Kibera - a world away from Nairobi

Playing games

I had chastised myself a few times for not getting more involved in some charitable endeavour here in Kenya.  Living in my very nice flat in Westlands, there was a huge opportunity to give something back in many ways in this wondrous yet challenged nation.

Maureen leading the weaving

And this weekend, I had no excuse.  Our company had done a food & clothes drive to get donations for a local children's home.  We'd collected all kinds of clothes and non-perishables as well as money donations.  So on Saturday morning, we boarded a bus with our plastic bags (about 12 of us from Ipsos) and about US$500 in cash and headed to the local supermarket, Uchumi - which means "economy" in Swahili.

We loaded 7 supermarket trolleys with all kinds of goodies from bread to cooking oil, from toothpaste to sanitary pads, sweets to crisps.  We overspent, but that didn't matter and boarded the bus again to head to Kibera.

Kibera is an informal dwelling (AKA slum) within Nairobi and is said to be the largest such conglomeration in Africa.  There was a little kerfuffle as we entered the area, as local "gang members" were touting for an entry charge and banging loudly on the side of the bus for us to hand over 100 shillings (US$1.30) or so to be allowed to enter.  We managed to get through unscathed, although I must confess, my heart was pounding somewhat faster than normal at this stage.

Starting the bluebells and bamboo forest dance

Introducing each other at the home

 When we arrived at the home, Lucy, one of the fund raisers and a local primary school teacher was there with a broader than broad smile to welcome us and all the children (about a dozen of them) ran to help us unload the bus - which after the shopping spree at Uchumi, was really quite laden down.

We introduced ourselves, the kids doing the same.  Then it was play time.

Smiling faces

Most of the games and singing were quite foreign to me, but children were enjoying the company and attention.  Then came a familiar game of "In and out the dusty bluebells", where the leader starts weaving under the arched held hands and arms of the fellow players all arranged in a circle.  When the song comes to a certain phrase "I am your master" the leader skirts around the back of the person where the phrase is started and pats them on the back repeatedly then this "seconded" person joins the said master to create a conga-like train and so it goes on until there are more on the outside of the ring than those forming the ring itself.

It was lapped up by the children - and methinks, the adults too...!

[What I call the "dusty bluebells" song naturally had a local twist to it and here in Kenya it's rendered as "In and out the bamboo forest".]

Afterwards we ate lunch together, and while the food was as tasty as that which is served up at our office canteen, the thing that amazed me (and I'm not quite sure why) was the insistence on washing hands before eating.  This home was imparting simple life lessons at every stage and as Lucy, herself, said, they are trying to make proud young adults of these kids who will hopefully never feel looked down upon or inferior - even if their local MP (Raila Odinga, perhaps the next president of Kenya) should descend on them with his own youngsters.

Good manners, praying before tucking into soya stew and lentils, saying thank you with meaning and respecting elders - good life lessons indeed.

Dancing in the school yard

We saw the school the children attend and did one last dance - where even yours truly wiggled his hips to the lilting chorus of young voices - happy to just to be able to sing for us.

As we boarded the bus back to the "big bad city", the bad city didn't seem so bad after all - what we were leaving behind, on the other hand, perhaps was indeed "bad" and dangerous.  I was tremendously grateful and appreciative of that fact.

We waved good bye and promised to be back...I hope we do get back.

Holding hands

We were touched by the kids' tales of abandonment and abuse; we were humbled by their happy smiling faces and genuine hug of thanks; and we are resolved to do more for this home in the slums of Kibera.


[If you would like to help this island of hope please take a look at this link and perhaps you could donate a few dollars to make a difference..... http://www.globalgiving.org/projects/childrens-rescue-centre-kibera-kenya/ ]

Muddled threads - or, Armstrong squared

At a dinner recently, the conversation veered to current affairs as a matter of course and the doping scandal (or not) of Lance Armstrong was soon being hotly debated.  One guest was reading from a rather vitriolic, yet punctilious, post on Facebook with some of the guests listening and others engrossed in their own side conversations.  The post listed out all of Lance's achievements and berated the USA for stripping a national hero (if not global icon) of his accolades, and thus demeaning the work he'd done for charities etc.  Not overlooking the fact that the accuser in all this was in fact Armstrong's greatest sporting rival.

And  that's about when it happened.

Someone who'd only be half listening suddendly chipped in with: "Ah, yes!! A great loss."  We unanimously agreed, nodded and pondered for a moment.

"Doing what he did was truly momentous."
"Yeah, it's only envy driving those naysayers and witch-hunters," commented a 3rd person.
"But he did do it...!  Surely you can't doubt that?!", continued the interjector.
"Well of course you can't, he wore the yellow jersey 7 times."

At this point the fog descended just a little further before rising rather swiftly.
Yellow jerseys on the moon?  What was he talking about?!

The conversastion had put Lance Armstrong on the moon (with inappropriately flying flags and artificial moondust) and plonked the recently deceased Neil Armstrong on a push-bike in the Pyrenees or somewhere equally Gallic.

The group had mixed up our "Armstrongs".

Guffaws followed all around.

The States honoured one Armstrong with flags at half mast across the nation, while it lambasted and condemned the other Armstrong on rather flimsy evidence.

But I do like the image of Neil on a bike and Lance in a spacesuit - yellow or not.

Check out this for check in flexibility

My colleagues said I should leave sooner; I knew better – I was never late to catch a plane.

 

In fact I had only ever missed one flight in all my travels – and that I blamed on London traffic.  I recall I was on my way to Munich and it wasn’t actually a trip I wanted to take.  I don’t know whether it was fate or if I managed “fate” and knew I was going to miss that flight – but miss it I did and was thankful I didn’t have to schlepp all the way to southern Germany.

 

When I was about to return to Nairobi from a week in Lagos, I clung onto the last minutes in the office debating this topic and that, confident that I would have plenty of time to zip along the highway to Murtala Mohamad Airport (LOS) with ease.

 

The flight was at 3pm and I reckoned leaving the office at 1pm would give me ample time to negotiate the traffic.  Well, it started off in the right manner.  The road was clear and the vehicles moving.  Then it happened: deadlock.  For no apparent reason, the cars ground to a halt and we were stuck.  So much for my quickly evaporating confidence.

 

The motorcycles around us managed to weave in and out of the cars with acrobatic agility.  They clambered up onto the pavements where they had to and made off into the distant dust. 

 

The clock was ticking.  I was dangerously close to missing my plane.

 

At one point a motor bike went passed complete with a passenger and two suitcases and for more than a split moment I pondered the option of opening the door, hailing a bike and jumping on the back – helmet or no....but as you might imagine that daring prospect soon passed.

 

Snails were moving faster than our car.

I was filled with dread: I was about to miss my 2^nd ever flight.  Even when I went on a drinking binge with Japanese colleagues, got home at 2am, awoke startled at 8am then realised I was going to miss my flight to Singapore, booked the next flight (1 hour later) took a USD200 cab to the airport and snatched the flight – there was no fear of me missing a flight then.

 

We were inching closer and suddenly with no explanation the road opened up and the traffic began to flow like flour from a bag; smoothly and flowingly.

 

My driver zoomed up to the airport drop off and almost threw my luggage at me to help me with momentum on my way to check in.

 

I had arrived at 2.05pm and thought I should be able to blag my way through the check in process.

I ran down the concourse only to find the Kenya Airways ((KQ) check-in – not only closed, but abandoned.  I quizzed the security guys nearby and they instructed me to follow their confusing instructions to the KQ office.  I sped off with my suitcase up stairs, then down stairs, round corners and into what seemed like the very bowels of the airport.  I found the office and blurted out the fact that I was late, it was my fault, but could they get me on soon departing flight to Nairobi.

 

Come with me, the official said – almost matter-of-factly.

We went back to the gate through the warren of offices where he talked to someone on a mobile.

 

“Someone is coming from the gate to check you in.”  I was disbelieving: “Really?”  I sputtered... and was reassured that a rep was on his way.

 

Inside my head, I tapped my fingers, I twiddled my thumbs and got more anxious by the minute.  But lo and behold, he arrived, he quite calmly sat behind the check in desk, signed on and asked for my passport.  He checked me in, gave me my boarding pass and even offered my access to the lounge – being a gold card holder. There was no "tutting", no snide comments about arriving on time in future...he just did his stuff.

 

“I won’t have time for the lounge,” I countered.

“Of course you will.  You go there and relax before your flight – enjoy sir...!”  was his calm reply.

 

It was now 2.30pm.  Remember?  My flight was departing at 3pm....I even challenged him and asked if the flight was delayed – no it wasn’t, he reassured.

 

So I marched off (with many a “thank you” to anyone I met) through customs and security.

 

I caught my flight – which was indeed delayed eventually by about 50 minutes – but I am still amazed that I was able to get check re-opened by an airline rep who was not only away from his station but already at the gate – having to trudge all the way back through security checks to the curb-side of the airport and do the formalities.

 

I caught my flight to Nairobi – for which I was incredibly grateful.

 

This is something that I couldn’t see happening in many other airports – can you?

 

Sometimes, the chaos and human aspect to processes trumps the rigidity of a water-tight procedure.  Things can be done; rules can be broken; processes can be bent – and client delight is the outcome.

 

Having watched airline / airport documentaries and seeing the seething wrath of passengers denied boarding access – when there is actually plenty of time to get them on the flight – I despair at over-zealous control-freaks and I know all the more why I’m loving my time in Africa.

Disliking the disliking of things

We know that Facebook is becoming ubiquitous – if it’s not there already by modest definitions – and the vernacular is being enriched almost weekly by new sayings and references that are very FB specific.  It’s very common to hear or read, “friend me on Facebook”, “I unfriended the bastard”, “checking in” – when there is no hotel, plane or other usual checking-in going on, “I was facebooking last night ...” and quite simply “liking”.

This last example of linguistic embellishment – or pollution, depending on your receptiveness to neologisms (which as a footnote, is itself a borrowing from French in 1772) – was recently given its rather obvious antonym on Facebook.

Installing the “dislike” application was painless in itself and I felt empowered and liberated knowing that I could now dislike as well like posts from people – with impunity. 

It had been quite perturbing to “like” a negative article or bad piece of news, for example – even though the liking was admiring of the sentiment of the said post or article as opposed to liking the fact the gays had been beaten up in some Caucasus state or that Whitney Houston had just died and the eulogies were streaming in.  You get what I mean...

But no, – some things are not that straight forward are they?

I now find myself hovering over the “dislike” icon wondering whether I should click or not.  The negative effect on someone’s post if it’s misinterpreted is far heavier than a well-intentioned but badly taken “like”.  Even if I genuinely dislike someone’s point of view, or sharing an image that displeases me, is it worth the potential upset or confrontation, I ask myself.

Funny how something that seemed like a great and logical idea is not filling me anxiety and doubt.

Maybe someone will have the balls to “dislike” this blog entry....let’s wait and see.

Zanzibar - a spicy kind of place

Zanzibar – spicy kind of place.

For my birthday, Baxter treated me to a luxurious jaunt to the tropical island of Zanzibar, famed for its Indian Ocean vistas, Arabic fusion heritage and intoxicating spices.  It did not disappoint.  We stayed in a beautiful converted couple of mansions that now form the Serena Hotel in Stone Town – the latter so called since the houses were traditionally made from local rocks as opposed to wood or the like.  The hotel was on the shoreline and from time to time we would glance up from our G&T on the verandah to spot a dhow glide by – it was textbook, but splendid.

Almost immediately, we decided to explore.  One of the “must-dos” in Zanzibar is get lost in the midst of Stone Town and we unwittingly obliged.  The white-washed walls were almost mesmeric, the winding streets disorienting and the smiling locals a tad too smiling… We soon ended up in a warren of juxtaposed alleys wondering where to turn next.  But it was a safe adventure – a few reassuring directions from a man here and a woman there and we were back on “track”.

We took a guide the following day who explained that doorways were very important in determining wealth, status and personality in Zanzibar.  Alas, after the 1964 revolution and several decades of an eclectic experiment with socialism, most of the Arabs and Indian settlers upped sticks and settled elsewhere a little more convenient for trading than a communist commune.  Still, they left their doors and overhanging balconies to our delight.

We didn't manage to see Freddie's bar - the Queen-famed singer who was born on the island way back, but I managed to sip a cool beer on a lush rather breezy rooftop in his honour while Baxter was on a conference call.


Some things were a little rusty in Zanz' and I was somewhat taken aback while strolling on another rooftop - this time of the heritage museum - to see a fire extinguisher that, honestly, if necessity called would struggle at putting out anything more than a lit match.

The last day saw us trek all over the island in search of adventure and spice.  Nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, vanilla, ginger and turmeric - we saw them all.  


The sea down at the coast was bluer than almost any I'd seen and petting turtles in the local sanctuary was a splendid end to a splendid island get-away.

Put it on your bucket list - if it's not already on there.

It's the 4th July, and....?

Someone asked me yesterday if the Amercians were at work.

I replied, "Why?  Is today a special day?"  The irony or even mild sarcasm in my voice was lost on my colleague.

The fact that the 4th of July is such a globally recognised date fills me with acute annoyance each time this fireworks-laden "celebration" comes around.

We, Brits, mishandled a great territory and the revolution that ensued was not only justified, but appropriate in the wider context of self-determination.

How many of my readers appreciate the significance of 23rd April for English folk or 9th August for Singaporeans the world over?

Nonetheless, the panoramic assumption on the part of the United States citizenry that we all should somehow join in the merriment seems peculiar at best and at worst, tantamount to giving the old colonial masters the "finger".

This in itself is the sweetest irony, since we Brits know the insult is more punctilious perhaps when doubled up with the forefinger.

So whether you celebrate with one finger or two - I suppose I can wish my over-the-pond friends a belated (through clenched teeth) "happy Independence Day" and get on with perfecting my Victory signals.

Enjoy the picture - it's the best I find (sic).

Thumbing a lift on a Kenyan stretcher

 

 

A few weeks ago I had the unpleasant experience of falling and damaging my thumbs.  I thought I’d merely sprained them, but the right thumb wasn’t healing and I was compelled to trot off to the doctor’s in Nairobi.

She promptly sent me for an X-ray and within what seemed like moments, I was being admitted to Nairobi Hospital for corrective surgery on a dislocated joint.  My surgeon, Professor Atinga, advised me that thumb joints are notoriously challenging to get back in to place and he might need to do keyhole fiddling around and insert wires to keep my joint in situ.  I consented and was, after about 3 hours delay, on my way to theatre.

I hadn’t actually traveled on a hospital trolley bed since I was a child – when I was parted from my foreskin at age 8.  And even back then I recall being administered with the anaesthetic in the ward, this time I was fully conscious as we wended our way through the now dark corridors – it had passed 8pm.  Did they really do procedural operations so late?

Apparently, they do…!

Lying flat on your back and watching the lights zip past one by one, you are aware you’re reliving hundreds of scenes before seen on TV.  The light fittings glide past and it is a kind of fairground sensation.

I arrived at theatre and was unceremoniously plonked next to the ante-chamber door, propping it open with the trolley bed.  I had more time to reflect and notice a few damp patches on the ceiling as well as a broken tile on the floor.  Convulsions of anxiety raced through my being – oh no, where am I, I thought….what I have done to commit to this treatment here?

But then my surgeon appeared, reassured me that all would be well and I was pushed into the theatre proper by the all-green-clad vision that was my anaesthetist. 

The theatre did resemble something from 1980, but as they patched my chest with heart monitoring “stickers”, pricked my hand for the tube of anaesthetic and soothed me with calming words, I floated off into slumbering oblivion.

Waking up in recovery room, I was groggy as hell, but glad to be back with the “living”.  All had gone according to plan – two wires now embedded in my thumb and a bandage larger than a banana.

Thank you Nairobi Hospital.  I’d give them a thumbs-up, but that’s still a little painful just yet.