Jomo Kenyatta

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Trip Start Mar 18, 2009 Trip End May 14, 2009 Next
Entry

  Nairobi, Kenya
Thursday, March 19, 2009

...It has been over a month and a half of luxury back in Istanbul. I had almost forgotten the harsh realities of our world by the time I started stacking money, credit cards and travelers' checks in strategic parts of my bags and clothes.

Had a delicious Doner (a type of kabab) sandwich and an Ayran (salty yoghurt drink) from Cardak Bufe. This was my last supper. As I said farewell to Aunti, Grandma and Mum, I felt that my tears ducts were filling up. I had cried the night before too. Africa was no joke. Although I had taken numerous precautions, I was paranoid enough to think that there may be no coming back.

Abusing all the advantages of my Mileas and Smiles Elite Card, I chilled at the CIP Lounge before boarding my Turkish Airlines flight to Nairobi. It's quite ironic that I was sipping white wine right next to a couple members of the religious Fetullah Gulen movement.

The clear majority of the passengers waiting to board my plane were black. I started to get intimidated, as I was trying to pass the 1.5 hours of delay time with a group of African "intellectuals" who were speaking politics.

Even though the seats in business class were comfortable and the service was impeccable, the length between the rows was insufficient. This was a B337- 800, if I am not mistaken. I had never flown a 6 hour distance with such a small plane.

The Jomo Kenyatta International Airport reminded me of the Zia International in Dhaka, but it was a bit more developed. The interior architecture was almost as compelling as that of the Siem Reap Airport; it was clean and the staff was very welcoming.

I wasted quite a bit of time trying to find the contact information that the visa forms were asking for. Incredible! There wasn't a valid address on any of the key documents that the International Humanity Foundation (IHF) had sent me... Hence, I had to turn on my blackberry and go through my email in order to find an acceptable address. The only one that I could find belonged to the foundation's pro-bono advocate.

It was 4.30am by the time I passed through customs. The cab driver that Anne, a Yale alum whom I had found through the alumni database, had arranged was still waiting for me. Fred the Driver was a warm, middle-aged man. He was patient enough to let me withdraw some Kenyan Shillings from the ATM. No success... The Barclays ATM was shut down and the other one only accepted cards with chips. I had no choice but to visit the exchange counter, although I was certain that they would rip me off, which they did. After changing $50, we left Jomo Kenyatta International.

Nairobbery looked cute even at night. My first impression of this country was similar to how I had felt about Cambodia, my favorite destination in Southeast Asia. We got on a dirt road to get to Anne's home. The Driver flashed his headlights at an iron gate that had tall wired walls on both sides of it. Suddenly, I had a flashback to Rahmans' estate in Gulshan... After passing through 2 guards, 5 pet dogs and some chickens, I saw Anne waiting for me at the door. What hospitality!

Anne: mid 30s. She graduated from Yale in 1995 with a degree in political science and international studies. Then, she went to the UK for law school. Soon after getting her law degree, she returned to Kenya to work for some NGOs, before grabbing a post at the UNODC (United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime). She had interned at the UN prior to college and this is where she met her husband. Has an adorable, 12-year-old son who couldn't go to school the day I was there because of a soar throat or something. He preferred to watch Premiere League soccer instead.

I slept comfortably for a few hours until Anne woke me up at 8.15am. I made good use of the Western toilet and the clean water, as I knew that these amenities would be absent at my post in Nakuru.

I didn't get the chance to meet Anne'a husband. He was at the Sudanese boarder for a UNHCR (United Nations High Comminsioner of Refugees) project.

Anne doesn't drive. So, she called a cab to drop me off at one of the most luxurious/ well-guarded malls in Kenya, before setting off to work. She took me to a Barclay's ATM. After I withdrew the equivalent of $100, I turned away from the machine to find Anne and Naomi chatting. They had just met up by accident. Anne gave me a warm hug, told Naomi that she might steal me some weekends and left.

Naomi Mwakasege: early 30s; thin, short and well-dressed. The Tanzanian Director of the International Humanity Foundation (IHF) Center in Nakuru. At first, she seemed like the odd, childish type, but as we had a bagel and coffee breakfast at a café called Java, I thought that she was probably mature enough to carry the responsibility of over 100 children.

After buying a Zain sim card, which only works on my old Nokia phone, we took a Matatu (equivalent of public bus in this instance) to the city center. The buildings here looked almost Art Deco. It was as if I was in a worn-down, incredibly worn-down, version of Miami, Florida.

We walked for at least half an hour in busy streets. Naomi was carrying my small pack. However, the large pack weighed over 20 kgs on its own. I was sweating hard by the time we got to the Matatu (minibus in this instance) that would take us to Nakuru. Because the matatu was full up to the brim and there was no luggage compartment, the large pack had to go on our lap and stay there for 3 hours! 250 Shillings.

As a Muzungu (white man), I expected to receive many more stares than what I actually got. Similar to my situation in Bangladesh...

The inter-city roads were in better condition than the ones I had been on in India.

Each public transport vehicle had to be searched by the police before leaving the city of origin.

I was exhausted and my head fell during one of the most uncomfortable rides of my life.

Nakuru was less developed and smaller than Nairobi, comparing the city centers. Streets were nasty and open sewage made itself visible once in a while.

We took yet another matatu, similar to the one that we had just stepped off of, to the Everready battery factory. From there, we walked to the Center. I had made the right choice by not bringing a regular suitcase.

From the outside, the Center looked better than what I had expected, because I was expecting something like the orphanage huts that I had caught a glimpse of in Beng Melea, Cambodia. There were 4 separate, concrete buildings: the boys' dorm, the girls' dorm, the kitchen and storage spaces, and the classrooms. Unfortunately, their insides were like jail cells. The boys were living in a hallway full of wooden bunk beds, while my room was a slightly larger version of the $1 room I had had in Varanasi, India. The single socket in the room didn't work and one of the windows was broken. There was a bathroom that I shared with dozens of kids. It was the filthiest, seatless Western-style toilet, bathtub and tap-without running water combination I had ever seen. Not sure whether I have ever seen a combo like this... I found myself asking the exact same question that I had posed in Aleppo, Syria: "What the hell am I doing in this shit hole?"

The answer is complicated. I am not challenging myself, because I have done enough of that in Asia. I am not trying to figure out what a life worth living is due to the same reason. The ones that are left over are getting to know a different part of the world while experiencing volunteering, and reading and writing with absolute concentration. Fair enough...

Ate Ugali (a thick paste made with maze flour) and cabbage for dinner; unpacked; set up my mosquito net and went to sleep. I had numerous reasons to be terrified. Somebody could barge in and rob me; a venomous insect could crawl into my bed; I could be bitten by a malaria-carrying mosquito; I could contract a serious disease from one of the kids... It was a difficult night despite my fatigue. However, I would later learn that all of these fears were just a result of my paranoia. It's incredible how often solo travelers get that...

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