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?