Puerperal visit

Good Friday is an official holiday in Kenya, so we were blessed with a long Easter weekend. A perfect opportunity to admire the snow. Snow in Africa? It might sound strange, but the most famous (and highest) mountain in Africa, the Kilimanjaro, is known for its peak covered in permanent snow. Though that peak is often sheathed in mist.
The mountain itself is Tanzanian territory, but the best view on the Kili is found in Amboseli. Amboseli is one of the famous national parks of Kenya, the stage for a classical African safari. Bush camp, camp fire, game driving – all this comes with a view on the peak of Africa. But only if you are lucky. Where elsewhere ‘on safari’ guides and visitors inform each other about the wildlife not to be missed, in Amboseli the view on the Kili is the topic of every conversation. As soon as the clouds dissolve, the excitement rises among the safari-guests.


The way out there already looked very promising. We were late, resulting in an arrival in the dark. Pitching the tent relying mainly on your feeling is not quite something to look forward to. But the spectacular sunset, while still on the road, more than made up for this. Followed by a breathtaking light show given by Mother Nature: full moon, flashes of lightning illuminating the cloud formations everywhere on the horizon, culminating in the snow on the Kili reflecting in the moon light. And what is a better start of the day than leaving the tent at sunrise, only to be facing that famous peak?


Amboseli already had experienced its fair share of the rains – March usually marks the start of the ‘long rains’ in Kenya, the most important rainy season. The park proved to be lushly green and swampy, but, above all, one big maternity ward. Like elsewhere, the Amboseli baby boom is closely related to the ample availability of food. And it is very adorable and touching to see all those newborns discover the world. Our classical safari turned out to be a puerperal visit – all the more enjoyable!

The big move

A new start in a completely different country is not complete without shipping some goods. Not all the stuff I wanted to bring could or would be taken as my personal luggage on my flight, so I decided to send it ahead by air cargo. A simple procedure: take the excess luggage to the cargo centre of Amsterdam Airport, complete several forms, pay the shipping costs plus a 35 euro handling fee. All in all this took me 15 minutes only, including receiving the confirmation that my cargo would be transported virtually simultaneously to Nairobi: me flying Swiss Air, the cargo flying KLM.
The morning after my arrival in Kenya, I was kindly informed that my cargo had arrived as well, with the request to pick it up at the airport. So far so good.

Jomo Kenyatta Airport, Nairobi Cargo Centre. Sounds cosmopolite. But it turns out to be an opaque labyrinth of obscure offices, corridors, stairways and halls, which need to be visited in an inexplicable order. Fortunately help is widely available, fixers identifiable by their official airport ID’s are attracted like magnets to the mzungu (white lady). And all the time I cannot help but feel that this is a typical example of typecasting: in their eyes, mzungu mainly means cash! And I am not helping their impression by arriving in the company of two locals, one the driver, the other my love. Two fixers decide to join the entourage and help to get the cargo released.

My escorts are issued with visitor’s passes, after handing in their ID’s. Strangely enough I do not have to follow this procedure, as my passport is needed for the official entry of my goods. We all get a body search, the first of many to follow. And then it all starts, the incomprehensible round to innumerable counters and offices. The fixers do a good job, as the official papers are dug up in no time. Within the hour, it seems we have made considerable progress. So far so smooth.

The boxes containing my goods are waiting in the cargo arrivals hall. A customs officer visits the venue to personally inspect the cargo. Box after box is opened. I try to close my eyes for the rudeness of the inspection, all that digging in my stuff feels like invading my personal territory. In any case, it looks to be a speedy routine. Nothing will prevent a fast release of the cargo.

What follows is a day filled with African waiting, and much African debate. How the fixers are operating is incomprehensible in itself, what they exactly want from me is even more inexplicable. Literally, because despite many questions they seem unable to justify the amount they are asking for. Their request comes down to 12,000 shilling, roughly 120 euro. Only 1750 shilling can really be explained, as that amount covers the handling and administration fees.

And that is exactly the amount I am paying. We end up in a game of chess, negotiating, attracting and rejecting, resulting in a stalemate. They claim to save me huge import taxes and want to split the difference. Then adding some more indefinable expenditure.
I know for sure that I do not have to pay import taxes anyway, as all my stuff is personal effects: clothes, books, camping gear, all of it used. Nothing of real value, no fancy electronics, nothing interesting to trade.
Of course I want to reward the fixers for their help, but giving them more than 10,000 shilling (approximately 100 euro) seems to be exorbitant for half a day’s work. When I tell them why I am moving to Kenya and that they are requesting half of my monthly allowance (and here I am exaggerating a bit), they are completely perplex. A mzungu without a well-stuffed wallet, that is a new concept to them.

In the end all cargo is released, after a lengthy lunch break, followed by another hour of endless stamping. The fixers do protest about the reward I am giving them, but not with me. Very subtly they turn to my love, suddenly talking in Swahili. Subsequently followed by requesting a lift back to Nairobi. Apparently they did earn sufficiently this day.

African doll house

Jamhuri 2. As from now on, this is my home. Located somewhere in the Southwest of Nairobi, glued to the slums of Kibera, situated approximately halfway the well-known Ngong Road, which roughly runs from downtown Nairobi to the white enclave Karen (the territory of the KC’s, or Kenyan Cowboys as the white Kenyans are nicknamed) and further on to Ngong Hills.

Jamhuri 2 is a middle class area, populated by mixed tribes. Most houses are owned by their inhabitants and are self-made, which results in a mishmash of styles – as far as this can be perceived behind the omnipresent walls and thick steel gates. As elsewhere, every palace has been turned into a barely conquerable fortress, the daily reality of living in Nairobbery.


Middle class area does not mean that the streets are asphalted. The intersection of Ngong Road (important mark when I take the matatu: on the corner of Ngong Posta, the former post office, which was among the first victims of the January riots, leaving it completely burnt) still has tarmac, but as soon as the turn into the neighbourhood itself is taken (mark: turn off at the Coca Cola kiosk, after three speed bumps) all that is left is a real Kenyan dirt road filled with potholes and bumps. Two more turns at a Coca Cola kiosk (omnipresent as ever) and there it is: I have arrived at my African dollhouse.

Like almost everywhere in Kenya, the streets in Jamhuri 2 do not have names and the houses are not numbered. Most likely that is the reason why I had to draw a map with the location of my ‘domicile’ (as phrased by the embassy), when I registered myself at the Dutch embassy as an inhabitant of Kenya.


Before I can really start enjoying my dollhouse, there are two more hurdles to be taken. One: the enormous steel gate, closed with a large padlock, which key I still do not own. Two: my ‘own’ front door, also securely locked with a giant padlock, which key is my sole possession. To conquer the first hurdle successfully, I got the phone number of askari Julius, the watchman, a Masai from Tanzania who does not speak a single word of English. A constant stream of Swahili is launched at me, which I barely understand. Especially talking over the phone proves to be extremely funny. I simply introduce myself as the mzungu neighbour (the white neighbour), to which he responds with a “Sawa” (OK!). And each time he manages to appear from the strangest corners, holding the key. Often he asks me where my rafiki (friend) is. Or something along that line.


In addition to Julius, a second askari is guarding the house, but this one is situated behind the gate, on the compound itself. The dog listens to the straightforward name Doggy and looks a bit shattered, with intensely sad eyes. Fortunately, after only two days the animal starts wagging its tail hesitantly, instead of aggressively barking at me. And at least I have managed to teach Doggy a few Dutch words, as he now fully understands “Goed volk!” (literal translation: Good people - an expression indicating visitors mean no harm). Even my rafiki is now greeted with a careful wag of the tail.


Once on the compound I follow a small alley next to the house of Martin the landlord. On a tiny lawn decorated with clotheslines there it finally is: a little guest house, also known as my African dollhouse. Not that spacious, but according to Kenyan practise crammed with large and sturdy furniture. The teeny-weeny kitchen forces the fridge to be fitted in the sitting area. The bedroom is too small to successfully take a decent picture of it. The bed on the other hand is large enough for me to lie sideways or diagonally.


A fridge, a gas stove containing two burners, electricity and cold water - those are the facilities. In the bathroom (though ‘closet’ might be a better description) the toilet is located to the left and the shower to the right. The shower I have immediately transformed into an African shower. Like most Kenyans I know, I am now using a water basin to wash myself.
One of my most important investments here was an electric water kettle. My first action after waking up is to boil water and pour it in a large basin. Mixed with cold water this results in a delightful bath. Using a small jar I pour the water over my body, lather and rinse. Equally clean and fresh, but in any case much more comfortable than a cold shower!


The gas stove is not working yet, hence preparing dinner (or better: organising dinner) requires lots of improvisation and creativity. The bulb in the bathroom is broken down, in the sitting area and the bedroom the lights are an intense 100 Watt. The curtains have been measured, but still need to be arranged. A sheet is provisionally hanging in front of the bedroom window, with the help of a clothesline and numerous clothespins. In the sitting room the fierce light and the lacking curtains create the sensation of sitting in a display window.


Seriously! I now know exactly which kiosk I have to visit to get my vegetables, fruit, air time, or other necessities. All kids in the street wave at me or approach me to shake hands. Neighbours greet me with a cheerful “Habari!” or “Hello, how are you!” All my stuff is somehow fitted in the rooms and now neatly arranged. According to Western standards, it might look like a small place without much luxury, but it nevertheless feels like home to me. My African dollhouse!

Karibu Kenya!

In an almost empty plane I am flying from Zurich to Nairobi. I feel estranged, and the tears of saying goodbye are not yet totally swallowed. Completely blank I stare out of the window, for hours in a row. Underneath me the landscape is gradually changing. The Egyptian – Sudanese border marks the East African time zone. The Nile is meandering like a fertile ribbon in the arid landscape.

Dusk has just turned into dark when the plane starts descending and proceeds with the landing. Finally I am setting foot on Kenyan soil again! My first priority is acquiring airtime. And then passport control is waiting for me. I already received my entry form for Kenya in the plane. It proved quite challenging to complete. What to fill in when asked for my country of residence? I have just left the Netherlands, planning to stay away for at least two years. And what to answer when asked about how long I am planning to stay in Kenya? Fortunately, my plans are not questioned. I am welcomed to Kenya, for a period of three months to start with. “Karibu Kenya!”

A small gathering of people is waiting near the luggage belt. No tourists this time, with their anxious expectations of their upcoming safari. This time it is only Kenyans on their way home and a few people with a mission – be it business, religious or non-governmental.
Usually I am the Queen of Travelling Light, bringing only one small backpack. This time it is four fully stuffed suitcases and bags I am picking from the belt. And of course customs decides to select me for a small inquiry. Fortunately, I know a little already about the African art of making conversation. A question-and-answer game, exchanging many pleasantries before coming down to the sole purpose of the talk. Playing it by the rules, we talk about the situation in Kenya and the fact that I was supposed to arrive in January already. The customs officer points at the little elephant that is part of my necklace with lucky charms. The elephant bringing luck, I admit that I am purposely wearing this necklace today, especially since the elephant is the ultimate symbol of Kenya in my view. He claims he really likes that. By the way, do I have anything to declare? No? Welcome to Kenya then!

The arrivals hall is remarkably quiet. Not the usual pushing and shouting – there is no point in trying to seduce tourists at this moment, as there are none coming. Which makes it an atypical arrival in Africa – for me personally this is quite comfortable, but it is quite painfull if you think of the many Kenyans that are anxiously awaiting the travellers to return, as they need the income generated by tourism.

In the car on the way to the hotel, I am catching flashes of the radio news. There is an item about “Prime Minister Raila Odinga” and this sounds so natural, that it almost seems unimaginable that this prime minister’s post was created only very recently. Listening to the news, I would almost forget that the post-electoral agreement is still very young.

The hotel serves as my temporary home. Here I can acclimatise for a couple of days, before I move into my apartment. A real home needs music, so I put out my iPod and speakers and press shuffle. Each new song that starts playing, is reminding me of Wham!’s Club Tropicana. Until it hits me that the intro is coming from outside – the crickets are playing live tonight. The sounds of the African night, how could I forget! These sounds unmistakably include the endless barking, shouting and crying of the dogs. Although I am not realising this until I notice the dogs’ noises – not missing them, until I am hearing them. Only then do I realise: yes, I am really in Nairobi now. Satisfied I fall asleep.

A sort of homecoming?

“I know exactly what you mean, how Africa catches you. In some Asian countries, buddhist Thailand / Laos / Cambodia, I have experienced how the beauty and the warmth of the locals can touch me. But never have I been touched so deep inside like in Africa, that place just feels like the perfect fit, only there have I experienced this profound click with people. Is that a sort of homecoming? Or are these strong emotions solely possible because of the reassuring existence of a real home elsewhere? In other words: is this overwhelming feeling of wanting to stay provoked by the knowledge that we are nothing more than simple passers-by?”
(e-mail to a friend dated 13 April 2006)

A transition from passer-by to resident.
Africa, Kenya, Nairobi is to become my new home.
On Wednesday 12 March I will (finally!) be crossing the Alps, the Mediterranean and then the Nile, following it all the way down south. But does ‘flying southward’ equal ‘flying homeward’? Will I really feel at home there, now that I have committed myself to stay for a while? Do I belong to Africa, and does Kenya belong to me?

A rollercoaster of emotions is causing the sensation of thousands of butterflies flying around in my stomach. Waiting for my departure lasted long enough. But still, saying goodbye, leaving everything in the Netherlands behind, this time for real, makes me feel excited and (to be honest) quite emotional. What really helps, is knowing that a warm welcome is waiting for me in Kenya – by Skillshare, by COPA, and, above all, by my love.