Nairobi

This past weekend we went to Nairobi. James had some fellowship meeting with former classmates, and I, well I needed a change of scenery. I am pushing two months now and was itching to see something other than Murang’a; not that Murang’a isn’t ACE!

I got the white knuckle ride I had so longed for the previous weekend on the way to Nairobi. For as little as 200KES (a bit less than £2), you can revisit every moment of your life in fast forward as you rocket towards Nairobi in an overheated metal box.

As we raced down the C71 with Boney M’s Greatest hits blasting, I could only surmise that someone had bet the driver he couldn’t get there in under 90 minutes. Sat up front, the slightly rotund lady next to me and I hung on to anything screwed or welded down as we hurtled round bends, raced through intersections and ignored pedestrian crossings. For a split second I swear I looked round to see the driver had transformed into Satan.

Our only respite was climbing hills, when weighed down by passengers we chugged up them reluctantly. Motorbikes, cars, lorries and the smell of the engine overtook us as we screamed up in second gear. But once over the crest of the hill, the driver stepped on the gas and accelerated to 100 mph in a matter of seconds. We flew down the other side passing everything that had passed us on the way up.

Thinking if I exchanged a few words and thus created a relationship with the driver he might value my life a little more, I asked him a question:

- What time do you think we will arrive in Nairobi?

He answered my question with a question of his own:

- How can we sing the lord’s song in a straaaaange land?

I should have prayed at last week’s weekend challenge I thought to myself

Approaching the outskirts of Nairobi, the pace slowed markedly as we were absorbed into the traffic that blights and blocks every artery of Nairobi. The pace may have slowed but the danger was far from over, for you see only the rules of the game had changed. Now, instead of just brut speed; simply bombing past your fellow road user, it was a case of outwitting, outslaloming & outchicaning them. We’d gone from Monza to Monaca, an altogether more challenging proposition.

Swapping Boney M for Asswad, we got in amongst it: down the wrong side of the road, the wrong way round roundabouts, off the road altogether, turning off at junctions only to pull on again at the last minute in front of the vehicle ahead of us … it was no holds barred.
But, in spite of seat of the pants nature of the journey, we arrived alive and well. Indeed the only incident we saw was on the way back; an upturned truck loaded (well, no-longer) with tomatoes.

Nairobi’s reputation precedes it. Known as Nairobbery, it is famed for its extremes: crime and poverty. I don’t doubt the existence of the first, but I only saw the latter. But that said, the city appeared vibrant and chock full of shops and all kinds of restaurants. I only wish I had more time to really get under the surface. Next time.

Walking from the mutatu stage, we left the grittier part of town renowned its illegal Somali and Sudanese immigrants, passed innumerable mobile phone and electronic shops in the direction of the plusher CBD and the Hilton hotel where we went our separate ways. James had arranged to meet and stay with his university class mates, and I was expected at the Bishop’s son’s family home.

It was quite dark and quite late when I arrived at Kirru’s place, and finding most of the family was attending the school play, I had a late supper with Flo (the house help) and hit the hay.

Saturday: Sight-seeing

Replenished after a good night sleep, a proper shower (yay!) and a breakfast of Weetabix (how long has it been!), toast and fruit, I was ready to get out and discover a bit Nairobi. But before I did, I watched the family’s Saturday morning routine. Kirru is married to Mercy and together they have 2 daughters (Njoki & Wanjiru) and 1 son (Mahia).

The first to leave was Kirru who was taking part in a training session all weekend. He shot out at 08h30. Then Mercy went to the gym before coming home and taking Wanjiru & Mahia to their piano lesson. In the meantime, Njoki welcomed her Biology tutor for her Saturday morning class (Njoki is preparing for her A-Levels in 2 months). It struck me as I sat in the eye of this domestic hurricane, that this family was no different than many families I had known when I was a child including my own; very active, lots of past-times, Dad shouting at the kids to get ready and hurry up, Mum playing the role of taxi driver. And the children, well they say ‘way’, ‘like’ and ‘whatever’ … the lingua franca of kids the world over. Already in Nairobi we were a world away from Murang’a; in fact this family’s life in Nairobi seemed closer to the lives I have experienced in the UK, France of the US, than life in Murang’a.

James arrived at about 11h00 and together we set off to explore Nairobi…or at least as much as we could in a day. Our first destination was the National Museum which apparently is one of the must sees. Situated a shortish but sweaty walk (past an overturned tea juggernaut) from the city centre, the National Museum houses an extensive if depressing collection of stuffed native animals and birds. And in the centre of it all there is the skeleton of an elephant called Ahmed who became something of cours celebre in the 1980s owing to his enormous tusks. As a prime target for poachers, the President of Kenya (knowing a vote winner when he saw one) granted Ahmed 2 round the clock body guards who followed him wherever he went. One morning they woke up to find him dead (no doubt knackered from trying to shake off those two blokes who kept following him) and his remains were repatriated to Nairobi as patrimony of the nation.

If like me, looking at stuffed animals is not your idea of fun, there is the exhibit on man’s evolution (all linked to the fossil remains found in an around Kenya - Lake Turkana primarily) and the exhibits on the Kenyan culture and wildlife in the Masai Mara which were top drawer.

Dosed up on culture for another 2 months, we made our way back into town for some retail therapy. I needed a phone as I can no longer legitimately continue to use my French one.
As we headed back into town we were relieved to see the tea from the overturned tea juggernaut was being transferred to another truck.

James led us through a labyrinth of back streets where every second shop was printers or plate makers. The streets got narrower and narrower until you could reach out and touch the walls on either side … and get your hands very dirty. James wanted to show me where he used to work when he was at University in Nairobi; I thought I could do the same in Birmingham until I remembered I hadn’t worked. We stopped off in the printers James used to work in to say hello to a group of 3 guys who were busy rattling off election posters for the student council. The place smelt overpoweringly of ink, which I thought to myself explained the glazed look on their faces.

Pleasantries over, we stopped off in a Safaricom agency just long enough for me to get my own phone, the first for 5 years (number +254 717 96 47 94) before going to celebrate its acquisition with some fries and ice-cream. We ate our food in front of the window of a TV showroom watching Aston Villa play Wolves…it was great.

As time was not on our side by now, we got a shift on to Parliament. I am ashamed to say I was more than a little disappointed. I don’t mean to cause any offence; it’s just that I was expecting an imposing Victorian colonial structure, a cross between Mansion House & the Old Bailey. What I beheld looked more like a converted fire station. We didn’t hang around.

That evening back at Kiiru’s place, Mercy was kind enough to run me to a supermarket when I admitted I was really missing cheese. The selection was not wide; it ran to cheddar. Playing safe, I opted for some cheddar and returned to the till via the biscuit aisle in hope more than anything else and was overjoyed to find Hob Nobs … even if there were £2 a packet! (Note to all, please include Hob Nobs in any future food parcels).

Sunday: Church & Slum

You must know by now that Sunday here invariably means church. I was invited to accompany my hosts and their family to Nairobi Chapel. Dispel any ideas of a small sandstone country church, the Nairobi Chapel is an enormous circus tent that from a distance (and close up) looks more like a big top. I reckon you could fit 8 tennis courts inside the main one alone … as there is a smaller separate one for the youth church; us youngsters don’t mix with crusty older flock, or so I thought.

Now I know you’ll back me up on this. It was only natural when I headed in the direction of the youth service. Imagine my horror therefore when I was called back for being “clearly over 18”. Balderdash, there’s nothing clear about it!

A little disgruntled, Mercy and I entered the main big top for what I’ll refer to as the “mature persons’ service”. The place was rammed. I’m shocking at maths, but looking around I quickly calculated well over 1000 people. We found ourselves a couple of green garden chairs and sat down in front of large stage upon which a band was tuning up. A few moments later the band were joined by 7 singers.

The ‘band’ struck up and we were off. It was more like a pop concert than a church service with only the lyrics betraying the true nature of why we were there. Following the lead singer’s example, most people had their hands in the air, others were turning round and others were shuffling from side to side…but all were singing along lustily; and if heaven forbid you didn’t know the words then you could refer to the giant screen overhead.

After four or five well received numbers, the band and six of the singers exited leaving the lead singer alone on the stage.

- Is he going to do a couple of solos? I asked Mercy
- No, that’s the junior priest, she replied.

And so he was. For 45 minutes he addressed the congregation and for 45 minutes he had the congregation in stitches, but always with a message. There was an interview section when he invited a couple on stage to recount their own story (they both used to be ravers, drink a lot and live in sin before finding Jesus and being reborn), and finally the local youth dance troop “Dice” (Dedicated In Christ Expression) came on a performed … they weren’t quite Diversity, but they were pretty good…I managed to catch them after the service to invite them to come and work with our dance club here at St. Anna and they agreed! The priest ended his sermon by asking if there were any first-timers at the Nairobi Chapel. My hand shot up and I received a bag of ground nuts and a warm round of applause.

It was all very different than the church going days of my youth…much less formal and stuffy. I’m not suggesting this kind of set-up would have them flocking back in droves in the UK, but it couldn’t hurt. Talking with Mercy as we filed out, she told me her children absolutely love it…I can almost see why.

As we drove back, Mercy asked me if I would like to see the Kibera slum. Of course I said, without knowing quite to what I was agreeing to. I was horrified and fascinated, shocked and awestruck, sickened and saddened all at the same time. It was Dickensian in its depravity.

Approaching Kibera, you could be mistaken for thinking it is a large market but you quickly realise it is much more. As if someone has spread tin foil across the landscape, the metal rooves of Kibera stretch as far as the eye can see … and it is continually growing.

No sooner do you see Kibera then you smell it. The air was filled with a mix of vegetables and excrement. We passed through recurring waves of coriander and sewage.

Children scurried over piles of refuse for food and to salvage anything of any worth. As we drove along the main road that snakes through the slum, a young boy skipped across the road in front of the car holding a bottle top triumphantly aloft.

I was overcome with the desire stop and explore, but knowing there was fat chance of Mercy acceding to my request and slim chance of me coming out alive, I kept quiet. But I made a mental note to ask James if there is any way of organising an escorted visit at another time (watch this space but not a word to Omi).

As we left Kibera behind us, Mercy told me that Kibera falls in the Prime Minister’s constituency. Why on earth they elect him back into parliament to represent them is beyond me. In spite of the conditions, the residents continually reject the Government’s proposals to relocate them elsewhere. Better the devil you know I suppose?

And that was more or less it. After lunch I met James and we headed back to St. Anna. I slept all the way. The change of scenery was most welcome, but it is nice to be back with the children for their last full week (and exams) before the Easter break.
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I reckoned you’d want to know more about Kibera, so what follows is a direct transcript from the Lonely Planet (reproduced without their permission…Ssshhh!):

KIBERA
Home to an estimated 1 million residents, the shanty town of Kibera is second in size only to Soweto in Johannesburg, South Africa. Kibera, which is derived from a Nubian word ‘kibra’, meaning forest, it is a sprawling urban jungle of shanty town housing. The neighbourhood was thrust into the Western imagination when it was featured prominently in the Fernando Meirelles film The Constant Gardener, which is based on the book of the same name by John le Carré. With the area heavily polluted by open sewers, and lacking even the most basic infrastructure, residents of Kibera suffer poor nutrition, violent crime and disease.

Although it’s virtually impossible to collect accurate statistics on shanty towns, which change their demographics almost daily, the rough estimates for Kibera are shocking enough. According to local aid workers, Kibera is home to one pit toilet for every 100 people, suffers from an HIV/AIDS infection rate of more than 20% (Matthew’s note: versus 6% in Kenya at large), and four out of five people living here are unemployed. These stark realities are compounded by the fact that the social services needed to address the situation are largely absent form governmental policies.

HISTORY
The British established Kibera in 1918 for Nubian soldiers as reward for service in WWI. However, following Kenyan independence in 1963, housing in Kibera was rendered illegal by the government on the basis of land tenure. But this new legislation inadvertently allowed the Nubians to rent out their property to a greater number of tenants than legally permitted and, for poorer tenants Kibera was perceived as affordable despite the legalities. Since the mid-1970s, though, control has been firmly in Kikuyu hands, who now comprise the bulk of the population.

ORIENTATION
Kibera is located southwest of the CBD. Although it is 2.5 sq km in area, it’s home to somewhere between a quarter and third of Nairobi’s population, and has a density of approximately 300,000 people per sq km.