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...