THE
BEAUTY
AND THE
BEASTS
Living in Nairobi
Written By Geoff Hobbs
Copyright 2011 By Geoff Hobbs
Smashwords Edition
Contents
Death on the Road
It was 9 pm and I was driving on the Ngong road from Nairobi towards
Karen. I could tell from the number-plates of the white Nissan car in
front of me that it was a hire car. There were no street lights and
it was very dark, and I had to take care to avoid numerous Kenyans
walking on both sides of the road and, in some cases, in the middle
of the road. To make conditions even worse, the road was pitted with
large, deep pot-holes so everyone was driving slowly and well within
the speed limit. Ahead I could see a female pedestrian who was
obviously drunk. She was swaying from side to side, then without
warning she fell into the path of the car in front of me. The driver
had no chance of stopping and ran over her; I could see the car jerk
up and down twice as his front and back wheels ran over the woman.
I
had always been told that if you ran a Kenyan over you should never
stop, but go directly to the nearest police station and report the
accident. Fortunately, I never ran anyone over so I was not put in a
position to find out whether I could actually drive off and not stop
to help the people involved in the accident.
The car in front
stopped and I also came to a halt, making sure that I was some
distance away in order to avoid the woman’s body, which was now in
front of my car. The driver of the hire car got out and walked back
to help the lady. I could tell from the way he was dressed that he
was a tourist. He was of portly build, his hair was starting to grey
and I would say he was in his early forties. He had an unusually pale
complexion, which I assumed was not his normal colour but a result of
shock.
I had my hand on the door handle and was just about to get
out of my car, when I noticed five men with pangas, running towards
us. Panga is the Swahili word for a machete or cleaver, often used
for farming or cutting down undergrowth. I changed my mind about
getting out of the car and immediately locked my doors. I wound down
my window and shouted to the tourist to get back in his car and drive
away at once. The tourist was bending down over the woman, who was
bleeding profusely and obviously in a bad way, but still conscious.
In reaction to my shouting he turned his head to look at me. He had
obviously never been told not to stop at an accident and his face had
a bemused look at my strange request. At this point a rock hit him on
the side of the head. A Kenyan man who had been running towards the
accident at full speed skidded and fell over as he tried to stop.
Even in the extreme situation this made me smile. The Kenyan got up
and regained his composure. He lifted his arms above his head and it
was then that I saw he was holding a panga. His arms dropped and the
panga hacked the tourist across the back of the head. I knew from
events that I had witnessed on earlier occasions that the tourist was
doomed. Now I was in yet another death-threatening situation. I
forced myself to blank what I had just witnessed from my mind and
concentrated on my own safety. I looked round again. There must now
have been about thirty people running towards the accident. I
recognised the look of pure evil in the faces of the mob, and now the
mob was coming for me.
There was a bang on my car roof followed by
another and another; my car was being bombarded by rocks, the
passenger side window was smashed and more men came from nowhere to
join in the frenzied attack. I had to get out of there, now. I felt
terrible leaving the tourist, but there was no reasoning with the
mob, all they wanted was blood. As I put my foot down and started to
accelerate away, a man jumped onto the car bonnet. Fortunately I was
travelling at speed by now and when I hit a large pot-hole, he was
immediately thrown off. I looked in my rear-view mirror and could see
the mob kicking and hacking at the tourist, who was now lying on the
ground, as lifeless as a rag doll. I knew he was already dead.
Later,
as I sat at home with a strong gin and tonic, I felt sick with shock.
I held my hands in front of me; they were trembling uncontrollably. I
asked myself: why am I in this dreadful place? Why on earth did I
decide to uproot and leave the safety of the UK, to live and work in
this hellhole called Nairobi?
I
was 28 years old and had been employed as a production manager in a
twenty-four-hour, hot-dip galvanising plant in the west midlands for
the past three years. Although managing production and the workforce
was challenging, I was working well within my capacity and I needed
to move on. My plan was to attend as many interviews as possible to
ensure that when the right position presented itself, I would be well
practised in answering standard interview questions. The very first
job that I applied for was advertised in an engineering trade
magazine and was that of general manager of a fabrication company. It
was irrelevant
and of no interest to me that the position was
based in Nairobi, Kenya. One week after I submitted my application, a
letter arrived inviting me to attend an interview.
The employment
consultant’s office was in a typically old-fashioned, dowdy office,
with dark-brown furniture, a brown carpet and off-white walls. The
office was on the ground floor and had one solitary window looking
out on to a dark, dank alleyway. I sat there asking myself what on
earth I was doing spending my valuable free Saturday morning in that
dump, especially as I had no intention whatsoever of taking a
position in Africa, of all places.
The interview lasted for four
hours and centred around testing my depth of knowledge in engineering
matters. I am, and was even then, a qualified and experienced
production engineer, so I was able to answer the questions being
fired at me by the interviewer, who was also obviously an engineer in
a former life. I distinctly remember the last question that the
consultant asked: “Why do you want to leave the UK to live in
Africa?” As I had not even considered the reality of working and
living in Africa, I had not prepared for this question. But I can
remember looking out of the window into the dark alleyway. It was
raining very heavily and the rain was pouring off an old rusty steel
fire escape like a waterfall. I said nothing, but just pointed to the
view through the window; he smiled in acknowledgement of my silent
answer.
To my surprise, about a week later I received a telephone
call from the recruitment consultant informing me that, out of 120
applicants for the position, I had been shortlisted as one of 4 final
candidates. At the beginning of the second interview I was informed
that this interview would be targeted more on my personality, how I
would cope with managing an African workforce and moving from the UK
to live in Africa.
My answers were only half-hearted until the
Kenyan Group Managing Director grabbed my attention by saying that if
I joined the company I would be given a generous expense account,
company car, a fourbedroom house with its own swimming pool, a
gardener, a cook and a housemaid, all of which would be paid for by
the company. I had a sudden vision of myself sitting by the side of
my own swimming pool in the beautiful sunshine, and the prospect of
that lifestyle suddenly hit home to me – it was the turning point
at which I actually began seriously to consider the possibility of
working and living in Africa. After this point I really tried my best
to convince the interviewers that I would not pine to return to the
UK after the novelty had worn off and things got tough. I sat in
silence waiting for a response from the interviewers and my thoughts
drifted to me sitting by the pool in the sunshine. The Group’s
chairman then interrupted my daydream by saying that he still had one
reservation about employing me: I had no experience of working with
Africans. I had to find a way to give him more confidence in me.
I
stressed that I had been successful in managing 150 nightshift
workers in the hot-dip zinc galvanising coating process, which is
dirty, smelly and most definitely not a position held by a
faint-hearted or weak manager. I explained that because of the
unpleasant working environment the workforce tended to be somewhat
rougher than the norm. It was not unusual for the police to come into
the factory to arrest one of the employees. Full-blooded fights
between workers occurred on a regular basis and were an accepted way
of resolving disputes. But I needed more, so I decided to tell him
about my first night in this position when I was tested by the
employees. I had checked the clocking-in cards and seen that all of
the employees had clocked in well before the 10 pm shift had started,
yet it was clear that they were not all on the premises. When I
enquired about their whereabouts, the foreman told me that I would
find the missing employees in the Red Lion pub at the end of the
road.
I marched up the road to the pub, which was old and
well-used, drab but certainly alive. I opened the original, brightly
coloured Victorian stained-glass door and walked into a haze of
cigarette smoke. My shoes stuck to the floor, which was obviously
well coated with spilt beer, years of grime and spent cigarette ends.
Faces turned enquiringly towards me, lively conversation dulling to a
mutter at the realisation that a stranger dressed in a collar and tie
had suddenly appeared at their watering hole.
Through the smoke I
could just about make out the missing workers. They were all holding
pint glasses full of beer and for some reason they looked surprised
to see me. Before they could say anything, I shouted, assertively and
with authority, “Right, listen, I am now going to walk back to the
factory and anyone who does not get back before me will be clocked
out and locked out.” There was a concerted groan, like the sound
made by a crowd at a football match when there is a near-miss shot at
goal. This was followed by individual shouts of complaint and some of
them had the cheek to ask if they could just finish their pints. I
snapped, “Absolutely not.” As I turned and started to walk out of
the bar, they hurled abuse at me, but only one comment struck home:
“Who do you think you are? I am not going to take orders from some
snottynosed kid!”
I walked slowly back to the factory and was
encouraged by the steady stream of workers hurrying past me like
Olympic speed-walkers, not daring to run and show their colleagues
how keen they were not to be locked out, but at the same time trying
to outpace me. Some looked down as they passed, some sneaked a glance
in my direction then immediately looked away as eye contact was made
and they sped guiltily onwards. When I got back to the factory I was
pleased to find that only one worker had failed to return to work. He
had obviously decided to finish his pint before starting back to the
factory. Either way, I had to make a stand and I made up my mind that
he was not going to be allowed to return to work for that evening’s
shift.
Unbeknown to me, the missing worker was a muscular,
six-foot-six Jamaican man, a known hard man with a quick and violent
temper. He had served time in jail for grievous bodily harm, and I
had just clocked him out. In fact, I still had his card in my hand
when he returned. From a distance, he had seen me clocking him out
and I could tell by the look on his face that he was furious. By now
some of the workers had realised there was an interesting situation
developing and had gathered round, anticipating the satisfaction of
returning to the pub, downing their pints and talking about the
aftermath of the next few minutes. I realised that they had tried it
on and if I backed down now it would be seen as a great weakness and
an indication that they could continue to take advantage of me.
The
big Jamaican had a really wild look in his eyes and he was visibly
shaking with uncontrollable anger. He shouted in a broad Jamaican
lilt, “If ya do no clock me bak in, I is gonna kick ya ’ed in,
man!”
Trying to ignore him, I told the foreman to lock the
entrance gate. But before he could comply, the Jamaican pushed it and
the foreman went flying across the shop floor. By now most of the
workers had gathered round to see the confrontation. They were
laughing and making comments like, “Shall we call the ambulance for
you now, boss?” and “I wonder what the new boss will be like?”
To them this would be a walkover for the Jamaican, who was now
starting to run towards me. It was like a nightmare: was this really
was happening and on my first night? None of the management books I
had read had explained how to handle this situation. The big Jamaican
looked like an unstoppable runaway steam train, and it was coming
towards me, gathering momentum by the second!
Fortunately for me,
it was all happening in slow motion. I had seen this type of raging
attack many times before and I knew exactly how to react. At this
point, I should explain that I am a third-Dan black belt at Judo and
have represented Great Britain many times. I was calm and controlled,
and by the time he reached me I had already decided what throw I
would use on him and where he would land. The split second he made
contact, I turned 180 degrees and used the force of his momentum to
throw him. He flew through the air and landed flat on his back, his
lungs emptying, arms and legs powerless to take control as he bounced
across the factory floor, finally stopping about five metres away. I
was calm because, as I had anticipated, the landing had taken the
wind out of him and he lay there gasping for air. But had this been
enough to quell the rebel?
After a few seconds, he recovered and
slowly got up, shaking his head violently from side to side. He then
began to move towards me, but this time he was walking and I could
see he was smiling. This was not the reaction I had expected and it
was not good a sign. I began to plan my next move – this one would
be more difficult because he was now walking and he was expecting me
to give him a fight. Then, to my relief, I noticed he was holding out
his hand. He shook my hand with a vice-like grip and said, “Dat was
well cool, man. I is sorry, boss, will see you on tomorrow night’s
shift, if dat is ok wiv you?” And with that, he calmly walked
through the gate and went home or back to the pub. After I had
recounted this incident, the chairman sat there openmouthed and
finally said, “Given your experiences, I don’t believe that you
would be intimidated by an African workforce and the basic working
conditions.” I found it hard to contain my excitement because at
that point I knew that the job was mine.
Later that afternoon the
chairman made me an offer I simply could not refuse, so I decided
there and then to take the bull by the horns and move to Africa! It
seems that my untypical work experience had actually made me the
perfect candidate for the position. Looking back, it was a rash and
reckless decision, but somehow it seemed right. I must admit I was
apprehensive, to say the least, but there was no going back now.
I
was told that I needed a basic knowledge of Kiswahili so I found a
lecturer who agreed to give me one-to-one lessons, paid for by the
company. He told me that Swahili, a basic pidgin version of the more
formal Kiswahili, was spoken in Nairobi, and we therefore agreed that
he would teach me Swahili on three evenings a week. We fixed a date
for my first lesson just four days later.
Two days before my first
lesson, I turned on the television to see that the Kenyan president,
Jomo Kenyatta, had died. Within hours of his death, graphic images of
riots, fires and looting in Nairobi and indeed throughout all of
Kenya featured heavily in news bulletins. It was also reported that
many people had been murdered as a result of tribal feuds. I was
alarmed that the country I had chosen to live in was torn by violence
and unrest. There were people being murdered on the very streets
where I was going to live. I must admit this turn of events put the
fear of God into me. I recall just sitting there in shock, thinking,
can this really be happening and what on earth have I let myself in
for? I researched Kenyatta and found that he had been imprisoned for
being a member of the Mau Mau, a militant African nationalist
movement. More than 3,000 Kenyan civilians were known to have been
murdered by them and around fifty white British settlers had also
been killed by Mau Mau militants; one victim was a white boy, aged
only six, who was tragically killed along with his parents. The child
was found, hacked to death, in his bedroom. Newspapers published
graphic details of the murder which included photographs, one of
which showed the dead boy holding a blood-stained teddy bear.
Looking
for positive signs, I decided to look at more recent crime rates. To
give me a frame of reference I first looked at London. I was shocked
to find that, with a population of 7 million, around 150 people are
murdered in the London area every year. In Nairobi, with a population
of only 3 million, there are a staggering 2,000 people murdered every
year. Crunching these figures revealed that an astounding 1 in 1,500
people are murdered in Nairobi annually, whereas in London this
figure is 1 in 46,600 people. I must admit that I was both worried
and in a daze; I began to have grave reservations about my decision
to move to Kenya, which was supposedly one of the most stable
countries in Africa.
When I met my Swahili teacher for my first
lesson, I was very downhearted about the whole situation, but he told
me he envied me going to Kenya and he would have no hesitation
whatsoever in returning. He was not at all concerned about the
current problems and told me not to worry because it would all have
died down within a week and Kenya would again be a very safe place to
live. There was no doubt that his enthusiasm and love for Kenya was
genuine and this gave me a muchneeded confidence boost.
My teacher
urged me not to have second thoughts and miss this opportunity of a
lifetime. He told me that because Nairobi is elevated at 1,660 metres
(5,450 ft) above sea level it does not experience the soaring
temperatures suffered in other parts of Kenya and that, for most of
the year, daytime temperatures average 25 degrees Centigrade. Another
benefit was that at that altitude, malaria-carrying mosquitoes cannot
survive and therefore malaria is not present in Nairobi. I distinctly
remember being in the back garden of my house one afternoon, lying on
a sun-bed, looking up at the clouds with occasional bursts of sun,
thinking that I would soon be looking at the same sun, but from
Kenya. I just hoped and prayed that I would not be thinking that I
had made a very bad decision and wishing that I was back in England,
looking at the sun from the safety of this small English garden.
My Adventure Begins
I was so busy packing, getting my paperwork in order and saying
goodbye to relatives and friends that the time seemed to pass in the
blink of an eye, and suddenly it was the day of my departure. One
good thing about the days rushing by so quickly was that I did not
have time to get worked up about the monumental life-changing
decision that I had made. It had been just ten weeks since I had
attended the first interview in that dingy office in Walsall, on a
wet, miserable Saturday morning, and now, here it was, my last day.
I
remember waking up at 5 am, lying in bed wide awake, thinking, this
is unreal, I am going to Africa, not just for a holiday, but to live
there. I was now totally committed. If Nairobi turned out to be hell
on earth I could not just leave, I had signed a minimum two-year
contract and I had to stick it out.
I had hoped it would be
raining on my last day in England so that I could look back and gloat
when I was enjoying the warmth and sun of Africa, but it was a
beautiful, sunny morning and the English countryside was alive, green
and fresh. For a brief second I thought this must be some sort of a
sign, telling me that I need not move to have sunshine, even though
common sense told me that this was not true.
I departed on a KLM
Fokker Friendship City Hopper plane, flying out of Birmingham airport
to Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport. After a threehour wait in
Schiphol, I boarded a KLM overnight flight direct to Nairobi. By now,
all my reservations had gone and all I wanted to do was feel African
soil under my feet and start my new life.
I remember the flight
well. It was my first long-haul flight and I was sitting next to an
Irish nun. She was well into her fifties, wore glasses and was very
overweight. She fumbled with a string of rosary beads, passing each
one through her thumb and forefinger several times. We exchanged
pleasantries and she began reading a small, dark-blue, hardback book,
which, from its worn appearance, was very well read. We did not talk
for the next two hours until the meal arrived, then she put the book
down and took off her glasses. I was surprised that she took the
glass of wine offered by the air hostess. After the meal was cleared
she followed the wine with a large gin and tonic and then it just
kept flowing. I was amazed to see her drink constantly throughout the
rest of the flight. The alcohol loosened her tongue and she chatted
nonstop, telling me how fantastic Kenya and its people were.
As we
started our descent I looked down and was immediately struck by the
green savannah which opened up beneath us. I had held on to the
memory of lush, green England, thinking that I would not see such
greenery until I eventually returned. I had imagined Africa to be a
brown and parched land, but I could see miles and miles of beautiful
green, open land, sprinkled with acacia trees and small bushes. There
were no buildings, just different shades of green, apart from the
occasional magnificent blue lake, with tracks leading away to
mysterious destinations. As we approached Nairobi, the ground became
peppered with small buildings which sparkled like diamonds as they
caught the light. As we descended further it became clear that the
sparkle came from the corrugated tin roofs on the buildings
reflecting the sun. Roads criss-crossed each other, bearing cars and
lorries lazily following the routes of what seemed to be a mixture of
dust and tarmac surfaces. I could not tear my eyes away and was glued
to the window right up until the plane touched down. The nun was now
feeling a little embarrassed at how much alcohol she had consumed
during the flight and I remember her parting words to me: “If you
live in the tropics you have to drink gin and tonic, you know,
because the quinine in the tonic keeps the mosquitoes away.”
The
Arrivals hall was packed with hundreds of people, pointing, talking
loudly, pushing and rushing to get out of the airport. They were all
African or Asian, apart from one other Westerner, who was dressed in
a smart suit and white starched shirt, gold-rimmed glasses perched
firmly on his nose, and carrying an expensive-looking black leather
briefcase. Most of the African women wore ankle-length dresses and
had their hair wrapped in matching material. I recognised some of the
passengers from my flight standing by the luggage conveyor belt, so I
joined them. We waited and waited. It was hot and I could feel the
perspiration running down my back. Then, after what seemed like an
hour, the conveyor belt finally jerked into motion. I had no problem
recognising my brand-new suitcase, it stuck out like a sore thumb,
surrounded as it was by cardboard boxes, fruit held in bamboo cages,
tatty, dirty, beaten-up old cases and other unrecognisable items
wrapped up in newspaper or brown paper and held together by string.
For some reason, the customs officers were insisting on opening and
inspecting the luggage of every single passenger, which resulted in
massive congestion at Customs.
Customs cleared, I stood in the
hall, looking around and taking in the atmosphere and the mass of
mixed bright colours. In UK airports most businessmen wear dark suits
and even the tourists tend to wear at least colour-co-ordinated
clothes, but here, anything went. The brighter, the better, it
seemed, and every colour of the rainbow was displayed. It really was
a sight for sore eyes and there I was, standing in the middle of it,
in a queue 100 metres long, six people deep. I felt like I was the
only white person in Africa, and a rush of panic struck me as I
realised that this was to be my new home.
In Arrivals there was a
sea of people waiting to greet passengers, and it was with some
relief that I noticed through the crowd a hand-held sign with the
company name written on it. The person holding the sign was the
company driver. He stood out from the crowd because he was well over
two metres tall and was immaculately dressed in a black suit, white
shirt and red tie. His whole appearance was, however, contradicted by
the big holes in his ear lobes. In my naivety, I did not realise that
he was a Maasai.
Jomo Kenyatta International airport, as it is now
called, was at that time the largest airport in East and Central
Africa. Located ten miles southeast of Nairobi, the airport was first
opened in 1958 and designed to deal with 2.5 million passengers per
year. Today it handles more than 4.5 million passengers and it shows.
Externally, the airport was certainly one of the ugliest buildings I
had ever seen. Its concrete façade looked more like a fortress than
a welcoming building to greet weary passengers on their travels. This
airport, which would not have looked out of place on the skyline of
Birmingham, was my first and disappointing impression of African
architecture.
On the exit road from the airport we were stopped by
a police blockade. There were five police officers, all dressed in
the typical Kenyan police uniform, safari-type short-sleeved shirt,
shorts, dark-blue knee-length, thick woollen socks and boots. They
were all armed with sub-machine guns. They had pulled over a Kenyan
van driver and were prodding the terrified man with the machine guns
and aggressively shouting “haraka, haraka”, which I knew from my
lessons meant “quickly, quickly”. The driver was being made to
take the entire contents out of the back of his van. My driver smiled
and explained that the hapless man would not be allowed to put it all
back into the van because the police would take some of his load as a
bribe. The police were far too busy sorting through the contents of
the van and deciding which items they were going to keep to be
interested in us, so we were waved through the concrete zigzag
roadblock.
After a short journey we joined the Uhuru highway. This
was far more encouraging and my first experience of the beautiful
flora of Kenya. The highway was nothing short of magnificent. It was
lined with hundreds of purple jacaranda trees in full bloom, and the
road was also covered with a carpet of jacaranda blossom. It seemed
as though the highway was swathed in purple clouds. The colour was
spectacular and, to top it all, this amazing sight was complemented
by the most beautiful and intoxicating scent. I could picture this
sight on a calendar, but I had never even thought about the aroma
that wafted from the scene before my eyes.
On both sides of the
road there was a constant stream of people walking. Others were just
sitting down, having a midday sleep, getting a hair-cut or eating in
dark, smoke-filled, tumbledown, wooden roadside cafés with rusty tin
roofs. I was surprised to find that some of the local people were
very well dressed, although I felt there was something not quite
right about their clothes. Most of them were city office workers,
they were clean and their clothes were generally in good condition
and fitted well enough, and I could not put my finger on what could
be amiss with them. Then it dawned on me, their clothes were at least
five or six years out of fashion. I felt I would have been a laughing
stock in the UK if I had worn such clothes. Then the reality of what
I was thinking hit me and I felt guilty, because in that moment I
realised just how stupidly materialistic I was. How egotistical and
wasteful had I been, throwing perfectly good clothes away, just to
follow fashion and contribute to the big fashion companies’
money-making merry-goround.
As I was to discover, the beauty of
Africa always seems to be offset by an ugly side, and this journey
was no exception, as the heavenly smells of jacaranda trees gave way
to thick black clouds of lethal exhaust fumes, belched out by badly
serviced lorries and local buses. The local buses were called matatus
and, without exception, they were jampacked with passengers. They
were obviously carrying way beyond their maximum capacity. The
matatus weaved recklessly in and out of the traffic at breakneck
speed, looking as though they were trying to empty themselves of
passengers at each violent turn. It appeared that not only were they
carrying people, but chickens, goats and dogs too. Everyone was
clinging on for their lives but at the same time accepting this
everyday form of transport, staring out of the windows, heads and
bodies swaying in unison. I had assumed that because they drive on
the left in Kenya driving would not be a problem. However, the rules
of the road were clearly very different here. Driving in this
fast-paced chaotic city was going to take some getting used to.
As
we moved out of the city limits, the landscape changed to rows of
three-metre-high green hedgerows; the occasional glimpse through open
gates revealed that these hedges were hiding some very large and
impressive residential properties. In gaps between the hedgerows were
small banana plantations and areas where entrepreneurial Kenyans had
occupied any available space to set up makeshift shops and small
areas where they were growing and selling exotic plants and trees.
Smoke from fires built by gardeners to burn tree cuttings and
discarded banana tree leaves was filtering through the hedges. The
strong sweet smell of the burning wood and leaves mixed with blossom
was not particularly pleasant. This aroma, not dissimilar to that of
marijuana, was the unique smell of Africa, one that I became very
familiar with and that will always be Africa to me.
Away from the
city, along the A2 road out of Nairobi, the trees, hedges and local
shops gave way to open areas with only occasional bushes and trees. I
was like a sponge absorbing this new world, my brain learning by the
second, frantically processing all the new information. It was an
exhilarating experience and I loved every second. Next to this,
England seemed so ordinary and very boring.
The company driver
told me that his name was Duma and that this meant ‘cheetah’ in
Swahili. I did not ask but trusted that this meant the animal cheetah
and not a cheater. On the drive to the hotel we chatted and he
proudly told me that he was from the Maasai tribe, which, according
to him, was the most superior tribe in Africa. At this point, he took
his gaze off the road, looked me in the eyes and said that I would be
safe with him. I believed him. He was a most imposing character. He
went on to explain that the typical Maasai physique is tall, with a
slim, wiry figure, and a nose like a Westerner. He said I would never
see a fat Maasai or a genuine one with a moustache or beard. These
were the reasons why Maasai were, in his words, “the most beautiful
people in the whole of Africa and maybe even the world”. He
certainly did not lack self-confidence.
I agreed with him but just
had to tell him that the only thing that spoilt his looks were his
ear lobes, which were far from attractive and hung down in great
floppy loops almost touching his neck. To my relief, he laughed and
told me that it was for decoration and when he was with his tribe
wooden discs or rings would be placed through the holes in his ears
and this drove Maasai women mad for him. This time I laughed. It is
said that this type of mutilation was originally carried out to
discourage slave-traders from selecting the disfigured individuals as
potential slaves. I once saw a Maasai with cans of cola inserted in
the holes in his ear lobes. Although he created a lot of interest
with tourists requesting photographs, he could not understand why he
could not persuade them to buy his drinks.
Duma was very talkative
and during the journey he also told me that there were plenty of
‘plastic’ Maasai around the cities, especially in Mombasa, where
the tourists loved them for their distinctive customs and dress. The
plastic Mombasa Maasai were always willing to pose in front of the
camera for a few shillings, but this was a lazy and frowned-upon way
of making a living. But I suppose when you are living in a poor
country you have to exploit anything to survive, including the
tourists and your own cultural heritage. Duma was obviously an
intelligent man and had not fallen into the tourist trap. He said
that he was earning good money working in the city as a chauffeur and
an unofficial bodyguard. I certainly felt safe in his company. Not
many people will mess with a Maasai as they have a reputation for
having no fear, especially when they are upset or annoyed, and I was
sure that Duma was no exception. He said that he enjoyed his job but
he was in Nairobi solely to earn money and as soon as he had enough
to buy land and cows he would return up country to his birthplace,
where he would be the richest man in his village.
My hotel was
situated on the Rurarka Road, towards Thika, a place made famous by
the novel The Flame Trees of Thika, which told of Elspeth Huxley’s
memories of an African childhood. Thika is located about forty
kilometres north-east of Nairobi and is about an hour’s drive from
the airport. As soon as we drove through the entrance gates of the
Safari Park Hotel and Casino I had a good feeling. It was clearly a
very beautiful four-star hotel. I checked in and made a start on
unpacking my bags. The room was big and very nicely decorated and
furnished. Welcoming flowers and fresh fruit had been thoughtfully
laid out on an occasional table and there was a large patio window
with a view overlooking the beautiful landscaped gardens. The nearest
I had ever been to such a beautiful hotel was in a magazine or on the
television. From my first impressions I was delighted with the hotel,
which was a good thing because I was told it would take around six
months before I had settled and found a suitable home. I had some
free time until the next morning so I eagerly set off to explore the
Safari Park Hotel. Even the name added to my excitement. The hotel
was set in 64 acres of beautiful tropical landscaped gardens and it
had a large outdoor swimming pool with a pool-side café and bar.
There was one restaurant in the main building and another in the
hotel casino. This really was paradise – the sun was shining
brightly and the temperature was very comfortable.
I had never
been a gardener or particularly interested in flowers, but these
grounds mesmerised me, they were literally bursting with the most
exotic and beautiful flowers and shrubs that I had ever seen – even
the trees were full of flowers. Their scent gave me a sensation
similar to that of walking through the cosmetics area of a large
expensive department store, it was simply wonderful.
At 6.30 pm
the sun started to set and by 7 pm it was pitch black. I can
confidently state these times because as Kenya is situated on the
equator it gets dark at the same time every night of the year. There
was little point in exploring the grounds in the dark, so I decided
to go to the hotel bar for a drink. I sat in the bar area but outside
on the balcony, which overlooked the gardens and a five-metre-high,
fan-shaped palm tree. At the base of the tree was a beautiful
ornamental pool.
I just sat there for a while, taking in the warm
breeze and perfume from the flowers and trees. A strange,
high-pitched mating call of frogs came from the ornamental pool. I
was spellbound. I just loved this place, it was paradise. So far, so
good; my fears about Africa had been totally unfounded. Looking back,
it is amazing that even after such a short period of time Africa had
already begun to get her hooks into me.
During a recent trip to
Nairobi I went back to see the hotel and was disappointed to find
that it has now been completely renovated and modernised. It was
unrecognisable from the Safari Park Hotel that I had lived in many
years ago and, sadly, the magnificent palm tree and ornamental pool
have now gone. While in Nairobi I also visited an old friend who, in
passing, told me that he had appeared as an extra in a film about the
Entebbe airport hijacking in Uganda. Apparently, parts of the film
were actually filmed in Nairobi, so when I returned to the UK, I
hired it. It was fun to spot my friend popping up in different parts
of the film playing the role of one of Idi Amin’s henchmen, but, to
be honest, I was more pleased to see that one of the scenes had been
filmed in the old Safari Park Hotel grounds and it featured the
fan-shaped palm tree and ornamental pool. The film made me yearn for
the impossible, to have the first experience and the excitement of
seeing the wonder of Africa for the first time.
The Factory
At 8 am sharp the next morning, I was collected from the hotel by
Duma for my first look at the factory. During the interview in London
I had been disappointed to be told that the factory was located some
forty minutes’ drive from the city. However, I soon discovered that
every weekday morning and evening the city came to a complete
standstill. Nairobi had grown into one of the largest cities in
Africa, but its infrastructure had failed to keep pace and as a
result it had some of the worst traffic congestion on the planet.
After only a brief introduction to Nairobi’s notorious traffic
jams, I realised that the factory’s location was, in fact, a
blessing. I was also pleased that it was conveniently located only
few kilometres’ drive from the hotel.
I was not surprised to
find that the factory was surrounded by a twometre- high chain-link
fence, topped with three rows of barbed wire and at the factory
entrance there were two solid-steel gates. The gates were shut and
there were about fifty men standing outside them. As we drove closer
I could see they were all jumping up and down, frantically waving
their hands. To a man, they were all very thin and dressed in what
can only be described as rags and black flip-flop sandals. Was this
some kind of riot? Was this to be the downside that I had feared I
would encounter in Africa? My heart sank, and I wondered what I had
let myself in for, and this was only my first day!
As we got
nearer I could make out that the men were crowding round one man, who
was wearing a long, whiter-than-white cotton gown, similar to the
ones worn by hospital doctors. He stood head and shoulders above the
crowd, not because he was tall, but because he was standing on a
large wooden box. The man was slim and of average height for a
Kenyan, his most distinguishing feature was his big squashed nose,
which seemed to cover most of his face. It is fair to say that he was
not a good-looking man; in fact his appearance was quite
frightening.
I asked Duma what the hell was going on. He obviously
detected the concern in my voice, but calmly smiled and informed me
that the man in the white coat was my foreman, who went by the name
of Nakwaka, and that one of his daily tasks was to select casual
labourers for the day. This selection process occurred at the same
time every morning and apparently it was quite normal to see this
agitated mass of shoving, gesticulating and vocal people outside the
factory, so there was nothing to worry about. Relieved by Duma’s
explanation, I relaxed and recomposed myself, stiff upper lip and all
that. I wiped the beads of sweat away from my forehead and eased
myself back into a more comfortable position in the seat.
By now
the gate men had obviously seen the car and shouted for the crowd to
move. This command was reinforced with a few words from the foreman,
Nakwaka, and the crowd parted, leaving just enough space for the car
to slip through. I was amazed that such a commanding control could be
obtained with such little effort. As we passed through the crowd
Nakwaka saluted me and gave me a huge smile. His smile was his saving
grace. He smiled often and it was from ear to ear, and this single
act completely changed his appearance. Not only did he have a great
smile, but all the signs he was giving off indicated that he was very
alert; his eyes darted in all directions and he picked up every
movement, he missed nothing and he radiated inner warmth. I knew in
that instant that Nakwaka and I were going to get along just
fine.
When I arrived at the factory reception area I was greeted
by the manufacturing manager, whose name was Mathew; he politely
introduced himself and was quick to tell me that he was not a Kenyan
but was in fact of Ugandan nationality. He explained that he had been
forced to move to Kenya to avoid the brutal rule of Idi Amin. I did
not say so to his face, but to me he looked just like the infamous
Amin; thankfully, that is where the similarities ended. Unlike Amin,
Mathew was not at all aggressive. He also made a point of informing
me that he had a degree in Engineering which he had obtained from
Birmingham University, of all places. This was an uncanny
coincidence; he had been at Birmingham University which was ten
kilometres from the office where I had been interviewed for this job
in Nairobi. What a small world.
Mathew gave me a quick tour. I
could not believe that the factory was set on a 60-acre site; that
amount of land in the UK would accommodate many factories. In fact,
many industrial estates are built on less land than that. There was a
main reception, an office block and four workshops, comprising tank
and pipe fabrication buildings, a press shop and concrete plant. The
company manufactured water storage tanks, irrigation pipes,
agricultural trailers, concrete slabs, and pipes. I must say, I was
very impressed by the machinery and the high standard of
workmanship.
I was intrigued by a long single-storey building
located at the back of the factory. Mathew proudly informed me that
this was the housing block, which was supplied by the company for its
skilled employees. The building was home to fifty of the employees
and their families. Each room was only three metres by four metres
and yet it accommodated one employee and his family, which, on
average, amounted to two adults and four children. Each room had one
electric light, but no sockets for electrical appliances. Running
water was not supplied to the individual rooms but there were two
outside taps and one communal toilet, situated at the end of the
building.
The block was a hive of activity. There must have been
over a hundred small children, all dressed in threadbare clothes. I
was fascinated to see them playing with intricate, handmade toys, one
of which particularly impressed me. It was a model car, about a metre
high, with a frame made out of twisted wire and the bodywork from
flattened Tuska beer cans. It was a really colourful masterpiece of
craftsmanship. Most of the mothers were busy washing clothes or
cooking, but as we passed, they stopped working, waved and said,
“Jambo, bwana”, and gave me broad, welcoming smiles.
Mathew
lived in a small house next to the employees’ accommodation and he
had the luxury of two rooms. He told me that the housing made working
for the company very desirable and, although the factory was outside
the city, offering this facility helped to attract very good
engineers. Back at the factory, I was shown my office. I was
flattered when Mathew told me that it was new and had been built
specially for me. It was a portable wooden building, located at the
top of the factory; from the front windows I could see all of the
workshops, but, even better, from the left side and rear windows I
could see nothing but miles and miles of open bush, a perfect
position.
Later in the day, Ron, a company director, completed my
perfect day when he informed me that he would collect me from the
hotel at 9 am the next morning so we could go into the city to buy my
company car. As agreed, the next morning I was collected by Ron and
he informed me that before going car shopping, we would take the
opportunity to introduce me to the Group chairman. The chairman was
tall and slim, apart from his pot belly, indicating that he enjoyed
his food and drink. He was in his late sixties and had a mass of
grey, wavy hair. The man just oozed confidence, there was no edge on
him and he was a real character. He made me feel at ease and I was
comfortable in his company.
When we arrived at the head-office
building, I had noticed that there was an orderly queue of about
thirty men standing outside the main entrance door. I had presumed
that these were casual labourers and the queue was a daily occurrence
similar to the one at the factory but, because we were in the city,
the process was more civilised. By way of conversation, I mentioned
my conclusion to the chairman and he smiled and said that in fact
this was not the case. He explained that in order to carry out
day-to-day activities in the city it was necessary to hand out a
number of bribes and it had reached the stage where company employees
were carrying large amounts of small banknotes in order to pay these
small bribes. Sharp-eyed robbers had seen an opportunity and a number
of employees had been beaten up and relieved of their cash. The
company had therefore designed a special voucher that employees
handed out instead of cash. The person receiving the bribe voucher
then had to present it to the company cashier, who exchanged it for
cash. Bribes were a new experience for me and it was even more
bizarre that they were accepted so openly. When I mentioned this to
the chairman, he said, “When you want something done faster than a
snail’s pace, you will soon learn the magic of a small bribe.”
But I never felt comfortable with giving out bribes.
On the way to
the first garage, Ron told me that he was an ex-rally driver and that
he had actually raced in the famous Kenyan Safari Rally. He was
looking forward to spending the rest of the day car hunting, and it
is fair to say that Ron and I were in our element. He told me that
many cars didn’t last five minutes on the rough Kenyan roads, and
the ones that would stand up to the conditions were in high demand.
After a few fruitless visits to various car dealerships, where the
vehicles we were offered did not pass muster, we eventually found the
perfect car, a bright-blue Datsun 1800cc petrol estate. The car had
already been prepared for life in Kenya and had been fitted with
reinforced suspension and bull bars, but the clincher was
air-conditioning. Thirty minutes later I was closely following Ron in
my new car as we drove back to the hotel.
I was a little concerned
about driving in Kenya because I had read that, as well as Nairobi’s
traffic congestion, there was also a serious problem with vehicle
accident deaths. In fact, Nairobi has one of the highest rates of
road death in the world, with over 500 fatal accidents per 100,000
vehicles, as compared with the UK, with only 20 fatalities per
100,000 vehicles. Thankfully, the traffic was kind to me that day and
my journey to the hotel in my brand-new car passed without incident
or close shaves.
Now I had a car, I decided to go for a drive and
find the nearest shop. It was 6 pm and the sun was still shining
brightly. I made my way through the beautiful flower-filled grounds
to Reception and asked the receptionist for directions to the nearest
shop. I explained that I wanted to buy some toiletries, but she just
could not understand why I wanted to go out to purchase them when
they were all available from the hotel shop. I told her I was at a
loose end and wanted to go and explore. After fifteen frustrating
minutes of me asking and much shaking of her head, she eventually and
reluctantly gave me directions to the nearest shop. I set off on my
little adventure and carefully followed the map that the receptionist
had drawn for me. I drove out of the hotel and turned right onto the
main road, passing a brewery on the left. I then turned right again
and drove down a small, tree-lined, leafy and very bumpy lane, as per
the map. After a couple of kilometres I found a small supermarket. I
parked the car in one of the designated parking spaces and turned the
engine off. As I sat there, I recalled that Ron had told me that
there had been a spate of robberies at the local shops. Robbers would
hide in the bushes and when you got out of your car they would jump
out, put a gun to your head and force you into the boot of your car
and drive off. I will leave the rest to your imagination, but it
invariably ends in the driver’s death.
To be sure it was safe, I
cautiously studied the surrounding bushes. It all looked clear so I
carefully got out of the car and walked at a fast pace to the shop. I
was not in the least surprised to find that the shopkeeper was of
Indian nationality, it seems that some things don’t change,
wherever you are in the world. The store was well stocked and I was
able to buy all of the items that I required and at a considerably
cheaper price than in the hotel. No wonder the girl on Reception
wanted me to shop at the hotel, she was probably on commission!
Next
to the general store was a fruit shop which was positively bursting
with fresh fruit and vegetables, so I wandered in for a look around.
There were a lot of items on show that I had never seen before but,
although tempted, I decided to stick to fruit that I knew and bought
a fresh Kenyan-grown pineapple and some bananas. While I was paying I
noticed it was starting to get dark outside. By the time I had paid
and got out of the shop it was completely dark. I quickly got into
the car and started my drive back to the hotel, now in total
darkness. I found it hard to believe that this was the road I had
travelled down a few minutes earlier. It seemed like a completely
different place, and in the pitch black night everywhere had a
different look and feel about it. The quaint little wooden huts at
the side of the road, which had been empty when I had passed them in
daylight, had now turned into restaurants with open fires or
makeshift barbecues. There was no electricity in these huts and they
were lit by paraffin lamps or candles, a health and safety nightmare!
The light emitted by these lamps lit up the customers’ faces
strangely, rather like having a torch under your chin so that the
light shines up over your face giving it a distorted appearance. What
was more frightening was that for some reason all of these distorted
faces were looking at me.
The roadside was now awash with people,
presumably walking home from work. In some places people were walking
four abreast and some were even in the middle of the road. There were
no street lights and I had to drive with great caution at a snail’s
pace to avoid running someone over. I must admit, I felt very out of
place and conspicuously white. Fortunately, once I reached the main
road there were street lights and not so many people walking on the
road, so I was able to get back to the hotel without further delay. I
was very relieved to be back in the security of the hotel grounds
after my first short experience of being on my own in Africa at
night.