thinking like a champ that night. Anyway, as you may have guessed, the environs around Mt. Kenya get pretty cold at night. I ended up wearing two sweaters and my pyjama pants under my regular pants. It wasn’t too bad actually.
I will spare you the details of our 5 hour hike up to Lake Alice on Saturday, as I wanted to kill myself about 20 min in. Once we got to the top I couldn’t be bothered to do anything but eat some food and pass out. This resulted in a pretty weird sunburn as the chilly winds caused me to wipe my nose often on the way up, thus wiping off all sunscreen in that general region. I capped off this triumphant afternoon by face-planting into a shrub on the way down. We did find a chameleon though, which was really awesome in my opinion.
I decided that the only way to recover from this experience was to go fishing in the lake by the cabin. Five of us set out along with two of the staff. It was not long until Jess and I began to regret this decision. The sun was starting to set and the winds were picking up, and to top it off we noticed our boat was leaking. There were not enough rods to go around so Jess and I basically just sat there eating Pringles and staring at each other. We rowed silently back and forth across the lake, dragging the flies behind us. Every time we approached one of the three docks, Jess and I would longingly think of being dropped off, but to no avail. I’m not sure how long we spent in complete silence freezing out butts off and shifting our legs to avoid a rapidly spreading puddle in the bottom of the boat, but it was too long. Ironically, as we begged the staff to take us back, we caught a trout! And yep, we ate it, and yep, it was awesome.
And now, the details you’ve been waiting for! After the hike, we basically cornered a poor staff member and forced him to give up all details on William and Kate. He told us the following
-the staff didn’t even know who William and Kate were at the time!
-they drove up, alone (which is pretty impressive I think)
-they brought their own food and cooked it (he couldn’t remember what they ate)
-they only stayed one night instead of two because it started raining pretty badly and the roads can get washed out
-they went fishing but didn’t catch anything (guess they didn’t feel like spending an hour in silence with the staff as the boat slowly sank)
-and finally: JESS AND I WERE SLEEPING IN THEIR BED!!!
In short, pure win.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Just call me Kate
When I first arrived in Nairobi, the big city feeling was comforting and I assured myself that any culture shock I might experience would not be severe. After all, how can you experience culture shock when everyone speaks English and the mall down the street from your apartment is known for its bowling alley and Thai food? However, the more time I spend in Nairobi, the more I see that any similarities to Toronto I thought I saw at first are only skin deep. It is true that Nairobi offers much the same amenities and services you would find in a similarly sized metropolis: a variety of cuisines, a vibrant downtown, an interesting arts and culture scene, and an unusually large number of shopping centres, among other things. I quickly learned that leading my life the way I did in Toronto was still possible here…with a series of slight adjustments.
For instance, it quickly became evident that few locals can pronounce my name. After I introduced myself, I usually got a puzzled glance and an incorrect name offered in response, such as “Casey?”, “Carrie?” or “Kevin?” (Yes seriously, Kevin). It was clear that my life would get much easier if I simply switched to Kate. I have also noticed that ‘Patterson’ has slowly morphed into ‘Peterson’, and I’m fine with that.
I feel like everything here is kind of like home, but not. Not unlike the Seinfeld episode with Bizarro Jerry. I work for an NGO – but while working at an NGO at home usually means you can barely scrape together enough for rent, here it means you are part of the elite. The people I work with, along with the UN staffers across the street, own the nicest homes and the fanciest cars. When I tell people I work for ICRAF, I usually get wide eyes and nods of appreciation. Can’t really say I got the same treatment when I worked for CUI.
Just like home, I still live in a suburb – but now, I live in the wealthiest suburb of Nairobi. Ever seen the show Cribs? The houses on my street put them to shame.
When I go downtown, I still take public transportation. Although in Toronto, 4 out of 5 accidents are not caused by rogue TTC buses attempting to dodge traffic by driving on the sidewalk.
At home, I lock the front door before I go to bed. Here, I lock the front door too. And my desk drawer. And my closet doors. Then I check the stash of money I’ve hidden under the couch. There’s even a key to lock the fridge. But just like home, the fridge is half-empty and what remains is on the verge of rotting so I don’t figure too many people would be interested.
At home, I like to meet up with friends to see a movie. Here, I go into town to pick up the latest theatrical releases on pirated DVD. Unlike home, where pirated DVDs are sold out of a suitcase by some sketchy Asian guy in Chinatown, they are sold in reputable stores all along the main streets. For a buck.
They also have the show Cheaters here. But unlike home where it only comes on Sat night after midnight, here it has a primetime slot at 8pm, FIVE NIGHTS A WEEK.
Needless to say, I’m getting along just fine.
For instance, it quickly became evident that few locals can pronounce my name. After I introduced myself, I usually got a puzzled glance and an incorrect name offered in response, such as “Casey?”, “Carrie?” or “Kevin?” (Yes seriously, Kevin). It was clear that my life would get much easier if I simply switched to Kate. I have also noticed that ‘Patterson’ has slowly morphed into ‘Peterson’, and I’m fine with that.
I feel like everything here is kind of like home, but not. Not unlike the Seinfeld episode with Bizarro Jerry. I work for an NGO – but while working at an NGO at home usually means you can barely scrape together enough for rent, here it means you are part of the elite. The people I work with, along with the UN staffers across the street, own the nicest homes and the fanciest cars. When I tell people I work for ICRAF, I usually get wide eyes and nods of appreciation. Can’t really say I got the same treatment when I worked for CUI.
Just like home, I still live in a suburb – but now, I live in the wealthiest suburb of Nairobi. Ever seen the show Cribs? The houses on my street put them to shame.
When I go downtown, I still take public transportation. Although in Toronto, 4 out of 5 accidents are not caused by rogue TTC buses attempting to dodge traffic by driving on the sidewalk.
At home, I lock the front door before I go to bed. Here, I lock the front door too. And my desk drawer. And my closet doors. Then I check the stash of money I’ve hidden under the couch. There’s even a key to lock the fridge. But just like home, the fridge is half-empty and what remains is on the verge of rotting so I don’t figure too many people would be interested.
At home, I like to meet up with friends to see a movie. Here, I go into town to pick up the latest theatrical releases on pirated DVD. Unlike home, where pirated DVDs are sold out of a suitcase by some sketchy Asian guy in Chinatown, they are sold in reputable stores all along the main streets. For a buck.
They also have the show Cheaters here. But unlike home where it only comes on Sat night after midnight, here it has a primetime slot at 8pm, FIVE NIGHTS A WEEK.
Needless to say, I’m getting along just fine.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
A Matatu Tale
As you may recall from my previous post, my lack of transportation options had left me reliant on the dreaded matatu. All week, my colleagues attempted to dissuade me from using it. “Four out of five accidents in Nairobi involve a matatu!” one cried. “Do you know how often they get held up by bandits?” asked another. “Be careful”, I was cautioned, “if you are speaking on your mobile while sitting by the window, people can reach inside and swipe it”.
I admit, the scare tactics nearly worked. Nearly. But the good people at ICRAF don’t know me like you do, dear readers. A taste for adventure, a fear of being hemmed in, and a bordering-on-obsessive tendency to google the hell out of a subject beforehand armed me with the courage to march out of my electric fence apartment Friday after work and conquer my fear. I can guarantee you, with absolute certainty, that no one has ever been more frightened or resolute in their determination to go to the mall.
It’s pretty simple to spot a matatu - roughly every fourth vehicle sports the government-mandated white siding with yellow stripe. While most matatus adhere to the colour regulations, they find a variety of other ways to trick out their ride. This would include adhering huge decals to the windshield with colourful phrases like PIMP JUICE, MONSTER, or COME LORD JESUS, blaring rap music, installing interior flashing lights, or exchanging their car horn for a much louder and deeper version. The colour may be boring, but trust me, they stand out.
My heart was racing as I approached the corner where the matatus stopped. I saw one coming but decided to let that one go by. No reason to rush things. Two more went by as I pretended to be waiting for something else. Finally, it was time. I raised my hand as the next one turned the corner, but it blew by me. No problem, three more were coming. I held out my hand and again was totally shut down. The rejection was painful. Was I standing in the wrong place? Was I hailing them incorrectly? Should I just call a cab?
As I contemplated this injustice, I was roused from my thoughts by flashing headlights. To my astonishment, a matatu slowed and the door slid open. The ‘conducta’ jumped out and ushered me inside. I made to jump in but stopped – there was nowhere to sit. He then pointed to a small sliver of bench about 3 inches wide. The three other passengers on the bench resignedly shuffled down, producing another inch. I barely had the chance to sit down before we sped off.
I’m sure we all have a hair-raising story about driving. But I’m pretty sure your stories do not include being crammed into a 14-seat minibus with 20 other people as the vehicle blasts Mariah Carey at near deafening levels while weaving in and out of oncoming traffic in order to pass a traffic jam. When we weren’t able to drive in the wrong lane, we sped along the raised median separating the two directions of traffic. When that ended, we used the sidewalk.
Right as I was starting to wonder if I would ever see my friends and family again, I found myself facing the mall entrance. Filled with a combination of pride and adrenaline, I desperately wanted to ask everyone if they saw me take the matatu and have they ever taken a matatu and it wasn’t even a big deal and I’ll probably do it all the time now?
The next night I drove by a matatu accident that had left several people injured. While my enthusiasm for the matatu was greatly diminished, I still feel imbued with a sense of accomplishment and the knowledge that freedom from the electric fence apartment is only one Mariah Carey song away.
I admit, the scare tactics nearly worked. Nearly. But the good people at ICRAF don’t know me like you do, dear readers. A taste for adventure, a fear of being hemmed in, and a bordering-on-obsessive tendency to google the hell out of a subject beforehand armed me with the courage to march out of my electric fence apartment Friday after work and conquer my fear. I can guarantee you, with absolute certainty, that no one has ever been more frightened or resolute in their determination to go to the mall.
It’s pretty simple to spot a matatu - roughly every fourth vehicle sports the government-mandated white siding with yellow stripe. While most matatus adhere to the colour regulations, they find a variety of other ways to trick out their ride. This would include adhering huge decals to the windshield with colourful phrases like PIMP JUICE, MONSTER, or COME LORD JESUS, blaring rap music, installing interior flashing lights, or exchanging their car horn for a much louder and deeper version. The colour may be boring, but trust me, they stand out.
My heart was racing as I approached the corner where the matatus stopped. I saw one coming but decided to let that one go by. No reason to rush things. Two more went by as I pretended to be waiting for something else. Finally, it was time. I raised my hand as the next one turned the corner, but it blew by me. No problem, three more were coming. I held out my hand and again was totally shut down. The rejection was painful. Was I standing in the wrong place? Was I hailing them incorrectly? Should I just call a cab?
As I contemplated this injustice, I was roused from my thoughts by flashing headlights. To my astonishment, a matatu slowed and the door slid open. The ‘conducta’ jumped out and ushered me inside. I made to jump in but stopped – there was nowhere to sit. He then pointed to a small sliver of bench about 3 inches wide. The three other passengers on the bench resignedly shuffled down, producing another inch. I barely had the chance to sit down before we sped off.
I’m sure we all have a hair-raising story about driving. But I’m pretty sure your stories do not include being crammed into a 14-seat minibus with 20 other people as the vehicle blasts Mariah Carey at near deafening levels while weaving in and out of oncoming traffic in order to pass a traffic jam. When we weren’t able to drive in the wrong lane, we sped along the raised median separating the two directions of traffic. When that ended, we used the sidewalk.
Right as I was starting to wonder if I would ever see my friends and family again, I found myself facing the mall entrance. Filled with a combination of pride and adrenaline, I desperately wanted to ask everyone if they saw me take the matatu and have they ever taken a matatu and it wasn’t even a big deal and I’ll probably do it all the time now?
The next night I drove by a matatu accident that had left several people injured. While my enthusiasm for the matatu was greatly diminished, I still feel imbued with a sense of accomplishment and the knowledge that freedom from the electric fence apartment is only one Mariah Carey song away.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The View Behind the Electric Fence
Jambo and welcome to my Nairobi diaries! My arrival in Kenya has gone very well so far. A driver from my work picked me up at the airport and took me home to my apartment (the ‘electric fence apartment’ as some of you may recall from the brochure). If the pictures in the brochure looked nice, they were nothing compared to real life. The place is gorgeous, with thick Indian rugs, a luxurious bed, and a beautiful bathroom and kitchen. All newly renovated I might add! My favourite feature is the huge wardrobe – the entire contents of both my suitcases fill about 1/3 of the space, which is pretty much every girl’s dream.
The next morning, the same driver picked me up and drove me to work. As we drove down my street, I was shocked to see that almost every house (every gigantic mansion, I should say) is the house of a foreign ambassador. I live next door to the German ambassador. Across the street from us is the Belgian ambassador. The Italian ambassador lives a little up the street from him, and at the corner is the Australian ambassador (the sign for his place is hand-written on a piece of wood though, so I’m really not impressed by him). I am located in a VERY upscale neighbourhood, and it shows. Every house has gates and walls crowned with electric fences and razor wire. Every house also has several guard dogs. This has been an interesting experience as suddenly they will all begin barking like mad, then just as suddenly, stop. Every once in a while to change it up they all howl together. It sounds like a wolf pack on my doorstep and it never fails to make my hair stand on end. We have two guard dogs here at the electric fence apartment – Simba and Coco. Simba is a massive German Sheppard and Coco is a mutt, much smaller. Luckily for me, Simba is a big snuggler. Coco, however, is pretty scary and the guards usually keep him away when I go or come home from work. Oh, did I forget to mention the three 24 hr security guards who staff the compound of the electric fence apartment? I actually am quite fond of the security guards. They all wear navy uniforms with red trim and a small hat. I always make a point of saying good morning or good afternoon and giving them a big smile so now every time I leave or come home they salute me. My landlady tells me one of them is Maasai – ‘the fair one’, she said. Well, they all look pretty dark to me. Maybe I will figure it out in time. I would very much like to talk to him about being Maasai but unfortunately I don’t know the names of any of the servants.
Yes, we have servants here at the electric fence apartment. Ten servants, actually. Three security guards, two gardeners, a cook, a maid, a driver, a maintenance person, and the maid of another person living on the property. Yesterday I had tea with the landlady, who told me this. The landlady took it upon herself to explain ‘how things are’ in Kenya. I can’t say I’m a huge fan of ‘how things are’. Firstly, I simply cannot adjust to the concept of servants. What are you picturing right now – a large black woman in a uniform trimmed with lace coming in to serve us tea, perhaps? You would be completely correct. The servants are not to be addressed and I have been told not to make friends with them as it becomes a huge nuisance (apparently they start asking you for money or neglecting their duties or something). The whole situation is extremely awkward and I hate it. I want to be that person that breaks down the class barrier and makes friends but I am starting to see now that it just doesn’t work like that. It is uncomfortable for both sides because it is ‘unnatural’. So I accept that this is the way things are. I will still attempt to learn everyone’s name though – to me that is the least I can do.
When you come to Kenya for the first time, you learn very quickly about security. All sorts of security – security to keep robbers out of your home, security to keep the servants from stealing your belongings, security when you ride in a vehicle, security when you are walking, security when you go to and from work, credit card security, etc. The first thing I did at work was attend a security briefing. The head of security at ICRAF is a former general in the Kenyan military who did two tours of duty in Darfur, so it's taken pretty seriously here. ICRAF has its own security office staffed 24/7, in addition to a privately contracted security firm on call. I was given 6 different numbers I could call in case of emergency. As you can imagine, it left me slightly uneasy. When I came home that day, my landlord also gave me a security briefing. He showed me how all my windows have bars on them, and how to pull a metal grill over my door which I can padlock when I leave. He showed me how I can lock all my belongings in the desk or wardrobe and recommended I do so as the servants ‘simply cannot be trusted’.
As a Canadian coming from a very safe city with a much smaller income disparity, my first inclination was to take all of this with a grain of salt. Obviously everyone cautions the single white female about security when she first arrives in Kenya, right? I don’t really have to take different routes to work to ensure people don’t follow me..right? I don’t actually have to lock myself into my apartment at night..right? Then the stories started. Horrible, graphic stories exchanged casually over lunch with a group of middle aged expats from Britain and Germany. I don’t want to repeat them here. Suddenly my electric fence apartment looked pretty good to me. Maybe we should add one more guard dog?
I am trying very hard not to become a prisoner in my own house because I know you have to accept some element of risk and continue to live your life. It has become very daunting though. Adding to this is my utter lack of transport (my suggestion to buy a bike was shot down as being too dangerous, what a surprise). There are local ‘buses’ called matatus – essentially speeding, erratically driven minivans crammed with people, but I have been too chicken to try them yet. Although I did see a white person get out of one this morning so perhaps there is hope for me. I have to take the matatu to work next week so expect a blog post devoted to that adventure. Anyway, thanks to a friend in my Masters program I connected with another Canadian girl who lives in town! An aside – I really like that going downtown is referred to here as ‘going into town’. Anyway, most people I worked with told me to avoid the place altogether but she is determined to show me it is safe so we will be meeting there on Saturday (check back for details, I’m sure it will be very exciting).
In short, my first few days in Nairobi have been both intriguing and slightly depressing. There is so much to learn and I feel overwhelmed most of the time, but I hope I will get a feel for things soon. I’m glad I can share these experiences and check back again soon for more!
The next morning, the same driver picked me up and drove me to work. As we drove down my street, I was shocked to see that almost every house (every gigantic mansion, I should say) is the house of a foreign ambassador. I live next door to the German ambassador. Across the street from us is the Belgian ambassador. The Italian ambassador lives a little up the street from him, and at the corner is the Australian ambassador (the sign for his place is hand-written on a piece of wood though, so I’m really not impressed by him). I am located in a VERY upscale neighbourhood, and it shows. Every house has gates and walls crowned with electric fences and razor wire. Every house also has several guard dogs. This has been an interesting experience as suddenly they will all begin barking like mad, then just as suddenly, stop. Every once in a while to change it up they all howl together. It sounds like a wolf pack on my doorstep and it never fails to make my hair stand on end. We have two guard dogs here at the electric fence apartment – Simba and Coco. Simba is a massive German Sheppard and Coco is a mutt, much smaller. Luckily for me, Simba is a big snuggler. Coco, however, is pretty scary and the guards usually keep him away when I go or come home from work. Oh, did I forget to mention the three 24 hr security guards who staff the compound of the electric fence apartment? I actually am quite fond of the security guards. They all wear navy uniforms with red trim and a small hat. I always make a point of saying good morning or good afternoon and giving them a big smile so now every time I leave or come home they salute me. My landlady tells me one of them is Maasai – ‘the fair one’, she said. Well, they all look pretty dark to me. Maybe I will figure it out in time. I would very much like to talk to him about being Maasai but unfortunately I don’t know the names of any of the servants.
Yes, we have servants here at the electric fence apartment. Ten servants, actually. Three security guards, two gardeners, a cook, a maid, a driver, a maintenance person, and the maid of another person living on the property. Yesterday I had tea with the landlady, who told me this. The landlady took it upon herself to explain ‘how things are’ in Kenya. I can’t say I’m a huge fan of ‘how things are’. Firstly, I simply cannot adjust to the concept of servants. What are you picturing right now – a large black woman in a uniform trimmed with lace coming in to serve us tea, perhaps? You would be completely correct. The servants are not to be addressed and I have been told not to make friends with them as it becomes a huge nuisance (apparently they start asking you for money or neglecting their duties or something). The whole situation is extremely awkward and I hate it. I want to be that person that breaks down the class barrier and makes friends but I am starting to see now that it just doesn’t work like that. It is uncomfortable for both sides because it is ‘unnatural’. So I accept that this is the way things are. I will still attempt to learn everyone’s name though – to me that is the least I can do.
When you come to Kenya for the first time, you learn very quickly about security. All sorts of security – security to keep robbers out of your home, security to keep the servants from stealing your belongings, security when you ride in a vehicle, security when you are walking, security when you go to and from work, credit card security, etc. The first thing I did at work was attend a security briefing. The head of security at ICRAF is a former general in the Kenyan military who did two tours of duty in Darfur, so it's taken pretty seriously here. ICRAF has its own security office staffed 24/7, in addition to a privately contracted security firm on call. I was given 6 different numbers I could call in case of emergency. As you can imagine, it left me slightly uneasy. When I came home that day, my landlord also gave me a security briefing. He showed me how all my windows have bars on them, and how to pull a metal grill over my door which I can padlock when I leave. He showed me how I can lock all my belongings in the desk or wardrobe and recommended I do so as the servants ‘simply cannot be trusted’.
As a Canadian coming from a very safe city with a much smaller income disparity, my first inclination was to take all of this with a grain of salt. Obviously everyone cautions the single white female about security when she first arrives in Kenya, right? I don’t really have to take different routes to work to ensure people don’t follow me..right? I don’t actually have to lock myself into my apartment at night..right? Then the stories started. Horrible, graphic stories exchanged casually over lunch with a group of middle aged expats from Britain and Germany. I don’t want to repeat them here. Suddenly my electric fence apartment looked pretty good to me. Maybe we should add one more guard dog?
I am trying very hard not to become a prisoner in my own house because I know you have to accept some element of risk and continue to live your life. It has become very daunting though. Adding to this is my utter lack of transport (my suggestion to buy a bike was shot down as being too dangerous, what a surprise). There are local ‘buses’ called matatus – essentially speeding, erratically driven minivans crammed with people, but I have been too chicken to try them yet. Although I did see a white person get out of one this morning so perhaps there is hope for me. I have to take the matatu to work next week so expect a blog post devoted to that adventure. Anyway, thanks to a friend in my Masters program I connected with another Canadian girl who lives in town! An aside – I really like that going downtown is referred to here as ‘going into town’. Anyway, most people I worked with told me to avoid the place altogether but she is determined to show me it is safe so we will be meeting there on Saturday (check back for details, I’m sure it will be very exciting).
In short, my first few days in Nairobi have been both intriguing and slightly depressing. There is so much to learn and I feel overwhelmed most of the time, but I hope I will get a feel for things soon. I’m glad I can share these experiences and check back again soon for more!
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