Thursday, April 21, 2011
Uber-slacking
Way behind on the blog posts...Pole (KiSwahili for sorry...kinda). And sadly, there wont be any more for some time as Simon, another BVCer, his girlfiend, an Austrian and myself are all going to climb Mount Kenya this weekend. Providing I don't get eaten by a hyena, trampled by an elephant or buffalo, get lost, suffer from chronic altitude sickness, suffer from hypothermia, or die from hunger, I will be back around Tuesday of next week. At which point, I will begin writing more blogs amidst saying goodbye's and tying up a few loose ends. So happy bunny day (Eric I expect there to be some eggs with quarters in them, hidden when I return...oh and those Reese's penut butter eggs, there had better be some of those too - I know where you sleep)!
Thursday, April 14, 2011
I hope business parties in the states are this fun.
We held a going away party for one of the Germans who is leaving tomorrow. I was fairly apprehensive at first because a) there was a football match on and b) most parties where people speak other languages end up with the exclusion of the English speakers. But I figured at the very least everyone else from the Center would be there and some of them are a hoot when they are drinking so there was some fun to be had.
I was way off, it was a ton of fun. Speaking to the fact of other languages, Simon and I figured out that no one can understand the minnesoootan accent so that became our code language. And between watching parts of the match, eating half a goat, dancing, drinking, fending off over-aged suitors for some of the girl guests and almost getting attacked by a stray dog in the street it was a pretty darn good night!
I was way off, it was a ton of fun. Speaking to the fact of other languages, Simon and I figured out that no one can understand the minnesoootan accent so that became our code language. And between watching parts of the match, eating half a goat, dancing, drinking, fending off over-aged suitors for some of the girl guests and almost getting attacked by a stray dog in the street it was a pretty darn good night!
Birthday
Sometimes you just gotta wake up at the crack o’ noon and be like “alright, it’s go time! What t-shirt am I gonna wear?”
I’d say that was a pretty good start to the day. Although, I did manage to rouse myself at 8 for some breakfast before going back to sleep. I don’t even try to hide the fact that I sleep late anymore. The nuns who used to berate me for it now accept it and even joke about it. Nothing better than seeing a nun for lunch at 1 and having her greet me with “Good morning!” They also sang me the extended, holy version of happy birthday at supper later that night; it was quite the scene.
Speaking of which, the night that couldn’t get going and almost didn’t due to a case of malaria and a broken leg (relatives of our friends who access to cars), finally got under way and ended up being a great time. Simon, Steffi (one of the Germans) and I hopped on a matatu and headed off to the bar John took us too.
One problem, we didn’t remember how to get there or the name of it. So we walked alongside of the road after getting dropped off roughly where we thought it was. After an hour or so of dodging drunk drivers and pitfalls from the construction equipment, we decided to head into a hotel that seemed to have a decent music scene.
We sat and drank for a little while before being picked on by the KiSwahili speaking comedian. I guess we were asking for it being the only white people there. I somehow ended up on stage with him thanks to Simon who blurted out that it was my birthday. I think most of the questions that I had to answer were dealing with women and which one I was going to take home, but it was all in Swahili and I had been drinking. But by the end of it I was a celebrity amongst all of the cougs and there was no shortage of dance partners or free drinks for the remainder of the night. It was a blast up until the end of the night by which time most of the women had left and the floor was full of drunk men trying to dance with Steffi. All that meant was that Simon and I had to continue dancing aggressively by blocking them off!
Great night.
I’d say that was a pretty good start to the day. Although, I did manage to rouse myself at 8 for some breakfast before going back to sleep. I don’t even try to hide the fact that I sleep late anymore. The nuns who used to berate me for it now accept it and even joke about it. Nothing better than seeing a nun for lunch at 1 and having her greet me with “Good morning!” They also sang me the extended, holy version of happy birthday at supper later that night; it was quite the scene.
Speaking of which, the night that couldn’t get going and almost didn’t due to a case of malaria and a broken leg (relatives of our friends who access to cars), finally got under way and ended up being a great time. Simon, Steffi (one of the Germans) and I hopped on a matatu and headed off to the bar John took us too.
One problem, we didn’t remember how to get there or the name of it. So we walked alongside of the road after getting dropped off roughly where we thought it was. After an hour or so of dodging drunk drivers and pitfalls from the construction equipment, we decided to head into a hotel that seemed to have a decent music scene.
We sat and drank for a little while before being picked on by the KiSwahili speaking comedian. I guess we were asking for it being the only white people there. I somehow ended up on stage with him thanks to Simon who blurted out that it was my birthday. I think most of the questions that I had to answer were dealing with women and which one I was going to take home, but it was all in Swahili and I had been drinking. But by the end of it I was a celebrity amongst all of the cougs and there was no shortage of dance partners or free drinks for the remainder of the night. It was a blast up until the end of the night by which time most of the women had left and the floor was full of drunk men trying to dance with Steffi. All that meant was that Simon and I had to continue dancing aggressively by blocking them off!
Great night.
The Post Office
The other night, a monk came to our house to let me know that there were two packages at the post office for some of the volunteers. He also said that it would cost 3,500 KSH to obtain both of them. I read the contents of one of the packages and realized that it was for me, but I could not understand how I had racked up the bill without doing anything! The other package, we thought, belonged to a German volunteer who is currently touring around Kenya. I told Felix, the monk, that I was not going to pay for both packages and could barely afford the highway robbery that was going on with my package. He said, “then don’t” and proceeded to wash his hands of the situation. We will come back to this later.
That little conversation pushed me towards the edge of a cliff the other night and the ensuing soccer match almost threw me over. Luckily sleep has a very calming effect and was the next thing on the schedule for me.
The ensuing morning, I went into Nairobi alone as Simon was still under the weather and the nun who had previously tried to obtain the packages but didn’t have enough money gave me her postal identification card and said that if I presented it she did not need to go to the post office with me. I didn’t complain as she is very nice, but is not quite as fast moving or mentally sharp for catching extortionists in the act. Also there is a fairly sizeable language barrier between us.
Things didn’t get off to the greatest of starts as the matatu I was in decided to let everyone out just on the outskirts of downtown because they spotted a police officer and it spooked them. I didn’t hang around to find out why. So I meandered my way through downtown Nairobi cruising past the rest of the inhabitants who might as well be called the slowest pack-walkers in Africa. I arrived at the post office around 11am or so and stood in line under the “Parcel Pick-Up” sign. I waited for almost an hour while some woman counted out close to 200 individual envelopes and had them weighed only to find out that I had to go to the next floor for my package. Great.
I make it up the stairs and into the customs office where some woman on the phone looked at my slip, printed something out, and tried to send me off without a word to me. I didn’t accept it and motioned that I needed to talk to her. She finished her conversation and then asked me what I needed. I told her that the customs taxes on my package didn’t make sense. She explained to me that the duties are high because the government doesn’t want people importing anything and that my fees were accurate. I then told her that the estimated cost of the contents was incorrect and she told me to talk to her boss. So I sat and waited for 30 minutes before her boss came back. And she told me to go and get the package and bring it to her…after lunch (in one hour). So I bought a newspaper and sat down for some tea before returning to the post office.
This time I went straight to the second floor parcel counter. The lady brought out the package addressed to me (I used the slip with my package ID and the wrong contents). I then told the lady that I thought there was a mixup and the packages didn’t match up with the contents. She told me I was crazy, literally. So I went off like a cherrybomb on the 4th. I said, “ok, let’s open the package shall we?” I opened it, pulled out the items one by one and checked to see if it was on the list of contents. I then turned the box upside down and said that I didn’t think the other contents were in this box. She wasn’t too amused, but couldn’t do anything about it because she was completely baffled as to how the confusion had happened.
They brought out the other package and put it in front of me. I then explained to the other woman that I was here to collect my package. I then asked why my package had been previously opened without my being present. She said that I had sent someone to collect it and it was opened in front of the customs officer for taxing. I calmly went off again trying to explain that no one else had the authority to open a package with my name on it, let alone have it processed with another package belonging to someone else. (I was initially tipped off on the mixup by seeing that the form with my contents had an address line that read ‘benedictine monastrery.’ My parents can spell monastery correctly and we technically aren’t at the monastery) They gave me the little spiel about how someone with authority came in and claimed the packages together and the paperwork could not be undone.
I cant remember how many people I talked to trying to get it sorted out. I was finally sent to the floor customs officer. She also told me that there was nothing she could do. I ended up following her into her office and standing in front of her desk for close to 15 minutes without saying a word all the while she was trying to work. She then looked at me and said that if she had any money she would help me pay the fee for both of the packages so that I could leave. I told her that I wouldn’t have accepted the generous offer. I would have accepted her letting me leave with my package! I then found out that after two months of not paying the packages are sent to a warehouse where they are auctioned off. To that point I argued that the bank would not be getting the full estimated value of the package and that letting me take it by itself at full price would be better than not giving it to me. She said that she couldn’t and that money was a tricky affair. Yeah, no shit. She then told me that if I wanted to I could pay and then file a claim for overpaying, which would have taken close to 3 months.
I said fuck it and amidst glaring eyes from the other disgruntled people in the office, I politely (and sarcastically) thanked them for their patience as they had verbally complained that I was taking up too much of the officer’s time. I then went back to the main customs office and sat in the secretary’s office. Her boss was at a meeting in another building and she told me I could wait for her or come back another day. Coming back wasn’t an option so I said I would wait.
The secretary then offered me a cup of coffee while I waited to which I obliged. Then the pleasantries started. I commented how the building should be staffed by more people like her…and that it was my birthday on Saturday…which led to her talking about her son and family…which led to something else and was finally broken up by another man walking into the office and questioning why I was still there (4 hours after I had initially seen him). I replied and then the secretary asked me to describe the problem one more time. Bingo. Never underestimate the power of being polite and complimentary of secretaries.
I explained everything that had occurred along with the responses of each worker as to why nothing could be done. She said nonsense, crossed out the receipt numbers, called her boss (who was in a meeting), lowered my tax rate, and printed a new receipt for me. I then had to book it to the bank a few blocks down to pay the taxes before it closed. Next, I returned only to find out that I had to get a secondary receipt from another window and then pay the post office handling fee of a dollar and get that receipt before I could actually take my package.
But even before that there was another problem. The secretary had told me to use the slip on which my contents were written, which incidentally had the postal number of the other box. So they wouldn’t let me go with it. I offered loads of solutions to this problem and after 15 more minutes of them standing there and wondering what to do I was ushered into a back office. The floor director then decided with another worker that it would be alright to switch the numbers on the boxes…thanks glad that took 15 more minutes of my time. I thanked them both and then said that they would never have to worry about seeing me again, to which I received the reply “Oh no! We still want your business. You know, part of this was our fault as well.” Ha, no shit. I smiled and proceeded to leave. But in passing all of the other inconsiderate and incompetent workers, including the customs officer, I smiled, held up the box, pointed to it, and whispered “I got my box.”
Some of them were overjoyed at the fact that I was finally leaving and the customs officer was surprisingly happy for me although she was confused as to how I had done it with supposedly the only person who could do anything about it in a meeting on the other side of town. I loaded my backpack and ran out of the building. I then spent the next 2 hours walking around Nairobi trying to find the correct matatu pick-up location. I asked numerous people where to go and it wasn’t until I was on the wrong side of town that a bus driver picked me up and took me to where I needed to be. It was ridiculous and I was tired. I had been in Nairobi for over 9 hours and roughly 6 of them were spent in the post office.
That’s dedication and a very strong desire for the girls scout cookies that were packed inside!
On a final note, when sending packages to Kenya, declare the value of goods inside at a quarter of the cost. The import taxes are 41% of the declared value. Highway robbery I tell you…
That little conversation pushed me towards the edge of a cliff the other night and the ensuing soccer match almost threw me over. Luckily sleep has a very calming effect and was the next thing on the schedule for me.
The ensuing morning, I went into Nairobi alone as Simon was still under the weather and the nun who had previously tried to obtain the packages but didn’t have enough money gave me her postal identification card and said that if I presented it she did not need to go to the post office with me. I didn’t complain as she is very nice, but is not quite as fast moving or mentally sharp for catching extortionists in the act. Also there is a fairly sizeable language barrier between us.
Things didn’t get off to the greatest of starts as the matatu I was in decided to let everyone out just on the outskirts of downtown because they spotted a police officer and it spooked them. I didn’t hang around to find out why. So I meandered my way through downtown Nairobi cruising past the rest of the inhabitants who might as well be called the slowest pack-walkers in Africa. I arrived at the post office around 11am or so and stood in line under the “Parcel Pick-Up” sign. I waited for almost an hour while some woman counted out close to 200 individual envelopes and had them weighed only to find out that I had to go to the next floor for my package. Great.
I make it up the stairs and into the customs office where some woman on the phone looked at my slip, printed something out, and tried to send me off without a word to me. I didn’t accept it and motioned that I needed to talk to her. She finished her conversation and then asked me what I needed. I told her that the customs taxes on my package didn’t make sense. She explained to me that the duties are high because the government doesn’t want people importing anything and that my fees were accurate. I then told her that the estimated cost of the contents was incorrect and she told me to talk to her boss. So I sat and waited for 30 minutes before her boss came back. And she told me to go and get the package and bring it to her…after lunch (in one hour). So I bought a newspaper and sat down for some tea before returning to the post office.
This time I went straight to the second floor parcel counter. The lady brought out the package addressed to me (I used the slip with my package ID and the wrong contents). I then told the lady that I thought there was a mixup and the packages didn’t match up with the contents. She told me I was crazy, literally. So I went off like a cherrybomb on the 4th. I said, “ok, let’s open the package shall we?” I opened it, pulled out the items one by one and checked to see if it was on the list of contents. I then turned the box upside down and said that I didn’t think the other contents were in this box. She wasn’t too amused, but couldn’t do anything about it because she was completely baffled as to how the confusion had happened.
They brought out the other package and put it in front of me. I then explained to the other woman that I was here to collect my package. I then asked why my package had been previously opened without my being present. She said that I had sent someone to collect it and it was opened in front of the customs officer for taxing. I calmly went off again trying to explain that no one else had the authority to open a package with my name on it, let alone have it processed with another package belonging to someone else. (I was initially tipped off on the mixup by seeing that the form with my contents had an address line that read ‘benedictine monastrery.’ My parents can spell monastery correctly and we technically aren’t at the monastery) They gave me the little spiel about how someone with authority came in and claimed the packages together and the paperwork could not be undone.
I cant remember how many people I talked to trying to get it sorted out. I was finally sent to the floor customs officer. She also told me that there was nothing she could do. I ended up following her into her office and standing in front of her desk for close to 15 minutes without saying a word all the while she was trying to work. She then looked at me and said that if she had any money she would help me pay the fee for both of the packages so that I could leave. I told her that I wouldn’t have accepted the generous offer. I would have accepted her letting me leave with my package! I then found out that after two months of not paying the packages are sent to a warehouse where they are auctioned off. To that point I argued that the bank would not be getting the full estimated value of the package and that letting me take it by itself at full price would be better than not giving it to me. She said that she couldn’t and that money was a tricky affair. Yeah, no shit. She then told me that if I wanted to I could pay and then file a claim for overpaying, which would have taken close to 3 months.
I said fuck it and amidst glaring eyes from the other disgruntled people in the office, I politely (and sarcastically) thanked them for their patience as they had verbally complained that I was taking up too much of the officer’s time. I then went back to the main customs office and sat in the secretary’s office. Her boss was at a meeting in another building and she told me I could wait for her or come back another day. Coming back wasn’t an option so I said I would wait.
The secretary then offered me a cup of coffee while I waited to which I obliged. Then the pleasantries started. I commented how the building should be staffed by more people like her…and that it was my birthday on Saturday…which led to her talking about her son and family…which led to something else and was finally broken up by another man walking into the office and questioning why I was still there (4 hours after I had initially seen him). I replied and then the secretary asked me to describe the problem one more time. Bingo. Never underestimate the power of being polite and complimentary of secretaries.
I explained everything that had occurred along with the responses of each worker as to why nothing could be done. She said nonsense, crossed out the receipt numbers, called her boss (who was in a meeting), lowered my tax rate, and printed a new receipt for me. I then had to book it to the bank a few blocks down to pay the taxes before it closed. Next, I returned only to find out that I had to get a secondary receipt from another window and then pay the post office handling fee of a dollar and get that receipt before I could actually take my package.
But even before that there was another problem. The secretary had told me to use the slip on which my contents were written, which incidentally had the postal number of the other box. So they wouldn’t let me go with it. I offered loads of solutions to this problem and after 15 more minutes of them standing there and wondering what to do I was ushered into a back office. The floor director then decided with another worker that it would be alright to switch the numbers on the boxes…thanks glad that took 15 more minutes of my time. I thanked them both and then said that they would never have to worry about seeing me again, to which I received the reply “Oh no! We still want your business. You know, part of this was our fault as well.” Ha, no shit. I smiled and proceeded to leave. But in passing all of the other inconsiderate and incompetent workers, including the customs officer, I smiled, held up the box, pointed to it, and whispered “I got my box.”
Some of them were overjoyed at the fact that I was finally leaving and the customs officer was surprisingly happy for me although she was confused as to how I had done it with supposedly the only person who could do anything about it in a meeting on the other side of town. I loaded my backpack and ran out of the building. I then spent the next 2 hours walking around Nairobi trying to find the correct matatu pick-up location. I asked numerous people where to go and it wasn’t until I was on the wrong side of town that a bus driver picked me up and took me to where I needed to be. It was ridiculous and I was tired. I had been in Nairobi for over 9 hours and roughly 6 of them were spent in the post office.
That’s dedication and a very strong desire for the girls scout cookies that were packed inside!
On a final note, when sending packages to Kenya, declare the value of goods inside at a quarter of the cost. The import taxes are 41% of the declared value. Highway robbery I tell you…
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Alley Cats
Around 4 am or so we decided that we should probably head back and get some seep. We stopped upstairs to say goodbye to the other whitefolk before leaving and finding a way back to the other side of town. At first, we decided to walk a ways and see if we were could catch a matatu even though you’re not exactly supposed to take them after 10pm; something about masked men and guns I think.
Well we were walking along this deserted road in an industrial district of Nairobi when we spotted some skyscrapers and the town center about a mile or two away on the left. We took are next left and BIG mistake. Even darker street that had shanties lined up and down the sides. What was worse, there was a stopped car with about 10 men standing around it, and they saw us. You know that little chilly feeling that runs up your spine when you are kind of spooked. We had that. But we couldn’t turn around less show our nervousness and unwillingness to face confrontation so we walked past them stonefaced with the subtle up-tilt head nod to acknowledge them. We made it up a little ways and then heard the car start. Luckily they decided to turn around and go the other way. Then we saw a huge fence in front of us. What now? We decided to keep going and hope that there was a way through, which there was. But immediately upon passing through I spied two fuzzy objects under the loan streetlamp up about a block. In a very coordinated manor we made a quick semicircle and doubled back on the same street hoping that no one would notice. Most everyone whom we had already passed was somewhat preoccupied and took little notice, but we tensed at every grim glance that was shot our way.
We walked a little further and realized that there was no way that we were going to make it back and figured that getting mugged is one thing, but getting mugged on account of stupidity was a-whole-nother matter. Then a taxi came speeding around a roundabout and stopped abruptly at the sight of us. Deciding to play it cool we asked what the price was to our part of town and sat there and debated with him for a few minutes! As if we were going to say no…ha. We did have the fact that there were about 10 taxis outside of the nightclub a few blocks back and that definitely helped. But we agreed on the price and took off. No more than a minute had passed before a torrential downpour lasting a half an hour hit. Whew.
Well we were walking along this deserted road in an industrial district of Nairobi when we spotted some skyscrapers and the town center about a mile or two away on the left. We took are next left and BIG mistake. Even darker street that had shanties lined up and down the sides. What was worse, there was a stopped car with about 10 men standing around it, and they saw us. You know that little chilly feeling that runs up your spine when you are kind of spooked. We had that. But we couldn’t turn around less show our nervousness and unwillingness to face confrontation so we walked past them stonefaced with the subtle up-tilt head nod to acknowledge them. We made it up a little ways and then heard the car start. Luckily they decided to turn around and go the other way. Then we saw a huge fence in front of us. What now? We decided to keep going and hope that there was a way through, which there was. But immediately upon passing through I spied two fuzzy objects under the loan streetlamp up about a block. In a very coordinated manor we made a quick semicircle and doubled back on the same street hoping that no one would notice. Most everyone whom we had already passed was somewhat preoccupied and took little notice, but we tensed at every grim glance that was shot our way.
We walked a little further and realized that there was no way that we were going to make it back and figured that getting mugged is one thing, but getting mugged on account of stupidity was a-whole-nother matter. Then a taxi came speeding around a roundabout and stopped abruptly at the sight of us. Deciding to play it cool we asked what the price was to our part of town and sat there and debated with him for a few minutes! As if we were going to say no…ha. We did have the fact that there were about 10 taxis outside of the nightclub a few blocks back and that definitely helped. But we agreed on the price and took off. No more than a minute had passed before a torrential downpour lasting a half an hour hit. Whew.
Marathoning pt.2
Both of us slept through breakfast. Damn, best meal of the day and even better after a night of drinking….missed. So we did the next best thing went back to the bar! It was about 9 or so and the bar had a breakfast option, which was bear bones but it was better than nothing and we were starving. I think we even turned a few heads as the regulars who were there the night before couldn’t believe that we were back so early. We ate and then went back to the room. Simon went back to sleep and I took advantage of the Germans not being around and caught up on some much needed web surfing.
Later that afternoon, Simon received a text from a friend saying that she was having a going away party in uptown downtown Nairobi. And we remembered that we were meeting Vincent from work for a few beers later that evening. So we slow-played everything and ended up leaving to meet Vincent at 6, the start time of the Arsenal match (Simon’s team). He showed up at 7…grr. He had been drinking since noon and was in a very funny state when he arrived. The entire time he was going off on some funny tangents about experiences and what to do or not to do and his life… Simon had a longer attention span than I did. I could keep up for about 3 minutes or so before focusing on the soccer game. Well there was also that girl from the night before…just like the movies, she texted back! Let the texting commence. And let me tell you, be thankful for having the free unlimited texting options because when you don’t it costs $$$, well not too much but it is a hassle to have to go out and buy credits every few days.
Simon and I left after the match amidst Vincent trying to set up a waitress with Simon. We made it back to the house and then decided to head into Nairobi. Getting to the city wasn’t really a problem, but once we were there we had a hell of a time finding the place. We walked through the city for a little while startling quite a few people at the sight of two Wazungus without cars in Nairobi at night. After asking for directions from various people and calling Simon’s friend, we finally found a matatu to take us to the part of town we were looking for. Upon arriving, we exited and followed a complete stranger down some poorly lit streets before he left us and pointed us in the right direction down some more poorly lit streets. But he comforted us saying that we were in an upscale part of town…yeah, cool dude but shit happens everywhere otherwise there wouldn’t be 20’ high electrified and fortified fences all around.
Well we made it to the restaurant safely and just in time to leave. Darn, we were planning on having supper there. And we missed a full goat that was prepared for the party. Double darn. We were then told by Simon’s friend to get a ride to the nightclub with a friend of hers whom we weren’t introduced to. Time to put on the charm. We introduced ourselves just outside of the restaurant and snatched a ride. The place looked like it was going to cost a fortune to get into, bust surprisingly there wasn’t a covercharge! We went in and ended up standing at one end of the bar while watching yet another soccer match. Most of the other white people in the group were dancing albeit with their significant others or in the single sex groups that I haven’t seen since high school.
Just as we were warming up to the place and the 80 db speaker right next to the table, the group decided to leave and go upstairs. We followed suit hoping for greener pastures only to find out that they weren’t so green after all. The place was packed and probably would have been fun had we been in a different mood. But it seemed like everyone there was with someone else so Simon and I decided to split and head back to the other place.
It turned out being the smart move as we made a few friends who were celebrating a birthday. By that point we were ready to dance again and drew the eyes of just about everyone in the place at one point or another. I think we don’t like sharing the spotlight with other Wazungu. Besides we are the only young white guys that we have seen dancing without white girls…claim to fame and dirty looks from the Kenyan stags everywhere because the girls are always watching us!
Later that afternoon, Simon received a text from a friend saying that she was having a going away party in uptown downtown Nairobi. And we remembered that we were meeting Vincent from work for a few beers later that evening. So we slow-played everything and ended up leaving to meet Vincent at 6, the start time of the Arsenal match (Simon’s team). He showed up at 7…grr. He had been drinking since noon and was in a very funny state when he arrived. The entire time he was going off on some funny tangents about experiences and what to do or not to do and his life… Simon had a longer attention span than I did. I could keep up for about 3 minutes or so before focusing on the soccer game. Well there was also that girl from the night before…just like the movies, she texted back! Let the texting commence. And let me tell you, be thankful for having the free unlimited texting options because when you don’t it costs $$$, well not too much but it is a hassle to have to go out and buy credits every few days.
Simon and I left after the match amidst Vincent trying to set up a waitress with Simon. We made it back to the house and then decided to head into Nairobi. Getting to the city wasn’t really a problem, but once we were there we had a hell of a time finding the place. We walked through the city for a little while startling quite a few people at the sight of two Wazungus without cars in Nairobi at night. After asking for directions from various people and calling Simon’s friend, we finally found a matatu to take us to the part of town we were looking for. Upon arriving, we exited and followed a complete stranger down some poorly lit streets before he left us and pointed us in the right direction down some more poorly lit streets. But he comforted us saying that we were in an upscale part of town…yeah, cool dude but shit happens everywhere otherwise there wouldn’t be 20’ high electrified and fortified fences all around.
Well we made it to the restaurant safely and just in time to leave. Darn, we were planning on having supper there. And we missed a full goat that was prepared for the party. Double darn. We were then told by Simon’s friend to get a ride to the nightclub with a friend of hers whom we weren’t introduced to. Time to put on the charm. We introduced ourselves just outside of the restaurant and snatched a ride. The place looked like it was going to cost a fortune to get into, bust surprisingly there wasn’t a covercharge! We went in and ended up standing at one end of the bar while watching yet another soccer match. Most of the other white people in the group were dancing albeit with their significant others or in the single sex groups that I haven’t seen since high school.
Just as we were warming up to the place and the 80 db speaker right next to the table, the group decided to leave and go upstairs. We followed suit hoping for greener pastures only to find out that they weren’t so green after all. The place was packed and probably would have been fun had we been in a different mood. But it seemed like everyone there was with someone else so Simon and I decided to split and head back to the other place.
It turned out being the smart move as we made a few friends who were celebrating a birthday. By that point we were ready to dance again and drew the eyes of just about everyone in the place at one point or another. I think we don’t like sharing the spotlight with other Wazungu. Besides we are the only young white guys that we have seen dancing without white girls…claim to fame and dirty looks from the Kenyan stags everywhere because the girls are always watching us!
Marathoning
Before I arrived in Kenya, Simon made a friend named John who frequents the local bar regularly. Now, John is a very big man both influentially and physically. And he loves to buy alcohol for friends. Simon already knew this very well, but I was introduced to it just this past Friday. We had crossed paths earlier in the week when he mentioned that he would like to take us out to supper on Friday. We obliged him and before you know it Friday was upon us. We had planned to meet at 7, which typically would mean that we would be eating around 7:30 or 8ish. Not that night! Meeting at 7 meant lets sit down and drink for 2 hours on empty stomachs and then drive to a restaurant. We were beginning to wonder if we would make it through the night.
Just before leaving the bar I ordered a bottle of water, which did both of us wonders in terms of prolonging our ability to oblige the free drinks being bought for us. We made it to the restaurant, which conveniently had a butcher shop in the front end, or was that just the kitchen? Anyhow, John picked out a goat leg, an entire freaking goat leg and asked us how it looked. Ha, I have never seen such a good-looking piece of meat in Africa. An entire freaking goat leg. We then walked through the maize of tables and minibars before settling at the main bar that was close to the live musician who was filling our ears with upbeat Swahili dance songs.
At the bar, we continued drinking still with no food in our stomachs. And then out of nowhere this other woman comes up to us and sits down next to me (turns out it was John’s mistress). Not wanting to draw anymore attention to our little party he decided to have her sit next to me so that the attention wouldn’t be focused on him. Ok, I see where he was coming from, but its kind of hard not draw attention to yourself by bringing two white guys into an upscale late-night restaurant. Fortune favored me this night though. Simon and I had previously discussed the tactics of life. Given two options….take the funnier one. Well John’s mistress wanted to dance, but he didn’t want to so she grabbed my hand and he told me to go! Now imagine this scene: Kenyan nightclub with a central dance floor where there are currently two people dancing and then this 22 year old Mzungu walks out into the middle of the floor with a 40 somethin’ year old woman who weighs about two of him. Needless to say, eyes were fixated. Thank God for liquid courage.
Simon followed suit a few songs later upon my return to the bar for refueling purposes. After an hour or so of this, and still no food, we made our way up to the upper level bar where some of John’s other friends were waiting for us. We drank some more there and then danced more. I threw another bottle of water in there just for kicks as I didn’t really see it doing much at the time, but it was probably a life-saver. Around that time John found another woman for me to dance with, a seemingly drunk manager of the restaurant who had her eyes set on something that she definitely wasn’t going to get. Coincidentally, right before we started dancing I tried to get up to go to the bathroom before getting corralled to the dance floor by the manager. So all the while I was trying to find an exit clause…Enter Simon. He saw that I was somewhat distraught, which I must say doesn’t happen to often anymore, and came down to run interference. I made my escape and then returned to the floor looking to get him out of the same predicament. Then I spotted a few girls that we had been casually keeping tabs on. Bingo! I went up and started dancing with them and then spun around grabbed Simon away from another woman who had taken the place of the manager and threw him into the mix of girls. They happened to all be sisters and their older brother and I had a kind of dance off after I saw him trying to get some candids of the mzungu dancing with his sisters. It was straight out of a movie and it was great. The musician then decided to take a break so we returned to our lookout point with John at roughly the same time that the food arrived, midnight. Better late than never I always say. We downed the food and had room for the rest of the goat, but decided not to push our luck as it had been a great evening thus far. We continued drinking and talking and dancing until around 4am, yes we drank nonstop for 9 count it 9 hours. And it was all free. Boom Roasted.
We finally wrapped things up, but before we left I had to take the funnier of two options. I found a napkin, wrote down my name and number, coolly swagged my way across the dance floor and handed it to the girl I was dancing with amid the surprise laughter of all of her sisters, turned around and powerwalked my way to a laughing Simon and went to the car. We got in and then began thinking that we were getting into a car with some very big men who had been drinking for the better part of a day and were about to drive on a dangerous road under construction in the middle of the night. We strapped in, real tight. Luckily our host was of the same mindset and decided to take the back roads, which gave us some comfort aside from the fact that we did think at one point that we could possibly have been abducted just as easily as returned to the Amani Center.
Well we weren’t and we made it back safely. Then I decided to start skyping people, always a good time especially when it doesn’t cost anything (assist to Google). If you got a call from a number in California or a garbled message that cuts in and out…Pole (sorry ‘kind of’ in Kiswahili). I think I made it to bed around 5.
Just before leaving the bar I ordered a bottle of water, which did both of us wonders in terms of prolonging our ability to oblige the free drinks being bought for us. We made it to the restaurant, which conveniently had a butcher shop in the front end, or was that just the kitchen? Anyhow, John picked out a goat leg, an entire freaking goat leg and asked us how it looked. Ha, I have never seen such a good-looking piece of meat in Africa. An entire freaking goat leg. We then walked through the maize of tables and minibars before settling at the main bar that was close to the live musician who was filling our ears with upbeat Swahili dance songs.
At the bar, we continued drinking still with no food in our stomachs. And then out of nowhere this other woman comes up to us and sits down next to me (turns out it was John’s mistress). Not wanting to draw anymore attention to our little party he decided to have her sit next to me so that the attention wouldn’t be focused on him. Ok, I see where he was coming from, but its kind of hard not draw attention to yourself by bringing two white guys into an upscale late-night restaurant. Fortune favored me this night though. Simon and I had previously discussed the tactics of life. Given two options….take the funnier one. Well John’s mistress wanted to dance, but he didn’t want to so she grabbed my hand and he told me to go! Now imagine this scene: Kenyan nightclub with a central dance floor where there are currently two people dancing and then this 22 year old Mzungu walks out into the middle of the floor with a 40 somethin’ year old woman who weighs about two of him. Needless to say, eyes were fixated. Thank God for liquid courage.
Simon followed suit a few songs later upon my return to the bar for refueling purposes. After an hour or so of this, and still no food, we made our way up to the upper level bar where some of John’s other friends were waiting for us. We drank some more there and then danced more. I threw another bottle of water in there just for kicks as I didn’t really see it doing much at the time, but it was probably a life-saver. Around that time John found another woman for me to dance with, a seemingly drunk manager of the restaurant who had her eyes set on something that she definitely wasn’t going to get. Coincidentally, right before we started dancing I tried to get up to go to the bathroom before getting corralled to the dance floor by the manager. So all the while I was trying to find an exit clause…Enter Simon. He saw that I was somewhat distraught, which I must say doesn’t happen to often anymore, and came down to run interference. I made my escape and then returned to the floor looking to get him out of the same predicament. Then I spotted a few girls that we had been casually keeping tabs on. Bingo! I went up and started dancing with them and then spun around grabbed Simon away from another woman who had taken the place of the manager and threw him into the mix of girls. They happened to all be sisters and their older brother and I had a kind of dance off after I saw him trying to get some candids of the mzungu dancing with his sisters. It was straight out of a movie and it was great. The musician then decided to take a break so we returned to our lookout point with John at roughly the same time that the food arrived, midnight. Better late than never I always say. We downed the food and had room for the rest of the goat, but decided not to push our luck as it had been a great evening thus far. We continued drinking and talking and dancing until around 4am, yes we drank nonstop for 9 count it 9 hours. And it was all free. Boom Roasted.
We finally wrapped things up, but before we left I had to take the funnier of two options. I found a napkin, wrote down my name and number, coolly swagged my way across the dance floor and handed it to the girl I was dancing with amid the surprise laughter of all of her sisters, turned around and powerwalked my way to a laughing Simon and went to the car. We got in and then began thinking that we were getting into a car with some very big men who had been drinking for the better part of a day and were about to drive on a dangerous road under construction in the middle of the night. We strapped in, real tight. Luckily our host was of the same mindset and decided to take the back roads, which gave us some comfort aside from the fact that we did think at one point that we could possibly have been abducted just as easily as returned to the Amani Center.
Well we weren’t and we made it back safely. Then I decided to start skyping people, always a good time especially when it doesn’t cost anything (assist to Google). If you got a call from a number in California or a garbled message that cuts in and out…Pole (sorry ‘kind of’ in Kiswahili). I think I made it to bed around 5.
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