After I posted the below, we had another close encounter with a matatu on the way out of the carpark at the Java coffee shop near U.N. drive. As our sedan pulled sedately out, a matatu emblazoned with "God's Grace" barrelled in on the wrong side. On the side of the minibus was the no more reassuring "God's Power". So I guess that is that then....

Need for Speed
I love driving around Nairobi... mainly because I do not actually have to do the driving. We have hired a driver to ferry the children and I around while my husband is at work. I do have a licence but I am a very bad driver, and though this might not be such a disadvantage in this wild-wheeled city, I am loath to take my children’s lives into my hands!
Our driver is a courteous man with a beaming smile who has won even the heart of our still slightly traumatised youngest. Our journeys are not ambitious – to school, to the shopping centres, the play areas. That said, the route to school takes us along Ngecha road, widely acknowledged to be one of Nairobi’s worst roads. It’s not that there are potholes – the road is basically a doily, where the hard, driveable surface is but a flimsy link between the masses of dips, craters and gulleys. Our children have now learned to hold their heads steady to stop them slamming into the door jambs, and say they quite enjoy the “bumpety bump”. I suspect the novelty will wear off.
Before coming here, I had basically heard three things about Nairobi: traffic, crime and white mischief. Well, the latter is hardly going to affect me as I grapple with two children who leave me slumped on the terrace barely able to lift my Tusker after they have finally succumbed to sleep. Crime – it’s clearly around but luckily it doesn’t seem to impinge much on the life of a housebound mother-of-two. Fingers crossed. As for traffic, there is no denying that every time we leave the house, I pray to the Gods of travel and toddlers that we will not get stuck in a whopper jam. So far, we have been lucky. We do not go to the city centre but live our lives on the fringes, only occasionally venturing onto the commuter routes when we are sure most of said commuters are (finally) safely at their desks. I keep a supply of lollies and sweets in my handbag for those Westgate/Parklands go-slows and have a store of songs with actions in my repetoire to try to entertain cranky, hot children.
I love how green Nairobi is, the red, terraced slopes of banana trees and luxuriant palms sadly being bulldozed to make way for ever more extravagant villas; the remnants of coffee plants towards Limuru road, the undulating charm of Peponi Road meandering through the sun-dappled forest – it’s like the country is always banging at Nairobi’s doors, wanting to reclaim the land it once owned.
Back on the main, busy roads, I love watching the matatus – their drivers are mad, their style audacious, their music loud – what’s not to love? Check out this story http://http://www.ghettoradio.nl/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=166&Itemid=41 for a better description than I can give of what they really stand for – it’s about so much more than getting from A to B, it’s how you do it, dude. We have nearly been rammed by a few, overtaken by many, and cut up by more. Some of them are named after local hip-hop artists. I liked “Skool Girl Callin”, “Evolution”, “Dispute” and “Assassins”. And the one that had “In God We Trust” painted on the back. Well, you sure as hell don’t want to trust the driver. Matatus also seem to be prime targets for the armed thugs whose deaths regularly make headlines following shootouts in the city, in the slums and outer neighbourhoods. It seems a shame that people who can’t afford their own cars are liable to find themselves being held-up at night by shady men toting AK-47s. You can’t help but think the pickings must be better elsewhere. But I guess it’s a sad commentary on need – if those riding the matatus are worth sticking up, these robbin’ hoods must be in pretty dire straits.

“A week old”
We have moved out of the hotel to an apartment in the Westlands area of the city. Just five minutes in the car from two of Nairobi’s biggest malls, and it seems the car is the way to go.
I walked home from the Sarit Centre today…no mean feat after a morning of unrelenting rain which had turned what passes for paths here into sneaky stone-speckled quagmires. A tricky prospect for a buggy so far only blooded on north London’s leafy, conker-strewn streets. But we made it. Not without a few strange looks.
I’ve been advised that this trekking may be a little foolhardy as bag snatchings are common in this area. I was carrying several bags with nothing more valuable than nappies (though pretty expensive nappies at 1,500 ksh for just 15 pullups – I’m thinking we will be accelerating the nightime toilet training for our four-year-old). But it was really nice to just walk. Our 21-month-old enjoyed herself too, though for once she consented to put on her socks and shoes. Even she was impressed by the mud.
And mud featured heavily in our weekend activities. We went to the Nairobi National Park on Saturday, arriving in a downpour with our kids asleep in the back of our white Landrover. We decided to have lunch to see if the rain eased and found a simple open-sided restaurant outside the main gates, up a little path to the right as you come in. No frills but the best rice and chicken I’ve eaten for a while. My husband had goat and, uncharacteristically, I tried it to. Chewy but good. Our eldest ate a big plate of rice and chicken. I could never get her to eat rice and chicken. Nuff said. By far the cheapest and best meal we have had in Nairobi to date.
The rain dried up so we decided to head into the park. While my husband went to get tickets – a tricky, time-consuming task that for some unknown reason involves credit card-like passes that need to be swiped at the entrance – the girls and I enjoyed the sight of a wedding party being entertained in the car park by Maasai warriors, or moran. The warriors danced, the wedding party jiggled their hips and women ululated – drawing an enthusiastic, ear-piercing and pretty inaccurate mimicry from our girls. Then into the park. Just metres past the gate, we happened upon a group of baboons by the road, including babies and young adults fighting and falling out of trees. Our 21-month-old began to scream “ooh oooh aaah aaah, monkey, ooh ooh aah aah, monkey” like a dervish. It was the start of a great adventure. The girls were great, spending five hours in the car with barely a complaint (and all parents of young 'uns know that this, of course, means there was some crying and whinging but it was never as bad as it could have been). But a couple of tips: always switch the car to four-wheel drive BEFORE you enter the park, particularly if you decide to do so after days of rain. Bring a tow rope. And never, ever embark on a safari, however short you plan it to be, without an inexhaustible supply of food – and by food, I obviously mean biscuits – for the children. We saw zebras, ostriches, many, many types of deer, buffalo, giraffes, and wonder of wonders, a black rhino lurking in the bushes, looking slightly annoyed by the attention but too big to let it really get to him.
The park seemed vast, stretching off to the horizon which was marked on one side by the tall buildings of Nairobi’s central business district, rising reassuringly in the distance. It was a beautiful day, fluffy clouds piled on top of each other in a sky that seemed to stretch to the stars. It was all going so well, until we decided to make our way back.
As we barrelled down a muddy track, knowing that if we stopped we were in trouble, we came face-to-face with a sedan, sunk low in the mud as it attempted to go where no sedan should ever go. Behind it was a Landrover which was trying to pull the sedan backwards out of the muddy ruts. The cars blocked the road and so we ground to a halt, and watched with grim fascination as the Landrover’s wheels spun madly. The driver was a master, but even he could do little to help the over-ambitious sedan. The sun was setting and oblivious to the many warnings posted around the park, the Landrover driver got out to take a closer look at the sticky problem. By now, the two cars were on the same side of the road so he urged us to “go for it, mate”.
My husband gamely began to coax our Landrover forward, but by now we were neatly ensconced in two ruts. The girls wondered what was going on, my husband revved, backwards and forwards, the Landrover growled but nothing. It took about 10 minutes until finally my husband, displaying skills I had not seen before in 8 years of marriage, managed to trundle the car onto the middle of the road. We glided, slid and slipped past the two parked cars and were free. Well, still ice-skating but the ground was getting firmer.
We passed another four-by-four and then a truck of frankly grumpy-looking park attendants, clearly called to rescue the sedan. As we finally approached the main gates again, our eldest plaintively called from the back seat: “the beginning was fun, but the end was not.” Children! There’s no pleasing them. The full extent of the muddification only became apparent when we parked again in the city centre. The steps to mount the car were covered with four-inches of gooey stuff, there was a big gob of the stuff on the bonnet, standing upright proudly like an Elvis quiff and needless to say, everything else was red-brown. I’m sure it’ll be cleaned one of these days. We stumbled into the hotel lobby, muddy, shabby and high on adrenaline. I think we have arrived.

November 6 - Karibu
The sky is crackling again, electric-blue flashes of lightning sparking from behind the frowning, grey-brown clouds. From the window of our hotel room on the 11th floor, Nairobi’s skyline has a touch of Manhattan about it. An edgier, new world Manhattan.
The rain pounds, the muezzin’s call to prayer soars above the high-rises and an unseen nightclub rocks to 90s dance music. We arrived here five days ago – our multiple bags bulging, our heads aching after a nine-hour flight, our two daughters wide-eyed and hysterical with excitement. The drive from Jomo Kenyatta airport was a blur of shadowy industrial sites, unlit lots and clamourings for biscuits and water. Five days later, this green, lush, traffic-choked city of contrasts is taking shape before our eyes.
The first days, as all first days, have been a whirl of red tape, street names, new faces and names instantly forgotten, warm welcomes and the frustrations that come with not knowing where to get pasta with pesto for two hungry kids. And Obama. Everywhere, Obama.
Three days after we arrived, the Illinois Senator won the U.S. presidency. In Kenya, it was, as Jeff Koinange said on K24, the ONLY big story. Obama’s grandmother lives in Kogelo, west of Nairobi in the Kisumu area. People danced in the street, as they did in Kibera, Nairobi’s massive slum which we have so far only glimpsed from the highway. As I tried to persuade my 21-month-old to eat some pizza at the hotel restaurant on Nov. 5, a small group of young men ran down University Way, chanting “Obama, Obama”. Everyone seems to have high hopes, from the prime minister who expects more investment to the residents of Kisumu, who have their eyes on an international-standard airport that could welcome AirForce One. If the election is a source of hope to African-Americans in the United States, it is no less powerful a symbol for Africans. Many seem to think a black White House might help what has often been a forgotten continent. Everyone needs a hero here.
What Nairobi probably doesn’t need is any more shops – Carrie Bradshaw and her girlfriends would not find this city lacking. Several bright, gleaming, ostentatiously wealthy shopping malls offer everything from beads and brogues to cosmetics and carseats. I even saw a tandem bicycle on sale in one mall. Prices are often a little higher than London, where we have come from, for electronics, games, and books but there is no lack of choice. It’s a surprise after four years in West Africa where shopping was never really retail therapy.
The day after we arrived, we went to a fireworks show at the Muthaiga Country Club – a wonderfully anachronistic institution that uncharacteristically let its hair down (and the hoi-polloi in) for its Guy Fawkes extravaganza. Sadly, the fireworks were beset by those maddening technical problems that can be so ubiquitous in Africa. To be fair, the skies had opened just hours before, drenching the lush grounds where Denys Finch-Hatton of “Out of Africa” fame hung out and where colonial settlers held hunt balls and somewhat racier parties. For our daughters, the rainbow that rose over Karura forest as we drove to Muthaiga beat the fireworks for pure wow factor.
Today was a public holiday – Obama Day, of course, so we headed out west to Karen for lunch at the Rusty Nail – a rambling colonial-style restaurant set in beautiful, shady grounds where birds trill as children tumble delightedly over each other on a bouncy castle while parents eat on the terrace. Our daughters had a blast, with our four-year-old latching on (literally) to an entertainer clad in a clown suit printed with images of Spiderman. Unfailingly patient and apparently with a pain threshold well above normal, he endured the children’s boisterous pushing, pummelling and general abuse with ease and a smile for hours. On our way back, we stopped at the Giraffe Centre. Out of the car, and there they were: real, live, lanky, doe-eyed giraffes being fed by visitors. Our youngest ran screaming with delight across the yard towards the animals, before becoming unaccountably fearful. But our eldest fed them, popping the pellets onto their long hairy tongues. She couldn’t quite bring herself to kiss one though. Next time. The sun was setting, the birds were settling down for the night, warthogs came to scrabble in the mud, and to top it all, there was a man making balloon models.
Not that our initiation to Nairobi life has been all fun and games (although really, it nearly has!). Our eldest has started school at a private nursery – and has already got her full uniform which includes a legionnaires hat, culottes and plimsolls. She looks fabulous but it’s quite a weird image for a working-class Irish Mum to assimilate. On her second day, I picked her up in a taxi and we took a roundabout way home to avoid the highway traffic. Bad idea. We found ourselves near the National Museum in the city centre where police had just fired tear gas to get rid of some hawkers. I thought the traffic fumes were bad but it was only when I noticed that people were actually crying and sticking their fingers up their noses in the street, that I realized what was going on. I told the girls to pull their t-shirts over their faces. They were, as usual, unflappable. I explained what had happened to our eldest, and luckily we found ourselves behind a police pickup, with a helmeted officer still holding his tear gas-firing gun. “So, sometimes the police fire these tear gas canisters to make people go away, see, from guns like that one over there,” I said. My eldest thought a moment. “So I could get some tear gas and get rid of people I don’t like.” I think I may not have told it right.
The second slightly hairy incident was one in which we were only really after-the-event bystanders. On our eldest’s second full day at school, we arrived to find clusters of people talking anxiously in low voices inside the gates and helmeted security guards revving their vans and speeding up the lane. Turns out there had been a carjacking earlier, and a driver was shot dead. Some of the children were in the school at the time and heard the gunshots. Some saw the body. There was a lot of worry and confusion but this is a tough crowd. Most of the children stayed at school while some of the more influential parents started calling round amongst themselves to talk about beefing up security. I really don’t think it will happen again anytime soon. We missed it all, trundling up in our taxi at least 20 minutes after the action.
Everyone talks about crime here, the city’s nickname is afterall Nairobbery. It’s obviously wise to be cautious. You have to think that the in-your-face contrasts between the haves and have-nots inspires some degree of resentment. But it’s also clear the carjacking on the school lane was something unusual. And that is comforting. I think I’ll be taking taxis to school for a while though.
One final thought, what is it about Shania Twain and Africa. As I leant out my window the other night, her distinctive twang rose above the buildings. In Abidjan, her videos and songs were a regular feature of Friday nights at the Hollywood bar in Cocody. I like Shania as much as the next person, and I believe (whisper it) I even have one of her CDs, but I am slightly concerned. Is there something deeper going on here?