Unspeakable things

A blog comes in handy when you have a subject that’s difficult to talk about out loud.

I knew there was poverty in Kenya, I knew that urban deprivation affected Nairobi in massive, permanent, well-documented ways.  But the real-life sights and sounds of people who have nothing today and won’t have anything tomorrow have... affected me.  Despite knowing, I was still unprepared.

In 2006, I was chatting with a Ghanaian guy about the trip Dan and I were planning to Uganda the following year, when he said, ‘On your first trip to Africa, you will be shocked by some of the poverty on the streets, you won’t believe your eyes.’  These words stayed with me as we spent a wonderful fortnight visiting our friend Albert.  We saw poverty in Uganda, but nothing that changed the way I saw the world.  Perhaps Albert shielded us, but whatever the reason, I had to come to Nairobi to be truly shocked.

Fellow volunteer Aurelia wrote a great piece on the hardship she’s seen and how when you see extreme poverty, it amost feels like you’re viewing it through a screen, or from a far distance – so removed is the life you see from your own.

But I can’t hide from it anymore.  I see things that shock me – sometimes I stare, or maybe I turn away.  But whatever my reaction, I’ve not been talking about it, not even with Dan.  I want to share what I’ve seen, because I’ve been hiding from it.  It’s time to face facts.

Things I know vs. Things I’ve seen

I knew there was poverty in Kenya. The Nairobi city centre after dark is loud, dirty, crowded and feels full of dangers.  We catch our bus from a part of town where the only other white people we see are each other.  Striding along at top speed, I see a bundle of rags outside a lively bar and assume it’s bedding ready for someone to sleep in, a frequent sight of homelessness in London.  But it’s not just bedding, it’s a small girl fast asleep on the pavement despite the urban chaos all around.

I knew there would be beggars. In the same area, a young woman sits on the pavement, beating an empty plastic container like a drum to accompanying her tuneless singing.  She sings strongly, I can clearly hear her as we approach, but the desperation is clear.  As we pass I see she is sitting amongst blankets, wrapped tight over her – wait - no - there are children. A small girl with her head in her mother’s lap, and a baby too, strapped to the front of the young woman.  It’s dark, it’s late and she’s begging for change.

I knew there were slums.  I look at the tin roofs of the slum shacks far below our living room window.  The rain hammers so hard we have to raise our voices to speak indoors.  I wonder how loud it is inside those shacks, and how much rain gets in?  I look back at our flat and wonder how many people we could fit in this safe, dry space.  How many families, how many children?

I knew there is no safety net for people with disability. Walking from the roundabout through the mud to my office, I pass a man with legs too emaciated to hold his weight.  He sits on the mud, moving backwards, dragging himself along like a baby learning to walk: bottom first then picking up his legs to follow.  He is alone, in the mud.  I wonder where is he going, and why.  Passing back in the opposite direction a few hours later, I see he has moved 100 metres down the path.

.............

The shock I’ve felt has made me feel naive, I know I’m very new to the developing world and had no exposure to homelessness back in the UK.  But I’m not ashamed to admit these sights make me feel... helpless – and shitty for hardening myself to this reality.  Take beggars, for example; as volunteers, we say no, we put on a stern face and we stride away, because -

Don't the parents of street children send them out to beg?  If everyone stopped giving, the parents would be more motivated to feed all their children, right?   

Some hotels ask guests not to give to the children who beg, because all you’re doing is keeping them from school.  The more you give, the less likely they are to get an education.  

Have you heard that the beggar outside the Yaya Centre makes 2000 shillings per day? (That’s twice the salary I’m paid here in Kenya)

This is what we hear, this is what we tell ourselves, but what’s the truth?  What’s the right thing to do?

Through my work at Kenya Union of the Blind (KUB), I am strengthening an organisation so it can better serve those who are blind and partially sighted.  Our members live in an inaccessible society, often denied education, or the chance to gain skills to earn a living.  With few choices, many Kenyans with visual impairment are forced to beg.  These people have nothing today but through the work of the KUB (educational grants, and microfinance programmes, for example) they might now have something tomorrow.  So I’m doing enough, right?  I firmly believe we are not here to share money, or food, or our flat – we’re here to share skills.  But still, the sight of Dan sternly saying ‘Hapana!’ (No) to a gang of hungry-looking seven-year-olds... affects me.

I know this isn’t groundbreaking stuff: western woman shocked by the harrowing poverty she sees – feels helpless and guilty.  But, maybe I’m here to tell you that this is a cliché for good reason.  It’s exactly how it feels.

We came to Kenya to experience the reality and get ‘under the skin’ of somewhere very different. The complexity of issues like poverty, disability, and the rights of women to control their own reproductive health astound me; I haven’t scratched the surface. And a child begging gives us yet another example of how the reality of a developing society is far from black-and-white.


This much I do know: no judgements can be made by living far away, by 'knowing' about the situation from a removed position.  We had to come here to experience how this feels and begin to understand these situations that seem so simple at first glance.

The rains, they have come (anyone got a spare ark?)

I write this sitting by the window of our apartment, during a power cut, with a torrential downpour currently in progress...

Our fellow volunteer Tara had a conversation with a Kenyan colleague back in August in which she asked “when will the rains come?”, and he replied “on the 15th October”. At the time, we all thought this was just another example of a uniquely Kenyan style of communication. But it turns out her colleague was pretty much bang on the money. The rains came on the 14th October.


Kenya has two rainy seasons. The “short rains” - that’s now – in October-November. And the “long rains” – around April-June.

Needless to say, the arrival of the rains is great news for Kenya. They failed to show up last year, which is one reason why Kenya, and the region more generally, is suffering one of its worst ever famines (food security was only just beginning to improve after the last prolonged drought that lasted from 2007 to 2009). So this is a major reason for celebration. Of course, in a country which has mountains, desert, rainforest, savannah and coastline, the weather can be pretty erratic, so we only hope it rains where the farmers and thirsty people need it to.

But the idea of the rainy season being pinpointed to a specific day is quite a weird thing for us soggy Brits. I remember seeking advice from volunteers in Kenya before we left the UK, and one memorable response was “right now, I’m dressing for all four seasons every morning”.

And when the rains come here, they really come. Areas formerly known as “roads” and “pavements” are swiftly transformed into vast ponds and rivers of muddy brown water. Drains and sewers quickly overflow, adding a certain frisson as I trudge towards the city centre. The many pot-holes fill up to become seemingly bottomless lakes which matatus drown in. Kenyans look distinctly unamused. Because, of course, this is Nairobi. While pastoralists in rural communities are busy praising the Almighty for bringing water, the “townies” here just find it an inconvenience.

Traffic 'swims' through the city centre.

This morning I spotted a street cleaner lady sporting 'bin-liner chic' - she'd created an impressively well-tailored head scarf.

And no wonder, because pretty much everything grinds to a halt. Naturally, that means the already horrendous traffic gets worse. Drivers around Nairobi haven’t really grasped the concept of safe driving. On a normal day they jostle and jolt through traffic jams, inches apart, and speed towards the next jam before slamming on the brakes at the last minute. Add rain to this equation, and inches become millimetres and crashes become frequent. 

View from my office window - doesn't really do justice to the torrent.

Other things that cease to function when it rains include: work (leave early, or you might not get home); football games (only exciting when the sun is out – if it rains, just leave the stadium, no matter if its your country playing for their lives); and selling stuff (there’s no point – everyone’s too busy hiding from the rain to buy anything). We discovered this last weekend that even the notoriously desperate and enthusiastic hawkers who surround tourists when they attempt to take a photo of themselves at the equator, can’t really be bothered to hassle when the rain comes. It’s drier in the gift shop shacks, so they stay there while us crazy Brits take happy snaps in our waterproofs, enjoying the irony of equatorial drizzle.

Crazy Brit at equator - note waterproof round waist, lack of hassling hawkers, and ominous rainclouds overhead.
(The flasks at Helen's feet are for showing tourists the amazing 'water trick' - when you pour water down the plughole it changes direction on either side of the equator, apparently.)

Helen: Erm - I think I have to butt in here, Jones – you know NOTHING about rain and mud! 

Although I’ve mentioned this before several times, the mud where I work is EPIC.  Dan’s journeys through the city centre and out to the posh area where he works take place on pavements and tarmac roads. I never thought I would ever write in glowing praise of tarmac, but without it, in Embakasi: 10 minute walks take 4 times longer; cars break down; businesses suffer; and my visually impaired colleagues who all live close to the office are quite often trapped in their homes ("the white cane does not detect puddles, Helen").

The rain always seems to take people by surprise and everyone and everything is affected. Think of it as snow back in the UK.  Except unlike snow, it happens all the time, it’s sticky, black and it stinks.  Happily splashing through the puddles in my new wellies (Kenyans prefer the US-version: Gum Boots), my colleague warned me to stop.  ‘Why,’ I said, ‘It’s only water!’  ‘No Helen, it’s not!’ she laughed, pointing at the open sewer flowing freely onto the muddy path.

In case anyone is wondering why we’re devoting a blog post to the weather, let me explain that it has an effect on the city, but also on us.  After four months of living in Nairobi, we no longer remark on the many aspects of life which we initially found extraordinary: we are so used to them.  But when the rain comes, everything becomes strange and new again.  We are faced with new challenges, strange behaviour - and Kenya’s poverty springs back into focus.  What we take for granted in the UK is a daily struggle here for many: shelter, food and a livelihood.  The rains bring a sense that life is fragile; it feels that these hard-won basics can be simply washed away.

Here’s a few snaps from life in Embakasi now the rains have come.  The glamour, the glamour...

Urgent Appeal: Join the Campaign Against Celine Dion

Dear Reader,

The situation in Nairobi is becoming critical. My last four commutes on buses and matatus have seen a downward spiral, and things are now becoming unbearable.

As you may know from previous blog posts, it is the tradition for buses and matatus in Nairobi to play music at ear-splitting volume. This is not ideal. But now combine the volume with the choice of music, and I simply can’t cope. Please think of me, and all the other innocent commuters (who do not realise the pain they are causing themselves), as you consider the following musical choices…

Day 1: I was not initially worried, more bemused by the strange turn of events when my packed matatu, struggling through the traffic jams across town, started playing The Lion King’s Can You Feel The Love Tonight? Just quite surreal…

Day 2: But events swiftly moved from bizarre to concerning as my bus home the next day played Chaka Khan’s Aint Nobody as we trundled and bumped our way along the half-made roads from Muthaiga.

Day 3: Yesterday morning we reached a new low point, as the bus driver and passengers ignored my pleas to stop torturing me with Chris De Berg’s Lady In Red at 7.30 in the morning. Why? Why me? What have I done to deserve this?

Day 4: Still traumatised from the previous day, this morning I gingerly sat down on my bus and was relieved to hear…nothing. Silence. Bliss. Joy. Then the driver noticed that the aging radio had momentarily conked out, thumped it, and a deep, wailing moan filled my ear drums. Yes, it was Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On. Arrgghhh!

Mr Bus Driver – I didn’t come all the way to Kenya to be assaulted with this musical detritus. I know I looked unhappy with the amorphous, tinnitus-inducing R&B you were playing a few weeks ago, but I didn’t mean it. I repent. Please bring the R&B back!

Nairobi traffic...

...And Celine Dion - noone prepared me for this!

Monicah's having a baby!

Posted by:  Helen (despite what it says underneath this post)

Life here in Kenya is so often different to living in the UK, so I find myself asking, what things are the same? What might our friends and family in the UK have in common with our new Kenyan friends?

With so many folk we love back home busy raising young families (you know who you are, you lovely people), I hereby present for you all a post on the universal experiences of love, marriage and starting a family...

INTRODUCING: Monicah!
Here she is at our office for the KUB

My colleague Monicah trained to be a special needs teacher, so she reads Braille despite having no visual impairment. She is currently the receptionist at Kenya Union of the Blind. She and her husband Daudi are having a baby, due in April. Monicah and I sat together in her small and comfy living room one Friday afternoon, ate bean stew and she filled me in on what it’s like to be a mum-to-be in Kenya.

My husband and I both studied at Kenyatta University (Nairobi), but we did not meet for a long time. We knew each other’s families from back home in the village; he knew mine was a good Christian family with educated daughters and I knew his family had a tractor business and I knew his sisters from school. On Valentine’s Day in my third year he called me! Wow! I loved his voice and told my friends, ‘I love this guy’s voice’ but we did not meet for a while after that.

Our first date was in 2008 but I did not think he was the one for me, and I told him that. But we kept seeing each other and he made me laugh so much. We were living close to each other and I started to work at KUB in Embakasi and I would finish work just as he was travelling to a late shift. He works for Safaricom in Customer Care. So we would meet up at the Roundabout, but when that guy was late – I would get so annoyed!  

In 2010 when I was 24, he said he wanted to formalise our relationship, so we arranged introductions to each other’s parents. When Daudi met my parents he brought a friend with him to help with the talking. He said, ‘I’m interested in your daughter – I would like to ask for her hand in marriage’. Then my Dad welcomed him to the family. He asked Daudi, ‘How do you intend to make this marriage official?’ But Daudi did not have an answer ready! His friend said they would confirm at a later date.

I rented a place in the same building as his, and then only 4 months later we couldn’t wait any more - we moved in together last year. Daudi had to pay bride price for me. Do you have bride price in your country? He had to pay a certain number of cows and goats, because now I would be part of his family. He had to pay more for me because I am educated and so will contribute more to his family through my salary. I don’t know how much his family paid for me – the women are not involved in that. Although I think my mother knows.

< I think I need to interject. In this highly religious, mainly Christian culture, all the people I’ve met in Kenya feel they need to be married before starting a family. But here, when people talk about being ‘married’, they’ve not always had a ceremony. Joining families together with this kind of transaction, moving in together or simply deciding to call each other husband and wife is very common. Before we arrived in Kenya, I was worried that it might be ‘not done’ for Dan and I to live together here and not be married. But I was wrong; it’s a very Kenyan thing to do. Lots of couples are saving for a wedding, and having their family while they wait - just like Monicah and Daudi. And you can’t get away with a small wedding here; if you invite 300 people, 600 will show up and all expect to be fed. So couples hold ‘wedding meetings’, or harambees (fundraisers) to ask for cash from the community to fund this large event. Alternatively, those who have ‘become married’ might never get around to the actual ceremony. I could easily dedicate an entire post to marriage - polygamy is legal here – but let’s get back to Monicah’s story... >

I found out I was pregnant in June, it had taken a year. I had been really worried and my in-laws were very worried when it did not happen straight away. When I thought I was expecting I went to my Gyno and he did a test. We were so happy, Daudi took me to lunch at a lovely hotel in town, and said, ‘I may not go to work today!’ I told my mother, and she said not to tell anyone else as there are so many things that can happen. I was worried that everyone could tell because my navel looked pregnant, so as I got bigger I never made an announcement but I stopped denying it. Lots of people found out from people I knew, but they had never asked me directly.

The Gyno we pay for gives me a scan every month, and every month I am taking a picture of myself growing and pasting it into a book, along with the results of that month’s check-up. My husband’s sister has taken the camera on a trip and I am saying, it needs to be back before the next check-up so I can take my picture!  

Check out the intimate cover stories...highly informative

I’ve been reading magazines to learn about pregnancy and birth. I think my mother is hiding the worst bits from me so I’ve also been talking to my friends and sisters. My doctor gives me good advice, but now I always take my husband for those check-ups. When I went by myself I was told ‘avoid heavy lifting’ and ‘avoid standing for a long time’ - Daudi heard this and thought I was lying just to get out of doing the laundry! We now have a lady who comes to wash the clothes, or sometimes he even does it himself. As I get bigger, my younger sister will come and live with us to help around the house and cook. The lady who comes in will wash the floors, walls, kitchen so I can rest.

Women are given 3 months maternity leave usually, but I am not sure how much KUB will give me. It is normal to stop working 2-3 weeks before the due date your doctor gives you, but I am feeling strong so I don’t plan to take any time off before I deliver. That way I will get 3 months at home with the baby.  

I won’t have a baby shower. Two friends of mine held baby showers and they got too excited, too overwhelmed and then they went to the doctors and the baby was not moving. They both lost their babies. So I am being careful. When my brother was hurt in an accident I waited until I heard he would be OK – I didn’t want to see him and upset myself, it is better for the baby. Instead we’ll have a party when the baby is one month old.

I will expect my husband and his family to drop everything when I call to say I’m having the baby. They’ll want to check the ward has been booked for me. I’m not sure where I’ll have the baby; it depends where my Gyno books me a bed. I hope it will be the Nairobi Women’s hospital. Some hospitals will allow the man to be there for the birth, and I would let him, but if there’s more than one woman in the labour ward, they don’t allow it.

If it is a normal birth, I will be home 2 days later. I’ve never had a baby before so my big sister will come and tell me all about it, how to breast feed. The lady who comes will do the cooking and cleaning. My mother in law can also come to stay. My own mother can visit but she cannot stay over as we are not in the same family anymore. It is just not allowed in our culture; I am part of my husband’s family now.

Once I am back at work, my husband or the lady who comes will need to bring the baby in at lunchtime, for breastfeeding. I’ve already told him he’ll need to do that.

Every month, my doctor checks the baby’s heart beat and does a scan. I had one scare but the baby was OK. When we go this month, we’re finding out if there are two babies. That would be OK; there are twins in my husband’s family. There is a guy making us a baby bed but we’ve told him to stop until we know if the bed is for one or two babies. Daudi does not want to know if they are boys or girls, but I need to know as I’ll be doing most of the shopping. We have to buy furniture, and lotion and all the normal baby things. It is so expensive.

Last month, I was weighed and wrote the number of kgs in the book I update every month. My husband saw it and said ‘You are heavier than a sack of maize!’ so I wrote that down too.  I find it so interesting to be pregnant and I can’t wait for the D-day - I'm counting all this as the favour of God.

Up The Mountain With Mohammed

Mount Kenya: second highest mountain in Africa, the peaks are the highest point in Kenya, at 5000 metres above sea level and covered in snow all year round. The country of Kenya is named after the mountain and it retains an important place in the beliefs of many tribal cultures…

Those of you who know Dan and I well, will be surprised to learn that our aim for this recent trip was not to summit the mountain, but just to climb part of the way up.  Invited to join a trip to the Mount Kenya National Park by a VSO volunteer living nearby, we discovered just how much of an adventure it could be to even climb half-way....

Presenting: a mountain adventure

Featuring: Sally, Tara, Liz, Helen and Dan

Friday

A 6am start, we took a 4 ½ hour ‘express-cab’ journey from Nairobi to the mountain town of Chogoria – it cost 500 bob or £3.50, and took us out of the smog for the first time in a month, past unbelievably green rice fields and tea crops.  We arrived and joined our fellow VSOs for lunch in the shade and met Mohammed, the trek leader. 

This was our first experience of assisted trekking, a cross between tour-guiding and mountain-leading.  For the next 3 days we would be relying on a local crew to show us the way, carry our tent, encourage us and cook for us so all we focus on is: the climb.  In order to hike some of the prettiest trails in the park and gain some real height in just one weekend, we were to travel the first 33kms of the journey by car – we had been told ‘4x4 required’.

Climbing into the Landrover after lunch, a quick count revealed that the 5 of us trekkers were to be supported by a crew of 8 Kenyan guys, led by Mohammed.  We sat in the front, the guys in the back, feeling excited to be on our way and got our first look at the sticker that boasted: This vehicle is protected by the blood of Jesus Christ.  

And thank goodness it was.  The tarmac disappeared immediately, giving way to steep earth tracks that led to the gates of the National Park, and from that point the road continued through thick bamboo forests all the way to our first overnight spot.

The 3 hour journey which followed stretched my personal definitions of ‘road’, ‘danger’ and ‘car accident’.  The deeply rutted tracks and lake-sized puddles were deftly negotiated by our driver, Chris, who tackled each ‘sticky patch’ with gusto, his hands guiding the steering wheel so fast they blurred.  Only with attack, speed and sharp changes in direction could the road be conquered.  Back home they would have closed the road, or at least given us seatbelts….

The car seemed to lean into every 45 degree angle and threaten to topple twice every minute.  Our hands gripped the bar, our hearts were in our mouths, our stomachs disappeared and we swung violently from side to side, collapsing on each other in a vain effort to distribute the weight.  Yes, it was scary, and we wondered whether walking 33kms might be preferable – but we were laughing and, in an odd way, loving every minute.  Looking behind us, the rest of the crew in the back didn’t move, they just calmly took the lurches that were punishing us, showing us up to be the risk-averse wazungu that we are.

‘Don’t worry!’  says Mohammed, ‘even if we fall, we will just push it back up.’

It took me a while to realise that the only way to carry 13 people in one vehicle is have two guys sitting in the roof rack and a few hanging on the back.  And longer still to realise that these outlanders had their own jobs to do, putting weight on the right wheel at the right time, and jumping off to push the car, saving us from disaster at several points.  Then disaster happened...

...The car took a violent lurch to the left as many times before, but this time toppled past the point of no return, landed on its side on the verge, and inside the car, I landed on Tara.  We only had two wheels on the ground.

All the guys get out to push, righting the car and make sure we’re OK.  We were.  We survived!  But now we knew that could happen again.  A silence descended in the car as we all concentrated so hard on the up-coming road, you’d think we were in the driving seat.

After that, there were a few equally treacherous sections during which we were allowed to get out and walk.  It was fantastic seeing Chris rev hard over the mounds and through the lakes at speed with just one guy gripping onto the roof-rack, being thrown around whilst wearing an expression of utter nonchalance.

The final section on foot took us all the way into the Mount Kenya Lodge, a ‘self-service lodge’ with basic cabins for sleeping and a main dining shed where the guys set-to heating water for our tea and preparing dinner. 

It was so strange not to be doing anything, and to be served a beautiful dinner on a tablecloth: soup, followed by battered fish and fresh-done chips with fruit for afters…. up a mountain.  Very strange but wonderful, and returning to our cabins through the now rainy evening to enjoy the fire and lantern light prepared for us, we felt very lucky indeed to be fed and alive all at the same time.

Saturday

A clear view of the peaks - the destination for all 'summit-ers'

Another 6am start.  None of us slept too well, it was completely freezing and one blanket didn’t really do the job.  My pre-breakfast highlight was watching Dan bounce and shriek around the bathroom, hating every second of his very very cold shower. His comment that ‘It’s lovely and warm once you’re out, Helen’ did not persuade me.

But the morning was truly spectacular – a sun-drenched, dawn panorama of waking forest and clear peaks.  Wow.  And a hot breakfast with egg and sausage and a cup of tea was fantastic after a cold night.

Then, 24 hours after leaving home, we were off, trekking in the national park through hills and streams that could have been the Scottish Highlands.  A good enough impression of the UK landscape to cure any homesickness I’ve had.  The blue skies warmed the morning as we found huge trees and weird and beautiful flowers that only grow at altitude.

The views looking back across the forest were fantastic but the climb up was hard.  We could blame the altitude, the effects of Nairobi smog on our lungs or the steepness.  But we’re just a little unfit.  Mohammed and his crew, of course, skipped past us with smiles, overloaded with items in order to set up camp before we arrived (carrying a plastic table up a mountain?  anyone?).  After only a 4 hour hike we’d reached our destination – Ellis lake, where the guys had pitched a little village of tents and were already stuck into the cooking.

‘Who’d’ve thought we could get waiter service up a mountain?’

The shuka: tablecloth becomes backpack becomes tablecloth

Our hot lunch was brought out to our special dining tent and was completely delicious, In the afternoon we walked around the lake, played cards and wondered why we didn’t pack any beer.  At dinnertime, we enjoyed a steak dinner: the most tender meat I’ve had in Kenya.  As night drew in we gathered round the peat fire and prepared for a night camping at 3000 metres.

The East African Cotswalds catalogue shoot

It was even colder than before – wearing everything and burying ourselves in our sleeping bags took the edge off, but it was a long night.  Stepping out of the tent at 2am to answer the call of nature, I looked up and nearly fell over; a dizzying display of what seemed like a billion bright, twinkling stars reaching across the clear skies and down to my feet.

Sunday

We were encouraged out of our now icy tents at dawn by a hot cup of tea, before following Mohammed for an early morning ascent of a lower peak.  45 sweaty minutes later we were at 3500m and the view was immense, looking down on the forests, clouds and the flat-topped feature known as the Giant’s Billiards Table.  Wonderful.

That's the clouds down there

We caught our breaths and headed down to find an alfresco breakfast.  Leaving camp at 10am, we retraced our steps back down the track to the edge of the forest.  Lunch, a quick wash, then back in the car, which was still protected by the blood of Jesus Christ but also had chains on the back wheels. 

The way down through the forest was just as hairy but now we knew the drill.  Stopping a few times, the guys were on hand to fix the fuel line with tape, and tighten the back wheel with an enormous wrench.  But three hours later, I was ready for the journey to be over; the sore throat I’d been harbouring was threatening to become a cold and I wished to be back on tarmac for the ride to Nairobi.

I should have been more careful what I wished for.  Back in Chogoria at 4.30pm, there was barely time to thank the crew and say goodbye to our friends before we jumped on a matatu leaving immediately for Nairobi.

‘Excuse me, is this an express to Nairobi?’

The journey home was unending, my worst time in Kenya so far.  Driven at speed by a maniac, who slammed on the brakes to take local fares every half-mile, this matatu was massively overcrowded and did not allow me to sleep; my fever raged.  I was very bad company, crushed by the weight of passengers and luggage, hanging on to my sick-bag, not saying a word.  Dan and Liz took care of me best they could from seats behind mine.  Back in Nairobi late at night, we marched through the downtown area, shunned the bus for a cab back home and fell into bed.

I didn’t make it into work on Monday.  Lying in our own bed (amazing) after hot showers (incredible), we reflected that camping out in freezing temperatures, being thrown around in a jeep and crushed to death in a matatu was a small price to pay for escaping the city and having our first Kenyan mountain adventure.  When’s the next one?

Special thanks go to:  Sally for inviting and arranging; Mohammed and the entire crew for providing real adventure and taking such good care of us  Check out Mohakin Climbers here; Tara for staffing out her camera to us when I forgot mine; Liz for being great company and looking after me on the way home.

Apologies for: not having an actual picture of Mohammed - will be rectified soon...