When mother saw me off on my first trip to Africa in 2007, there was definite finality in her wave. When she found out I’d broken a toe two weeks in, that settled the matter: I was coming home in a coffin. Everywhere else was fine – but there was something about this continent which terrified her.
To some extent, who could blame her, when stories about Africa which reach the West are invariably negative? Britons have recently read about slum fires, two kidnappings and famine in Kenya alone. So when I insisted mother put the Daily Mail DOWN and come visit me, she was reluctant and downright scared. But I deemed it essential that my own mother experience what it’s really like in a developing country and what I’m doing here, in the hope that she would accept my decision to volunteer and – more importantly – return home with a more informed attitude towards Africa.
And when she came through arrivals looking like Joan Collins and armed with neckerchiefs – But Beeba, I thought everyone in Africa wore neckerchiefs? – I saw a bit of the old me in her. First the trepidation, entering the unknown – and then seeing Kenya first-hand, interacting with its people, and realising what an amazing country it is. I’d like to share her learnings with you. Because if mother can return home raving about Africa to Mike the Plumber, anyone can.
A qualification. Mother is highly intelligent. She is a businesswoman (the driving force behind Hertfordshire’s first dating agency, the family restaurant and Tankerfield House B&B). She is also academic, having recently been awarded a First Class Honours in Literature, and her short stories come commended in writing competitions. However, when she is out of her comfort zone, she morphs into the human equivalent of the wildebeest; a species which roams the Maasai Mara in its millions and whose sole reason for existence appears to be to provide food for the rest of the animals. So forgive her her transgressions; she was on a steep learning curve.
1. Bewilderment
Mother’s level of comprehension throughout her trip was, by her own admission, very low. I would try to reduce her dependence on me by frequent tests (Where are we now? Watiamer? No, Watamu. How did we get to Mombasa? I have no idea! Did we fly?). But I knew I was flogging a dead horse when I asked what she’d do if we separated. She frowned, thought a bit, then announced: I would go to hospital and ask for Tom! (The fact that there are many hospitals in Nairobi and Tom researches in a small section of one, thus making the likelihood of us ever being reunited slim to none, made me feel alarmed, and yet…intrigued).
Kenya was such an assault on the senses that mother lost it. Where are we, Beeba? Nigeria? On safari in the Maasai Mara we saw everything from elephants to lions to leopards. But mother was pouting – Where are all the tigers, then?
Mother’s bewilderment had practical consequences. For twelve days, she forgot the function of a light, toilet, shower and kettle. She got flustered in the safari van (How does this seatbelt work? It’s like an aeroplane seatbelt. But I’ve never been on an aeroplane! Mother, you flew here in one). Neither could she open the door, despite its simple sliding mechanism. So when a giant baboon jumped through the front window, it was like the kitchen scene from Jurassic Park, with mother pulling at the door and screaming for our absent guide (whom she never forgave: Text Tom EVERY movement while we’re on this safari, she demanded. I think George wants us dead).
But slowly, bewilderment turned to appreciation. Everything was new and she walked about wide-eyed, absorbing things like a sponge. Have you ever seen a giant cactus? one guide asked. NO! A tree hyrax? NO! She saw good in everything and everyone – to a fault, especially in the restaurant where she shouted: Look at the safety lines painted on that step! Aren’t they STUNNING? (Admittedly, she’d gone overboard on tequila and a minute later inexplicably started weeping with laughter). On the first night, eyes glazed with the excitement of it all, she declared: Beeba, I’ve had a wonderful holiday.
2. Misunderstandings
Just as kettles work the same as in England, so are the people still people, living in the twenty-first century, trying to get by. Someone forgot to tell mother. Why don’t they build mud huts in Nairobi? she asked Tom’s (very understanding) Kenyan friends. She was in her element with our neighbours on the Rift Valley Railway; an Australian pair who gave the history of the famous white settler Karen Blixen which turned out to be a summary of the plot to Out of Africa starring Meryl Streep. The three soon moved onto more controversial topics: health (Results from blood tests are very fast here; you wouldn’t expect that of Africa), education (Don’t they all sit cross-legged under a tree to learn?) and youth (Black children are so sweet! Oh, look at this ugly one).
Whenever engaging with Kenyans, my services as a translator were required. It reminded me of the time my friend Craig’s mother visited – from Yorkshire. I don’t have much trouble understanding the Kenyan accent now, but watching mother in conversation – My name is Humphrey Kamau. Oh hello, Amfrickamo! – would leave me cringing. I was texting in a café one lunchtime while she chatted with the owner. When his back was turned, she poked me in the ribs and hissed, Aurelia, I NEED YOU! I don’t know what he’s talking about!
But mother was quick to shed her preconceptions (if not her misunderstandings), and launch into interactions. She talked to EVERYONE. She chirped Jumbo! to each person passing us on a fifteen minute walk through one village. She entertained the beach boys and asked the Maasai guards about their culture. She promised to send Indiana Jones to one guide after she told him about the monkey stew (alright for her, I had to traipse around town looking for it, then endure a stint at the post office). At every turn, she wanted to learn.
3. Mistrust in transport
I long ago gave myself up to Kenyan drivers, putting my faith in their unorthodox behaviour and abilities. But I saw through fresh eyes how counterintuitive it seems that taxi drivers, tuk tuks and matatus wait for you to board and THEN fill up with petrol. I saw that it might be disconcerting when the matatu shudders to a halt in the middle of nowhere and the driver starts fiddling under the vehicle before calling Mohammed to ask Where’s that switch you were telling me about? And equally alarming when the taxi conks out three times on a busy highway, and each time the driver leaps out and starts poking things under the bonnet with a bemused expression.
Yet mother transformed into master of getting-on-with-it. She became patient for the first time: sitting in the notorious Nairobi jam for an hour without complaint, throwing herself onto every manner of crowded public transport, insisting on carrying loads on her lap, helping women into seats and starting a round of applause after a bus driver took an hour to change a tyre. Although she drew the line at a piki piki, by the end she dismissed my suggestion that we get a taxi to her final meal and hailed a matatu like a local.
4. To give or not to give?
I don’t want to be glib here. The poverty hit mother hard. When we saw a man stripped to the chest, barefoot, sweating as he dragged a wooden cart laden with drums of water, she was horrified. But how to deal with our wealth was one area where we just couldn’t agree. Everything I’ve tried to finely balance since arriving – insisting on paying the same as everyone else on the matatu, not giving street children money in the belief it might encourage them to skip school, paying a fair price for souvenirs (not too high, but still above the local rate) – departed with mother’s arrival. Here for a short holiday, she wanted to do everything she could to help. And she had no concept of context: £1 here does not translate to £1 in England. The tuk tuk driver wanting 100 bob (80p) instead of the usual 50? Give him 150! The taxi driver charging 700 bob (£6) instead of 500? Give him a tip too!
I constantly swatted her away. Worst of all was buying souvenirs. When women surrounded us on safari, she selected eight bangles and instructed: Pay whatever they’re asking! And even when she tried to haggle, she got it wrong. I was negotiating with a shop owner over some prints when she interjected assertively, I’m not paying more than £30! Tell him I’m not paying more than £30!! MOTHER, I snarled after my shushing was ignored, He’s not even ASKING for £30! So it’s a good thing that I’m a total control freak; I held the purse strings throughout and inflated conversions where necessary.
The parting
I’m fed up of Europe, Beeba. I’m an African now, mother declared halfway through her visit. By the end, she finally understood what I was doing here and why I love it. I was thrilled: mission accomplished. Still, when she turned to me on our last day and pleaded, eyes glittering, Can I come out again, Beeba?, I nearly burst into tears. And her parting words reassured me that she was still the same Mumma: These Africans, they’re very peaceful, aren’t they? Noone’s tried to spear us or anything. I waved her through departures wearing a Masaai shuka, eight bangles and a straw bonnet. Then I went home and slept for two days.
Aurelia in Kenya 