During a visit to Kaya Kinondo Sacred Forest, on Kenya’s south coast, we were taken to the medicine man of Kinondo village. Middle aged, he’d had to complete an apprenticeship in his youth, like his forbears, in order to qualify. While we were in his small, sparse hut, a man with malaria arrived. He had been receiving treatment in the hospital some miles away, but came to the medicine man for extra help. The whole appointment lasted ten minutes. We watched silently, not really understanding.
[The scene: a Saturday afternoon at City Market, Nairobi]
Aurelia [cautiously]: How much is this small wooden bird?
Salesman: Ah, this! This is beautiful. Look at this bird [strokes it lovingly]
A: Yes, it’s quite nice I suppose [I must have the bird. I must have the bird.]
S: I will give you good price. Very good.
A: I’m not a tourist. I live here, I’m a volunteer. Mimi si mtaali; mimi ni mjitoleaji.
S: Ah, you are a Kenyan!
A: Yes. So I want a Kenyan price, not a mzungu price.
S: I knew! I knew right away – I said she is not mzungu. That woman there [lowers voice conspiratorially, both look across to woman]. SHE is mzungu. She I give mzungu price.
A: Good! Now, bwana. The price?
S: The price….
A really good price
A KENYAN price
[pause]
2,700 shillings*
Me [screams]: OH MY GOD!
S: You name price! You tell me price! You offer me price!
Me: That price! It’s…it’s… I don’t even know where to go from that!
Kangas at Maasai Market
Most things in Kenya are haggleable, from clothes to taxis to furniture. While I fully expect to haggle over souvenirs in the Maasai Market, in Mombasa Old Town, at the Graet [sic] Rift Valley Viewpoint – who knew that the official Nokia shop would be willing to negotiate on the price of a new battery? Or that you can sometimes argue with the matatu conductor over the price of the journey home? The rule seems to be, if it doesn’t have a price tag, gather your resolve and ask the dreaded question: pesa ngapi? How much?
Haggling seems to be an integral part of Kenyan life, economically and socially. It makes perfect economic sense; the seller can find the right price for each customer, often selling for different prices to different customers, as long as he makes a profit, and the customer goes away happy with the price he has agreed to pay (unless you’re me – or more accurately, Tom upon my proud return). And the human interaction involved in looking at goods, testing them and spending time negotiating an agreeable price appears to be valued in Kenya; and indeed has a historical legacy across Africa.
Wooden faces...
But I’m British; we just don’t do haggling (except if you’re my friend Taz, a ruthless minx who is first port of call when I want to save money on my phone contract. Call her cheap and she’ll thank you for the compliment). As far as I’m concerned, the shops have worked out the fairest prices for us to pay. In fact, in the West, in an attempt to create fairer conditions for customers, the outright selling of goods for different prices to different customers is illegal. That’s not to say I don’t like a bargain; I just like to do so without any awkward discussions with real people, being left alone to mentally compare the price of shampoo in various shops. But because of my poor negotiation techniques, I can’t help but feel my Kenyan friends are disappointed in me when I tell them how much I paid for my carpet, pair of shoes or bag of mangoes.
As a result of the economic crisis, people in the West have been tentatively haggling – not in Londis just yet, but over holidays, groceries, phone bills, asking for discounts, extra items to be thrown in, or for postage to be waived. But we Brits are still ashamed of having to ask for money off. So the prospect of doing so on a regular basis raises our hackles.
Being a mzungu adds complications to haggling in Kenya. Firstly, I’m invited more readily into the haggling process; an accidental glance at a passing taxi will get him slamming on the brakes to offer his services. Secondly, white skin immediately inflates the price. Thirdly, when I finally agree on a price and walk away with my purchase, I’m labeled as a ‘buyer’ of that type of item. I bought, on a whim, an ornamental candleholder, and so I am now a buyer-of-ornamental-candleholders, and will be inundated with offers of the same product, my protestation that one is sufficient falling on deaf ears.
Looks like my jewellery box
The money aspect is most annoying. No doubt it is often the case that I have much more than any of these vendors, which is what many people think when they see white skin. But it gets particularly annoying when you know a fair price for something – then, you just have to take a deep breath and wait for battle to commence. For example, walking up to a taxi in the street and asking to be taken home; the taxi man doesn’t know you know the price, so he always inflates it by a few hundred shillings. Equally irritating is when you understand enough Kiswahili to know that the Kenyan guy before you paid KSH35 for that leather bracelet – and yet no matter how much you protest or how much Kiswahili you speak, there’s no way the guy will sell it to you for less than KSH100.
And when you don’t know a fair price for something? Well – how can you haggle for second hand curtains when you’ve no idea what the right price for second hand curtains is? How much does a homemade bookshelf normally cost in Kenya? What should the price for a taxi to Kayole be, when you don’t know how far Kayole is? How much should a custard apple be? (More importantly, what is a custard apple?)
So what makes a good negotiator? Are some nationalities stupider than others? Does walking away really work? Armed with these questions, I marched to the Maasai Market in town, notorious for selling crafts to tourists, to demand answers from two savvy salespeople; Mama Kaka, proprietor of a kanga stall, and Dennis, seller of random painted stuff.
Mama Kaka
Mama Kaka is old school; she’s been selling kangas at the Maasai Market for twelve years. A few years ago business was great; now it’s bad, as the price of cotton has increased and it means she gets smaller profits. Dennis is a young pup, more enthusiastic despite the somewhat slapdash craftsmanship of his wares (see my demented Happy Hippo below).
They agreed that they wait for a customer to approach before deciding what to charge. If you’re Japanese, Chinese or Israeli – good luck, because the prices will be sky high (Dennis pointed at the Kenyatta International Conference Centre tower, one of the tallest buildings in Kenya. That’s how much I’ll charge if you’re one of them, he declared.) The theory is that although all wazungu are assumed to have money, even if dressed poorly, these three are in a different league: the Japanese and Chinese are ‘taking over the world’ (at least one thing you’re wearing will be from there, Dennis assured us) and the Israelis sell lots of guns. And apparently, they will actually pay inflated prices. The Brits, Americans and Canadians, however – we’re all brothers of Kenya, and prices will start lower. We’re nice and we pay well, but not too much. My Happy Hippo, for example, would be priced at 2,000 bob for a Japanese tourist, and negotiations would hover around the 1,000-1,600 mark. For me, Dennis started proceedings at 1,000. We agreed 300, which gave Dennis a 70 bob profit. Germans are the worst, Mama Kaka spat. They won’t pay anything!
Allsorts
Is there a best time to buy? Perhaps obviously, late in the day when traders are about to pack up, they are willing to accept a smaller profit. And season-wise? December to April, vendors are more desperate and will sell things for as little as a 5 or 10 bob profit. But from June onwards: Dennis flashed his teeth and rubbed his hands gleefully – peak season, ‘we enjoy the money!’ At this time, many vendors move to richer parts of town or the country, where they pay a much larger rent – Westgate mall, in a fancy suburb of Nairobi, charges 6,000 bob a month, whereas the Maasai Market in town is on council-owned land and only costs a few bob – but just need to sit back as the people buy, buy, buy.
What negotiation techniques can the buyer adopt? This is easy if you are a regular; if you have a relationship with someone (like Albert the Piki Piki driver), they are more likely to take the long view and charge reasonable prices. But if it’s going to be a one-off purchase? Mama Kaka and Dennis were adamant that speaking Kiswahili helps. And both said that talking and being friendly was likely to get you a good price. I’m not so sure – Tom was having a rum old time chatting up an old man, who duly quoted £80 for a wooden bottle opener. But perhaps if you combine your Kiswahili with an aura of knowing what you’re talking about, you might have more luck. For example, if the first offer is way too high, you can laugh or show astonishment (all in good spirits, of course), which will demonstrate that you’re aware of the item’s real value. This worked on a lamp today, which was initially priced at 7,000 bob, then plummeted to 4,000 when they realised we weren’t tourists, dropping exponentially until we decided we wouldn’t be able to get it home anyway. I felt bad when I declared, ‘Look, it’s just a lamp which you’ve tied some pretty green string around’, which led the vendor to look crestfallen and murmur ‘Madam, you’re really simplifying our work…’ but it showed them we weren’t walkovers.
My old classic is walking away, particularly in situations where there is one consumer and many suppliers: like buying kangas from the market or getting a taxi. I tested this out by showing interest in a blue kanga without asking the price, walking away, wandering about and returning twenty minutes later. When I asked the price, I was quoted an extremely reasonable one which was 200 bob less than the women I’d asked elsewhere – because we had walked away but returned. Dennis also said that he’d be prepared to chase someone if the price difference was only 100 bob – it’s not going to make me rich or you poor, so I’d settle on it, he explained.
Dennis denied that there is a lowest Kenyan price and a lowest mzungu price: business is business, and if there’s a profit traders will normally sell. He couldn’t explain the time Tom wasn’t able to get his bracelet for the same price as the Kenyan before him, but perhaps the vendor knew another mzungu would come along and pay the higher price before too long.
Nice kanga, Madam
My conclusion: if you’re white, you’re not going to get the same price as a Kenyan. And the longer I stay here, the less hard I work at trying to get a rock bottom price. The best strategy is probably to try and have a bit of fun and avoid looking stupid by paying £80 for a bottle opener. A few hundred shillings here and there won’t make much of a difference to me, but probably will for the vendor. Finding myself in Olorgasaillie one day, having ignored the guide book’s warning of ‘a lurid inferno’, I felt bad for driving down the Maasai woman behind the fence. I got my necklace for a great price, but that’s the only sale she’ll have had that day, and perhaps not being so stubborn could have made a real difference to her that day.
Of course, there’ll be those that say that by paying over the odds I distort the local market. But this doesn’t really seem to be the case where the vendors operate a parallel market for the tourists, giving the ‘normal’ prices to Kenyans. Others might say that I ruin my own reputation and do a disservice to future tourists from the West by pushing up the prices. Well, as long as the tourists keep flocking to the market as they do then I see no complaints from them. My reputation, on the other hand….
Demented Happy Hippo
[Continued: a Saturday afternoon at City Market, Nairobi]
[Finally, after much bartering]
Me: 500 shillings. Fine. But it’s still too expensive. I’m being nice.
S: No no no! This is good price! You have done well. You are hard bargainer.
Me: Thank you. Asante sana
S: [shaking hands] If you have other friends, bring them here. I’ll charge them double and we can share the commission. [Clutches belly and laughs.]
Random sculptures
* That, my friends, is £20. There are 140 Kenya Shillings (KSH, also known colloquially as ‘bob’) to £1
Posted in Albert the Piki Piki Driver, Alice the Fruit Lady, masaai, mzungu | 3 Comments »
Suswa Crater, Suswa Conservancy, Great Rift Valley
In the heart of the Great Rift Valley, the sun is setting behind Suswa Crater and I’m feeling self-conscious in a cattle pen. A Maasai family is leaning languidly against the fence, watching us, and I’m not sure what they’re thinking. Wazungu aren’t uncommon in this area, but their presence at dusk, in a cattle pen, is. I feel like I’ve been thrust into an intimate ritual. Not a ritual we Westerners normally associate with the Maasai, of the how-high-can-they-jump variety, but of the more familiar: the ritual of a family adjusting from day to night. The completion of daily chores, the return of family members from work, the brewing of tea and the discussions of the day. The ritual is the same here – only the daily chores include the mother tending to a family home that she built herself from cow pats and water; the return of family members from work includes young boys as well as men accompanied by livestock, all weary from walking miles in search of grazing land; the cup of tea is milky chai heated over an open fire in a dark, smoky hut; and the discussions of the day include how to protect 200 cows, sheep and goat from a roving leopard.
Turkai, son and goat
Ntukai is our guide for the weekend and it is his father’s cattle pen we are standing in. Once he is satisfied that all the livestock are settled, he leads us into a nearby fenced compound comprising his brother Meriapie’s manyatta homestead, and we enter a large hut. It takes time to adjust to the light; the walls are close and the roof is low, and smoke seeps through the two rooms. We huddle onto a wooden bench to take our third chai of the day. Ntukai’s youngest child, two years old, is crying for water. His mother dumps a full jerry can and cup in front of him and we watch as he unsteadily pours, spilling nothing. He finishes his drink, pours another, then stands up and totters off, muttering grumpily like a little old man. Ntukai continues his story, begun over the camp fire at night by the caves, and continued in rests during our six hour hike around Suswa crater.
Turkai's cattle pen
Maasai land stretches for hundreds of miles in every direction. We are sitting, Ntukai points out, fifteen minutes from his own manyatta across the plains. His brother Daniel owns land another fifteen minutes away. At night, one can see smoke coming from manyattas across the land; each one owned by a member of Ntukai’s family, each one on land granted by his father. For, in a culture where the measure of a man’s wealth is according to the amount of land, children and cattle he owns, Ntukai’s father is rich. He has six wives and 40 children, divides his vast swathes of land among his sons, pays dowries for their wives, and still has money and land left for hundreds of cows, goats and sheep, including a KSH100,000 (£800) prize bull.
But this isn’t to say his children are equal. Opportunities granted depend on his relationship with the child’s mother. Ntukai is closest to five brothers, with three different mothers between them. One pair was educated to the end of school and speaks excellent English; the second, which includes Ntukai, studied up to the age of fourteen; and the third, which includes Meriapie, didn’t attend school at all. Simply put, the father wasn’t keen on Ntukai or Meriapie’s mothers; he wasn’t influenced by their will and didn’t push for more for their children.
Ntukai herds cattle and plants maize; he owns 10 cows and 120 goats and sheep. But he juggles other jobs and dabbles in all areas. His father witnessed his entrepreneurial spirit when Ntukai tapped the underground hot steam in the area and fashioned a series of pipes to extract water, and rewarded him with 20 acres of land. Ntukai twice a week walks the two hours into Suswa town to buy and sell sheep in the market, for profits of between KSH30 and KSH200 (20p – £1.50) an animal. But in recent years it has proven hard to earn money this way, and so he has expanded further and owns a small Posho Mill (a mill that grinds wheat or maize into flour) whose products he sells to the community, is the Treasurer of the nearby school, and promotes his work as a tour guide. He is also dabbling in solar energy. He has a panel on his roof and uses it to charge his mobile phone and camera. His aim is to buy a larger one so he can watch DVDs – possibly of the BBC documentary filmed nearby, in which he appears, uncredited, as a cattle herder.
'Traditional' Maasai hut (wife-built)
After chai in Meriapie’s manyatta, we walk the fifteen minutes in the dark to Ntukai’s compound. It is very similar to that of Meriapie’s, comprising a small hut made from cow pats, soil and water with wooden supporting beams, and an outside toilet and room for washing. The compound is encircled by a wooden fence and outside lie the cow, goat and sheep quarters. But besides the wooden shed housing the Posho Mill, another structure stands out as an anomaly: an unfinished corrugated iron house with MDF walls and a tin roof, populated with plastic chairs; a construction which would be more recognisably house-like to Westerners. Interestingly, while his wife built the more traditional hut herself in three months – Maasai women bear responsibility for construction, as well as cooking and caring – responsibility for this, more Western, structure has been left to the men. (And of course, when it comes to the traditional huts, the manly stuff is still left to the men; Ntukai proudly showed us the large supporting beam he erected and the wire twining on the (wife-built) bedframes).
While Ntukai’s wife sleeps in the ‘traditionally’ Maasai hut, with their youngest son and the teacher from the local school, who acts as a nurse, he sleeps in the separate unfinished iron house with his four boys. Admittedly it’s unfinished, but it was cold and uncomfortable. When questioned as to why his wife hadn’t built him another hut, he declared, with a smile, that he wants to be like a mzungu. Also, fundamentally, the huts only last for a few years in the scorching sun and (hopefully) torrential rains before having to be rebuilt. But Ntukai admitted he likes to sleep in the separate room in his wife’s hut sometimes, because it’s warmer.
The next day, we were sitting on plastic chairs in the MDF house when two friends stopped by for chai and food on their way home from the hills. They were clearly amused at the sight of two wazungu, but soon forgot our presence and began recounting the day’s events. They lamented a prowling leopard which was attacking their cattle. They were unable to lay a trap, as each night the leopard would attack from a different direction, and all three discussed how to solve the problem. They then fell into a silence as they ate beans and rice.
Early morning milking
We asked Ntukai why none of them were drinking cattle blood, erstwhile mainstay of the Maasai diet. But for Ntukai and many of his generation, gone are the days of drinking blood for strength. This is largely due to the presence of religion: most of the younger Maasai have embraced Christianity, attending church regularly and praying before meals, and drinking the blood of animals is at odds with their faith. A fact that his father, a traditionalist Maasai who never converted to Christianity, cannot understand; but blood is so tasty! he protested. Instead, Ntukai’s family eats ugali, meat, beans and rice – and plenty of chai. Ntukai is adamant that they don’t eat fruit or vegetables, but was at a loss when I noted his consumption of two avocadoes, tomatoes and plenty of bananas during our stay.
It seemed to us at first glance that Ntukai is straddling both lives: that of the traditionalist Maasai, with cattle herding a mainstay of his income, and that of the more outward facing, Westernised Maasai, no longer nomadic. He only has one wife and five sons, and wants no more of either, because, again, he wants to be ‘like a mzungu’ – and yet his wife was ‘booked’ for him when young, and he later paid a dowry comprising cows, sugar and honey.
But, as became apparent talking to him over that weekend, Ntukai is no doubt doing what his own father did before him, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father. None of them are living, or have ever lived, in static exoticism, but are adjusting to social change, working out for themselves what values are important, and discussing with others how they should lead their lives. While it could be argued that globalisation is not the novel phenomenon that some purport it to be, with even remote African villages being part of vast, ancient trading networks, the force of Western culture has increased steadily since the nineteenth century and the arrival of the British. And yet the concept of the ‘traditional Maasai’ appears to be stronger than ever, both among the tourists that yearn for it, and among the Maasai themselves. Part of a wider ‘politics of recognition’ which has emerged across the world, strong ethnic identities like this ensure ‘traditional’ lives become ever more visible, providing a means of accessing vital resources, not least from the tourists.
Night time in the Maasai hut
Some ‘lucky’ few are able to live this way, but many others like Turkai are getting by, working out what they believe in and which is the best path to take in light of development in the form of world religion, tourism and formal education. This is compounded by environmental changes; for this is a land where drought is increasingly common and herdsmen travel ever further to find fertile land. Sometimes this development is viewed as a threat, a menace, something to be resisted; yet increasingly among the younger, more formally educated generation, it is seen as a force for good, for hope, for opportunities. An example of the tensions over development is the advent of electricity. Currently, apart from paying a small surcharge to the District Council when purchasing livestock, Turkai’s family are self-sufficient, untouched by the tentacles of Government. But this could change soon. This year the Power and Lighting Company are coming to Suswa, to assess if electricity can be brought to the land – the development potential of this hitherto overlooked area has not gone unnoticed. The Elders on the Committee of the Conservancy are concerned; they don’t want their way of life changed or their culture diluted. They don’t want people bringing what Ntukai calls ‘bad stories’ about the advent of development. But Ntukai is more pragmatic, and even optimistic. He sees the potential for more tourism and more schools, which will mean a better life for his family.
So perhaps Ntukai is not straddling two lives but leading just one, very modern life: modern in the same way his father’s life is, in that they both live in the contemporary, modern, moment, and they are both actively working to sustain a lifestyle and identity that they value – whether it be through referring to ‘tradition’ or ‘culture’, as Ntukai’s father does, or through dipping into more Western values, as Ntukai does. It’s just that what can be dipped into is often not under their own control. But at the end of it all, ultimately, they are just trying to get by; as we all are.
———————-
If you want to experience a beautiful weekend out of Nairobi or just go on a day trip, you can contact Ntukai on 0727 688019, or his brother Daniel on 0721 357415 and they’ll arrange everything. For more details, see: http://www.jambonairobi.co.ke/activities/hiking/hiking-places/suswa-crater-caves/
See also Daniel’s website at: http://danielmountsuswa.wordpress.com
Hot steam at dawn
Turkai's boys
One of the many caves in Suswa
Photojournalist
Meriapie in the cave
Turkai's brother, Daniel
Posted in masaai | 3 Comments »
Question: Which of these ladies has natural hair?
Lady A
Lady B
Lady C
Lady D
Answer: None! None of them do!
Fellow Volunteer Ruth (FVR) and I are mesmerised by Kenyan women’s hair. Given that we work at a women’s organisation, we have free reign to let our imaginations run riot. A typical clandestine conversation at a meeting might go thus:
FVR: Is that one real?
Me: No way!
FVR: And that one over there?
Me: Can’t be…
FVR: And that one?
Me: I have no idea. What even IS that?
FVR: Is it a toupe?
————–
Or thus:
Me: Carol was telling me about her son this morning.
FVR: Who’s Carol?
Me: You know, Carol. The women who sits upstairs. With the short hair.
FVR: Don’t you mean Carol with the long hair?
Me: No, no. She has short hair.
FVR: I’m pretty sure she has long hair.
Me: But I spoke to her this morning. It’s definitely short!
RVF: It’s long. I promise you, Carol has long hair.
Me: I’m off to prove it.
[Returning]
Me: Oh. It appears to have gone long.
————-
This happens regularly. I did a double take when my boss, previously of long, thick braids, turned up to work with a GI Jane buzz cut. And I walked right past one of my favourite colleagues when her thick glossy bob became, overnight, inch-long frizz.
You won’t find an estate in Kenya without a ‘beauty salon’ plying its wares. Getting their hair done is THE beauty regime for women, no matter their income bracket. But how must it feel to dramatically change one’s hair style on a regular basis? What is the upkeep like? Do styles vary according to wealth and age? Not that it matters, but what do men prefer? And – doesn’t it HURT?
And so, to get some answers, I tagged along with my friend Qui to get a haircut in her local salon. It’s not often that one enters a hairdresser’s to be greeted by an anxious man declaring ‘We have a situation…’ (the water had run out). Or that you have an appointment for 2.30pm but don’t end up being seen until 5pm. Or that your hairdresser deals with four clients concurrently (we were swaddled in bed sheets and lined up on the orange sofa like patient ducks). But I came out the other end only 500 bob (£4) lighter and armed with notes and a camera full of pictures. I spent the next day at a wedding, pointing at women and declaring ‘That’s a weave. That’s a wig. Those are lines with an extension. That one there is a VERY bad braid’ while Qui nodded proudly. So…
Here is my probably-inaccurate-but-darn-it-enthusiastic guide to Kenyan hair:
Style #1: the Relaxer
My lovely friend Qui
Lady at wedding #1
The hair is brushed mercilessly and a chemical treatment pasted over it, left for two hours and then washed out. Hair is then either straight or, with a perm, curly. This is done twice a year, with many conditioning treatments in between, because it massively weakens the hair. The price? Only a few hundred bob. The result? Hair is flattened and less frizzy.
Style #2: the Braid
Qui's cousin Catherine: Afro Kinky
Lady at wedding #2: Sangita
There are two types here. With both styles, most women add varying amounts of synthetic or natural hair to the braid for length and thickness.
Firstly, the Afro-kinky, as modeled on Qui’s cousin Catherine. This is more like natural African hair; curly and frizzy. It is very cheap to put in, with the synthetic hair additions costing as little as 50 bob a packet.
Secondly, the Sangita. This is done with straight, smooth hair additions. This type of braid is more expensive – up to 350 bob a packet (and much more if you want human hair).
Braids are very popular, particularly among young women, because they are low maintenance and can last up to two months. Hair can be washed, but this can loosen the plaits. Again, braids are damaging, as they are often so tight they break the natural hair. As a result, it’s best to let hair rest for two months between restylings.
Style #3: the Line
Lady at hairdresser #1
Lines are essentially braids attached to the scalp. You only need about an inch of hair to attach the braids to, as Lady at Hairdresser #1 (LH1) shows. They take less time than braids – LH1’s took about 20 minutes – but they don’t last as long as braids; only about a month.
The Line is probably the cheapest type of hairstyle – around 300 bob – and therefore more popular among those with less money.
Style #3b: the Ghanaian Line
Lady at wedding #3
These are lines which have extra hair added the further down the head they go, so the hair becomes thicker. They are more technical than normal lines, requiring an expert, so they are more expensive and take longer (around two hours). But they do last longer than lines – around two months. There are fascinating varieties of Ghanaian Lines, with some elaborately woven into top knots and side pony-tails. I’m assured that they can sleep despite these lumps on the back of their heads, by wearing a big headscarf. I’ve normally only seen this hairstyle on well-to-do women, young and old.
Style #4: the Weave
Lady at wedding #4
Lady at wedding #5
Lady at wedding #6
The Weave is a partial wig attached to the natural hair underneath by gluing, heat-bonding or sewing. It can be short, long, curly or straight. A weave is chosen when someone wants to add length, but nothing else, to the hair. It’s popular for special occasions, as you can style it if it is long.
It takes around an hour to add a weave, which then lasts for around two months. But it is expensive. If you really want a fancy look, you need to go for the most expensive human hair weaves, costing up to 3,000 bob and sometimes even more – the cheaper varieties end up looking plastic. It’s also high maintenance. It needs to be washed regularly, as does the normal hair underneath it, otherwise it will quickly develop split ends and become frizzy. As a result, ‘good’ weaves are normally worn by the richer in society, and seem to be popular among older women.
One benefit of the Weave is that it is less invasive than the other types of hair, as the natural hair can grow freely underneath.
Style #5: the Wig
Watch it going on...
It's on!
A well obvious wig. Apparently.
Like the Weave, a style for the older woman – possibly due to the damage done to their hair over the years? It is different to a weave as it is simply pulled over the natural hair, without any attachment. The long baby above costs 2,000 bob. My friends convince me they can tell the difference between a weave and a wig. I’m not so sure…
Styles #6 – #106
Lady at wedding #7: dreadlocks
Lady at wedding #8: lines plus extension
Of course, there are a million variations on these themes, and themes I’ve not even mentioned. Dreadlocks don’t seem to be that popular, although I’ve been informed that they are coming back into fashion among trendy, wealthier women. And I’ve hardly seen any natural Afros; one woman told me that the natural hair scene is growing but still small, as most Kenyan women are so used to relaxers, braids, lines and weaves. She’d even heard Classic FM radio declare that having natural hair ‘is a no no’. Of course, many women, particularly in rural areas, just go for all-out shaved heads because it’s so cheap and easy to maintain.
But one thing’s for sure – the hairstyles put a lot of pressure on natural hair. This is why a lot of African women have receding hairlines. And I’m told they DO hurt, especially the first night. I’ve seen colleagues massaging their heads after getting new braids done, and they tend to have startled expressions in the first few days. (Mind you, not that we Western women aren’t prepared to suffer physical pain for beauty too…)
Plus. Have you ever wondered why women desperately wear plastic bags over their heads when caught out by rain? It’s not total vanity. Apparently, when all these different synthetic hairstyles get wet, they smell. Of dog. Badly.
I’m still fascinated by the ability to spend an hour and a few hundred bob in a salon and come out looking like a different person. My friend Qui admitted that her friends do a double take when she goes for something new. In the interests of seeing what it’s like to radically change one’s style, I went straight for the day. (Actually, that’s not the reason. The hairdresser brushed out the curls and I looked like Diana Ross). The result? It felt odd not having my familiar frizzy barnet. I felt older, quieter, perhaps classier?
Aurelia is Straight!
So, what do Kenyan men prefer? Of course, it varies wildly. But a quick straw poll revealed that they like their women natural. A subsequent google led me to a discussion board on the topic. A choice extract on weaves: “Is it just me or are all girls in Nairobi wearing those ugly things on their heads? Man, it’s disgusting. I have resolved that i will have nothing to do with girls wearing weaves and already three have been expelled from my list until they get better hair.” Are you listening, ladies?!
On that note, why haven’t I mentioned men’s hair? Simple. Save the occasional lines and dreadlocks, especially on the Coast, they all shave their hair. Boring!
Redundant taps
Wet frizz...
Weaving, rolling, straightening, baking
My hairdresser, Michael
Everything's going to be ok.
Posted in Fellow Volunteer Ruth, hair | 4 Comments »
Posted in Alice the Fruit Lady, avocadoes, cake, mandazi, mangoes, railway, slums | 2 Comments »
You’ve been in Africa for four months – why haven’t you mentioned work? This is what mother would ask, if she actually read my blog. The truth is, I haven’t really done any work to report back on. Or at least, not in the ‘these are my objectives and here is the evidence that I’ve met them’ kind of way.
This isn’t to say that I don’t have objectives. Quite the contrary: I do, and there’s a lot to do. I volunteer at an NGO which supports women and children affected by HIV. As ‘M&E Advisor’, I must help develop a system for monitoring, evaluating and documenting all the activities that they undertake – which are many and brilliant. The thing is… progress is slow. Very slow.
But while my objectives won’t be met soon, I have been learning an awful lot in other ways. I’ve learnt some excellent life skills. Seven deadly skills.
#1: The art of bullshit
Kenyans love to talk. They especially love to talk in meetings, and expect everyone to do the same, whether voluntarily or through coercion, and frequently without warning. This is not good for someone who doesn’t like meetings, and certainly not talking for the sake of talking in meetings. However, through sheer desensitisation, I no longer flinch when I hear such interventions as:
‘Aurelia! As the expert, can you impart your knowledge to the group on this matter?’ [A conference with 50 people, where I had dozed off and didn’t know what ‘the matter’ was].
‘Aurelia! We are going for a meeting now. You will be expected to contribute to the discussions’. [No indication of what the meeting was about].
‘You! Talk! Count yourself blessed when I point at you!’ [Luckily not to me, but a hapless community worker who stumbled through an answer].
‘Why aren’t you talking? You should participate freely, with joy’. [To all the women at a large meeting].
‘We will laugh at you if you don’t contribute’. [To everyone, as an unorthodox way of opening a meeting].
I am now rather adept at seizing upon – and even preempting – these provocations and talking at length about anything. The first time, it felt alien. ‘Thank you, John, for drawing this matter to my attention. I am happy that you have done so, for I am indeed well versed on such issues. As a former employee of Her Majesty’s Treasury, I can assure you that my role in this area can be directly related…’ But when I finished, I looked around at broad smiles. The coordinator sat back and nodded his head in approval. Crikey! I thought. Is this what I’ve been missing all this time? Is it really that easy?
#2: The classic ‘evading the question’ tactic
A great skill, and one which Kenyans relish. Kenyans don’t like anything so vulgar as ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘I don’t know’. Hence how you will find yourself in the middle of the industrial area while your motorbike driver runs off to get directions to the restaurant whose location he definitely knew. This tactic is directly related to #1: the art of bullshit. For example:
Fellow volunteer Ruth: Can you send me an organogram?
John: I think we are on track defining tasks in this certain situation…
Translation: We don’t have, and have never had, an organogram.
..
Me: Hello again, I’m sorry to pester, but can you email me the documents you were talking about last month?
Margaret: I will send you the documents very soon. Very soon.
Translation: I’m going to leave the office now and you won’t see me again til two weeks Thursday.
#3: The art of misinformation
This is a tricky one. I have not yet perfected the art of asking that crucial question, the question that will ensure the real answer. Don’t mistake me – I’ll receive perfectly accurate responses to my questions. But illuminating or helpful they will certainly not be.
Me: Do you have internet?
Receptionist: Yes, we do.
[Go to log in. No internet]
Me: I cannot access the internet.
Receptionist: No. It has broken.
..
Me: Is the IT man coming to fix the computer?
Susan: Yes, the IT man is now coming to repair the computer.
Me: Oh great, thanks!
[Three hours later]
Me: Susan – the IT man hasn’t arrived. When exactly did he say he was leaving to come here?
Susan: The IT man is not coming today. He is coming maybe tomorrow, but maybe not. I think he will just email me.
..
Other examples include talking at length to a member of staff about the reporting procedures for a project, wherein we discussed templates, reports and feedback. At the end of the interview, I asked when the next report was due. The project has ended, my perfectly helpful colleague replied. Oh! When did it end? It ended in 2009. Thank you, Jane, I think I’ve got what I need.
The fault is probably mine on this. Maybe I don’t make myself clear, and people have such good spoken English that sometimes I think they’ve understood more than they have. My tactic is therefore to relentlessly cross-examine. Those who do understand must find it hard to put up with me. Like the poor matatu conductor the other day:
Me: Does the bus go to Railways?
Conductor: Yes, to Railways.
Me: Where does the bus go?
Conductor: To Railways.
[On the matatu]
Me: Are you going to Railways?
Conductor [looking at me like I’m slightly deranged]: Yes, we are going to Railways.
[On paying the fare]
Me: This fare is for Railways. I am going to Railways. Where is this bus going?
Conductor [by now totally fed up]: Railways! Railways! Railways! Madam, we are going to Railways!
Me [Turning to friend behind me]: I’m not convinced it goes to Railways. [Lean back and fold my arms].
#4 The art of keeping people waiting
A Kenyan once told me that Africans have watches to tell them how late they are. I laughed. It turned out to be true.
John: We will go to a meeting in Kayole.
Me: Ok. When does the meeting start?
John: In a few minutes.
Me: How far is Kayole?
John: One hour.
..
Me: When does the meeting start?
Mary: It has started.
Me: Well, should we go?
Mary [looking at me patiently but wearily]: Yes, we will go. Please just let me eat my egg. [Bites into boiled egg].
#5 The art of making sure you yourself are not kept waiting
Because time seems to be a one way thing here! I can be waiting patiently for a meeting to start or a driver to arrive, then am told that we must leave! Immediately! Our receptionist even started banging on the toilet door in a frenzy one time. I pointed out that I had been waiting for 40 minutes, but the irony was lost on her. Another time, I was told a meeting would start at 2pm, but was informed later that it would start at 2.30. At 2.20 someone burst into my room to shout, Go Upstairs! The meeting is starting right now! You’re late!
I usually handle this double standard with gritted smiles, but did lose my rag with our driver when I was told I had to attend a workshop in another part of town straightaway. It is essential. No forewarning or further elaboration about mystery workshop. Within three minutes of being informed, the driver had burst into my room twice to hassle me. I AM COMING!!! I AM NOT WONDERWOMAN! I shrieked as I slammed my books on the desk. He slunk out with tail between legs and I felt awfully guilty for the rest of the day.
#6 The art of really long, really boring meetings
A typical meeting goes thus:
1. Shake hands with everyone in the room; prolonged greetings and welcomes.
2. Say a prayer.
3. Have everyone introduce themselves (Good morning, colleagues. Good morning. Every time. You can imagine what this was like at a conference with 60 people).
4. Read the minutes of the previous meeting out loud. Word for word – even if someone went off on a tangent about buying airtime. (This isn’t like UK civil service minutes, where you faithfully record the events of the meeting, show them to your boss and watch them being reduced to half a page of unilluminating bullet points).
5. At least halfway into the meeting, commence meeting. (I refer you to #1: the art of bullshit, for content).
6. Conclude with a prayer.
Throughout, each person must receive, and take, at least one phone call. Thus a meeting occurs against a cacophonous backdrop of Nokia ringtones (all the same, so no one knows who’s ringing who) and people walking in and out.
Addendum: #6b: The art of making someone feel really special at a meeting
I attended the opening of a new building last week. It was brilliant – people wearing pajamas, children doing sexy/bizarre dances, interminable speeches (mainly by the mzungu lot), yodeling from women’s groups and endless supplies of Fanta (incidentally, a key reason most people I work with teeter on the cusp of obesity).
The chief speaker – the one tasked with cutting the ribbon, over whom fawned the delegates – was a glamorous Italian lady. Her glamour only slightly undermined by a 6 foot long gold tinsel train wrapped around her neck and a rosette emblazoned with ‘Guest of Honour’ pinned to her suit. She looked humiliated.
#7 The art of taking things slowly
It took two weeks to secure an introductory meeting with the director, who presumably went through a lengthy application process to employ me. It took a further two weeks to receive a reply to my follow up email, attaching just one of the items requested. A further week to be told that the rest of the documents don’t exist (although, obviously, not in such stark terms – see #2, evading the question). I face this torpor frequently. I’m realising that attempting to hurry things along is not worth the bother.
Quoth my fellow volunteer to me: ‘Today I’m going to look at one organisation’s website and email another organisation.’ I replied, ‘That’s two goals!’ Said she, ‘You’re right. I’ll save one for tomorrow’. This sums work up, and I refer you to the above arts for the reasons behind this.
Are you slagging off your NGO?
I should make clear that this is my experience of working in one organisation only, and I don’t pretend that everyone experiences the same; I know some volunteers who are super busy. But when the majority of volunteers claim that it was three months before they felt that they had achieved anything in their placement, you get an idea of what it’s like to work in a developing country like Kenya. I’m not suggesting that things don’t get done here, or that our Western way is that much better – although it’s tempting to think that, as I’m conditioned that way. In fact, the longer I am here, the more things I try to learn from.
I love the interactions. Kenyans are far more people-focussed than us Brits. People take time to ask each other – friends, colleagues, strangers – how their days have been, how their children are, how their husbands and wives are. People shake hands constantly; if you’re in a car and the driver stops to say hello to a friend, the friend will lean in and shake hands with everyone before commencing his conversation.
People are so welcoming. Where else in the world would you attend a workshop for orphans and be greeted with ‘Hello, welcome, we are happy for you to join us’ by a bunch of teenagers? Where else could you enter a women’s prison unannounced and be met not with suspicious stares but ‘Welcome, welcome to our prison, please have my seat’? Ok, so one woman was convicted of throwing a child out of the window – but how kind of her to give me the biggest plate of food!
People in my organisation really do care, and really do get things done. Colleagues working for peanuts (and frequently nothing) hand out food parcels to grandmothers, conduct group therapy in prisons, reach pregnant mothers in the community, and tirelessly endure matatus to talk to women’s groups, religious groups, community groups and youth groups, in their attempt to win the fight against HIV/AIDS. At one event, my colleague organised, facilitated, counseled, distributed drugs, handed out toilet roll and washing powder, typed up the notes and actioned the recommendations – all by herself. And she tells me she does this every week.
But the Kenyan approach to work can be frustrating, and takes some getting used to. It is difficult, when you’ve come from a very task-focussed environment where people reply to emails within the hour and can be confident that deadlines will be met, to be confronted with an organisation where people, at first, look as though they’re sitting around chatting and laughing.
It’s very hard to understand why Kenyans behave the way they do in offices. I still don’t understand – but I am nothing if not determined. I’ll keep trying to decipher, to suss out where the deals get made and how the work gets done. You never know, I might find a really effective way of working here, which preserves my sanity and even puts me ahead of the pack on my return to UK work.
Nonetheless, soon I hope to report on progress against my actual objectives…
Posted in Fellow Volunteer Ruth, HIV/AIDS | 5 Comments »
The most traumatic aspect about life in Kenya is the poverty.
Kenya is one of the most unequal poor countries in the world. Half of the population lives below the poverty line, with conditions worsening, while the tiny elite live beyond even Western standards of luxury. The emerging middle class is being squeezed on all sides, and the quality of life of the average Kenyan has deteriorated over the last decade. Corruption, reliance on cheap agriculture exports(agriculture employs 80% of the population and is regularly hit by devastating droughts), low domestic and foreign investment and poor infrastructure, have all contributed to historic economic stagnation. While the economy is slowly improving, a lack of clear policies or discussions around poverty alleviation have ensured that equitable growth is still far off.
Perhaps perversely, it’s not the visible poverty that upsets me most. My walk to work takes in the dirty child with a fake sponsorship form, the old toothless woman waving at me and clanging her cup of change, the middle-aged man scraping a living by hawking bracelets of poor quality, the gang of feral kids molesting me for change, and the man lying face down on the grass by the road wearing a pair of shorts. Don’t mistake me – it’s definitely harrowing. But actually, this type of poverty I’m prepared for. It’s on TV and it’s in newspapers and it’s the subject of charity poster campaigns. But this has in some way desensitized me. This level of poverty is so squalid, so unrelated to my life and everything I know that it is almost surreal; I’m looking at it through a screen. And what’s more, I don’t know anything about the drunk in ragged clothing slurring for my hand in marriage – so I feel able to trot on by, headphones firmly in ears, and chirp ‘no thank you!’ I’m detached from it.
What I haven’t got used to is the feeling that, save the uber-rich, no one is really ok. Even if they look ok. Even if they are well dressed and educated and engaging. Everyone has a story and a desperate desire to drag themselves up, but no support to do so. Your waiter, your aerobics instructor, your piki piki driver, your taxi driver, your colleague – when you start enquiring, they all tell you things about their life which challenge your assumptions. Think the night-watchman looks ok sitting by the fire, occasionally opening the gate for a car? Think again – he’s only on KSH5,000 (£38) a month and works the graveyard hours six days a week. Which would arguably be ok, if his family and children weren’t relying on him for food, medical care and education, meaning he must decide which of his children can go to school (even though primary education is technically free, most schools charge admin fees, and you need to buy books and school uniforms before you can join). Think your colleague has an interesting job? Think again – she has a Masters degree and doesn’t actually get paid. Think your Kiswahili teacher is doing well, with kids in private school? Think again – everything he earns go on those school fees because the state schools are so under resourced, and he’s desperate for me to take more lessons. Think your neighbour is fine? Think again – women have no rights to property in Kenya, and on the death of their husband often must choose between marrying his brother, or being thrown out of the family home. Said neighbour was dumped by her husband, who took everything with him – including the kitchen fridge (the sink was fixed) – and swanned off with a floozy. Her children haven’t seen him or his money for three years.
I know generalisations and assumptions are dangerous. I know that many people are wealthy in other ways – they have large friendship and family circles, which they can call upon at any time. I know I can’t begin to know or judge how they really live their lives, away from my nosy questions (one Masaii guard got a bit indignant when I asked if he drank blood and killed lions and stuff, and why he didn’t have holes in his ears ‘like the rest of them’). But there seem to be so many stories of struggle, and so many educated, willing people struggling to find a decent job in Kenya. The unemployment rate is 40%, one of the highest in the world, and affects mostly the young (although, in a country where 56% of people are below the age of 19 and a further 24% are aged 19-35, you could argue that this means everyone). So the youth are forced to find employment in the informal sector, which is unregulated, and where they are forced to accept low earnings, long working hours, and no formal contracts.
What am I going to do about it? I don’t really know what I can do. But maybe talking to people and sharing their stories helps? Maybe a few more people will realise that Kenya’s not quite the tranquil, exotic land of safari they imagine it to be? (I’m not judging, but Tara did ask if I lived in a mud hut). So here’s a second story, after Aerobics Steve. Here’s Albert.
Albert the piki piki driver
Albert is my motorbike driver. I fancy him more than I fancy Aerobics Steve (I’ve gone off Steve actually. He dragged me to some dodgy suburb in my sweaty gym kit and everyone stared). Albert speaks brilliant English and knows a lot about the world – he started a debate with me about Tony Blair’s politics on the way to PC World – and it got me wondering: what’s his background? How did he come to be a piki piki driver? What sort of life does a piki piki driver lead?
A small bribe later, comprising a Nairobi A-Z map (see annoying Kenyan habit #99: emphatically claiming to know where you’re going when you have no clue) and the promise of a slap up lunch, Tom and I were strapping ourselves on the back of two motorbikes for a Saturday tour of Nairobi with Albert + Friend. The real deal, I said. No tourist sites. Where you like to go at the weekends. Like, the ghetto? he asked. Yes, Albert! Take me to the ghetto! I want to go there!
After an initial misunderstanding, in which we drove many miles to a large roundabout (admittedly very nice) and then a massive detour to an animal testing site (They’re nice cows! Are they for milking? No. We test chemicals on them and then we sell their semen), we headed to Albert’s home. He lives in Kawangware, a slum in the west of Nairobi which borders Lavish Lavington, host to the most expensive school in Kenya, palatial houses and, from 5-12 March 2011, 10 apprehensive VSO volunteers undergoing training. (As mentioned in Nairobbery, the message bludgeoned home each day was ‘if you must leave the guest house, do NOT turn left. I repeat, do NOT turn left. Left is bad things. Right is good things.’ Left was poor old Kawangware).
Albert took us to his favourite place for lunch. It was, of course, a nyama choma joint. A small shack with corrugated iron walls and ceiling and concrete floor, swarming with flies, led to the best mbuzi choma (goat) I’ve eaten in Kenya. Not that I got my fill. ‘Please, please, eat!’ Albert + Friend implored as they scoffed down mbuzi, ugali and kachambari with nimble fingers faster than I could chew one piece. ‘You’re not eating!’ It’s a dog eat dog world here…
***
I’ve lived in the same house for my whole life. I live with my mother, who has a grocery stall in the nearby market, my four younger brothers – my sister died in the 1980s – my wife and my seven year old daughter. I’ve been with my wife for 12 years, since I was 16. I know this is unusual; people don’t normally see Nairobi as ‘home’. Instead, they come here to earn money before returning to their home village. But I know many people who come to Nairobi, struggle to make a living and have to borrow money to send back home because they don’t want to feel shame. It is the dream of many to earn enough money in Nairobi to return to their home village, buy a plot of land and build a house.
I’ve been a driver for two years, since I saved enough money to buy my motorbike. Before that, I sold charcoal from outside our home. My wife still sells for me. I earn maybe KSH 500-1,000 a day (£3-9), from a mixture of people. But business is slow. I can wait here for a long time before getting anyone. People in Nairobi are not used to piki pikis. Especially women; I had a woman last week, she wanted to get to town fast and there was lots of traffic. She kept screaming!
On Saturday nights I love to chew miraa (a leaf containing stimulants) with my friends and talk about business and politics. On Sundays, I go to church of course. I’m a Rasta Catholic. The church is not too impressed with my dreadlocks, but they accept me. And my wife is a staunch Catholic so we must attend every service. I also love to eat nyama choma whenever I can. I normally eat meat once a week, but I eat a lot of chapatis and sukuma wiki during the week.
My primary school was in Olympic, Kibera <the biggest slum in Kenya, host to a very good school>. I like English and I speak many languages; my tribal language, Gikuyu, as well as Swahili, English and other local languages. So I am educated, but in Nairobi it is very difficult to find jobs. I think for now, I would like to be a courier driver to earn more money. Every day is difficult, with my family to look after. Of course, I love Kenya. it is my country. But I don’t like the politicians. They divide us along ethnic lines. My friend here, he is a Luhya. I could have called any of my fellow Kikuyu friends to do this tour, but I rang him. I just want to live in peace. But things are getting better. There was a lot of corruption under Moi <President 1978-2002>, but Kibaki <current President> has tried to stop some corruption. It’s still not enough, though. In England I think your Parliamentary system is good, because MPs are scrutinised and there is transparency. Here, people go into politics just to make money. It’s sad. It doesn’t help the people.
Listen to that, chaps! Albert doesn’t think our MPs are all that bad. He’s actually one of many Kenyans who feel a new surge of optimism about their country. The UN has ranked Kenya above the Sub-Saharan average for the Human Development index, which measures well-being according to health, education and income. In August 2010, the Government adopted a new, progressive Constitution which tossed women a few more rights. It has also published Kenya Vision 2030</, a long term plan to ensure sustainable economic and social recovery, with increased employment. Let’s hope their optimism is founded. In the meantime, I’ll keep my stories coming…
Sources:
Central Intelligence Agency, The World Factbook
VSO, Kenya Country Strategic Plan, 2005-09
Wilsoncentre.org
The Proposed Constitution of Kenya, 6 May 2010
International Monetary Fund, Kenya: Poverty Reduction Strategy Paper
Posted in Albert the Piki Piki Driver, corruption, nyama choma, slums, tribes | 3 Comments »
The Victorians were obsessed with three things: masturbation, railways and the Empire. Soon enough, an idea was born to combine two (while, I’m sure, doing and denying the third at every opportunity) in the form of the Kenya-Uganda Railway. For this was the age when European colonialism was in full swing and Britain was looking for ways to protect her Cape to Cairo coloniesfrom her grasping rivals (France being a bit cross to discover that her new territories in West Africa – supposed to be the jewel in her crown to rival British India – had turned out to be mostly desert).
Now, as a former student of British Imperial History, I know all the arguments against colonialism. The audacity of the Europeans in carving up a map of Africa and dividing the ‘countries’ among themselves; the disregard for pre-existing geographical, tribal and linguistic boundaries; the systematic exploitation of minerals and peoples; the reservation of the best land for white settlers; the design of infrastructure to meet external demands rather than internal needs…
Which perhaps makes it unfortunate that my overriding thought after those years of study is: what jolly good fun it all must have been!
Take the Kenya-Uganda railway. In the 1890s, the British East Africa Company persuaded Parliament to finance, to the eventual tune of £5 million, the construction of a single-track railway line from the Indian Ocean port of Mombasa in British East Africa, all the way to Kisumu on the eastern shore of Lake Victoria. The argument for such a foolhardy enterprise? Britain would finally make a profit from her East African territories; secure her hold on the River Nile – which had its source at Lake Victoria in Uganda, then an impossible territory to administer given its landlocked nature; troops could be rapidly transported from the coast to the Great Lakes region in defense of the Empire; and it could even hasten the end of slavery by removing the need for humans in the transportation of goods.
Because of the enormous expense and effort required to build the line, the radical British MP Henry Labouchere led protests that the whole endeavour was madness, claiming that the railway was ‘naught but a Lunatic Line’. But the Victorians were always loath to give up in the face of adversity: building began in Mombasa in 1896 and concluded at Lake Victoria in 1901, mostly carried out by the 32,000 labourers brought in from British India. Many towns developed along the line, including Kikuyu, Naivasha and Nakuru. The small outpost of Nairobi was initially known only as Mile 329, the halfway point where workers stopped to set up camp, but it soon became capital of the newly formed British East Africa – thus, more by convenience and a lack of alternatives than any definite planning on behalf of the Government, an approach which characterises the expansion of the city even today.
The railway was a huge logistical achievement and became strategically and economically vital for Britain’s East African territories. But construction was not without its horrors…
The man-eating lions of Tsavo and other awful deaths
Construction of the railway was arduous, to say the least. Hundreds of Indian and African workers perished thanks to famine, malaria, war with the angry Masaai (excuse me, said the Masaai before attacking a railway caravan and killing 500 people, could you please stop raping our women – and while we’re at it, you do know that this is our land you’re building that Iron Snake through?), and the sheer back-breaking work of ploughing a route through inhospitable forests, endless scorching plains and steep ravines. What has entered folklore, though, is the tale of the man-eating lions of Tsavo.
Bridging the River Tsavo in what is now Tsavo National Park was scheduled to take two months. Instead, it took nearly a year, as two angry lions stalked and killed dozens of workers, halting construction. An early casualty was Charles Ryall, a policeman who unfortunately fell asleep in his carriage while on a mission to catch the pair and was dragged through the window and chomped to bits. Within months there was a £100 bounty on the big cats and the camp was overrun with soldiers, opportunists and wealthy hunters. The naughty lions were eventually shot and killed, and their skins made into rugs, by the bridge supervisor Colonel John Henry Patterson, firing from the safety of his tree in December 1898. Poor things.
Last orders!
The Kenya Railways Corporation still runs passenger trains along the Lunatic Line; most iconic is the 14 hour sleeper between Mombasa and Nairobi. This snail-paced journey, which grounds to a halt every twenty minutes to blast elephants off the line (with horn, not gun), offers faded grandeur and a sense of adventure to the white tourists in the optimistically named ‘upper class’, and the cheapest route to the coast to those in third. From being summoned to dinner with the bleat of a dying gong, to eating soup and beef stew on chipped crockery embossed with a fading ‘KRC’ logo in the dining car, to retiring to one’s bunk room complete with rusting sink and flickering light bulbs, to looking out over Tsavo National Park at dawn and spotting wildebeest, everything reminds one of better times – of a time when the romance of safari adventures was evoked in tales by everyone from Roosevelt to the Queen and stirred the West’s fascination with ‘the exotic’.
But could it soon be just that – a memory? President Kibaki recently promised that the railway will be upgraded to modern standards, cutting the journey to three hours in the process. Although work has not yet started, tall tales abound that it will be completed by 2016. Whether or not you believe this (frankly groundless) optimism, this might yet signal the end of the slow, meandering journey from the Indian Ocean to the ‘heart of darkness’. But perhaps it doesn’t matter, as the history books and tales will always be here to tell the story of this feat of engineering, achieved against all odds by thousands of British, Africans and Indians. To end with the words of Churchill, ‘The British art of “muddling through” was here seen in one of its finest expositions. Through everything – through the forests, through the ravines, through troops of marauding lions, through famine, through war, through five years of excoriating Parliamentary debate, muddled and marched the railway.’
Posted in railway | 3 Comments »
Aurelia in Kenya 