A Different Kind of Christmas

Diani Beach, Kenya, December 25, 2012. This is the first time in many years that we are not spending Christmas in Washington, DC, with a routine of Christmas Eve service, followed by late dinner, and sleep-in to Christmas morning, followed by presents and late lunch with a jolly assembly of friends and family.

Even when we lived in Peru, we made the trip back to the US annually. We would regroup our scattered nuclear and extended family to see familiar faces, experience cold weather, and smell the scent of Christmas trees.

But this year is different. We’ve got just one of our two sons with us, and no added family or friends. We’re celebrating in the southern hemisphere, where the rains are finally letting up and hot season is starting to set in. Instead of wishing for snow, we’re experiencing the white sand beaches and clear blue water of the southern Kenya coast. There are palm trees, exotic flowers, and monkeys in the gardens. We have sunburns from snorkeling and drink Tusker beer lazily.  We work out at the gym, and enjoy the luxuries of spa massages and private yoga classes. We are in a resort hotel, where the guests are from all over the world, and many don’t celebrate Christmas. 

We drove from Nairobi, and rather than going through Mombasa, which is bound to be blocked with traffic jams this time of year, we took some back roads. We spent two nights in the Taita Hills and Tsavo National Park, encountering numerous packs of elephants, antelope of many kinds, and exotic birds. We saw hippos munching on grass and encountered the elusive Tsavo lions – famous for being mane-less, man-eaters, and larger than the ones you see elsewhere.

We are lucky to live in an amazing country – known by some as the cradle of mankind and certainly punctuated with beautiful landscapes.

Merry Christmas from Kenya!

Pole pole

Sign cautioning drivers to go slowly

Though many things may look and seem familiar, when you are a stranger in a strange land, there are often subtle differences in the way things work or happen. And you quickly find out that even if the local way of doing things seems inefficient or strange, that’s just the way it’s going to be. Generally speaking, you’re not going to change it. Instead, it’s you who will have to change. You’ll have to adjust your expectations, shift your attitude, and learn to be flexible.

You will also learn to be patient. Patient with the unexpected, patient with jams and hurdles, patient with a slower pace, and patient with yourself.

In these moments, I fall back on one of the few Swahili expressions I know, “pole pole.” Pronounced poe-lay poe-lay, it means slowly, slowly. Just saying it can have a soothing effect and give you the momentary pause needed to take a breath and take stock of the need to be flexible and go with the flow.

Pole pole is actually part of a longer saying that goes like this: “Pole pole ndio mwendo, haraka, haraka haina Baraka.” It means, “slowly, slowly indeed we go, hurry, hurry has no blessings.”

This is not to say there aren’t times when faster, faster would be better. Here in Nairobi, you can literally sit for hours in stuck traffic or wait endlessly for service. Standing in line can feel like a national pastime, and even things that are designed to be automated can backfire and require multiple approvals, phone calls, or visits to customer service.

But to me, pole pole is more about frame of mind.

As a working mother with young children, I spent years saying, “hurry, hurry – c’mon, c’mon.” And I remember the day it came to a peak when I nearly collided with another working mom.  We were both dashing up the elementary school steps from opposite directions to pick up our children in their afterschool program. Reaching the top, we looked at each other, stopped for an instant, and laughed. I said, “don’t you feel like you are always running”? And she answered, “yes, and that no matter what you do, you are always running late!”

In those days, my annual New Year’s resolution was always the same: not to drive through yellow traffic lights. We lived in Washington, DC, where the common practice was to charge on through them. So, I was at risk of being rear-ended for stopping when the light was yellow. But it wasn’t really about traffic rules, or being a good doobie. It was about reminding myself to slow down, in a life and a city where everything was, “hurry, hurry.”

Now in Nairobi, we live a life of many privileges, but also one that requires patience and cool heels. Getting things done is a multi-step process Power outages are frequent, and Wi-Fi connection is sporadic. The roof leaks. We’ve had rats in the attic, bats in the stairs, and monkey pee on our living room floor. And we encounter frequent communication barriers that come from speaking the same language (English) different ways.

But little by little we learn. Pole pole we make our way, and are far better for having taken the time to do so.

Driving on the Left

One of the tricks when you first get used to driving on the left is to follow another car, and also remember that the center line should be on the same side as the driver.

In Kenya, cars drive on the left hand side of the road. It’s a legacy of the British colonial rule. Some people will (half) jokingly tell you that cars drive all over the road here. It’s partly true. It’s not that unusual to encounter a car heading straight at you in your lane, coming from the other direction. There is a tendency to pass on blind curves and hills, especially on the part of matatu drivers, who have a well-deserved reputation for terrible driving. And there’s the occasional, confused expat.

I was pretty nervous about driving on the left, initially, even though other newcomers had told me it wasn’t very hard. It does help a lot to drive a car designed for left-side driving. We once drove a French rental car in England, and that was truly terrifying. There are several helpful tricks, too, which had been shared with us. One is to remember that the center line should always be on your right, or on the driver’s side. Of course, this presumes that the road has a center line, which is not always the case. Another is to follow other cars, which is easier when there’s plenty of traffic. But, what we found best for us was simply to keep saying to ourselves, “I’m driving on the left, I’m driving on the LEFT.” I know it sounds goofy, but it’s surprisingly effective.  It’s particularly helpful when you are coming out of a parking spot, and need to make sure you get launched in the right direction.

In the end, we both picked up left-side driving pretty quickly – in a matter of days. However, other associated habits have been harder to change. Looking over your left shoulder when you back up is really counter intuitive. And it's hard to remember which way to look when you are crossing the street as a pedestrian. Shifting gears with the left hand takes getting used to. Remembering to enter the car on the front right side as a driver (or on the left as a passenger) really takes time to master. We still mix that one up. But the craziest is keeping straight which side of the steering wheel has the turn signal or the windshield wiper command. There’s less consistency here. Cars from Japan have the turn signal on the right and wipers on the left, whereas those from Britain have it reversed. We have one of each, so often wipe the windshield to signal a turn.

As we master life on the left, there’s also a whole new vocabulary to learn. Again, this is associated with the British influence in Eastern Africa. Much of the car-connected terminology is British English. So, you fill the car with petrol rather than gas, store things in the boot rather than trunk, and clear off the windscreen instead of a windshield. 

As for converting the price of petrol from shillings to dollars, or liters to gallons, don't bother trying. Fuel here is expensive and the gas stations often run out. That's all you really need to know. 

Ah, but to wander aimlessly

Lane by our house where even a wandering muzungu is welcome to walk

One of my favorite ways to discover and enjoy a city is on foot. I love to walk. And it’s nice to mingle with the crowds and city activity at a strolling pace.

Unfortunately, as a white person in Nairobi, walking about is pretty much out of the question. It is considered far too unsafe.  To walk about as a white person is seen to be setting yourself up as a target for theft or further troubles.

This is in spite of the fact that you see Kenyans walking everywhere. Cars are prohibitively expensive for the vast majority. There’s no public transportation. There are small private buses, called matatus, which many people use to get around. They are generally very crowded and infamous for their dangerous driving habits. This is not unlike many other parts of the world – certainly it was our experience with “combi” drivers in Peru. But even the matatus are too pricey for lots of people.

So they walk.

Some walk hours each day to get to work and back. Even small children walk long distances to go to school. They walk rain or shine – both of which are highly common here. They put up with the dust and mud and passing vehicles that rarely cede the right of way.

Other than in the downtown area, known as the central business district (or CBD), there aren’t many sidewalks. So, people walk along the side of the roads. The paths are uneven, and frequently treacherous – with holes in unexpected places, various obstacles, and sometimes very little space separating the pedestrians from the passing traffic.

In our part of the city, the roads are windy and narrow. They make their way through lovely hills and valleys, across a surprising patchwork of residential constructions and urban agriculture. The median strips, the edges of roads, and the creek valleys are lined with small patches of corn, potato, beans, and cabbage. Garden plants are displayed for sale, and people will tell you that the area used to be covered with coffee plantations.

It’s very pretty and lush. But unless I am driving, it is considered out of bounds, because I am a mzungu. Mzungu is the term used here for white people. It is said to be derived from the Swahili word “zungu” meaning to wander aimlessly – or confusedly, according to some definitions.

So, you’ll note the ironic discrepancy between being named for being an aimless wanderer yet  prohibited from wandering aimlessly because of being a mzungu.

I talked about this with our housekeeper and day guard the other afternoon. I was sharing with them the fact that I regret not being able to walk places. They both looked at me incredulously. One of them voiced what they were both thinking: “Why would you want to walk when you can go anywhere you want with your car?” 

That was sobering.

It’s hard to justify to someone who cannot even dream of every having a car, why as a car owner there are times when you’d really rather walk. 

I didn’t try.  It seemed that any explanation I might offer could come out as trite, disrespectful, or just utterly naïve.

Have I completely given up on my penchant for aimless wandering? Not quite.  I’ve folded to local ways, finding and using the spots that are considered okay for walking: our immediate neighborhood, the well-patrolled Karura Forest, and places outside of town, where hiking is allowed and the threat of robbers, brigands, or large carnivores is minimal.

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow

All along the lanes by our house grows a lovely, large shrub covered with fragrant flowers.  Brunfelsia bonodora is its botanical name, but it is more commonly known as yesterday, today, and tomorrow. The plant gets its everyday name from the fact that its flowers last only three days, and during that time change color from a deep purple to light lavender and finally white.

The flowers last only three days, going from purple to lavender, then white

I had never seen this charming plant before, even though it has its origins in tropical South America. You’d think I would have encountered it in my 3 ½ years in Peru. And evidently it grows well in the southern US, among other places.

Doing a little research on brunfelsia bonodora I discovered that though I wasn’t familiar with this particular variety, I was indeed quite well versed in its larger family – the Solanaceae, which includes among other things, the potato.

As many of you know, I recently left my position as head of communications at the International Potato Center in Lima, Peru to move to Nairobi. The job and the center are based in Peru, because it is the home of origin of the potato. Not surprisingly, the Andean-Amazonian region of South America is also center of origin of the more than 3,000 species of Solanaceae, which includes not only potato but also tomato, eggplant, peppers, ornamental plants like petunias, and medicinal ones like Capsicum.

I knew nothing about Solanaceae before working at the potato center, but quickly became a great enthusiast. Just ask some of our friends, who thought I was a bit kooky, until finding themselves hooked by the amazing colors, shape, and variety of the humble tuber that is a key source of nutrition and sustenance among rich and poor all over the world.

So, it’s funny that I’ve become captivated by another Solanaceae family member. There are more exotic and spectacular plants around, including in our own garden. I think what compels me about this plant is its wonderful fragrance and the ephemeral nature of its delicate flowers. They are pretty but fleeting. So each day the bush looks different.

And as its name suggests, yesterday, today, and tomorrow reminds us of the transience of time, as noted by this quote (often sited, but of unclear origins):  

"The clock is running. Make the most of today. Time waits for no man. Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why it is called the present."

Grappling in the Dark

Nairobi is located just south of the equator. This means the days are pretty much 12 hours long, year round.

When the sun does go down around 6 pm, it gets very dark, very quickly.  There’s not much ambient city light. Most streets outside of the central business district or major arteries are unlit. In our neighborhood, streetlights are few and far between, and often not working. It’s a lot like living in the country.

Power outages are relatively frequent, especially during the rainy seasons, which occur twice a year. When they do come, the rains can be torrential, and this seems to quickly overwhelm the city power system.

We have a generator for such occasions. We didn’t choose it, it was generously provided by Britt’s employers. It is diesel powered and blue and sits squarely behind our house. It’s also far more powerful and expensive than we need, but we’re told not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The generator is set up to go on automatically when the city power goes out. But during a recent extended period without power (coinciding as it happened with the post-Sandy outages experienced by our friends and family along the US Eastern seaboard) I had it set to manual instead. So one night when the power went out, I fumbled my way through the dark and behind the house to turn the thing on.  

I was only a step away from the generator’s on-off switch when, suddenly, instead of moving forward, I found myself going downward. Actually, for the briefest of instances, it felt like I was suspended in mid-air – just like those cartoon characters when they run off a cliff and freeze before going straight down like a rock. It was an impression that must have come as part of the sheer surprise of finding a hole where the path should have been.

The hole was not very deep. It wasn’t an Alice-in-Wonderland sort of set up. But it was sort of deep, probably 16 inches or so. And it was just my size, in other words big enough so that I fit squarely into it. Had it been deeper, it could have swallowed me whole.

Luckily, I wasn’t hurt, only flustered. Who would put a hole in the middle of the path to the generator? The answer is: the technicians who’d installed the thing. In fact, mine was just one of four holes they’d dug with the intention of using them to anchor a sort of shed-like structure to protect the generator from the elements.

Pulling myself out, I made my way to the generator power switch and turned the thing on. Avoiding the hole on the way back, I got back into the house via the now lit kitchen. It was only then that I noticed the thick trail of mud I had created. It stretched through the kitchen door to the place where I was standing, and up the lower half of my body.

Once again, I felt like a cartoon character. And I did the only thing I could do in that situation. I laughed.

I laughed because it was the middle of the night and I was covered in mud. I laughed because I’d fallen into a hole that someone had dug and not refilled. I laughed because it seemed such an appropriate metaphor for a newly arrived stranger in a strange land.

Being a fledgling expat in Africa is exciting and rewarding. But it’s also full of surprises. You can’t get too comfortable or think you are in control.  Instead, you have to be flexible. You have to keep exploring and learning. Adapt, adjust, and be grateful for the luxury of running water when you are covered in mud.

Dust

Dust from a passing car turns pedestrians into silhouettes in the lane by our house

 

We live off a dirt road here in Nairobi. It’s part of a small network of dirt lanes that make up our immediate neighborhood. When it rains, they become quite muddy, and the thick, red dirt sticks to our shoes, our car, and our dog.

When it’s dry, it becomes very dusty, particularly if a car drives by. Though the lanes are dotted with speed bumps (there are three schools in our micro-neighborhood), cars still tend to pass more quickly than they should – kicking up quite a bit of dust. It gets everywhere, in your eyes and lungs and teeth. And it sticks to all the surfaces of your skin and clothing.

This got me thinking about dust.

Looking up the definition in the (Webster’s) dictionary, it was interesting to see all the different usages of the word dust. There are the predictable definitions of  “fine, dry particles of matter” or “a cloud of fine, dry particles.” This certainly describes the stuff we see regularly. But looking further there are other definitions, many of them negative: “a debased or despised condition; something of no worth; rubbish; or agitation, as in 'waiting for the dust to settle'."  You can leave someone “in the dust” if you have a competitive streak. And you can say “dust” for “see you later” (not that I ever have, perhaps I’ll give it a try). Dust can be a verb with opposite meanings: to dust as in removing dust with a feather duster, or to dust as in adding a fine layer of sugar or flour to a cake or pan. It can be an adjective, as in a dusting of snow. Or it can be slang for drugs.

As humans, we tend to do what we can to avoid and eliminate the effects of those fine dry particles of matter we call dust. We hate dust as a source of embarrassment, irritation, and electronic malfunction.

But a visit to the David Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage here in Nairobi is a fun reminder that not all animals despise dust as we do. On a dry day, you can see the baby elephants there give themselves dust baths with great gusto and glee. The dust helps ward off insects and keep them cool. It also gives them a reddish-brown color.

Baby elephants giving themselves a dust bath, David Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage, Nairobi

Elephants embrace dust as a good thing. Having those long eyelashes helps.

For us, it not only has negative connotations but also serves as a reminder of the precariousness of life, and how small we are in the bigger scheme of things. Dust to dust, dust in the wind. These are part of our human condition.

Hippo prints in the dust, Lake Naivasha, Kenya

 Dust, by Frank Ocean

who's that talking in the library
who's that talking in my library
is that you
no i won't put you out
cuz what would this place be without my muse
nothing special
every book in here i wrote
some i'm not too proud of
some i wish i could burn
so many pages i wrote
wish i could revise them
but there's no erasing
and the best advice i got
was keep writing
and keep living
and keep loving
(oh lovin lovin lovin)
and when the ink dries
and the pages turn to dust
so will we
turn to dust
so will we
dust dust

Arriving in Africa

We moved to Kenya in September 2012.

It's the beginning of a big new adventure for us.

Britt and I are empty nesters now, having sent our younger son off to university and watched our older one finish his B.A. and start his first post-college job.

Kenya was my idea. When we were still living in Lima, Peru, I had the chance to come to Kenya on several different work-related trips and just loved it.

The colors and landscapes are beautiful. There are exotic animals and spicy smells in the air. There are people of many different tribes and origins. They bustle along the Nairobi streets and shopping areas with their myriad, often brightly colored clothing: saris from India, Masaii bracelets, women in brightly colored headscarves or fully veiled in black with just their eyes showing. There are children in their school uniforms, women balancing heavy loads on their heads, and stick thin men hauling huge loads on bicycles up and down the green hills of Nairobi. The streets are rutted and twisty, and lined with vendors selling hand made furniture, clay pots and plants, or big bunches of bananas. 

The skies are filled with the sounds of hadada ibis and other birds. The marabou storks stalk the median strips of the major avenue that links downtown to the airport, and eventually Mombasa if you keep going. The traffic jams are infamous, frequent, and liable to lead to hours of delays. 

There is dust when it's dry and mud when it's not. But the red earth and green vegetation offer a stark and striking contrast.

Nairobi is dangerous and in some ways difficult. But it is also wonderful, and lively, and welcoming.

So, stay tuned. And we'll tell you more about it.