The Siphonaptera

Big fleas have little fleas,
Upon their backs to bite 'em,
And little fleas have lesser fleas,
and so, ad infinitum.

I first came across the Siphonaptera in the preface of an ecology textbook I studied during my pre-med year over 30 years ago, and it stuck with me ever since. It is a nursery rhyme, sometimes referred to as Fleas (siphonaptera is the biological term for the order of insects to which fleas belong). The nursery rhyme is reported to be based on an 18^th century satirical poem by the Anglo-Irish writer, Jonathan Swift.

I had cause to reflect on this rhyme during a recent visit to one of our refugee camps. I have written in earlier posts in this blog about the situation in the refugee camps in Kenya. What I have found most distressing about the situation isn’t the ill health, the malnutrition, the often inadequate access to the essentials for life and survival; it’s the lack of power to decide how to live their lives. Not being able to decide where you live, what to eat, where to go; having all the basic day-to-day decisions that all of adult humanity take for granted outside your sphere of influence is the most disempowering position an adult can find themselves in. So, I was rather unpleasantly taken aback to learn that the universal truth captured in this nursery rhyme also applied in the camp. I speak of socio-cultural hierarchies and discrimination amongst refugees within the camps.

I’m not just referring to the segregation and discrimination between refugees from different countries; that is well known. The Somali, Sudanese, Ethiopians, and the Congolese are all mutually distrustful of each other. There’s also animosity between the different peoples of South Sudan; just because you’re now living in a refugee camp doesn’t mean that the differences responsible for the civil war back home disappear. These known prejudices are bad enough and I know that the agencies operating in the camps are working hard to address them. But I was particularly struck by the attitude in one of our camps towards a specific ethnic minority on the camps, the Somali Bantu as they are known.

Before my latest trip to the camp, I had never heard of Somali Bantus. They were taken by 19^th century Arab slave traders from the area that now make up modern day Tanzania, Mozambique and Malawi to work as slaves in the farms in modern day Somalia. They are discriminated against in Somalia and sadly, that discrimination has followed them into the refugee camps.

Some background: NGOs working in the camps are encouraged to employ qualified staff from amongst the refugees to help deliver the support programmes on the camps. These staff receive a small stipend. The refugee support programmes on the camps could not be delivered without the involvement of these workers. Many of them have qualifications from their countries of origin relevant to the work they are employed to do; many others are trained to deliver specific services on the camps. The vast majority of them are excellent at what they do and are an invaluable resource. While the level of payment is extremely small, they gain by acquiring new skills that could serve them well if they return to their countries of origin or are resettled elsewhere and the little payment does offer some autonomy that other refugees may not have. The agencies that employ them gain by having staff who are part of the communities they serve, who understand the culture and speak the languages of the refugees they serve. This is very important for effective and efficient delivery of the assistance programmes on the camps and for building relationships between the NGOs providing services in the camps and the beneficiaries.

In reviewing the health experience of the residents of the camps, I met with some of the staff, to explore some of the concerns identified from my work. Some pockets of significantly poorer health indicators identified were in sectors of the camps occupied by Somali Bantu.  I was struck by the dismissive and derogatory comments made by some about the Somali-Bantu, some going as far as to suggest they couldn't be helped!

I raised this with the agencies concerned who filled me in on the level of discrimination faced by the Somali Bantu, even on the camps and the particular challenges posed by their long experience of being excluded from educational opportunities. I learned that even on the camps, some Somali Bantu continue to work for other Somali refugees as domestic help. I learned from online resources that Somali Bantu women are at increased risk of rape, even within the camps!

I am pleased to report that the agency I work with is aware of these issues and is working to address this. A priority will be to address the prejudices amongst the incentive staff we employ and to activity seek to employ Somali Bantu in these roles.

So back to the Siphoneptera; even in the most extreme of circumstances as in a refugee camp, little fleas will find lesser fleas and so ad infinitum…

You can find out more about the Somali-Bantu from the following resources:

·        Minority Rights Group International http://minorityrights.org/minorities/bantu/

·        This excellent blog post http://kwekudee-tripdownmemorylane.blogspot.co.ke/2013/09/somali-bantu-people-hardworking.html

·        A brief video interview of a Somali-Bantu resettled in US https://youtu.be/weYnP97LeOs

·        Good old Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somali_Bantu

‘Bitings ….’

The term ‘Bitings’ is the Kenyan slang for snacks, nibbles, or, as we call them in Nigeria, small chops. It seemed an appropriate title for this blog update which is a collection of brief, not necessarily related musings.

Home

Wikipedia defines a home as ‘a dwelling-place used as a permanent or semi-permanent residence for an individual, family, household or several families in a tribe’. It goes on to describe the psychological significance of home ‘The strongest sense of home commonly coincides geographically with a dwelling. Usually the sense of home attenuates as one moves away from that point, but it does not do so in a fixed or regular way. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Home#Psychological_significance).

I found myself reflecting on this a few weeks ago. I was asked by a new acquaintance where home was and found myself responding ‘Leeds in Yorkshire’. I surprised myself with that response. You see, I have been asked this question many times in England; it’s a question that many non-white British folk, especially those of us with non-Anglo-Saxon names get asked very often. I have always responded by stating that home is Nigeria, but that I am proud honorary Yorkshire lass. This has been my standard response despite have lived in England for over 30 years altogether; most of my adult life. So I found myself wondering why I responded differently here in Kenya.

The Wikipedia quote above suggests that the sense of home declines  as one moves away from the said place. I think it’s the opposite. My sense of home as Nigeria intensified the longer I lived away from it and I never consciously though of home as Leeds until I moved away from it these past few months. Despite 19 years living there; despite the fact that my family were in Leeds; and that the only collection of bricks and mortar I can lay claim to are in Leeds; I had never consciously thought of Leeds as home, until I moved to Kenya. And since first vocalising that thought, I find myself obsessively homesick for Leeds. I check the BBC website, specifically for Look North (our local news programme); I started following some Leeds-based twitter groups and I even found myself reading sympathetically about the woes of Leeds United football club despite having no interest in football beyond a bemused fascination with other peoples’ fanatical support for ‘the beautiful game’.

I do miss home and by home here I mean Leeds. Strange; or as we say in Yorkshire, ‘nowt as queer as folk’.

Home, again

I spent just under 2 weeks back in England in September, primarily to help ‘amazing daughter’ move down to London to start her training at a Drama Conservatoire. It was a hectic trip back, shuttling between Leeds and London and visiting every IKEA store in between. I must say that the instructions for assembling IKEA furniture seem to have improved somewhat, although we did have some ‘expert’ help (thanks Geoff!). But we got there eventually and amazing daughter moved in with a lovely bunch of housemates. As a side benefit, I’ve made some new friends too; the mums of the  new housemates have been wonderful and I felt better getting on the plane coming back to Nairobi because I know she has great housemates and that their mums will look after my girl while I’m away.

Now, if you had asked me in April this year, if I though amazing daughter would be alright on her own in The Big Smoke, I would have said ‘sure she will, I raised her right, our values are her values, she knows what we expect of her, she will be fine’. But no sooner had I left her in London than I began to worry … ‘will she know how to manage her money well and not rack up any unnecessary debt? Will she know how to pay her bills? Will she get on with her new housemates’ ; and so on and son on … The most absurd anxiety! I then moved from the sublime to the ridiculous and found myself thinking, ‘what if she meets some people in London and gets radicalised?’ Preposterous I know, but I thought it, albeit briefly and I blame that thought on stuff I had been reading in the media about radicalised young people. The absurdity of actually entertaining that thought was what I needed to shake me out of my spiralling anxiety. I’m now back to ‘of course she will be fine, I raised her right and God is watching over her’ mode. Just as I was beginning to relax and assure myself everything would be fine, we found out that the student loan company had missed up her application and her money hadn’t come through! Back to panic stations…!

Resolutions

I never make New Year resolutions. I know I won’t keep them. I do however set myself what I like to grandiosely describe as long term, self-improvement goals. Not putting a timescale on these goals, takes the pressure off and ensures that I do not have any sense of failure if I don’t achieve then over any time period (clever eh?). However, on moving to Kenya, I broke my habit and set myself a goal that seemed reasonable and achievable.

I have always loved the saxophone and for my 40^th birthday, many years ago, my gift to myself was a second hand sax and lessons. I had never learned to read music, so the plan was to learn to read music and learn the saxophone purely for my own enjoyment. My goals were simple; I wanted to play just three songs very well – A Change is gonna come by Sam Cooke; Summertime by Gershwin and, rather ambitiously, Just the two of us by Bill Withers. Well I did learn how to play Summertime (passably), and because my young, extremely cool saxophone teacher is a big Fela fan and was just tickled pink to meet someone in Leeds who knew about Fela and had been to The Shrine (once), I also learned a bit of Fela - Expensive S**t (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmXvpuseXWU). Then, swine flu happened, I had to cancel lessons because of work, and never resumed them and even worse I didn’t take the saxophone out of its case more than twice in the ensuing years.

So, since I would be in Kenya on my own, didn’t know anyone here and wouldn’t have any after-work family responsibilities, I reckoned this would be an excellent time to pick up the sax again. So, I deliberately did not take out a subscription for local cable television, lugged my sax, music books and teach yourself the saxophone videos all the way to Kenya. Well how have I done? Not great. I have only taken the saxophone out of the case twice in the 4 months that I’ve been here! Oh well, I guess that is some improvement – twice is 4 months is certainly better than twice in 6 years! And who knows, I might just bring it out again tonight, that will be thrice in 4 months!!

Next post will be back to more serious issues related to why I’m actually in Kenya …

Guilty of believing in a single story

Apologies for taking so long to update my blog, it's been a busy few weeks.

I promised to write about food a while ago, but food is too important to just describe by taste and texture. So these are my philosophical musings on the subject.

In her famous TED talk, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie speaks of the danger of a single story. She relates the story of the reaction of her American roommate on first meeting this woman from 'Africa'. If you haven't read or heard that speech (which planet have you been on?) you can access it here  http://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story?language=en.

I had always believed this was a problem for the west; that we 'Africans' by necessity have a broader understanding of the world and know that the British are more than just Londoners subsisting on fish and chips eaten out of yesterday's newspaper, that Americans are more than loud, unbelievably optimistic people living on burgers with cheese, and that the French are more than just designer wear and frog-legs. We, by necessity, understood the variety of the world better. I knew that Africa is not a country; I knew that there isn't a language called 'african', that we spoke distinct languages and not just 'dialects'. I knew all that, didn't I? Since coming to Kenya I have had to rethink my certainty and to realise that I too, am (or was) guilty, perhaps to a lesser extent, but guilty nonetheless, of believing in a single story.

Before coming to Kenya, I knew that Kenyans were different from Nigerians; that they looked different, spoke different languages, had distinct historical and cultural experiences. I knew all that but I discovered on getting here that I was guilty of believing that all Africans eat similar foods! How could I assume that food, a fundamental cultural characteristic would be consistent across such a vast geographical expanse as the distance between Nigeria and Kenya? How could I?

The consequence of my belief in this single culinary story was the total shock to my palate on discovering Kenyan cuisine! I am a foodie. I love food. There are very few foods I would total refuse to eat or define as totally unacceptable. I eat sushi. I eat jellied eels. I eat French escargot (but feel that the French would swoon at the experience of giant African snails prepared Nigerian style with my friend Nky Iweka's pepper sauce - see executivemamaput.com). But with Japanese sushi and jellied eels, I came prepared, expecting something different, something 'other' and therefore my mental palate came to those dishes well prepared. On the other hand I came to Kenyan food assuming a similarity to Nigerian cuisine with which I am most familiar. I had seen pictures of, and read descriptions of Ugali. I had assumed (correctly) that Ugali would be like the foo-foo made from yam, cassava or rice, eaten in many parts of West Africa. I had assumed that I would enjoy it as I do pounded yam and garri. I assumed that the staple foods with which I am familiar would be widely available in Kenya so that, should I wish, I could cook yam pottage made with palm oil or egusi soup with ease.

So Ugali eaten with nyama boil, sukumawiki and kachumbari, was a shock and a disappointment. Where was the thick tasty soup / stew to dip the Ugali in? Where were the spices, scent leaves and distinct 'African flavours'? You mean some Africans don't lace their food with fiery hot chillies? Really? Where was the Kenyan equivalent of the legendary and sometimes controversial jollof rice  (see jollofgate http://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-trending-29831183)?

My lack of psychological preparation for difference made me decide that I didn't like Kenyan food. My work colleagues attempts to reverse my opinion by taking me out to THE place for Nyama choma (barbecued meat) sadly failed as I compared it to Nigerian suya and found it wanting.

I have since eaten Kenyan cuisine that I enjoyed more; the coastal Asian-influenced curries, the 'food without borders' produced by my friend Binyavanga Wainaina (forgive me for name dropping); but I find that my belief in a single culinary story has coloured my appreciation of the food.

 Lesson learned.

Downtown

Now, it is always good practice to take advice from people who know the land before venturing out exploring. You can then do one of the following with that advice.

1.    Heed it

2.    Seek other views and make a decision based on the most consistent position

3.    Consider the advice, then ignore it and do what you want anyway!!

Guess which option I took?

Practically everyone I've spoken to since I arrived (and I mean locals mostly) have counselled against going to downtown Nairobi - I could be mugged, robbed, assaulted, pick-pocketed etc etc! The first thing I was told about Nairobi is that the nickname for the place is 'Nairobbery'!  So for the first month of my time here I didn't venture downtown.

But I thought to myself 'stuff and nonsense, how bad can it be?'  I love people-watching and busy city centres are ideal places to do that; so armed with my personal alarm, fully charged mobile phone, airtime credit and data (for Google maps in case I get lost); and my selfie-tick (which doubles as a self-defence baton), I ventured forth to downtown Nairobi on a Saturday afternoon.

My faithful cab driver Joseph took me down to the CBD (central business district) and reluctantly deposited me at the Goethe Institute (the German cultural centre). He wanted to drive me around and wasn't too pleased with my intention to roam on foot. (I like to think he was concerned for my welfare, not the money he could have made.) 

The art exhibition I wanted to see at the Goethe Institute was closed, so I wandered across to the Alliance Francaise (is there a British cultural centre in Nairobi? I haven't found one yet). I met a lovely friendly and very pretty young Kenyan woman who was there to review the art exhibition. The French centre exhibition was also closed. (What's up with that Nairobi? Exhibitions shouldn't be closed on a Saturday afternoon!) Fortunately, the lovely guy at the reception let us slip around the barrier and wander around the gallery for a while. Confidence boosted, I ventured further and spent 4 hours wandering around aimlessly, people-watching and just soaking up the atmosphere.

Verdict: I love downtown Nairobi!

It reminds me a little bit of Mediterranean towns I’ve visited in the past, with wide avenues, generous central reservations, and pedestrianised walkways cutting through the traffic; but with the added flavour of the hustle, heat and colour of 1970s Lagos mainland; the Marina area (it must be the Bata stores at every corner). I did not feel unsafe at any time; not even when a matatu driver tried to shorten my time on earth! I walked like I had a destination and nobody paid me any attention. I particularly liked the Agar Khan walk with the seating areas filled with locals just passing the time of day. (Note to self - find out what the relationship is between the Agar Khan and Kenya; there are Agar Khan hospitals and clinics, schools, streets, etc, why?). 

I walked down Kenyatta Avenue, Moi Avenue, along the river Nairobi (not much of a river from what I could see); up Haile Sellasie Avenue (we do like to name our streets after past presidents). Rested a while in the August 7 Memorial Park (the site of the terrorist attack on the US Embassy in 1998; see http://www.memorialparkkenya.org/). Continued past the City Hall, the house of parliament, the courts, the international conference centre. Up Uhuru highway (another president!) and through Uhuru Park, a huge park filled with families celebrating the end of Ramadan. The sight of young women in full veil squealing on the park rides, and children with faces painted, taking turns for a ride on the camels made me grin with pleasure. (I steered clear of the camels though, I hear they spit!). I walked on past museums and galleries that I intend to return to and amazingly managed to make my way back to the Goethe Institute without having to consult Google maps at all!!

Four glorious hours of aimless wandering and people watching. A day well spent I say!!

So what's the moral of this tale? Well, seek advice, use your head and then follow your heart. Works for me....

Next food ...     

The land that time forgot

My work kicked off properly this week. I spent the week in north-west Kenya, in Turkana country. Part of my role is to evaluate some of the health services provided to the refugee camps in Kenya and the communities that host them. So after seeing Amazing daughter off back to England, I packed my bags (note to self: you must learn to travel light) and at 5.30am I was at the Wilson Airport checking in for the World Food Programme flight to Kakuma

A bit about Turkana County and Kakuma (don't say you haven't learned anything useful from my blog)

Turkana is about 700km (~ 430 miles) to the north from Nairobi. It borders Uganda to the north west, South Sudan to the north and Ethiopia to north east. It is in what Kenya describes as its ASALs - Arid and Semi-Arid Lands. It is vast and sparsely populated by the Turkana, nomadic pastoralists, the majority of whom still adhere to their traditional religion (over 90% practice their traditional religions) and traditional lifestyle, moving with the seasons and the needs of their livestock. The weather – as the ASAL description indicates - is DRY and HOT!!! It isn’t uncommon to go a whole year without any rains. And yet, the county also contains the beautiful Lake Turkana (formerly called Lake Rudolph by the British when they were here). I have been told that Lake Turkana is beautiful; I hope to find out for myself sometime.

The Turkana county capital is Lodwar. It sits in a basin astride the Turkwel River and is even hotter than the surrounding area. This is the seat of the recently created county government.

(Side note on Kenyan politics and recent history: One significant contribution of Turkana to Kenyan political history is that this was the region of choice for holding political prisoners by the British colonial government. Jomo Kenyatta, the first president of Kenya, was held on house arrest in Lodwar for 2 years in the late 1950s.Turkana was declared a ‘closed district’ by the British just after the 2^nd world war and remained isolated from the rest of Kenya until the mid-1970s when road blocks, limiting movement into and out of the county, were finally lifted.  Following the violence after the 2007 elections, Kenya adopted a new constitution in 2010 which required the devolution of power from the central government in Nairobi to the newly-created counties and sub-counties. Until this change, there had been little investment or development in the ASALs.)

Turkana is also the location of one of the largest refugee camp in the world – Kakuma refugee camp; my first destination.

Our flight landed on a dirt strip with no discernible ‘airport’ terminal. We picked up our luggage at the foot of the plane steps and walked out to a carpark where we were met by our driver. We drove past local Turkana women with their rows and rows of colourful neck beads and wraps tied over one shoulder, and Turkana men in raffish hats with feathers in them (I learned that ostrich feathers are prized for this purpose), with large hoop earrings and carrying decorated sticks. It was a short 20 minute drive from the airstrip to the UNHCR staff compound in Kakuma camp.

Kakuma camp, (I’m told the name is kiswahilli for ‘nowhere’ but I haven’t been able to confirm this), was set up in 1992 to take in refugees following wars in the neighbouring countries of Sudan and Ethiopia. The current camp population is estimated at about 185,000. 95% of its residents are Somalian, Sudanese and Ethiopian, with people from the DRC, Uganda, Burundi, Rwanda, Eritrea, Zimbabwe and even Nigeria (yes Nigeria!), making up just over 5%. It continues to grow and due to the ongoing upheaval in South Sudan, has increased beyond its current capacity. The camp is managed by UNHCR and the Kenyan government and the NGO I’m working with is one of the major providers of services to the refugees.

Now, you are probably thinking: refugee camp, rows of white tents with blue roofs with UN emblazoned on the top, journalists with cameras taking pictures of the photogenic and the dying, and western (mostly white) volunteers helping the refugees just arriving from war torn / famine decimated regions. Well, it’s not quite like that.

•       First, the accommodation for refugees is mostly mud huts with thatch roofs. Kakuma camp is a big town, with suburbs settled by refugees from different countries and communities to avoid clashes (the wars in neighbouring areas don’t stop because you have been classed as a refugee).
•       Second, far too many of the refugees have been here for years, decades even! Yes, new ones are arriving, particularly from South Sudan, but the majority have been here for ages. They are not allowed to leave the camp without a special pass, they are not allowed to seek employment outside the camps; and far too few ever get relocated to other parts of Kenya or other countries. I met a Somali resident of the camp, in his mid-20s who has been in Kakuma for almost 20 years!
•        Finally, the vast majority of the people providing services and working with the refugees are Kenyans. And they are to be admired. Kenyan staff working on the camps leave their families behind in Nairobi, Kisumu etc, and move into the UNHCR staff compound on the camp. Facilities are basic and communal. Every 2 -3 months, the staff get a few days ‘R&R’, during which they go home to families and friends elsewhere in the country. Yet, these ‘national staff’ as they are known, remain dedicated to improving the lives of the displaced people in the camps.

The challenges facing refugees are complex. Aside from the obvious trauma associated with the cause of their status, refugees are removed from their normal ways of life. They are dependent on the UNHCR and NGOs for everything. Women who in their traditional communities would be busy from dawn till dusk (women in nomadic communities are traditionally responsible for building the hut, fetching water, firewood, cooking, looking after the children, subsistence farming etc), and men who would traditionally be out with their herds, find themselves with time on their hands and no meaningful purpose to fill the hours. A tiny number of refugees with needed skills are employed as ‘incentive staff’ by the agencies and paid a small stipend, but this is a miniscule proportion of the population. Many set up little businesses – there are many markets selling essentials not provided by the agencies (and exchanging supplies provided by the agencies for more desirable stuff too). But the restrictions of refugee life takes its toll, with high levels of alcohol misuse, particularly among the South Sudanese. It’s a sad sad situation.

After two days touring the facilities, meeting the staff and assessing the service provision with other IRC colleagues from Nairobi, we moved to Lodwar and I got to tick another thing off my bucket list.

Lodwar is about 120 km from Kakuma along a poorly maintained road with a high risk of attack by armed bandits (cattle rustling and inter-tribal skirmishes between the Turkana and the neighbouring Pokot is a problem here). So travel along this route requires an armed escort. So there I was, sitting in the front passenger seat of a white UN jeep with an armed vehicle following close behind and our driver racing down the terrible road at considerable speed (apparently the security advice is to move fast). The driver was very familiar with the route and knew when to get off the excuse for a road and hit the dusty tracks. Those of you who know me well will know that I’m a bit of a petrol-head; I loved it!! Woohoo!! Flying down this dirt track in a 4 wheel drive, occasionally stopping for crossing camels (yes, you read right, camels; the Turkana herd cattle, sheep, goats, donkeys AND camels).

Our driver was considerate enough to stop for the tourist (me) to take occasional pictures of the moonscape-like terrain and the camels, and transient Turkana huts. I hope I can upload some pictures here.

Lodwar, the capital ‘town’ of Turkana was hot and dusty. The Turkana themselves, even within the town, still live very traditional lives in easily dismantled huts, in traditional dress. A small proportion have settled and adapted to town living but the conflict between traditional and western living shows in the high proportion of ‘street children’ addicted to glue sniffing!

Oil and natural gas reserves have recently been discovered in Turkana, and a boom is predicted. I hope this brings good things for the people of the region and that they are not cursed with the ‘Dutch disease’ (see http://lexicon.ft.com/Term?term=dutch-disease). However, I fear that others better equipped to reap the benefits of the oil industry will move in to take the high-income jobs, and the ill-educated Turkana will be left with the unskilled labour and disrupted traditional lifestyles. Let’s hope I’m wrong.

I left Lodwar after 2 days on a commercial flight via Eldoret to Nairobi (slightly bigger plane, fully occupied by about 40 passengers). Visiting Kakuma and Lodwar was fascinating and distressing and exhilarating and depressing and I look forward to my next trip there. But by the end of the week, I was glad to return to the cool ‘winter’ air of Nairobi.

If you want to know more about the Turkana, may I recommend this blog by a social anthropologist who lived with a Turkana family for a year http://livinginturkana.blogspot.com/2010_07_01_archive.html

Next … going downtown ….

‘Lions and tigers and bears, oh my…’ Safari!!

The title is a quote from the musical, ‘The Wizard of Oz’, and isn’t exactly accurate, but I’m stagey and always relish an opportunity to quote a musical.

Amazing daughter came back to Nairobi with me for a short break. She finished her A’ level exams just before the anniversary party and deserved a holiday before starting her summer job (she's in a summer production by the National Youth Theatre of GB and will be in London all summer). So as a treat for both of us, I had booked us on safari in the Maasai Mara - one more thing on my bucket list.

We stayed at a Little Governors camp (http://www.governorscamp.com/property-descriptions/governors-camps-masai-mara/little-governors-camp) which I am pleased to report was wonderful!  The camp consists of 17 tents with no fences or any barrier from the animals. Getting there was an adventure in itself; we were flown in tiny 12-seater plane, with just one other passenger and the pilot. I sat right behind the pilot and the safety announcement was 'fasten your seat belts, the emergency exit is the door you came in through, the flight will be just over 1 hour with one stop at Lake Naivasha'. That was it and we were off! Refreshments consisted of some mints passed round by the pilot.

I should have been terrified in that cold unpressurised rickety little plane but it flew fairly low and I was captivated by the beautiful topography. Kenya from the air is beautiful. From the Ngong Hills (shaped like a knuckle and said to have been formed by a giant holding on to the earth); to the rolling plains with herds of zebra, and the breath-taking lake Naivasha (a freshwater lake North West of Nairobi, that’s part of the Great Rift Valley). I was so busy admiring the view that I forgot to be afraid. That state of blissful ignorance lasted until we made our first landing at Lake Naivasha on a tiny strip of grass masquerading as an airstrip! I think that experience knocked a few days off my expected lifespan! 

We picked up two more passengers (honeymooners, I thought) and in no time our airborne reliant robin was up again and heading towards the river Mara. This time we could see herds of buffalo, elephants, and Maasai villages in their typical circular formation. In a shorty while, we were landing on a slightly higher grade airstrip (this one was clearly demarcated red earth but still un-tarred).

We were met at the airstrip by Collins, our guide for our stay and drove 20 minutes to the Mara River which we crossed in a small boat, pulled along by a very friendly boatman, who pointed out hippos wallowing in the water and crocodiles basking in the sun pretending to be rocks. Sadly the expected Wildebeest migration had not yet started so we missed the spectacle of seeing the migrating wildebeest crossing the Mara River under attack from waiting crocodiles!

Those who know me well will know that I like my creature comforts, so I'm pleased to report that the tents in Little Governors Camp are wonderful! We had ensuite washroom facilities (with showers and flushing loos) and lovely comfy beds – no sleeping bags in sight! I can’t recommend the camp highly enough; the staff were wonderful, the food was lovely - three course lunch and dinner; hot and cold buffet breakfast. Meals were served on tables facing the Mara River within view of hippos, waterbuck and elephants and surrounded by wandering groups of warthogs and mongooses (or should that be Mongeese?). Our tent steward Stanley was wonderfully attentive; the barman Isah found me a decent bottle of Merlot, and Joseph the waiter made sure the chef cooked my eggs just right.

We went on a number of safari drives and saw everything (except Leopards):

• So many majestic Elephants (we love elephants)
• Herds of aggressive looking buffalo (they stink!),
• A lone black rhino (rare sighting, only 43 left in the Mara),
• A pride of lions (one faction of the group filmed for the BBC Big Cat Diaries; did I forget to mention that this is where that documentary was made?)
• A cheetah family (I like them, sleek and graceful!)
• Hippopotamuses (or should that be hippopotami?)
• Crocodiles (lying in wait by the riverbank; (I don’t like them …)
• Giraffes, zebras, gazelles, a few early wildebeest, warthogs, mongeese (I've decided on mongeese over mongooses), and so many more.

However, the most breath-taking experience was watching the sunset over the Maasai Mara – nature at its finest.

We went on a visit to a Maasai village (you didn’t think Wanjiku would fail to visit her people, did you?). We were met by Alex, another good looking Maasai young man who was our guide. Alex looked remarkably like my cousin (note to self: ask Uncle if he spent any time in the Maasai Mara about 20 + years ago, he might have left something behind …). We danced with the women; bought handmade jewellery and blankets, judged the warriors jumping competition (those young men sure can jump!), and met an old lady who was over 100 years old! (The Maasai are very long lived; they thrive on a diet of milk, blood and meat, no vegetables or cereal!).

On our last night, I woke up in the early hours to see a mama Hippo with her baby right next to our tent and an elephant stroll right past our veranda! As it was my birthday, I have decided to believe the parade was arranged especially for me!

We returned to Nairobi via the same Reliant Robin aircraft and amazing daughter returned to the UK the next day.

Our visit to the Maasai Mara, one of the must-dos on my bucket list, was everything I had hoped for and so much more. If I can figure out how to add pictures to this blog I will upload a few later

Next, back to work; back to reality

Africa isn't a single country; from Kenya to Nigeria and back again (Part 2)

Husband and amazing daughter joined us in Lagos a few days after I arrived and the entire extended family adjourned to Aba where my parents still live.

Nigeria was fantastic! Time with family and friends was wonderful. The anniversary celebration was brilliant, we had so much fun!

Since this blog is really about my time in Kenya, I shan't go into too much detail about my time in Nigeria but I must say that every time I visit Aba, the town I grew up in, the place my parents still call home, I have to hold back the tears. While things are improving in many parts of Nigeria, Aba is getting worse! Things that we took for granted in Aba of the 1970s are wishful thinking today! I can't list everything here; that would take too long. Aba has been the victim of almost 2 decades of bad governance! Nothing works as it should! And yet, there is this indefatigable optimism amongst Aba people; this belief that things will get better; this willingness to work hard against all obstacles to make a living and to have a life, that must be admired. The tragedy is that the political classes continue to squander this optimism and spirit. It's too upsetting to say much more. Any fellow ABUs (Aba Brought Ups) who read this blog will understand...

So, on to more cheerful things. The anniversary celebration rocked!! Amazing daughter sang beautifully at the church thanksgiving and party, and a good time was had by all! Husband partied like it was 1999! (all those hours spent 'working' in his study were actually spent on YouTube learning the latest dance moves to Naija pop; my husband still has some serious moves! He got his grove on big time in Aba!!). He promised - in front of witnesses - not to wait another 15 years for another visit home. We packed up and set off back to our various places of residence and work the next day.

Back to Lagos via Owerri airport – very positive experience. I was wished 'happy sunday' many times but no one asked for me 'Madam, something for us?'. One night in Lagos and back to Nairobi on Kenya Airways. Impressed by my first female airline captain and the excellent service on board.

On arrival at Jomo Kenyatta airport, we went through the Ebola screening and then disaster, we were asked for our yellow fever certificates!! I had completely forgotten about those!! Please note that as a public health physician and a strong supporter of vaccination, amazing daughter and I were fully vaccinated and yes we had both received the Yellow Fever vaccine because I knew that we would be travelling from a YF region (Nigeria) to a YF –free country (Kenya) and that a valid certificate was mandatory. Unfortunately, Amara’s certificate was in Yorkshire and mine was in 'the Penthouse' in Nairobi! I admitted our guilt and was referred to the boss and I confess, I played the ‘doctor’ card. I explained to the port health medical officer what I did for a living, confessed to being forgetful and asked to be given the benefit of doubt. It helped that I happened to be carrying a letter from my UK employers on me. Phew, the boss allowed us through (I heard from another passenger that travellers without YF certificates regularly get put on the next flight back to where they came from.

So friends planning to visit from Nigeria, please take note: get vaccinated and make sure you bring your vaccination certificate.

Africa isn't a single country; from Kenya to Nigeria and back again (Part 1)

(I'm sorry that it's taken so long to update this blog, we've been experiencing wifi problems at the penthouse )

I know, I've only been in Kenya  2 weeks and I'm already taking a break; I got funny looks from my new work colleagues as well.  Yes that's right, I took a holiday. This holiday was planned ages ago. You see, my parents have been married for 50 years this year and we, their children, planned a party to celebrate. Everyone was coming home to Nigeria for the party, including my 'long suffering husband' who hasn't been to Nigeria for over 15 years!

So, on Sunday 21st June I took off to Lagos, flying Kenya Airways.  First observation, why are there so few direct flights between two of the major cities on the African continent, and why are airfares so expensive? Surely there must be enough travel between Lagos and Nairobi to justify frequent and competitively priced flights? The cheaper alternatives (indirect flights via Addis Ababa, Kigali, Dubai) were just too long to be worth the bother (I wanted to spend my holiday time with family not in airport lounges). As it happened, I ended up spending the first few hours of my holiday in the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport lounge as our departure was delayed a bit.

I was asked by a friend how Nigeria differed from Kenya. That's a big question and I don't feel equipped to respond for a number of reasons:
1. I am Nigerian, so I'm probably biased
2. I've only been in Nairobi 2 weeks, hardly long enough to make sweeping comparisons with anywhere
3. I don't intend to fall into the trap of rating countries as better or worse, I'm happy to accept that they are just different.

That said, I was struck immediately by the barn-door differences.

Humidity! Walking out of Murtala Muhammed International Airport (sidebar: why is the main international gateway into Nigeria still named after a former military dictator?), you walk into air so thick with moisture it feels like walking through cotton wool!

Chaos!! Lagos chaos is in a class of its own. In addition to the humidity, you are hit by a cacophony of sounds and movement right outside the airport. It's a well known fact that we Nigerians a loud. Yes we are, and Kenyans as I've observed them, are comparatively mute!

Traffic! Now ever since I arrived in Nairobi, I've heard complaints about the traffic. Yes the traffic in Nairobi is bad but Nairobi residents would probably sing with joy at Nairobi traffic if they spent one day in Lagos rush hour traffic!  'Rush hour' is a misnomer; in Lagos, you ain't rushing nowhere and it takes a heck of a lot longer than an hour to get anywhere! However, in a head to head competition between Lagos Molue drivers and Nairobi Mataru drivers, I think the Mutatus win by a gnats whisker -  matatu drivers are worse!

So take it from me Kenya and Nigeria - or more accurately Nairobi and Lagos -  are different.

I would like to comment on one other difference I observed; the behaviour of staff and how travellers are treated on arrival. In Lagos, Nigerian passport holders are whisked through immigration procedures in no time. When I arrived Nairobi a fortnight earlier, I had observed that the foreign passports queues seems to be better staffed with minimal delays while the Kenyan citizens seemed to wait a while. The reverse was the case in Lagos; the foreign passport holders had the longer wait.  The Kenyan staff were professional and did their jobs without any faff, while the Nigerian staff tended to be more familiar and subtlety (and sometimes not so subtlety) asked for a 'dash' (tip). It is the norm for Nigerian airport staff to ask 'madam, anything for us ?' . No such thing in Nairobi.  Hmmm...

Oh yes, one final difference; Lagos in June is 10-15 degrees Celsius hotter than Nairobi!


As an 'expatriate'  living outside Nigeria for many years now (I chose to describe myself as an expatriate not an immigrant, more on that later, not for this blog); there is no feeling like the one you get when you arrive 'home'. (I have lived more of my years in England than in Nigeria but Nigeria is 'home'.) Everyone in the airport says 'welcome back' and it feels right; you feel right, you feel a sense of shared ownership of the air, the soil and everything that defines the place. You raise your head up high, square your shoulders and strut forward, confident that no one will ask that annoying question 'where are you from originally? If you live in England and are non-white or bear a non-anglicised name, you will have been asked that question at least once.


So I stepped out of the airport into the heat, humidity, noise, traffic, crowds, chaos and loving arms of Lagos and thought 'Ebere, welcome home'

Just call me 'Wanjiku'

My Kiswahili vocabulary is expanding slowly. I now know enough words to con a local for about 5 seconds. I don't use 'Jambo' often as I gather it marks one out as a tourist.  General greeting 'Habari yako', response Nzuri sana'. If you don't know what to say but are general happy with what's going on, then 'sawa sawa' will usually do. It's my favourite term. It means, ok, cool, fine, sorted, I agree, I'm with you etc. etc. Such a convenient term. Other terms:
asante = thank you, but as Kenyans love emphasis, asante sana is better (thank you very much);
karibu = welcome;
la = no, but as Kenyans are generally polite, you say, la asante, no thank you.
Kwaheri = goodbye

Feeling that I have enough Kiswahili to venture forth safely, I decided seek out some Maasai souvenirs. A friend mentioned a roving Maasai market that moves around the city so on Saturday I took a taxi to downtown Nairobi to the Maasai market in the high court car park.

We took the scenic route, past the state house and through the commercial / business districts. Downtown Nairobi on a Saturday morning is pleasant; the traffic is reasonable, the roads are in good condition and there's a lot of greenery and flowers on the verges. We drove through Nairobi's equivalent of Whitehall - where all the ministries and infrastructure of government are based. It all looked remarkably familiar, like the post war parts of London. In fact, I am certain that the Nairobi international conference centre was designed by the same architect that built The Barbican Centre in London (must check that).

I commented on how clean everywhere looked and how impressed I was with the state of the roads and the clear signs of continuous maintenance. To which the taxi driver responded with a derisory laugh, that it was all 'because of Obama'. At my clear lack of comprehension (I haven't indulged in much TV or radio news since my arrival), he explained that Barack Obama, the president of the United States of America was about to make his first official visit to Kenya. So everywhere was being spruced up in his honour. Whatever was spurring the activity, the result was very pleasing.

We got to the market and I was given very stern instructions by my driver, Steve:
Do not to pay the first price
Do not give money to the beggars, no matter how sad the baby looks
Watch your purse

 He should have warmed me not to be open to flattery as well.

We women of a certain age especially those of us who've been married for many years to men who are rather miserly with compliments (you know what I mean ladies, don't you?), don't realise - until we are paid a compliment - how much we appreciate it. Despite my feminist opposition to it, I confess to hiding a small smile when I get the occasional cat- call when walking past a building site. Now don't get me wrong; I am a confident, self-assured woman. I know what I'm worth and don't need anyone to validate me (my favourite poem after all is Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Phenomenal-Woman-by-Maya-Angelou). But being admired for your physical appearance, particularly when one has worked hard to loose weight and get fit, does cause a frisson of pleasure. (Note to self: remind husband that paying compliments is a good thing)

Well, I walk into the market and am accosted by two good looking men, a young one and a slightly older man nearer my age, who offer to show me around the market. I quickly figure out that they are some sort of brokers. They seem to have arrangements with various crafts people in the market and gather everything I show the slightest interest in, with the assurance that when I've finished looking around the whole market I can chose what I want to buy at leisure. The older man, let's just call him TDH (tall, dark and handsome), declares that I am his soulmate and that he will call me 'Wanjiku'! He offers to divorce his wife and marry me. When I inform him that my husband may take a dim view of that arrangement, he offers to settle him with as many cattle as he asks for, and will throw in an elephant as well!

Despite knowing that this was all a sales ploy, I found myself totally charmed by it. It is a very effective sales ploy, no pressure, no aggressive sales chatter, just a seemingly natural charm offensive. And it almost worked until he told me what my selection of items would cost! That made the Igbo woman in my sit up and pay attention. At this point I reminded him that I wasn't a 'mzungu' (Kiswahili term for white person, usually one who is just arrived and is therefore an easy con), and that I'm not made of money. Then the fun part started with my counter offer of 10% of his opening gambit.

We eventually settled at a mutually acceptable price, though I suspect that I was more generous than I might have been had I not been so thoroughly charmed by the compliments I received. So my sister now has a Maasai table runner and mats, amazing daughter has a Maasai blanket, I have a kikoy shawl, and a selection of carved elephants and cattle to show my husband that my Maasai suitor means business!

Today's lesson? Flattery works.

Settling in (and the stupid things we do when we leave home)

Settling in (and the stupid things we do when we leave home)

Sorry for the late update. There was a problem at 'The Penthouse', so I got moved to a new apartment in the same complex. The new penthouse is lovely, bigger and more glam than the last one, but the downside is the wifi connection is a bit hit and miss. The management have been promising to have it repaired for a week now. Pole pole!

Well, I've been in Nairobi over a week now. The security men at the gates now recognise me, wave and say Habari yako (hello, how are you) as I pass by.  My Kiswahili is expanding from zero to a few words, so I now know to respond with Nzuri sana (I'm very well). I've adjusted to the weather and to the hazy sunshine.

I spent the first week feeling tired all the time, then it struck me - altitude sickness! (well a very mild version of it anyway). Nairobi is at a much higher altitude than Yorkshire and takes some getting used to. Pepto-bismol (the luminescent pink gooey stuff) has been recommended as an effective remedy. Not sure how or if it works but as I am prone to heartburn anyway, it can't hurt to try.
I've been welcomed by Kenyan residents - Nigerians and Kenyans alike - who've gone out of their way to help me settle in. I've been shown where to go for essentials and been advised - repeatedly - not to wander about on my own as it's not safe and to avoid downtown because of the risk of crime. I've found the place to replenish my supply of Merlot! I've ventured outside Lavington and Kilimani to Kileleshwa, Parklands and Westlands. The family of a friend of a friend took me to lunch at a lovely roof top Chinese restaurant with a panoramic view of the city (and some delicious crispy friend okra).

Now, I have been advised repeatedly not to walk from the penthouse to the office. But it seemed absurd to wait ages for a taxi that takes 30 minutes in traffic to complete a journey that I can walk in 20 minutes. So one evening a few days ago, I decide to walk home after work.
Now, those of you who know me will know about my legendary sense of direction; legendary for its non-existence - I get lost in a carpark! But there's something about being in a new place, away from home that is totally disinhibiting; we start to believe that we are invincible and capable of stuff we would normal not be. We become less risk averse. That's why people do daft things on vacation. Well, that's my excuse. I mapped the route in my head, checked google maps, checked my phone data was working as back up, loaded my backpack and set off for what Google estimated would be a 25 minute walk (I reckoned 20).  (I can just imagine the look of horror on my PA Deby's face right now).
Thirty minutes later, yes you guessed it, I was lost!!

Now I had been warned repeatedly not to speak to strangers so that I don't reveal my JJC (Johnny just come, as we say in Nigeria) status, and thus mark myself out as an easy target. So I decide to try and retrace my steps. I get even more lost. It's now an hour since I left the office; Google maps refuses to load on my phone and it's getting dark. I'm beginning to panic. I look around for a friendly face and pick a harmless looking young woman and ask for directions, thinking I can't possibly be that far off target. Boy am I wrong! When I ask for directions to Valley Arcade (the shopping centre close to The Penthouse', she looks at me in amazement and says 'where have you walked from, you are very far from there'!  She issues a series of complicated instructions, sees the mounting panic on my face, then offers to walk me part of the way back.

Did I say how nice Kenyans are?

She walks with me for about 25 minutes, then points me in the right direction and goes about her way. It's dark now, phone is dead and I don't recognise any landmarks. I take the turn she indicated and hope to spot something familiar soon. Another 20 minutes and I'm about to burst into tears; I must have taken another wrong turn! I walk up to one of the gated residential blocks and tell the security guard that I'm lost and could he call a taxi to take me home. I must have looked a right state. The poor chap sat me down gave me some water and asked where I was headed. Turns out I was less than 5 minutes from my destination. He walks me back to The Penthouse and refuses my offer to give him a little something for his troubles. Tells me his is a church minister and that it's his duty - and I quote - 'to lead lost sheep home'.  Well this particular lost sheep was glad to finally make it home more than 2 hours after setting off on a 20 minute journey.

Lesson learned: yep, I still have no sense of direction and don't trust Google maps!

Light and sounds of Nairobi (or more accurately, of the Lavington district of Nairobi)

I’ve always preferred the pictures in my head to the actual ones before me, which is why I much prefer books and radio to television and film. Speaking of which I should have brought my radio with me, the shops here don’t seem to sell radios. But I digress…

I decided to try and reproduce the pictures in my head in this post. I would like you to see /hear Nairobi as I have in the few days I’ve been here. I’m no poet, so apologies if this is rather pedestrian.

I live in a part of Yorkshire that is semi-rural and quiet. The early morning sounds are usually made by a rather pesky bird in my back garden that insists on serenading the dawn each day and fails to appreciate the fact that I prefer silence until I’ve finish my second cup of coffee! We also hear the occasional noisy car or motor bike and very rarely, a police or ambulance siren. What we never hear on a Yorkshire morning is people; Yorkshire folk are not very vocal in the mornings (or any other time of day for that matter, except perhaps, after the pub on a Friday night).

In Lavington Nairobi, I am woken each morning by some very loud and determined grunting (and no, it isn’t the couple in the apartment below, take your mind out of the gutter!). The grunting comes from the basement and upon investigation I discovered a group of women, many of whom (to quote Alexander McCall-Smith http://www.alexandermccallsmith.co.uk/books/no-1-ladies-detective-agency/the-no-1-ladies-detective-agency/), were of a  ‘traditional build’, being urged through a vigorous exercise class by Kenya’s answer to Mr Motivator and emanating grunts that would make any female tennis player proud!

These grunts are punctuated by cheerful exchanges of greeting, ‘Habari’, ‘Nzuri’, between residents and staff and I find myself asking ‘doesn’t anyone sleep in this place?’ By the time they start the second exercise class of the morning, I’ve had my second cup of java and am more appreciative of the dedication that gets these women (and they are all women), out of bed each morning to be tortured by the fitness gestapo. I observed the class briefly and thought it did look like fun, but decided that going up and down the 4 flights of stairs to the penthouse each day constitutes adequate exercise for me. Might join them in the sauna though …

Now a slight diversion but it will make sense, I promise. Bear with me…

I visited Bangladesh for the first time in February and was struck by how familiar Dhaka felt when I stepped out of the airport. The heat, intense afternoon bright sunshine, the traffic noise and the ‘eau de gutter’ were so familiar that I thought, this  could be Lagos Nigeria, and immediately felt at home. Having arrived Nairobi at night, I anticipated the same feeling of familiarity the next morning, I was therefore unprepared for the cool temperature, and despite the occasional whiff of ‘eau de gutter’ on my Sunday morning walk, Nairobi did not feel familiar in the way Dhaka had. 

I had this niggling feeling of a memory that I couldn’t quite recall but not of familiarity. I was rather struck by the strange quality of the light; the sky was grey and overcast as if a rain storm was brewing and the air had this sense of stillness before the heavens open and there was a pinkish haze. Three days later and still no rain; sun a bit brighter and weather a bit warmer. Then on my walk this lunchtime, it hit me; Lavington reminds me of the campus of University of Nigeria Nsukkawhere I started my medical education. Those of you who know UNN will recall the lecturers’ residences of Ikejiani and Margaret Cartwright with the trees, hedges, red dust, narrow tarred roads, the hazy quality of the sun and the cool harmattan breeze. Close your eyes, picture that then add a few hundred cars whose drivers believe that the only rule of the road is survival of the fittest and you have it! Welcome to Lavington Nairobi