A dowry and a drive from hell

From left to right: James (groom to be), Manu, Stella, Anne and yours truly

This weekend I had the pleasure and honour to attend the dowry ceremony of the wife-to-be of one of my Nairobi colleagues.  He's from a tribe here in Kenya called Kikuyu, who apparently have several layers to their dowry agreeing and payment.  For us, the whole thing was combined into a single gathering.

But what a trek to get there.  As with most optimistic invitations to a great shindig only a few minutes by car away, the devil is so often in the detail.  We were late setting off since one of our party had car troubles - then we sped to the first traffic jam just 100m down the road from our starting point.  After about 30 minutes we hit a second larger "car-park" of a jam on the new super-highway from Nairobi to Thika.  Built by the Chinese, and not quite finished, the slip roads are devoid of any guidance or jurisdiction - and as one side road full, teeming with passenger buses and trucks, wanted to cross the main highway, the whole procession came to a grinding halt.

The bride-to-be is in yellow

Another 30 minutes or so passed with only centimetres gained and then as is if by magic, the traffic cop arrived and sorted us all out.  We were free.

Zooming down the now fairly empty super-highway, we arrived in the "village hall" where negotiations for the dowry amount were coming to a close.  So we didn't even descend the car but reversed out of the mud-caked car park and back on the country road to Gatundu - where money was to be handed over before gaining permission to access the bride-to-be's homestead.

The proceedings were running about 2.5 hours late by this point.  And I had a pressing engagement with a rendition of Gilbert and Sullivan back in the city centre...how was I going to manage my time?!?!

So we followed the convoy up a narrow dirt track, passed burgeoning coffee groves and luscious banana trees to the tent and after managing to engage my 4-wheel drive, parked on a rather soggy grass verge.  We headed up the track to cries of singing women.  It was explained to me, that the female guests had to request permission to enter the party and only after much volleying to and fro of "may I come in" and " no we're not ready yet" in the vernacular Kikuyu, the ladies were granted entry and the men guests duly followed.

A managed to capture a few instances of the singing here:

Cooking in the al fresco kitchen

The mood was happy and everyone patiently sat down and waited for the prayers.  A lady came forward and addressed us all.  She then bowed her head and closed her eyes - most of the guests did likewise.  Then with alarming speed, she rattled off, for about 3 minutes solid, prayers for this, that and the other.  Astounding.

We then (at last) were invited to eat.  Even though senior citizens had been given preference in the queue, we barged to the front, piled our plates, scoffed the (not bad, actually) food and dashed to find the happy couple to bid farewell.  Perhaps a tad impolite, but The Pirates of Penzance - Nairobi-style - were awaiting and we couldn't delay.

My beans, stew and chipati

Getting back to the city was much easier and we were only snarled up once.  There was a scary moment when traffic cut through an opening in the central reservation and sped up the outside lane of the opposite carriage way - they'd spotted a jam up ahead and thought they'd head it off at the pass so to speak.  Needless to say, I joined them...!  What fun...!

A rather tiring outing - I was behind the wheel for about 5 hours - and only travelled about 100km round trip.  But fascinating and the Gatundu region was quite breathtakingly beautiful.

Will need to ask my colleague when I get in tomorrow, just how many goats were haggled for at the dowry meeting and if he has secured sufficient funds to purchase them.

Not too different from a western wedding...ahem ahem.

Chemical not comic - FE not X.

A sure sign I'm getting old manifested itself the other day.

I was chatting with the parents of my godson and quite happily following things when suddenly a reference to Iron Men came up.  I thought I was being hip & trendy and nodded knowingly when they mentioned the Liverpool exhibition.

I naturally assumed a Marvel-Comic's-type display showing the genesis of the superheroes etc.  I must confess I wasn't that enamoured about traipsing around a 2nd-tier city showcase hall over Halloween to see cardboard cutouts of vamps & electrifiers - but being a godfather has its downsides I suppose.

Then the mum referred to the beach.  And the proverbial penny dropped.

Ah, they were talking about the cast-iron statues imposingly studded on the beach at Crosby by the renowned sculpter (http://www.sefton.gov.uk/default.aspx?page=6216 ) Antony Gormley.

Relieved at the prospect of something more high-brow and delfated at not being as hip as I thought I was, I agreed to accompany them all.

We zoomed down the shore to see the tide fully in, lapping happily against the promenade wall.

Almanacs do sometimes come in handy - if only my friends had bothered to consult one...

So we went into town, did some shopping and came back later in the afternoon - bought a 99 flake ice cream, poured red & green sauce over it - and finally gazed into the setting sun glinting off these rather amazing iron figurines standing motionless in the Crosby sands.

Quite a sight...even if embarrassment was a side-journey getting there.

Two Indian travellers just plonked themselves (with a certain amount of courtesy, I must admit) at my table.  I was happily and nonchalantly scoffing my beef pie, washing it down with a refreshing local lager: White Cap.  Thinking about how I could possibly kill 1.5 hours stuck at JKIA (Jomo Kenyatta International Airport), I was suddenly struck with an urge to type.

 

So here’s what’s going on around me.  Hope it will be as interesting for you to read is, as it is for me to watch.

 

A colic-consumed infant screams its lungs off – it sounds very painful – time to turn up the volume on my iPod.

 

A young local has just sat next to a stranger complete with two bottles of beer – apparently not prepared to stand in line for a 2^nd – and, I, having been queue jumped while I was there, totally sympathise.  And since there is a Kenyan peculiarity of drinking alcohol and soda drinks at room temperature – I don’t suppose he’ll care when the 2^nd bottle is already lukewarm.

 

A group of Scandinavian backpackers are crumpled on a tiny table behind me with their Mac and delighting in reminiscing in their recent safari  and African village adventures.  Cows mingle with elephants and the odd native in a bright red blanket wrapped around him making him look rather like a Quality Street sweet.

 

A wobbling blue-clad policeman passes by the cafe rubbing his chin – I wonder if he longs for a nice lukewarm beer too.  The peak cap he wears suggest authority and the 35cm cane he has sandwiched under his armpit suggesting even a tad more than that.  He about-turns and heads off in  the direction he came from .

 

One of the Indian travellers opposite me, just yawned so widely without covering his mouth I could almost see his colon never mind his tonsils.  Sigh.

 

And a female beauty in red just joined the young guy with the two beers for a “hello”.  He immediately introduced her to his new-found friend on the same table and she instinctively reached out her hand to shake the stranger’s.  He lingered, holding on for longer than a European might be comfortable with – making that African connection – conveying friendship and respect in a lengthy grasp.  A quick almost-dismissive tug of hands will not suffice here – and I like that.

 

Passengers are coming and going and I suppose I could ramble on for hours describing the funny, the fat, the fragile, the frisky or even the fatherly.  The suited, the slumped, the stressed, the shopping and even the sexy.  And coincidentally, the fatherly and sexy just happen to be the same, as I notice that my White Cap is empty. 

 

When I paid for my beef pie and beer about 20 minutes ago, the server didn’t have the correct change and he gave me extra to save the hassle of me waiting.  He smiled and said you can offset it against your next purchase...I retorted: “I might not have a 2^nd purchase, but will see you on my next flight,” – but as with people experienced in certain fields however banal or pedestrian, he knew better and thus, please forgive me as I complete this blog entry to skip to the counter for my next beer.

Replying all - ignoring all?

Just a couple of days ago, the mammoth straw was cast upon my unsuspecting back and I snapped.  Like Chinese water torture, the torrents of Reply All comments had dripped and dripped into my inbox.  I duly deleted them.

Fortunately with auto-view I can see the rubbish that people dump in Reply All mails and quickly abandon even opening them up to get annoyed at the nonsense people write in such mails - and the irrelevance they contain - sometimes even to the original sender.

This latest instance was a valid request from a colleague for information to help secure a client contract - a noble aim indeed.  However, the innocuous, unhelpful, unfettered garbage that ensued was pique of waste.

A waste of effort on the senders' part; a waste of time for the poor original sender - since all the comments were saying "Sorry, I don't have anything...!"; and a waste in general for all the other poor sods in the Reply All To box.  [This is not to mention the waste of electrons whizzing around the planet to send the emails from sender to all the recipients, then from the stupid recipients back to all the other recipients and then on top of that all the Out of Office Notifications that are returned to said stupid recipients who hit Reply All.] 

So what did I do?  Well I hit Reply All and kindly - it was polite I must confess - requested people to at least "think" before they robotically hit Reply All - I was hoping to keep my inbox a little cleaner and my synapses too...!

No wonder emails go unanswered, no wonder mails are lost in the forest of junk we get in our inboxes.

Join the crusade - tell the stupid ones, that we, the enlightened, will not hit Reply All, unless it's relevant to all those in the To line and edit the recipient list to make sure we are communicating sensibly as opposed to blindly, bumblingly and in a bothersome way.  The notes of "well said" I got back from people I don't even know suggests there is a war in great need of being waged here.

You can't hit Reply All on this blog - but you could forward to others to help share the message and clog up your friends' inboxes.

How ironic would that be!!!

Put another coin in the Lusaka meter?

I was a tad bored, I must confess.  Sitting at my dining table in a swanky Lusaka restaurant called "Rhapsody's", I swished through the pages of Africa Geographic and thought I wonder whom I could call to have a chat with.  Mind you, the menu, which is pictured below, was rather thought-provoking in itself.

My good friend in Maryport sprang to mind.  I dialled and got through with a crystal clear connection from Zambia to England.


We talked about many things, but the opening sentence set the scene and I was challenged about why I was calling.  The assumption was either that I had been stood up by a date, or the electricity had gone off (again) and I was bored.  Well, needless to say I was slightly miffed by the insinuation, but continued to talk to my so-called chum regardless.

There were discussions about schooling and the British press and even a momentary murmur a propos UK high-street fashion.  I was trying to end the conversation with my garrulous gal on the other end by saying I should really hang up and was accused of having to put a 50p in the meter to keep talking.  This lead me to telling a tale of when I was about 8 or so and me another young schmuck were hijacked on our way home from primary school by a rather histrionic grandmother claiming her electric meter (remember those?) was jammed and the imminent power cut would render her cold and cooker-less. 

She implored us to rush to the local electricity provider (NORWEB as it was – remember that?!) and ask for help.  My friend and I duly sped down the street and barged into the “showroom” as they were called back in those days. 

We explained the lady’s plight and gave her coordinates.  The lady behind the counter, sighed, laughed, scowled and finally imparted to us that the silver-haired granny in question was a known hijacker-of-kids-on-their-way-from-school and should be condescended to but not taken seriously.  She had a habit of stuffing the meter full of 50p coins out of fear and probably had enough coins jammed in there to last a week.  My friend and I continued on our merry way with a mouthful of Black Jacks (now who remembers those!!!) and went home.

I do hope the granny didn’t freeze to death.  But I shall never know – the hijacking was a one-off occurrence.

And so my chatty counterpart and I continued for another 10 minutes or so.  I persisted, I must go.  And then came the thunderbolt.  “Oh, I see, you really do need a 50p for the meter, don’t you?!  No wait...”  she pursued, “perhaps you could maximise your 50p...!”  I was intrigued to know how.  “Well,” she continued, “you don’t put it in the meter and that way you’ll be plunged into darkness and the date that you’re denying is waiting for you in the wings will be spared the embarrassment of your visog.”

Well to say I was miffed, is an understatement, but not for the reason you’re perhaps thinking.  I was annoyed she’d delivered the same witty remark I was about to make before her – and the cow beat me to it.

That’s when you know you have a real friend.

Anyone got a spare 50p?

A brush with Kenyan bureaucracy

Friday morning, I was picked up by the company driver, Robert, and we headed purposefully to the Kenya revenue Authority (KRA) to register for my revenue PIN - this is a number that confirms that I exist as far as the KRA are concerned and also is required for all manner of things in Kenya - including an electricty account and perhaps most surprisingly of all, allows my furniture to come ashore in Mombassa - when it eventually arrives across the Inidan Ocean from Singapore.

So you can imagine how excited I was.

I proceeded to the PIN registration desk and was met by a charming smiling woman.  "I've come to register for a PIN please," I said in utter naivity.  "Hmmm," she countered with another broad smile.  

"Do you have your alien certificate, sir?"

"No, I don't, I was told I needed my work permit and passport only."

"Oh dear, I have bad news for you then, " she responded with a slight grimace to her now ever slightly annoying showing of teeth.  "You will need your alien certificate, since we had a security breach 2 months ago and the ministry have given strict guidelines that we can only accept applications supported by an approved alien certificate."

I called Robert, and we zipped off to Nyayo House - the bastion of all things immigration.

Well, I should have known, that it would have been far too wonderful, if things had gone smoothly.  I bounded up the steps and saw ahead of me a line of people sitting behind grills reminiscent of a 1940s railway ticketing office.  I approached one man - and dared to disturb his reading of the daily newspaper.

I had to extract every piece of information out of him like with verbal plyers.  After 6 or 7 probing questions I managed to glean that I needed a completed form, 2 photos, 2000 shillings and the patience of a saint.  This alien certificate was going to take SIX WEEKS to process.  Even my daring to suggest a "quicker" route - nudge nudge wink wink - was rebuffed. 

So with tail between my legs I slouched out of the immigration dungeon and will submit the necessary (as our Indian friends are inclinded to say) complete with photos and payment next week instead.

Crumpled piece of paper - so-called driving licence

It seems a tad ironic, that my application for a Kenyan drivers' license (see above) was processed in a matter of days and I was issued with the temporary paper copy (presumably to waive at an accosting policeman, should he challenge my right to drive on Kenyan highways).

So there you have it: it takes weeks to get the "right" to pay taxes in Kenya, and mere days to be let loose on the roads to take your life in you own (and more often involuntarily to put in someone elses) hands.

Partying is nice .... giving is nicer

Well it seems a bloody long time ago since we were gyrating in Maryport and bopping in Singapore to celebrate a 40^th birthday – or two ;-)

 

Maryport was fabulously cold, it being the dead of winter and foggy – which although that blinking mist obscured the fireworks I’d laid on, it didn’t dampen our enjoyment.

 

Then similarly the weather played tricks on us in Singapore with a torrential downpour of almost biblical proportions – I’m sure a posse of party-goers were out back building an ark, just in case...

 

But if you recall, we did have collection boxes at both parties and your generosity was beautiful.

 

I (eventually) got round to donating the money to the charities and am very pleased to say (after glowing thank you letters from both organisations) that you kindly donated the following:

 

GBP430 for the UK Eczema Society and S$1600 for the Tana River Project in Kenya.

 

Not sure when I’ll be having my first party here in Nairobi, but naturally you’ll be welcome (ahem ahem) and look out for the pics.

 

Thank you all again.

Has Virgin lost its lustre?

A tinge - but I must confess only a microscopic twinge - of guilt zoomed through me.  I was checking in, clearing customs, sitting in the lounge, boarding, sipping champagne.  And whither?  To London, in Virgin Upper Class.

But the guilt quickly subsided.  This was my treat and why the hell not?!  I'm lucky and I appreciate the fact, and now that I was sitting in seat A1 on the tarmac at NBO (read Nairobi Jomo Kenyatta International Airport - about to jet off to LHR (read London Heathrow) I was loving every second of it.

It was quite some time since I'd flown VS (read Virgin Atlantic Airlines) in their business class.  And I remembered it well.  The seats had changed to the herring bone configuration with a flat-bed option - but surprisingly the safety video, complete with its quirky animations - was the same from about 10 years ago.  That was fine - actually, it was still quite amusing.

The in-flight service, after only about half an hour in, was impressive - even if the champagne served was lukewarm - an ice cube delicately dropped into the generously filled flute soon remedied that.  I was then cocooned in my bubble-of-a-seat and ready for the 8.35 hour flight.

BRB - as the youngsters say.

*    *    *

Well, I'm almost landing and it's been a mixed flight - if truth be told.

The seats are actually quite old; the rough-around-the-edges feel you get from years of rdisrespectful passengers is showing through.  You can see from the photos crumbs in the personal stowage pocket and wine stains on the seat where I was to place my head when snoozing.

The crew have been pleasant enough and the food very passable - but I haven't been wow-ed.  One of the best things has been the cosy duvet you get to lure the sandman in - it beats the hessian-type blankets one is thrown from many other airlines in so-called business class.

What was good?

The seat configuration - if the guy in 2D hadn't spent the first hour of the flight perched on the "guest" seat of 2A - next to me  But there I stumble...I, unfortunately, find many more things to urge improvement on.  The entertainment system was primitive: tapes on a loop with no interactive options.  Even the magazine choice was limited to at least 6 six copies of the same edition of Conde Nast Traveller magazine - I love to travel but even I can't skim the same jaunting journalism six times in succession!

Something I didn't mention earlier was the schlepp to the aircraft: we cleared security screening (with two separate passes through the x-ray conveyor belts) at gate 10.  This was apparently a UK Department of Transport requirement: apparently the Kenyans can't be trusted to get it right first time..!  Then we trawled down stone steps to the tarmac, where I presumed to find an expectant bus driver complete with bus to ferry us to the airplane boarding steps.  But that wasn't to be.  We then had to walk about 200m towards gate 12 and climb the 2 flights of stairs to access the ganty to the plane door.  

Now, I suspect the aforementioned additional security can only be accommodated in one place - NBO (remember what that stands for?!) not being the best organised airport on the planet.  It would have been nice to get an apology from VS as we boarded - but not a peep from anyone on the matter.  One would have they thought could lobby the airport for a bit more coordination - sigh.  And at least an apology from either the in-flight supervisor or the captain would have been a nice interjection to the inocuous, rambling, nauseating "do"s and "don't"s list - which I'm sure gets longer and longer each time I get on a plane (especially UK-based carriers).  (Can you believe on Virgin they even warned against standing up while wearing ones earphones: reportedly this unmeasured action can result in damaging the earphone sockets and impair your listening pleasure for the remainder of the flight.  Geez!!

So I'll be disembarking a wee bit disappointed, and think next time I'll take premium economy out and the bed in Upper Class back for the night jounrey.  As a research man, I'd give the entire experience a rather lukewarm 7/10 - just like my champagne upon boarding.  

Come on Virgin!  You can do better.

Moving in.

Sometimes we don’t think things through as well as we might – something after two wondrous years in Japan, I know the Nippon people would never be accused of – very high tsunami, failed diesel generators and a near-meltdown-Fukushima-situation notwithstanding.

But as I trudged up the 4 flights of stairs to my new Nairobi apartment, a sinking sensation set in.  I grasped the front door handle, breathless from the climb, pushed it open and a rush ensued.

Happy to be “home”; excited by imagining my furniture in situ; perturbed at the apparent lack of light bulbs; and dismayed by my realisation that the unfurnished flat, was truly unfurnished.  I scanned the kitchen to find no fridge, no washing machine and no cooker.

Merrily, yea merrily, I skipped off to the local hyper-market, Nakumatt, for a stock-up.

Anyway, after 1 hour and with 700 pounds sterling evaporated from my bank account, I got back to the flat and struck a few matches.  As the phosphorous filled the air and a flame flickered into life on my candles’ wicks, I settled down, snug on my newly acquired mattress to watch the penultimate episode of Gavin and Stacey.

iPads are surely blessed things.

Although it did feel strange: I had a 21st century gizmo, a glass of Australian whisky (cut over so slightly by Kenyan filtered water) and a faint glow of candlight illuminating my very empty bedroom in a decidedly 18 century way.

Not a picture one sees every day of the week.  (Thank goodness!)

Sometime a speech is hard to give

Unaccustomed as I am not, giving my speech of farewell in Singapore was a little more troublesome than usual.  I first was in an impromptu fashion (thanks Baxter@!) propelled to give an improvised one at my flat leaving party – standing on a chair, I had to think on my feet.....I think it was OK – but I do love planning a speech.  That said, I’m sure the guests were relieved it was short and pithy.

Then I wrote a speech for my official Synovate leaving do, with clients and all.  Well, the venue wasn’t appropriate and not many clients turned up, so it didn’t get read.

I thought of recycling it at my cake-cutting final day in the office – and that didn’t feel appropriate either.

So I recycled it a 3^rd time at a final brunch at the China Club and it almost worked.

Here it is for your enjoyment...and indeed mine – I thoroughly enjoyed writing it and when I eventually got to read it out, was moved – and saw others moved by it.

“After 8 years of living in wonderful Singapore, I’m moving on. 

8, as we know is a very auspicious number in Chinese culture and that surely bodes a good omen.

So staying with the number 8, I thought I'd list a few things in the same vein:

Favourite foods: roti prata, mee goreng, xiao long bao, fish head, kaya, ikan billis, satay, Starbucks green tea latte....!

Favourite sayings: taxi uncle, can what?, what you mean leh?, cannot!, kiasu, paiseh, fill up a form, u-turn back.....

Favourite landmarks: Orchard Road, Ann siang Hill, Esplanade, Bras Basah MRT, Ritz-Carlton (for brunch), Fullerton Bay Hotel, Gold Class cinemas at Vivo, shop-houses – especially in Little India.

And what about 8 momentous events while in Singapore?

1.         I completed my MBA at Chicago Booth.

2.         I joined Synovate 7 years ago.

3.         I bought landed property.

4.         I had my first (and so far last) fish foot spa.

5.         We moved office at work – not for the faint-hearted.

6.         I started to learn Mandarin and gave up – then I started to learn Arabic – and also gave up.

7.         I got my iPhone and convinced IT at work to allow emails on it..!

8.         I was part of the first Pink Dot.

I saw amazing places all over Asia and the most memorable 8 must be:

1.         Bali and a bungee jump.

2.         Langkawi.

3.         Bagan.

4.         Borobadur and the Amanjiwo.

5.         Colombo & Galle – Sri Lanka and the Amangalla.

6.         Angkor Wat and the Amansara.

7.         Chiang Mai – and a hot air balloon flight I will never forget.

8.         Phuket and the Amanpuri.

And fabulous people to thank: [this portion was all about work and when I read it at my brunch setting, the thanks were all adrift, so (again thinking on my feet) I decided to choose one word to sum up the various guests around the table.  Some words were inspired, some flattering and some, unfortunately due to my brain cells at the time, peculiar.  "Loyal", "friendship", “thank-you”, "emotional" and "beautiful" were amongst the sane, while "food "and "complex" might be considered amongst the less sane ones.  But that’s spontaneity for you.  

My dear Baxter, couldn’t be summed up in a single word, so I didn’t bother....except upon reflection, there is a SINGLE word for Baxter – that’s Baxter – what else?!]

That was my last list.  (thank goodness, you say under your breath.) 

So as I move on, Nairobi and the vast expanse that is Africa awaits.

It’s exciting and a little scary.  But that makes it more fascinating. 

I’ve got an office and a desk, I’ve got a work permit, and I’ve got a short list of cars to choose one from.

But the best thing of all is I have an apartment – and the unit number?  A8. 

The signs are clear: I will miss (dearly) Singapore and all of you – and after 8 years it will be a wrench to board that plane on the morning of 3rd July.  But I’ll be back and with a lucky 8 greeting me each time I return home in the evening on my front door, Singapore and all the wonderful things will never be far from my thoughts.

Now let’s get drunk.”

Well by this point at brunch, we were quite merry and while there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, the Peking duck was getting cold, so we dried our eyes with the China Club extra large napkins – complete with a large red Maoist star – and got stuck in.

First driving experience in Nairobi – bumped and battered?

I took the keys rather gingerly, if truth be known.  The driver had come over to my hotel and then announced he had to get back to the office and was about to shift over and hand me (so to speak) the driving wheel, when I almost yelped, “Please, you drive to the office, then I will take it from there.”

 

I had witnessed many journeys to and from the office, and indeed to other places around Nairobi, and there was one common theme: chaos.  So you can perhaps appreciate my trepidation.

 

Once in the safety of the office compound (yes we have an office compound) I confidently opened the driver’s seat door and clambered in.  There were at least two reassuring things that helped me focus on the challenges of avoiding collisions.  Firstly, in Kenya, one drives on the left, which, while I’m very competent in driving on the Napoleon-side of the highway, meant one less thing to worry about.  Secondly, the car was an automatic, and the need to concentrate on gear shifts also evaporated.

 

So I started her up and began (incredibly slowly) to drive towards the compound exit.  As I did, I had to negotiate a rather tight corner and managed to get round it with the only very slight accident of knowing over a gardener’s broom.  I was out – free – on the Nairobi thoroughfare.  And since the office area is residential, on a Saturday the roads were almost empty.  Great for my confidence and I when I hit the highway at the end of the road, I was (almost) ready to do battle.

 

The high was clogged with towering trucks, bristling buses, luxury cars with luxury drivers, the odd nippy motorcyclist and a herd of matatus.  These matatus are the local minibuses.  They are like the beetles of the road – scurrying here and there with utter disregard for you or other vehicles and certainly not interested in following road etiquette – let alone rules.  But I survived and was soon on Raphta Road to take a quick look at my soon-to-be new apartment.

 

I was on the way back when I hit a snag: the road I was supposed to take was closed.  Shit.....

And the reason being there are massive road works underway (with Chinese financing) to build a super-highway.  Result: more chaos.

So I checked Maps on my iPhone and glided down the hill under the overpass (still being finished) and then as I was about to turn into a side road (off the A2 and onto Wambugu road, in case you’re wanting to follow this on Maps, like a crazy soap opera) I got “sandwiched” between a huge dumper truck and the verge.

 

Mayhem?  That’s an understatement, the dumper truck had forced his way onto the main road and snarled up the entire route as a consequence.  Horns were beeping, people were shouting and then finally a man got out (not sure from where) and started directing this one forward, that one back and even asking me to move forward – where he thought I was going to drive to, I have no idea – the ditch to my right was (sorry!) NOT a bloody option....

 

The truck broke free, the road started moving again and I was at last allowed to get in my beloved Wambugu Road.  I felt localised a little.  My HR Director described me as mwenyeji which apparently means “the complete local”.  And my first on-road experience in Kenya at the helm, so to speak, was ended with no bumps and no battering. 

 

Yes, it was quite fun actually...!!

First impressions of a great new continent

I was filled with an ounce or two of  trepidation venturing into an unknown place; a bold new viewpoint.  What am I doing?  What will happen next?  Where might I end up?  Will I come back?

All these questions swirling in my head. And more. Then I landed at Jomo Kenyatta international airport on Easter Monday to a cool westerly breeze and a transfer to my hotel.  What was central Nairobi going to be like?  And what a feast of colour, new sights, smells.

People are people and that's the big learning.  Why did I think this place would be different to elsewhere?  Why did I believe here would be contorted to something unrecognizable?  Of course it isn't. The people live, the thirst for life is lip-smacking.

New customs are quickly adopted and a fresh perspective on my surroundings easily taken on board. One should wear a suit at work (thank God the climate allows) and don't wait for the traffic light to necessarily turn green before driving on.  So much to learn. So many things to wonder at.

I've perchanced on places I'd hitherto only dreamed or fantasized about. Did I really venture to Dar Es Salaam?  Did I actually land at Entebbe?  Was there an arrival in Accra?  And was that Lagos I spied from the comfort of my suitably locked Toyota?

I guess it all must have happened.  

And a colleague asked will I not miss all the wondrous things in Asia?  Naturally, I shall.  But the retort perhaps should be, "what would I be missing in Africa if I didn't move on?"  I'm already yearning to be back in Uganda, return to Tanzania and sample more of what Lagos (apparently) has to offer.

There is something that just popped into my head and it's major concern: how can one be stylish in east Africa?  I saw the eye-wincing brightness of bold tribal prints in Nigeria and an admiration of the great houses of luxury only usually witnessed in Rome.  But I must confess the Kenyan appreciation of Gucci, Boss, Dior and perhaps Ferragamo is less than slight.  The conservative nature of the east is over-shadowed by the flamboyance of the west of this great continent. Will I be consigned to scouring for khakis and safari gear on my next jaunt to London?  Will I find myself passing by Armani and heading like a misguided homing-pigeon into the Timerland store?  Will Merrill replace Prada for my footwear of choice?  And how could the North Face become my Etro or Zegna when I need an outer-garment to keep me warm or dry (or both) ??!

Then again, I don't think I shall let it happen.

Maybe it's partly my duty to bring a little bit of style and unaffordable luxury to this corner of the world.   I resolve to subscribe to Monocle and continue to scan the pages of Flipboard ensuring I won't be abandoned by the fashion and odd extravagance that is THE industry.

I have enjoyed beyond my wildest imagination my first month in Africa. I shall be returning to Singapore in a few days time and am certain people will want to know more about my "initiation" onto the dark continent.  I think I'll tell them it was "OK".

After all I don't want everyone coming over, now do I?!

Myanmar or is that Burma?

What's in a name?
I'm not always certain - but I ususally look it up!

And when I was debating internally about whether to go to Myanmar or not, I came to thinking where on earth had the Myanmar name come from.  I didn't even know why Burma was dropped - there is an official denial from the part of many parts of the Commonwealth and international community who insist on syaing Burma and Rangoon -yet the reality - as usal is somewhat more complicated.

Without going into it all here - the Burmese are actually a majority ethnicity within the country of Myanmar - and calling Myanmar, Burma is a little bit like calling the UK, England.  I know that's done - but it's incorrect - and given the recent success of the Scottish nationalists in the elections there, I would hate to pour oil on the fire.  (Mind you, as a complete aside, I struggle to see why so many cling onto the Union despite an overwhelming economic argument that is in favour of jettisoning the 3/4s of the Union that perhaps contributes less in capital and more in traditions.)

Back to my Myanmarese tale.

Our first stop was Bagan - the valley of temples.  You read the descriptions and you are made constantly aware of the stats - 4000+ temples in a 26 square mile area.  But you don't really take it in.

The dust in Bagan was of "grapes of wrath" magnitude and the searing heat made it very uncomfortable - but the sights made it all worthwhile.

We arrived just before the New Year celebrations really got under way and the water throwing (akin to what happens in Thailand for Songkran) peaked the following day just as we were making our way to a local market.  Dousing is not the word - the locals were soaking each other.  It seemed people, as they sped past on the motorbikes or in the back of open trucks were revelling in the prospect of getting more & more drenched.  Locals stand on the roadside with Tupperware bowls and small pales waiting for passing traffic or pedestrians and then they let rip.

Everyone was wet through.  Baxter and I managed to escape - with only a mild sprinkling from behind.  It's good luck you see - how could we not oblige.  I kept my camera out of harm's way and shuddered as the cold water trickled down my back.

We had a great guide who took us to all the main temples, stupas and monasteries.

And this despite his betel-nut-stained smile.  Betel nuts are chewed all over the country and the red stain it leaves on the teeth is less than flattering.  Then the locals spit out spent saliva - it's a tobacco substitute of sorts - a bit like snuff.

 This is all very well and good, but when we told to remove our shoes (and socks) to enter the temples, we had to do this in the car then tiptoe through splatterings of spittle at the temple entrance - rather perturbing, I might add.

But we survived.

We then mounted a disused monastery with our guide to get a good view of the valley.  We had to crawl up a rather dark passageway with shaky steps and then haul ourselves up at the top to appreciate the vista.  And wow what a vista it was.

This is what we saw......it took our breath away.

This was Bagan.

We were then to head back south to Rangoon (another controversial naming thing) where the colonial majesty is still felt.

More on that another time.

Moving on....

Moving is sometimes momentous

Looking back on my time in Singapore, it’s amazing, quite amazing that I’ve been here almost 8 years already. 

I recently celebrated my 40^th birthday, as if you didn’t know, and while I haven’t managed to update my blog since then, it was a truly wonderful affair – and I hope I’ll get time in the near future to do just that – and perhaps share a photo or two.  I know many of you are not on facebook and didn’t see the pics yet.

At my birthday speech in Singapore, I listed out a long list of changes since I landed on these fair – if ueber-hygienic – shores.  And there were many.  It seems the place hasn’t slept for a second in the intervening time and upwardly-mobile buildings are testament to the ongoing development of a relatively tiny plot of land on the nub of the Malaysian peninsula.  And more is planned – unstoppable?  Undeterred?  Certainly, unabashed..!

And it is amongst all this continuing change, which I, too, find myself crossing a Rubicon of my own that will bring about a huge transformation in my life.

I’ve had the blessed good fortune to travel the world, to work in many different places and meet marvellous people from all walks of life.  Working in Paris was beautiful beyond belief; living in Tokyo, tantalisingly unique.  Then came Singapore and travel from a very doable base to places of exotic superlatives such as Bali, Langkawi, Borobodur, Angkor Wat and Chiang Mai.  (Indeed, I’m zipping off to Burma in a couple of weeks’ time to wonder at the temples of Bagan.)

I’ve sipped tea in Beijing, guzzled gyoza in Kyoto, scoffed dim sum in Hong Kong, built houses in Mongolia, been awestruck at fireworks in Sydney, discovered a charm oft-hidden in Manila and still yearn to know and see more about Asia.  And yet....

And yet, the time has come to move.  And move quite a distance.

There is a place in the world that is actually growing faster than China, believe it or not.  There is a place that holds great promise and potential.  A place where corruption and state kleptomania rob its own people of health and prosperity.  A place that holds the most beautiful sights on earth; I’m moving to Africa.  Kenya to be exact and will live in Nairobi.  I will stay at Synovate and take on an operations role covering 10 markets.

Business will take me to incredibly legendary (and sometimes infamously so) places across sub-Saharan Africa.  Where I once would say, “I’m boarding the plane for Delhi”, or “I’m about to zip to HK and BKK for a few days”.  I will probably find myself quipping, “About to board for Lagos”, or “Just got back from Tanzania & Mozambique.”  My excitement is almost tangible.

Am I nervous?  Why of course, I am.  I think that’s natural when I’m over-turning, up-rooting my current way of life in such a radical way.  But I feel that trepidation is mollified by the wonderful adventure that awaits me.

So there you have it: I’m off on a new journey; off to write a new chapter of my life; off to find new challenges, new friends & new traditions.  I might even pick up a bit of a new language – they speak Swahili over in Kenya ;-)

I suspect that my blog will get more updates from now on as I discover a whole new world: a world that is AFRICA.