Humbled

On my first visit to Kenya in September 2007, I planned to visit Kisii for a day or two to meet Vincent, Abigael and, of course, the children at the home.

I drove there with my associate, Muindi, and arrived late on Saturday evening, and after a wash and a meal, we were taken to the annexe to our host's house where five or six orphans were being housed.

When we entered, the room was in darkness. The light was switched on and before me was a bunch of kids sitting around a table, waiting for their supper. The smallest, who I later found out was Josephat, was sitting on a stool in the corner of the room. Upon seeing me, his eyes widened, his jaw dropped ... and he fell off his stool! I have never had that effect on anyone before, but Josephat was only just 4 years old and had never seen a mzungu.

Of course, the other kids laughed at him, but he didn't care. He soon composed himself and with a big smile, planted himself on my lap, where he stayed until I had to leave.

The following day, a Sunday, most of the kids met up at "the plot", all in their Sunday best. I had a bag of small presents donated by the people in my village, toothbrushes and pencils. I felt very awkward, giving out such mean, small presents.

But the kids were delighted. Just imagine giving a UK kid a toothbrush and one pencil as a present.

-oOo-

Jojo was the first to call me Baba Mzungu (Swahili for White Daddy) and before I left Kisii, he made me promise that I would return.

Of course, I did, the following March, and he was my shadow for the 10 days I spent in Kisii.

The only problem is language. Jojo speaks about two words of English and I speak not many more of Swahili. But it doesn't matter, we sort of understand each other.

And, whenever Jojo does try to speak English, he always precedes it with the word "English".

So, he might say, "Bab' Mzungu - English - Josephat good boy."

Chicken for Dinner

During my visit to Kenya in March of this year, I was called back from Coast, where I had been staying with my significant other and children. I had intended spending Easter there, but business called.

So, on the Thursday before Good Friday, I had to visit the offices of a client in Nairobi, after which I had little to do for the next week or so.

As no one in my hosts' household smoked, I took to sitting on their step outside their compound to partake in my filthy habit. This caused a lot of curiosity amongst the estate's children (and quite a few adults) as this neighbourhod is off the beaten track as far as either tourists or white Kenyans are concerned. In fact, for some of the smaller children, I was the first mzungu they had seen close up.

So, there I was, on the step, puffing away and keeping an eye on my hosts' two girls, who are not normally allowed to play outside, but as I was there to keep and eye on them ...

A chicken was foraging along the pavement, then running for her life as the local kids chased it. When the kids got fed up, she would go back to foraging - until she was in front of me. She cocked her head to one side as she regarded me. At this point a little boy decided to throw a stone at her and he was a pretty good shot. The chicken squawked and ran towards me.

To my surprise, she jumped up onto my step and roosted beside me, really pressed up against me like a puppy or kitten might. This amused the children and they all gathered round to see what the strange mzungu - or the chicken - would do.

I didn't know what to do, so I started to stroke her head, then her wings. Now, I don't particularly like birds. It's the feathers, I think. I like to look at them, I am fascinated when the starlings make wonderful patterns in the sky, but I do not like to touch them.

So, there I was, sitting on a step, stroking a chicken! And surrounded by the neighbourhood kids - lots of them, and the chicken was making cooing noises, which I took to be contentment, although she could have been telling the kids that chased her that she had won this particular round. I don't know. I don't speak chicken.

But my strategy worked. A little boy sat the other side of the chicken and started to stroke her gently. Then the other kids joined in, and the chicken seemed to be enjoying this unprecedented, non-violent attention.

That is until the kid from next door came out and said, "That's where you are. Sir, this is our dinner for tonight!"

Happily, the chicken did not speak English. But I bet she was one of the happier chickens to meet her maker.

More tea, sir?

As in Britain, or at least, England, when you make a social visit in Kenya, you will be offered a cup of tea. Now, the Kenyans are justly proud of their tea, most of which is grown in the western highlands around Kericho.

Which begs the question, why, when they can produce such wonderful tea, do they slaughter it in their preparation of it for drinking?

Tea is served from a Thermos, with a lot of milk and sugar already added. Now, I like tea with a dash of milk and a slight sprinkling of sugar, so I find that tea, as served to me in Kenya is a little too sweet and a little too milky.

In a café in Kisii, I ordered coffee while my two companions had tea. I was not surprised to see the waiter approach the table with a Thermos, but I was surprised when my coffee was served. I was given a pot of hot water, a cup and a tin of Nescafe - do it yourself coffee.

Now, this wasn't a greasy Joe café, this was THE place to be in Kisii!

OK, so I traversed the country to a small village on the coast, not far from Malindi, to spend some time with my to-be significant other and the children. As Sig. other was working, it was my job to get the kids ready for school and make sure they had breakfast before they left. This second was a bit of a trial as they were very keen to get to school (Kenyan kids love school - how refreshing!).

Ian (6 years) usually takes tea with his breakfast. Not thinking straight, I made it with a tea bag in the cup with the usual splash of milk.

"What is this? This is not tea!"

I apologised and offered to make him tea à la Kenyan.

No, Baba, I like this, but what is it?"

"It is English tea. Tea, the way we make it in England."

"I like English tea. You take me to England. Now!"

My Sig.Other also liked my version of tea, although I guess that she will have reverted to the Thermos method while I am not there.

I was not so lucky when I got to Nairobi. Since the PEV, my host's house was (over?) full and making special tea for the mzungu was a task too far.

I did, however persuade the little café next to the office to bring me a tea bag, a pot of hot water and a little milk - so refreshing.

Juggling Money

Although I am based for 9 to 10 months of the year in the UK (more's the pity), I still have "living expenses" in Kenya, not least of which is the rent for a little house on the coast, where I stay when in the area, and where my significant other half and her children live.

The rent is not excessive, but it means sending money from the UK to Kenya every month. I have found myself recently watching the UK pound against the Kenyan shilling on a daily basis to get a good rate. When I took on the rent at the beginning of the year, the rate was about 130 bob to the pound. Now I am lucky to get 115. So my rent has gone up £10 a month

It is quite something when the Kenyan economy is doing better than that of the UK!

Two nations separated by a common language ...

No, not the United States and Britain, but, the United States and Kenya.

Whilst Amy (see The colour of my skin, below) was staying in Kisii, she gathered some of our kids together and sang an alphabet song to them. Some of them knew it and joined in.

But when she came to the letter Z, she pronounced it "Zee" whereas the kids pronounced it as "Zed", as in British English. This surprised her and also spoiled the song as she was expecting to have to rhyme with Zee.

She mentioned this in an open letter to us. I didn't have the heart to tell her that Kenyans speak English, not American.

The worth of Stale Bread

Not too far from my house in South Africa, there was a play park with swings, roundabouts, and a stream that ran through it, feeding a duck pond.

I used to take the foster kids there at the weekend to let off steam and during the week, I collected stale bread for the smaller ones to feed the ducks.

So, one Saturday, I trotted down the the park with a 7 year-old. He looked at the ducks and swans with interest. I threw a piece of stale bread amongst them and the little boy laughed like a drain as the birds scrabbled about for it.

"Good," I thought and handed the boy the bag of stale bread.

He promptly sat on the bank and ate it.

The Colour of my Skin

I am white English, hence the name that I was given in Kenya, Baba Mzungu, which is "White Dad" in Swahili.

But when I was in Kenya last March, one little boy tried to change all this.

After his morning wash-down, I applied Vaseline to his skin. It makes him look good, and it keeps his skin from drying out.

After I had finished, he took the Vaseline pot and started to grease my bald pate, stating that he was greasing me to make me the same colour as him!

-oOo-

During the Summer, the home had a visitor from the USA, an American student volunteer called Amy.

Benta, one of our little girls, asked Amy what colour she was, to which Amy replied that she was white.

Benta tutted and shook her head. Later, as the Sunday dinner chicken was being plucked, Benta pointed to the chicken and then to Amy's arm. She was telling Amy that she was not white, but the colour of a plucked chicken!

My cousin ...

Courtesy of The Standard on-line

Fears Unfounded

So, the US has just voted in Barak Obama as their 44th President.

What a country, where the son of a Kenyan goat breeder can become the most powerful man in the world, and for now, it is really the land of opportunity.

And Kenya is rejoicing; Kenya is celebrating. Kenya has declared a public holiday on Thursday!

The thing that strikes me is that Barak won over the black vote. It was not a forgone conclusion. He is not like most black Americans. His ancestry did not come out of slavery. He is a first generation American from Africa. The black voters were wary of him, but he won.

US 08

Kenya is suffering election fever again, especially around Kisumu.

I so hope that Barak Obama wins the election tonight.

I don't think Kenya could stand another spate of post-election violence ...

Leisimane - a bit more is added

Little by little, just for the one or two who are following the story of a 12 year-old Sotho boy, Bafana and his escapades, I have just published a couple more chapters.

The link to the beginning is HERE

Jambo, jambo Bwana ...

Jambo
Jambo, Bwana
Habari gani?
Mzuri sana.

So goes the song you will hear, sung by kids as soon as they see a white skin. The other word all kids will use when seeing a Caucasian is "mzungu" (plural, wazungu), meaning white person. It is not offensive, it is a statement of fact. As a general rule, kids love white people. They can usually get sweets from wazungu. But I digress.

The song in English:

Hello
Hello, Sir
How are things?
Very Fine

Jambo!

It means Hello. Everyone says it, tourists particularly. It is often the only Swahili word they know - it isn't, but they don't know that they know others:

Safari - swahili for journey
Simba (as in the Lion King) means lion
Hakuna matata, (also in the the Lion King) means No problems
Daktari - Doctor (those of you of a certain age will remember a TV series of the same name, with Clarence the cross-eyed lion)

But I digress (again).

To gain a bit of street cred in Kenya, (or Uganda, Tanzania), rather than the usual Jambo, you can try Mambo, to which the usual reply is "Poa" (cool), or "Safi" (clean/fresh)

OK, so 'Mambo' is sheng, street language, slang. So if you want to be a bit more "grown-up", try

Habari? - How are things?
Habari gani? - What's new? How are you doing?

To which you reply Mzuri (sana) - Fine (very fine)

Hujambo - a variant of Jambo, also meaning How are you? Answer: Sijambo - I'm fine

Other useful words are:

Asante - thank you
Karibu - welcome (or you are welcome)
Kwa heri - goodbye
Baadaye - Catch you later

I find that although my Swahili is very limited, sprinkling a conversation with a few words is very welcome, and in bartering, lends credibility to your claim that you are not a tourist!

-oOo-

I was shopping in the Nakumatt in Kisii (a chain of supermarkets). They were running a prize draw where, if you spent more than 2,000/- (about £15), you were entered into a draw, the prize being a weekend at a Maasai Mara lodge, with safaris thrown in - nice!

As I was getting stuff for a party for the orphange kids, I spent well over the 2,000/- at which point, I was pounced upon by the floor manager (Remember, I was the only white skin in Kisii), who very enthusiastically explained the draw, the prizes and how to enter in very fine detail.

Now, I had several bags of food shopping, four hula hoops, footballs, and other unwieldy objects, and a 4 year-old who was standing cross-legged, wanting to go to the loo, and I was a little flustered.

I said the most stupid thing to this poor manager. "Do I look like a tourist?"

Let me point out that I was wearing khakis, desert boots and a wide-brimmed hat, and as I had only been in Kenya a few days, I daresay my skin was more than a little pink in places. A more touristy tourist you couldn't hope to see - and of course, I am usually the only mzungu in town.

The poor man didn't know what to say. If he said that I did look like a tourist, I may have been insulted - but I did look like a tourist.

I pointed the little boy to the toilet and then tried to make amends to the manager, who eventually claimed that he could see the funny side of the situation. Whether he did or not, I don't know, but he personally helped me to the car park with all the shopping (and child), asking me where my car was. I didn't have one, I was catching the matatu.

Then, he finally believed that I wasn't a tourist.

All was well, the little boy didn't have an accident in his pants, I got all my shopping to the matatu stand, and the manager went back into his store, feeling that he had done the right thing.

Leisimane - the next two chapters

One or two may have noticed a book starting to appear here, and someone has even read the first two chapters thanks, Potty Mummy).

So, I have posted the next two chapters.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

At the end of each chapter, there is a link to the next, if it has been posted, that is.

Bartering

Being English through and through (apart from a bit of Welsh inherited from one of my grandfathers), the idea/concept of bartering is totally alien.

So, in September last year, I ventured to Kenya. I was chaperoned by a friend whilst in Nairobi and was amazed that he never paid the asking price for anything without an argument.

I watched, listened and learned, but didn't participate.

On my second visit, in March of this year, I was on my own a lot more. My first task was to change some sterling into the local currency. In the bank, the girl behind the counter offered me a rate, let's say 128 shillings to the pound.

"What?" I exclaimed. "I could have got 136 in England. How about 134?"

"I cannot go that high. 130, "says the girl.

"132," I counter. She goes to see the manager and come back with a broad smile. "Yes, Sir, we give you 132."

Wow! Try that in a high street bank over here.

-oOo-

I got on the shuttle to Kisii.

"How much?" I asked.

"800 bob."

"I paid 600 that last time."

"OK, 600 bob."

-oOo-

In Kisii, staying in a house without electricity and a loo at the other end of the plot, I thought a torch would be advantageous. I found a rechargeable LED model on a hawker's stand.

Like and idiot, I showed a little too much interest.

"This wonderful torch, sir, it is only 300 bob."

"You are joking?" I retorted. "I'm not a tourist. I'll give you 250."

"Sir, you are taking the food from my daughter's mouth." But as I turned to go, "OK, 250 bob."

At the house, my hostess was so taken by the torch, the next time I was in town, I decided to get another. It was a different hawker. He saw me coming from a long way off - not difficult as I was probably the only mzungu in town.

I glanced at his wares, safety pins, shaving mirrors, tweezers - and a similar LED torch.

"Mambo." (A sort of slang 'Hello') "How much?" I point at the torch.

"Ah, for you, sir, only 350 bob."

I went through the 'I'm not a tourist' routine again and paid 260/-. It was a better torch, having 6 LEDs instead of the 5 of the previous one.

I am learning. Never pay the asking price for anything if the price is not marked on it. Of course, in the supermarket, it doesn't work, nor in cafés where the menu is marked with prices.

But if you are buying from a market, or a hawker, haggle. You will save a small fortune - or rather, you are less likely to get ripped off. If you are offering too low a price, they won't sell, so they aren't losing - you are not taking the food from his daughter's mouth, believe me.

Oh, and learn a few different ways of saying hello. "Jambo" is used by everyone, native and tourist alike, but to make an impression, try something different.

Being Green ...

Kids in the UK are now being encouraged to be green - no bad thing. But they are also being encouraged to report parents and neighbours who are using too much power.

Don't get me wrong, I am all in favour of saving this planet. It is rather useful - to live on, for example.

But kids in Kenya don't give a damn. All they are interested in is whether they have something to eat. And they don't care how it is cooked, over kerosene, charcoal, wood, whatever. They will chop trees to get fuel to cook. Or buy charcoal (for which someone has to chop down trees). What choice do they have? None. They have to eat.

A difference in priorities.

• In the UK - Survival of the planet;
• In Kenya - Survival.

I bet the kids in Kenya would love to have the opportunity to use a bit less electricity, a little less petrol, switch off the lights when they leave their bedroom, not leaving the TV, computer, games console on standby.

The Threat of Power-cuts ...

It is all doom and gloom at the moment, the UK news. Banks going bankrupt, the threat of power-cuts, food price hikes, fuel prices - it goes on and on.

I thought back to last March when I stayed with my friends in Kisii, SW Kenya, and how happy I was.

There was no electricity at the little two-bedroomed house, occupied by three adults and four young children. There was no running water - it was delivered daily in 25 litre drums and had to be boiled for consumption. The loo was at the end of the plot and was a glorified hole in the ground. There was a wet room and a room for preparing food. I cannot call it a kitchen.

We had a battery-powered radio, a kerosene lamp for the evenings - and each other's company.

And, that last is all I needed. I was happy.

It was a little strange at first, standing in a bowl of tepid water to wash, but I soon got used to it.

I did not have to cook, which is just as well. I don't know how well I would have coped over a single kerosene ring and a charcoal brazier.

I did not miss TV, or a home computer.

In town, there were frequent power cuts and it was a bit annoying if I was in the cyber café, checking emails etc., but I soon became resigned to the fact that this was Kenya.

The two things I really missed were my car - and oxygen. I am mildly disabled and walking any distance is uncomfortable. Kisii is a town on a hill, a town at 5,500ft, so oxygen is a bit scarce. And everywhere is either up or down, there is nowhere flat.

From the house to the town was about 2km, uphill, and I couldn't do it. I had to wait for a taxi or matatu. So I really did miss the ability to jump in my car and go wherever I needed (or wanted) to.

But apart from that, I was happy.

Mind you, the average daytime temperature is 25°C and at night it rarely drops below 16°C. So heating is not an issue.

In Britain, if the power goes, everything goes, no lighting, no heating, no cooking (and no blogging).

Frankly, if the prospect here is to have electricity rationing, I think I'll go back to Kenya.

Before I was Baba Mzungu

I have not always been called Baba Mzungu - of course

When I was in South Africa, I was Leisimane, which means Englishman in Sotho, the language of the people of the same name.

While I was there in 1989, I fostered a couple of street kids, then another couple and then ... etc.

And I kept a diary. All the little anecdotes about these kids from a different culture, speaking a different language. I found it interesting but to anyone else, it was just that, a diary. So I decided to change the perspective and re-wrote it from the point of view of the first of my charges, a 12 year-old Sotho boy, living in a township during the apartheid era. Obviously, my diary only covered the time that they were with me, so I had to plump it out a bit. I had a good idea about what these kids got up to when not with me, but writing about the life of a 12 year-old in the style of a 12 year-old was a challenge.

Well, here's a taster:

Leisimane

You can never guess the consequences of a simple mistake.

A young boy is begging in a suburb of Johannesburg. He is very competent, but he suffers a slip of the tongue, a Freudian slip perhaps, when instead of asking for money to buy bread for a fictitious little sister, he instead asks for money to buy the chicken and chips he longs for.

What happens next could never have been imagined in his wildest dreams. The person he is asking is a visitor to his country, and is not yet impervious to little black kids begging. He takes pity on the child, and as a result, a whole set of events transpire, changing the lives of this boy, his family and friends, and even total strangers.

Want to know what happens? Click Here!

Still Raping and Pillaging ...

As a born and bred Englishman, I am sick, tired and ashamed when I hear of UK companies and organisations "ripping off" our erstwhile colonies. I am also ashamed when I read about UK companies being involved in graft and corruption in deals with other countries.

The latest, of course is the debacle over the De la Rue Currency and Security Print Ltd, where it is alleged that said company obtained the contract from the Kenyan Government to print their currency by fraudulent means.

At least the Serious Fraud Office is looking into it and I hope that, at the end of the day there will be a full and honest outcome, unlike the Saudi Arms deal, which was swept under the carpet by the British government.

When I was last in Kenya, it was also mooted that many international companies with subsidiaries in Kenya were avoiding paying tax on profits to the Kenyan Government by salting away the money to their respective head offices. I don't know if this is true, but if it is, Kenya must be losing billons of shillings every year in revenue - revenue that can hardly afford to lose, bearing in mind all those 4x4s and elevated salaries they have to pay as a price for political stability.

Kenyans, don't expect the British Government to step in. They are too interested in saving their own skins at the moment. Our Scottish Prime Minister and Chancellor are making sure they gain a few extra votes at the next election by pandering to the banks with bases in Scotland.

Yes, tribalism exists in the UK. Each looks after its own.

So, Kenyans, don't think you are alone!

They Do Not Represent the General View ...

This was the plaintiff cry this morning after first Siobhain McDonagh, then Joan Ryan, both junior minions within the Labour Party called for a look into the leadership of the party.

These two do not represent the general feeling of backbenchers was the cry. Oh, really?

Then why has George Howarth (Lab. Knowsley North) written to the party asking for a leadership election?

And in any case, it is not what backbenchers, front benchers, ministers, or good ol' Gordon thinks. It is what the electorate thinks. That's us, I do believe. And I am pretty sure that a majority would like a change of Prime Minister, if not a change of Government!

Come on Gordon (and your supporters), give in before you are forced to, as was Maggie. You really don't want to suffer any more indignity, do you?

Corruption in High Places

No, not Kenya, not even Africa, but in the great and good Europe!

For the 14th year running - yes, that is 14 years - the European Union has failed to manage to balance its books. They auditors have refused to sign off the accounts in 17 different areas.

This is a body that spends about £95bn per year (of which the UK contributes around £7 billion) and has a staff of around 170,000 people, but they cannot get its accounts to add up.

Now, maybe this is just government incompetence at its worst, or, as I suspect, it is due to total corruption of the system.

This is supposed to be Government, European Government - you know, that which we try to impose upon the rest of this world full of despots and commies.

Well, I reckon that we have taught the world well, by example.

Tony Sharp has the full story here