Nairobi and Hargeisa

It was a non-transition, in a way; arriving in Kenya felt very much like going into something normal. It had all the trappings of a big change: the many, frequently rushed goodbyes, packing my Limehouse room into two rucksacks and ferrying the remainder to my parents’ house, and flying for many hours with a stopover in Addis Ababa’s great pretender of an international airport, all generating an expectation that things would feel adventurous.

Arriving in Nairobi felt, therefore, unbalancingly routine. Perhaps this was hardly surprising given that I’d lived there for several months not very long ago, and was even living in a familiar area of town. The traffic was still terrible, the wealth divide still stark, the people still laughing. October is a lovely time of year to arrive, not too hot, lilac jacaranda lining the streets and not yet wilting, the giant carapace of the sky clear and blue as jazz. It was good to be back.

I now stay in a guesthouse owned by my employer and share with up to five others, depending on how many people are passing through Nairobi in a given week. As one of only two long-termers it has the feel of living in a hotel, with the attendant perks and drawbacks. I was initially put in a bedroom without access to a bathroom, and it took delicate negotiations with Agnes, the clipped and impenetrable bookings secretary, to move into one of the better rooms. After two weeks of increasingly pointed discussions she moved me into something that is not so much a room as a wing, with a balcony the size of some of the spaces I lived in in London and a family-size bathroom. I was mollified.

My work was slightly unclear to me before leaving UK, and I’m conscious therefore that many of you aren’t sure what exactly it is I’m doing. Let me explain.

I work for Danish Demining Group, a subsidiary of the better-known Danish Refugee Council. DRC focuses on refugees and migration, while DDG focuses on the causes of migration and displacement, especially armed conflict. As well as its eponymous demining wing, DDG has an armed violence reduction wing, which is where I work.

My project is looking at armed violence reduction specifically in relation to border areas in the Horn of Africa. The logic of treating borderlands as areas of particular interest has three explanations: one, Western donors are presently very concerned with international migration, for obvious reasons, of which border crossing in eastern Africa is an important locus. Two, many eastern African countries have recently discovered oil reserves in their hinterlands. Vast tracts of territory that since independence had not been worth governmental attention are suddenly the subject of sharp contestation. Three, border areas are crucial in regional terrorism dynamics, especially with regards to Somalia’s Shabaab.

At present I’m concentrating on the Kenya-Somalia-Ethiopia border, known as the Mandera Triangle, and the Kenya-Uganda border, known as the Karamoja Cluster. Until January, my job is to collate DDG’s institutional knowledge on border security and management and publicise it on a standalone website. The idea is that any organisation interested in border issues will be able to quickly see who’s doing what where, and identify gaps and opportunities to work together.

I now work in the office, unlike my last time when I worked from home. I much prefer it: meeting people, attending staff meetings, and just being around is much more three-dimensional than sitting alone at my kitchen table all day. It does bring challenges though. Malcolm Gladwell talks in his book Outliers about something called the “power distance index”. The power distance refers to how directly subordinates are culturally permitted to challenge superiors. In the USA, and to a similar extent Britain, speaking your mind directly is basically encouraged, especially in the world of work. If you spot a mistake, you are normally expected to report it; if your boss tells you to do something that you can see a weakness or oversight in, it normally reflects well on you to raise it with him or her. The power distance in these cultures is short, and these countries are near the bottom of the index. According to Gladwell, in places such as Korea and Colombia the power distance is much greater, and dealing with tricky work situations must be done far more circumspectly.

I don’t know how much the index is accepted social science, but it’s a useful way of framing differing cultural norms. I would say that Kenya is nearer the top of the index than the bottom, and it’s taking more getting used to than I might have thought. For example, Veronica has my key to my office. She knows that I need it. My assumption is that she will find me and give it to me. This is not the case: she will wait respectfully with the key until I go and ask her for it, even if I don’t know that it exists and spend three weeks politely asking my two office-mates if I can use theirs. In another example, I need to have a meeting with David, and offer him a time on Tuesday or Wednesday. Whichever I confirm, he says the other would be better. After several oscillations I conclude David is pitifully inept, before realising that suggesting another time is a polite way of saying he can’t do either.

In many ways it is learning a new language. My speaking and listening skills are still rudimentary, and the real target of my irritation should be my own literacy level, not the people whose language I’m learning.

For reasons like this my ex-flatmate Barbara, mercifully still in Nairobi, frequently chaperones me around the city in my non-work life, puncturing my vision of myself as a streetwise Nairobian blending perfectly into the crowd. On hearing I was going to a clothes market one weekend she insisted on joining me, and not only because she needed a new pair of work trousers. We wandered into the knotted centre of Toi Market where the cubicle stalls are so stacked with goods you can no longer see the stalls themselves at all, an entire geometry of Vietnamese apparel. Barbara ducked into a tunnel of khaki trousers and began full and frank discussions with its caretaker about the dimensions of her hips. She eventually found a pair that she liked but were too long in the heel. “No problem”, assured the vendor, “the tailor will adjust.”

“How much?” demanded Barbara.

“Very cheap,” evaded the vendor.

“How much?” Barbara called after his disappearing shoulder. “If I have to pay a hundred shillings for this because I’m with your lily-white butt I’m going to be furious,” she hissed at me.

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Later, hidden behind a curtain at the back of the stall, I took my jeans off and began trying on the pairs of work trousers that the vendor had given me. I had a paranoid fantasy of a terrorist choosing that exact moment to set off a bomb in the market and having to flee, my picture propelling me to international fame as the mzungu running away from the Toi Market Attacks in pink stripy boxers.

As well as Barbara I met up with a small handful of other old friends, hanging out in their flats or plunging into Nairobi’s glittering, pulsing nightlife. Nairobi’s affluent young are incredibly stylish, the first generation born and brought up in a black middle class and accordingly able to mix a deep exposure to Western fashion with the work of professional African designers. We drank cold beers in the warm nights, watching drunken old men dancing with the gorgeous hookers in the cantinas or going to rooftop bars resounding with Tanzanian r’n’b and Nigerian dance tracks.

After a month, I was sent on my first trip to another DDG office and made my first visit to Somaliland. I flew via Addis again, feeling smug at being part of the small crowd who transferred to a separate terminal for the Hargeisa flight and scowling at two blond tourists for making me look less intrepid.

East Africa is red and green: Somaliland is white. White sand, white walls, white dust, white goats. Hijabs shone turquoise, red, or golden like paint on canvas. There were few people on the streets, which were wide, and often gave onto areas of rubble or scrub with black plastic bags clinging to pointed surfaces. In the centre of town smartly painted banks and hospitals stood out against the weary housing blocks, no structure apart from the minarets rising more than two stories from the ground.

Hargeisa was bombed to the ground by Somali dictator Siad Barre in the late 1980s but won its freedom from him in 1991. It is an irony of the international system that Somaliland, with a bicameral parliament, multi-party elections, its own military, and an independent currency is recognised as a state by zero governments worldwide, while Somalia, barely able to pacify its own capital city since Barre’s demise, is recognised by every government in the world.

Concrete blast absorbers the size of hippos lined the entrance to every compound, watched over by guards dressed in fatigues and carrying old, wooden-stocked rifles. I didn’t see anyone else carrying a gun. We weren’t allowed out alone or after 9pm, and for the week I was there I saw only the office, the guesthouse, and the inside of a van with tinted windows. I went out once, to a shop, full of Turkish biscuits and fizzy drinks. The few photos I managed to take were snatched on the way to and from the airport from the back of the moving pick-up. It didn’t feel unsafe at all, and whether that validated or invalidated the pervasive security I couldn’t tell.

I spent a week there attending a security training. The corridors of the office were lined with disabled ordnance. The Somalilanders laughed a lot and talked more, naughtily picking up their phones and checking their emails despite being told repeatedly not to. They chewed gum with their mouths wide open, filling the lecture hall with obscene quiet squelching. I learned how to say hello and thank you in Somali and practiced frequently, but either my pronunciation was so bad or they were so unprepared for a white newcomer saying Somali words it never elicited a reaction. The men were either indifferent or would greet me with big grins and laugh at everything I said. I would reach towards the women for a handshake before their stillness would remind me. They must have thought an awkward half lurch was a traditional British greeting. In the guesthouse in the evenings I played with Ninja and Elan, the house cats, and watched movies or football with the expats.

In the airport at the end of the week, passengers’ bags were passed through four X-ray machines and our carry-on luggage was unpacked and searched through by hand. We were asked to switch every electronic item on and off in front of the security staff. The painstaking diligence was dispiriting and slow (why is there such a strong urge to get through bureaucracy even when there is only a waiting room on the other side?) but also faintly inspiring. Not just a national security incident but the reputation of a would-be nation is at stake in the security of Egal International, and if was my nation, I’d be diligent too.

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I landed in Kenya at 1.30 on Friday morning, not looking forward to catching the minibus to work at 7.30. As soon as I switched my phone on it chirped with a message from Safaricom, my Kenyan network provider: “Welcome home!” it smarmed. OK, I thought.

 

What I’m reading:

  • David Shields, Reality Hunger
  • Daniel Kahneman, Thinking, Fast and Slow
  • F Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night

What I’m listening to:

  • Ben Pearce, “What I Might Do”
  • Alice Coltrane, Journey in Satchidananda and P’tah the El Daoud
  • Nina Simone, “Ne Me Quitte Pas”
  • Serge Gainsbourg, Histoire de Melody Nelson
  • Arvo Part, Tabula Rasa

 

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October

I left almost all my jewellery at home when I moved to Mexico, so wandering through a market in the centro historico a couple of weeks ago I bought a cheap red cord bracelet, just to feel more comfortable with my wrists. As I explained to Maddy, my straight-talking Canadian friend, it only needs to last me a few months. She looked at me blankly and said, “you just paid ten pesos for a piece of string.”

Guadalajara is losing its shapelessness and beginning to reveal its nature. I have been stopped and asked for directions about five times now; usually, I make an entirely convincing tapatío – Guadalajaran – by saying “sorry, I have no idea,” and smiling. The bus routes and numbers are becoming more transparent by the week and crossing eight lanes of traffic to get to a corner shop is barely worth mentioning. I remember one afternoon on a bus back towards home, people packed in elbow to armpit. Two girls squeezed themselves in via the back door, instead of the approved driver’s one, and one of them conjured a note from her purse and handed it to the man next to her. He blinked and tapped an elbow near his nose, and I watched as the money was passed indifferently down the aisle and out of sight. Perhaps a minute later, a grubby hand waved two tickets and a bit of change in front of me. I picked a still moment to let go of the handrail, took the tickets and coins and passed them to the girls, patiently pressed against the door. I suspect for everyone else on that R-24 it was as forgettable as the daily commute, but in the evening sun I was quietly delighted to have been part of a group of complete strangers who had co-operated to help someone out. I planted my feet wide again against the swing of the bus, and wondered why that would never happen in Britain.

Living with an elderly couple has begun to take its toll. The bottom line is I have been treated very well, but too often I have to remind myself of it. Ruth has her moments – a car-ride involving Eminem comes to mind, as well as the time I returned home after an abortive attempt to meet up with some friends. “Nobody there,” I shrugged, irritated, confused, back two hours early. “What fuckers,” consoled Ruth in her most motherly tone. But she and Juarez are very set in their ways, and sometimes seem to be under the impression that I have come to Mexico in order to be convenient to their plans. Being told what to do and how to conduct myself is losing its charm by the day.

School continues to be frustratingly helpful, and I am encouraged to push myself out of the Spanish comfort zone I currently inhabit. I get by, day-to-day, without having to think about it very much, but I often rely on gist or context when someone is speaking quickly, or on a specific topic that I perhaps lack vocabulary for. I feel instead I ought to be using the opportunity of this year to be pushing for fluency. Newspapers are one method, having only really learned to speak and listen previously, so to be seeing the grammar and a greater variety of words in front of me is useful. I was fairly pleased with my first effort on an article about the dangers of being a paramedic in a state wracked by drug wars. One paragraph in particular has stuck with me: it was small, barely three lines, but I understood not one of the verbs used and few of the nouns. I almost skipped it, feeling perhaps it was not worth the effort, but reminded myself why I was reading at all and opened the dictionary. The words were “vest”, “obstruct”, “tilt”, and “explode”. The context was that a team of doctors were refusing protective vests because they would obstruct the operation. They were operating on a paramedic who had been hit by an explosive, and they were told by a military doctor they could not tilt her face because there was an unexploded piece of the grenade in it.

Violence in Mexico tends to dominate its popular image. Stories such as the one in my newspaper make it impossible to brush off, but perspective is often lacking. A friend of mine working here as a journalist writes that the murder rate in Mexico is lower than Honduras, El Salvador, Venezuela, Guatemala, Belize, Colombia, Brazil and Panama. Many US cities are statistically far more dangerous than Mexican counterparts. None of this, of course, makes Mexico any safer, but I do question why this country in particular has such a grisly reputation. My inner Orwell speculates at the extent to which America’s media, one weapon in its ever-more costly war on drugs, is responsible. GDA, thankfully, is a city rarely affected, and I for one feel equally as un/safe here as I did in the south of Leamington Spa.

School has also in these early weeks provided a useful platform for branching out of my district, with trips to the lucho libre and a local orphanage. I was uneasy about the orphanage and skipped the first two trips there, but last Thursday I had nothing else planned and was persuaded to join the group. We stayed for perhaps two and a half hours, mostly playing football and answering a hundred times the question “where are you from?” Later, the next day, I was part of a discussion about the pros and cons. One side argued that we as volunteers provided fun and attention, two things highly valuable to children under the age of twelve, and were not possibly doing any harm. The other side countered that actually all we were doing was making ourselves feel virtuous and were not making a real difference. My views on volunteering, and indeed aid work in general, are very much a grey area and I have sympathy for both views. My personal qualm is that if I was nine years old and had stories about shootings to tell to rich foreign youths, I would become attached to that youth far more than he or she would to me. If that youth then leaves after a couple of hours, or even a couple of months, I think perhaps I would be worse off than if they had not come. But I don’t know.

Lucho libre translates as “free wrestling”, but a more accurate name would be something like “highly disciplined full-contact gymnastics”. What I couldn’t work out was whether the whole thing was choreographed in advance or it was based on a system of “lead and follow” – I suspect the latter, firstly because there are three rounds of five or six minutes each, which would be a lot of moves to remember, and secondly because a lot of the action didn’t look to me too far removed from my salsa classes.

It sells itself on cheap beer, steroid-aided men being violent and plastic-abetted cheerleaders being provocative, but it’s pantomime. It is wholly, if not primarily, appropriate for children: I think the person who enjoyed the actual wrestling the most was the boy a few rows in front of me who couldn’t have been more than six. He watched agog the entire evening whilst occasionally putting his mother into a headlock when the excitement became too much. For the rest of us, the most entertainment was the hardcore section of the crowd. There were two tiers separated by a wire fence; the pobres sit behind the fence on concrete steps, higher and further away from ring. The ricos sit in the padded individual seats in front of the fence, level with the ring. The pobres stood, ignored the ring almost entirely, and tirelessly abused the lineage and inclinations of the ricos, who only occasionally were stirred into a retaliatory chant. I was reminded of Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch, in which he chews over the social curiosity of paying money to ignore a spectacle and instead bawl filthy songs at a group of people who have chosen to do exactly the same as you. In Britain the event tends to be football rather than wrestling, but the spirit is the same.

Football is taken very seriously in Mexico, to the point where even the Pan-American Games are unable to claim full attention on matchdays. I am currently writing with one eye on the clasico de clasicos, Mexico’s biggest domestic football game. Chivas, of Guadalajara, are away to América, of Mexico City, and with twenty minutes gone Chivas are 3 – 1 up. Ruth, in the La-Z Boy to my left, is supporting Mexico City because she doesn’t like Guadalajara and branded the last Chivas goalscorer a “bloody chav”. (My favorite player so far has been the América right-back, because his name is Shaggy Martínez.) The quality is not bad at all, but it is outweighed by emotion and there is more deliberate violence than in the Premiership.

Having the Games in the city has mostly affected the traffic. A fifteen- or twenty-minute bus ride now can take up to double that time due to street closures for road events or promotional stages. There are noticeably more white people around town, although not so much in my area. The atmosphere as far as I can gauge amongst the tapatíos is one of slightly stressful pride at being hosts, rather than excitement. I wonder how Londoners are feeling about the Olympics, and whether I will be landing in an airport there during the Games. There remains, however, a lot to be seen and learnt before then.