New Adventures in Nairobi

I wondered, as I snickered in my aeroplane seat, whether I was the only person listening to the pilot’s announcements during our take-off from Paris. “Remember, when you are visiting friends in Africa,” went his routine, “that if you show up empty-handed, you will be compelled to offer up your personal belongings. Save yourself the embarrassment and select some presents from our in-flight magazine.” He followed with another bon mot a few moments later: “We would like to remind you that this is a non-smoking flight. If you smoke in the lavatory, the government will have you arrested for the rest of the weekend, which will ruin your trip.”

I arrived in Nairobi on the evening of February the first to begin a new yearlong posting. In some ways, the first week was less chaotic than I imagined, but this was compensated for by chaos in areas where I did not expect it at all. I had no issue buying a SIM card, opening an account on M-PESA, and finding a place to buy international groceries, admittedly because one of my colleagues helped me do all this right after I arrived. On the other hand, actually channelling money into M-PESA turned out to be a real obstacle, as foreign banks tend not to trust the system. While I found Ubers easy to order and generally quite cheap, I was surprised that drivers would always ask where to go despite having the answer right in front of them.

The biggest source of chaos, however, was my accommodation. I stayed at an Airbnb for a week while looking for a long-term rental, which can be quite a challenge in Nairobi. Studios in desirable areas like Gigiri are well out of reach even for many expats, and in nearby areas they can go for around a thousand dollars. While apartments get cheaper farther away from the posh parts of town, distance becomes an issue, with rush-hour traffic being formidable. Furthermore, there are employers who will not allow their employees to live in these areas because of security risks, which was the case of Ruaka where I stayed for the first week.

While nothing happened to me in Ruaka – and I could not quite imagine anything happening to me when I walked around the neighbourhood on a sunny day – my apartment sprang problem after problem on me. One day, I could not get any signal on the bottom floor. Another day, there was no hot water. Then, the microwave stopped working, or rather, it lit up and span around but refused to heat up food. At one point, the electricity cache in my apartment expired. But the most concerning experience happened on the morning of my third day when, on my way to the bathroom after waking up, I stepped in water. I walked back and forth trying to remember what I might have spilled until it occurred to me to look up. A huge gash ran across the ceiling, the paint around it all wet.

I moved into my new place in Runda on Saturday, having prospected a few apartments in Ruaka. Unlike the apartments in Ruaka, this place was less than a ten-minute drive from my office, and I did not smell burning garbage when I opened the windows. Most of the downsides were fixable. I folded up one of the many extraneous mats to prop up the crooked table and I turned the water cooler into a towel rack, which I had been missing. I also soon learned that, because the studio was a little cottage out in the corner of the garden, it received a lot of sunlight and often became quite hot unless I opened the door and the window.

The day after I moved in, I made my first proper exploration of Nairobi. In the morning, I caught an Uber to Karura Forest, a giant park just north of the centre. My house is actually quite close to Karura, but the park can only be accessed through several gates, all of which are far away from me. These gates are where visitors have their bags inspected and pay the entry fee. There are three rates: citizen, resident, and foreigner. Since I am still waiting for my documents to be processed, I had to pay the foreigner fee, which is of course the highest.

I zig-zagged across Karura, walking west from the gate to the waterfalls and caves, east again to Butterfly Lake, and west again to Lily Lake. I was surprised by how familiar the forest felt, especially in the coniferous parts, which would not have been out of place in Europe. After two hours, I came away with the impression that the forest ought to be experienced with other people rather than simply seen, as the sights are not all that impressive. One can, I hear, occasionally see monkeys, but all I saw were a few drab birds flitting about the bushes.

When I was ready to go, I tried to catch an Uber from Gate A, but either my phone or my SIM card decided to be very difficult, and it took me two restarts to get service again. By then, I had wandered to another junction past a few embassies and was chased away from in front of the Israeli embassy where I was distractedly giving my phone a stern talking to.

My second stop that day was the National Museum of Kenya. I am not sure what I was expecting, but certainly not an emotional rollercoaster through long-forgotten memories. Unbeknownst to me before my arrival, the National Museum of Kenya houses the taxidermy of Sudan, the last male Northern white rhino. As a child, I had seen Sudan alive and well at the Safari Park in Dvůr Králové, where he had been living in the company of several other Northern white rhinos. In 2009, I hoped for the best when news broke that he would be sent to Kenya in a last desperate bid to save his species. In 2018, I was heartbroken to read of his death. There was also an exhibition on Joy Adamson, the author of one of my childhood favourites: the Born Free trilogy about Elsa the Lioness. I learned that she was born in what is now Opava in the Czech Republic.

For lunch, which I ate at the museum cafeteria, I had masala chips. I have found that due to the long history of Indians in Kenya, Nairobi is not only rife with Indian restaurants, but that many places also have dishes inspired by Indian cuisine. On Thursday, for instance, I went out with my team to eat a curry koroga, an African meal cum social event that consists of people getting together to stir a big pot. While eating the chips, I deliberated whether to continue south or keep more to explore for another day. The former impulse won out, as I could not distinguish the latter voice from sheer laziness.

I first took an Uber to the Anglican All Saints’ Cathedral where a service was underway. I persuaded the guards at the gate that I would walk around and not go inside during the service, but I still got told off when I took a picture of the building from the outside. While I did not really understand the reasoning behind this, I could appreciate the religious sentiment, so I made my apologies and proceeded to Uhuru Park.

When I arrived at the park gate, a guard asked me whether I was carrying a camera in my backpack. I guilelessly told him that I was. “You are not allowed to bring cameras into the park,” he said, gesturing at the board of park regulations. “You are my friend,” he added warmly and in a conspiratorial tone, “so tell me, what can I do for you?”

“Well, nothing, I guess,” I replied, “If I can’t go in with my camera, then you can’t do anything for me.”

“No, I am telling you, you cannot take your camera. But you are my friend, so what can I do for you?”

“Are you asking me for a bribe?” I tried my best to sound incredulous, but my question slid off the guard like an egg from a frying pan. He gestured at the board again and repeated I was forbidden from taking my camera.

“Where on the board does it say I cannot take my camera?” I asked feeling a little testy because of the whole interaction.

“Here.”

I read the two lines. “No,” I exclaimed, and lay emphasis on each important word as I imagined a lawyer might in court, “This says commercial photography is prohibited, and I am just a tourist. And this says I cannot take pictures of people without their consent, but I am not planning to take pictures of people.”

“So how will you take pictures of yourself with the camera?” The strange non-sequitur took me aback after what I thought was a smashing rhetorical victory. I asked him to clarify but the guard repeated the question in the exact same way.

“I’m not going to be taking pictures of myself; I want to take pictures of the park.”

“Well, I can ask my boss about this, but she is very busy.”

I figured this appeal to my Western impatience was another attempt at eliciting a bribe, but I had already dug in my heels. I would not be giving a bribe for something as absurd as being allowed to take pictures in a park. “Go ahead, I have time,” I said, edging my voice with as much insouciance as I could muster.

The guard did indeed call his boss – or he at the very least made a show of calling someone whose line was occupied.

“You see, she is very busy,” he said.

“That’s ok,” I answered as I pulled up a book on my phone.

I stood around for perhaps another five minutes. A lady asked me what I was doing at the gate, and I explained the contours of the argument. She had no reply to make. Eventually, I heard that the guard had gotten through to his boss, and within a few moments I found myself facing a very small woman in a neon vest.

“Good afternoon, how are you?” She asked, and I made sure to reply with the same inquiry, as required by Kenyan culture. This bit of politesse seemed to please the lady, and after another conversation, I was let into the park with my camera. During the conversation, I had to promise that I would only take pictures of trees and landscapes, and that I would stick to my plan of staying for no longer than half an hour – some nominal concessions had to be made for the sake of appearances.

What I found very strange upon entering the park was that it was filled with professional camera men. They stood around on the paths in front of the more scenic parts, waiting for people to come up to them to ask them for a photo. It then occurred to me that perhaps every one of these camera men had dutifully paid their bribe to be able to operate this business in the park, and that it would have been highly unfair for me to take photos and charge people for them without doing so myself.

Taking pictures in central Nairobi seems to be a very popular pastime among locals. After I left Uhuru Park and crossed the expressway, I found a whole gaggle of photographers dotted along City-Hall Way. Broad and shaded by trees, the boulevard seemed to be as good a spot as any for snapping a few fancy weekend pictures, but I had come to see the Cathedral Basilica of the Holy Family and the Jomo Kenyatta Monument. Once I reached the National Archived, I looped around to the Jamia Mosque and called an Uber home.