Going home

I have just three whole days left in Kenya… I cannot wait to see everyone and sleep in my own bed, but I’m not sure I quite feel finished with this place. Six months is a tricky amount of time it turns out. Just enough time to know how to get the right matatu and find the best place to buy cheap DVD’s. And to become friends with people beyond the stage where everyone is friendly to you just because you’re foreign, to actually being genuinely attached to people.

It helps that I’ve stopped needing to have my leg checked at the hospital every two days and that the climate is pretty perfect (if at times a smidge cold) at the moment. There aren’t many mozzies around and there are enough sunny hours every weekend to remember you’re still in Africa. I’ve been here long enough that I’m dressing like a normal person again, rather than the volunteer/colonial look I had going on in the beginning. You very quickly realise that living in Nairobi is basically the same as living in any major city, and there is no need for linen trousers and long sleeves. Most Nairobi girls run around in heels and skinny jeans, not long skirts and sandals. In fact almost every time we’ve gone out we’ve felt pretty underdressed compared to the immaculate Kenyan twenty somethings who make us look like scruffy students.

I’m going to miss the music which five months ago sounded all the same and now we find ourselves searching for on youtube. Bus journeys at home are going to seem deathly dull compared to the bumpy tummy turning matatu rides. Although I’m pretty bored of stew, rice and beans I’m going to miss cheap fruit and vegetables and the availability of everything everywhere- stalls line nearly every street and you’re never far from whatever you need. Unless you’re in Buru Buru and happen to be needing a latte or nice sandwich. But even there we tracked down a decent pizza place.

Some things remain just as baffling as the day I arrived though. I have made a pitiful attempt at learning Swahili for which there really is no excuse, living with Kenyans who constantly talk to one another in Swahili. And apart from actual different languages, there are so many other small rules of communication in Nairobi that I can’t imagine as an outsider ever grasping. And I don’t think we have an equivalent in the UK. Sometimes tribe matters, sometimes the area of Nairobi you live in matters, sometimes where your family are from, sometimes how you dress, sometimes how good your English is, sometimes the colour of your skin, if you look Somali, if you look West African, if you know the latest slang, if you know policemen, if you have mzungu friends, if you have connections in high places, if you have friends in dangerous places… more factors than I could attempt to understand. And I'm probably wrong about most of those above. Most simply put, you have to be street wise. And being street wise is complicated, and different depending on which street you‘re standing in.

As much as we whinge about how much hassle we get being mzungus in Kenya and the attention we get, I suspect it’s probably simpler than being Kenyan in Nairobi. Most of the time for us it’s pretty simple. The majority of people ’hassling’ us just want to say hello, quite a lot of people want you to give them money or buy them something, a few want you to find them a job in your country and a handful actually want to steal from you. Sometimes it can be hard knowing the people who just want to be your friend for normal reasons. It’s not clear cut either, many people who I consider friends still ask me for things and expect me to help them more than I am able to. But even that is different here. It is normal for an average Kenyan family to receive several cards in a week from friends asking for contributions to their wedding/daughter’s university fees/father’s operation. It’s the spirit of ‘Harambee’, of people all pulling together, which helps most people live their lives. And no matter how little you have, you contribute something. Why shouldn’t they ask me too?

A couple of weeks ago I travelled back to Butere with Angelina. When we arrived we were shocked to hear that one of the students had just that day suddenly passed away. Nancy was only in her early thirties and had two small children. Her husband was unemployed and had not paid a dowry for her, as he couldn’t afford it. Unless he paid the dowry to her parents, he would not be allowed to bury her and she would have to be buried by her parents. For the funeral, a new dress for Nancy was a necessity and also new clothes for her husband and children. A coffin alone would cost a lot of money. And so the day after we arrived, we all sat around the office and decided what everyone would contribute. The tailoring teacher would buy material to make the dress Nancy would be buried in and they would buy new clothes for her family. Later we heard that everyone chipped in so that he could pay the dowry - some money and a few cows- to her parents. Elizabeth put it this way- ‘Now, no one is bothered by me. If I die? Eh! they will appreciate me…’

I am going to miss this confusing place, it would be nice to transport all of the people I met back to Scotland with me. But I know I'll come back one day, and I'll leave my safari hat at home next time.