It’s Monday and the car I’m sitting in is getting hot from the impact of the afternoon Kenyan sun. The car is parked on dirt littered with trash and motor oil in what looks like a wrecking yard but is in fact a body shop. Parked all around me in discernable order are mostly van type matatus in various states of repair. Men are wondering about; some working with makeshift tools, hand drills and homemade compressors; some playing checkers with bottle caps on a board painted on the roof of a gutted ute, one standing in the back the other in the front with his torso protruding though the gap left for the windshield; some are standing around tearing of strips of sugar cane with their teeth, chewing it for a bit then spitting it out in order to take another bite. How I find myself here is the story of a weekend in Nairobi, my first.
The streets of Nairobi. Burning rubbish on the road side is common.
Let’s go back to Thursday evening when I meet Lynna in Thika. She was to take me to meet a British woman who runs a street shelter for children and we were to catch up before she left on Saturday. She arrived with a (male) nurse friend from Thika hospital where she has been volunteering for the past month. We aren’t able to go to the street shelter for various reasons so the three of us decide to have dinner and a few drinks and the Coconut Grill, a popular restaurant with Europeans and the like. After dinner we go out to a pub, have a few more drinks and return to Lynna’s host family where I am to stay for the night.
Once we arrive, Lynna and her male friend disappear to her room only to return a short time later and announce they are ‘going for a walk’. Its was blaring obvious there was something between them from early on in the night and her failure to return from her ‘walk’ was further proof leaving me to spend time with Catherine and Charles in their home (the same Catherine and Charles from the Nairobi National Park).
Friday morning, still no sign of Lynna, I get up and catch a matatu back Mung’u where there is a day of painting at Familia Moja which I’m keen to be involved in. First stop the farm to have a quick wash and then the short walk to Familia reveals busses, trucks and people spilling out the entrance. It turns out around 30 to 40 staff from KPMG Nairobi have come to pitch in with painting, new guttering, a new water tank, new linen, mosquito nets, toys and various other bits and pieces. Honestly, I was overwhelmed, impressed and down right inspired by the keenness and willingness of these people. I take my hat off.
After a full day of work by these guys I grabbed a lift on one of the busses into Nairobi where I’m to meet Njoroge (Wambui’s brother) at a place called Kencom, a bus/matatu transit close to the CBD. On dropping me off the advice of ‘be vary careful’ and ‘take off your watch’ didn’t inspire confidence and with a backpack on I was bound to stick out like a tourist waiting to be mugged. A nervous few minute’s later Njoroge and his friend, Jerome, appear out of the crowd and we leave to head to a nearby bar.
Beer here is sold in half liter bottles and it seems most Kenyan’s like it warm. And despite my assurances I don’t like beer the common reply of ‘you’ll like this one’ was suggested. Result: I still don’t like beer, I’ll stick to the spirits.
We stayed at this pub for a few hours before it was suggested we head to Komarock, a suburb of Nairobi in which Wambui’s family have a second home, to the local watering hole of the guys I’m with. A matatu or two and were three. Komarock appeared to be made up a couple of main streets with gated courts and roads leading off, each manned by a casual looking security guard. The pub was an outdoor type where we sat and had a few more drinks along with the best pub meal yet, a tray of chips tossed around with chunks of beef and crushed tomatoes, heavily salted.
Saturday I went with Jerome as he showed me around parts of Nairobi. First we went to his brother’s house, which included a walk past the Tuskers brewery leaving the smell of barley heavy in the air. It was a quick visit in which I had some lunch, mashed potatoes mixed with black colored beans and some of the now all to familiar milky Kenyan tea. We then went to his place, a single room in an apartment complex on the side of the Nairobi-Thika road (the busiest stretch of road in East Africa – or so I’m told).
Jerome in the small room he calls home.
Jerome in the small room he calls home.
Not staying long in the small room we left for the Nairobi CBD to have a look around. Chaos is the only word for it. Cars and people everywhere with little or no regard for road rules who’s existence is doubtful anyway (and if they are ever enforced ‘a little something’ for the officer will do the trick).
For lunch we visit a Choma restaurant. Effectively Choma is diced roasted meat which you order by weight straight from the kitchen. Served with chips and Ugali (a mixture of maize flour and water cooked till it forms a loosely packed bread), everybody picks off a central plate after washing their hands under warm water poured from a jug by the waitress into a bowl. Is a pretty good meal if you don’t mind tearing meet of chunks of bone or the occasional bit of gristle. Toothpicks are the order of business once you’ve finished.
You can buy almost anything on the streets. I was told by Jerome the only thing not available is life but I bet you could fine someone trying to sell it.
You can buy almost anything on the streets. I was told by Jerome the only thing not available is life but I bet you could fine someone trying to sell it.
You can buy almost anything on the streets. I was told by Jerome the only thing not available is life but I bet you could fine someone trying to sell it.
Saturday night I’m apparently invited to a party although no one actually says anything until I ask where we’re going while squashed into the back seat of a car with 3 others. It was almost identical to an Aussie backyarder bar the goat meat cooked over charcoal. We all sat around in chairs on the lawn drinking brandy, beer or vodka as various bit of goat anatomy were served. In general goat meat tasted a lot like pork and the goat sausage wasn’t so bad either. It was when I reached the small intestine thinks turned for the worse. It started of very sweet by quickly became a chewy bitter disgrace on my tongue. I made a casual exit for the toiled and spat out what remained then hurried back to my drink to wash the taste out.
Many hours later as we were leaving the car I was traveling in managed to collide with something and rupture the radiator. A slow tow back to Komarock and the night was over.
Sunday I woke to find a group of men standing around the car discussing what to do, little did I know this would be the theme of the day. It had to be repaired before we headed back to Mang’u so another tow to a repair yard and a day standing, sitting and snoozing in the back seat the car was drivable again. Watching the guys work with makeshift tools had its interesting moments but they were few and far between the standing around discussing parts.
Any grassy area is always littered with people. The biggest slum in Africa was not far from here.
However, the dents had been knocked out and the radiator repaired but it still required painting and this is how I come to find myself spending all day Monday and where this entry began.
After the final repairs were completed Njoroge and I head back to Mang’u as the night rolls in and I’m my weekend is complete.
