I had just nodded off to sleep after seeing the latest Denzel Washington movie ("Unstoppable'. Is that the latest? Or six months old?), when I was awakened to the sound of a man shouting, 'Fire, fire!' Luckily, I was sleeping in my hoody with my wallet zipped into the pocket for safekeeping, so I quickly grabbed my cosmetic bag (only because my contact lenses were in there and I needed to see) and hightailed it outside to the main road, where I could see the huge lick of flames biting the skyline (very reminiscent of Namibia, except that this was night.) I was imagining my passport and credit cards going up in flames in the safe when the other girls from my dorm trickled towards the road coughing in the acrid smoke, commenting on how fast I had left the dorm and how I was the first one out. I had to laugh because they had all their luggage with them! (to the chagrin of a 'tsk'ing security guard). I was wondering where the Fire Department was, especially since the security guards were yelling, "Everybody! Please come and assist!" but I did not leave the main road. It's one thing in Namibia where there's no fire department, but quite another in the big city; I leave that to the pros. Eventually, with the aid of the 'First Response Team', and Security Guards, and eight massive fire extinguishers, they were able to put out the fire. I was told the fire engine had been caught in traffic (believeable, since there was a huge holdup on O'Campo the other day and it took people four hours to drive in from the airport, as opposed to thirty minutes) but when I chatted up the security guard, he told me: "No we do not call the fire department. Because we are men. We fight by ourselves."
I said, "But, what if you can't put it out by yourselves?"
"Then we call the fire department."
"But why wouldn't you call the fire department first? Just in case? Because by the time you realize you can't put it out, it's too late."
Shaking my arm, "Ah, this is Africa, you have to be strong!"
Following this infallible logic was the manager, ushering everyone back inside (also there was a madman gesticulating wildly out in the street and shouting, so we were now inside the gates). "Come back in. The fire is out. These are mistakes caused by man, and they must be solved by man. Go back to your rooms and relax!" Hah! Not to mention the fact that I found out that the fire was caused by a live wire meeting a petrol leak in the already-closed kitchen.
I went reluctantly back to my room, where the other girls and I dubiously inspected the fire escape (a long metal ladder made of cylindrical iron bars that cut into sock feet...I can barely manage the ladder to my top bunk!) I tried to reach my cab driver (loud party music) and my previous hotel (no answer) so reluctantly took out my contacts and climbed back into bed. No sooner was I drifting off when all the power suddenly cut. I rocketed out of bed again, popped in my contacts and went to investigate. Well, wouldn't you know it, things were sparking up again, so they had to cut the power. Yet another reason to call in the experts. This time, I packed up all my stuff and headed straight to the Kivi to see if there was room at the Inn.
The next morning, I decided to head for town in one of the matatus. Now, the matatus are not the recommended form of transport for Nairobi. They're crowded, loud, jostly, and play loud Jesus music at top volume. Which is why I wanted to travel in one. Since I'd travelled in what are basically matatus all over South Africa, I didn't really see it being a problem. I had my small changepurse with small bills and change for the matatu and my day pack. I popped my memory card out of my camera for safekeeping, and tucked my memory card, my wallet and my phone into my zippered pocket, thinking it would be safer there. I thought if anything, they would go for my bag. Fuelled by my memories of hotels-on-fire and armed-robberies-at-camp, and knowing I would need to get a ticket to Mombasa that day I had more on me that usual. I took a Visa and a Mastercard because sometimes one works and the other doesn't, and kept some stuff locked up in the hotel, thinking it would be safer on me, because I wasn't about to let myself get pickpocketed...Ha! Ten minutes later...
So I get in the matatu, and the only seat is in the back, I have to cram through loads of people, but it's cool. The music is jamming, there's lots of people-watching to be had. I'm sitting next to a clean-cut, well-groomed professional guy, immaculate crisp white shirt, pressed and collared, vested, carrying a large manila portfolio. (My immediate thought was, this guy's a professional, no way he could keep a shirt that white otherwise. I know, because I've tried. All my white clothes are grey despite numerous washings. Of course, as my taxi driver, Francis, comments, "Ai, but muzungu, the money he took from you buys his next white shirt!) In hindsight, he was moving in a weird way, but I thought that was because he was trying not to get his portfolio crushed by the throngs of people, as I imagined him on his way to an important presentation.
Then, the mkanga (conductor dude) was telling me to get off, I was arguing, because we were in the middle of traffic, he was talking to the guy next to me in his language, people were getting off, I was crushed anew, the mkanga was getting aggressive with me... so more concerned with my own personal safety and the confluence of traffic, trying not to get killed, I missed that Mr. Clean-Cut swiped my pocket. The second I was on the sidewalk it kicked in, but by then the matatu was gone, along with everything in my pocket. Hence the term pickpocket.
As Shiundu later told me, "You wanted your local experience? You got it." Whenever I tell people I was robbed in a matatu, they all say, "Guy in a suit with a newspaper, right?" Close enough. But it does seem that everyone, locals included has been robbed in a matatu at least once. The good thing is I had all my photos backed up, extra cards at the hotel, and not much cash. And no passport. But the hassle.
I grabbed the first nice person I saw, this unassuming college lecturer, as I later found out, to ask where the nearest police station was. Thinking about it now, I think I must have overwhelmed the poor guy because he's very unassuming and politic and I was swearing a blue streak, like a beached sailor, not watching my language at all, I was so mad. Though, I guess I had it coming. I know better than to carry stuff, but then sometimes after travelling for so long, you get exhausted from being so safe all the time. I carry the Mastercard, I only find machines that take Visa. I take the Visa card, I only find machines that take Mastercard. You leave the memory card in the camera, they take it. You take it out, they take it. You leave everything at the hotel, you miss the perfect shot. You know that runners are the best, but sometimes you just want to wear a skirt and flipflops. Then that's the day you need to run. So, anyway, I should've travelled lighter but didn't and you have to give the guy credit: He identified a market niche, got his target audience, applied a strategy, went in and got his revenue. Merry Christmas.
Steven was awesome, though. I really just wanted to know where the police station was, but he took me there himself, lent me his phone, went with me to the Embassy and waited while I used their phonelines and internet to cancel my cards and get emergency ones shipped, and accompanied me back to my hotel. The hotel staff were amazing too because they pulled strings so I could stay there until my departure (I'd been planning to go to Mombasa and the hotel was fully booked) and seriously discounted my nightly rate. Shiundu was awesome too as he lent me emergency cash and took me to buy a new phone for 20 bucks, which probably would not have been the price if I had gone alone, but which is probably the price Guy-Fry got for my phone on the street.
The police were substantially less helpful. It would seem that Muzungu robberies are their source of entertainment and the guy who wrote my report just chortled away as he wrote. Granted, looking back, some of my suggestions were preposterous, like should I check the garbage cans along Kenyatta and Uhuru for my stuff. Shiundu called my phone to tell them to just dump the cards somewhere, but of course they could care less. Anyway, that's why they call the city 'Nairobbery' and I am now a patchwork piece in that quilt.
I've placed myself under house arrest at the Kivi (never warmed to the idea of being a prisoner of Paradise, but sometimes Destiny leads you in strange directions.) Of course, it's that time of year when up go the fairy lights. They are strung all over the bushes here. I just shake my head. Let me tell you, I did a recon. of the entire hotel and now have mapped the position of every fire extinguisher and fire exit and know exactly how to operate all fire-propellent devices. I've got a 'snatch bag' beside my bed with all important items tucked inside, and tie the sleeves of my jerseys together just in case I need to go over the balcony (which I try to make sure is on the first or second floor, and over the pool.)
I have to say that being under house arrest for a couple of days gave me an interesting insight into some Kenyan TV programs. Do you know there's a program called "Fun and Fortune" which consists entirely of a woman making people guess a word hidden in an envelope and call their answer in for cash? The other day, the topic was "Countries in Africa". The entire show was a monologue of: "A country in Africa...but which country is it? Which country is written on this piece of paper? 53 countries in Africa. Find an open line and call it in...Zambia? No, it's not Zambia, but you still win 5000 shillings just for calling in...what about you? South Africa...not it's not South Africa, but you still win 5000 shillings. Who will win the grand prize of 100, 000 shillings!" And this went on for an hour! An hour! Still, I couldn't shut it off. I was so convinced it was Senegal. The first clue went up: S. Second clue: E. (It was Seychelles). At least I didn't waste my airtime calling though.
One good thing about being robbed though was that I met some great and sympathetic people. Steven was my guardian angel, and guardian, showing me the sights and scnes of Nairobi that I wouldn't have otherwise seen. We grooved to some local tunes and he was my bodyguard through the crazy streets where traffic is a constant on-flow regardless of the colour of the robot. I also met a businessman lunching at my hotel one day, Simon, who took me around Nairobi and introduced me to the Westlands club scene. A couple of days after meeting Stephen, he invited me to accompany him out to the countryside to visit his mom in Kitua. Being a little gun-shy still from the matatu incident, I was debating the wisdom of doing a road trip with some guy I'd only known a couple of days. Of course, later I find out that his gram (who he also went to visit) is 125 years old! And Steven brings this up in casual conversation as though it's no big deal. "Yes, she is aged," he says. At first I thought that must be an estimation or a San Bushman'esque situation where the person is unsure of their age...but the math adds up and it seems she might actually be that old. Steven told me she's wrinkly and stooped and wants a dress for Christmas and a long bar of Sunlight detergent soap that she can cut off in sections like Christmas bark for the neighbors who do her wash. Four years ago, she was walking along the road and encountered a cow, tied to the post by the road. The tether was long and granny was close. Cow headbutted gran and then proceeded to stamp her, but one of her grandsons rescued her and brought her to hospital, bruised but not broken. And I could have met her! I HATE playing it safe!
Anyway, Kenya concludes my final chapter in Africa and I am now off to the Middle East...Jordan!!
Jenn
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