Lamu

Lamu.
Estimated Time of Arrival: 2.00pm
Actual Time of Arrival: 7.00pm
I can’t bring myself to say anything more than very bumpy road, a long route through many tiny villages and many farmers on a bus.
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The information that most of Lamu was dry and that we would have to take a boat to the nearest licensed premises did not go down well. However, after a night’s sleep, we all felt a lot more positive towards Lamu. (We later discovered that alcohol is very available – it just costs a tad more)
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If I am still single when I am 60, I will move to Lamu, take over the donkey sanctuary and hook up with a beach boy. It feels good to have a life plan in place.
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Lamu town is wonderfully run-down and ramshackle. Every so often, you have to move aside to allow a trotting donkey pass by. From the rooftop bar of one of the only licensed hotels, you get a great view of the old Swahili houses, the dhows sailing on the channel and people passing by. As it was low season, locals still managed to outnumber Muzungus. There’s no motorised transport on the island, so if you want to get around you can either hop on a boat or a donkey. I decided to spare the donkeys the trauma, so either walked or used the boats.
Shela village is a refurbished and regentrified version of Lamu Town. Many people have summer beach houses there and have restored them to their former glory. The buildings are pristine and many new buildings, in a sympathetic style, are cropping up. The beach is wild, windy and desolate, backed up with sand dunes and goes on for an impressive 12km or so. The tide also seems to come in at a rapid pace, as I learnt to my cost as I managed to lose my camera to the sea.
Happy days were spent, often revolving around stopping for lunch and dinner. We became regulars at Whisper’s Coffee Shop, sampling all of the delicious cakes and enjoying the shady courtyard. I caught up with some old friends I worked with in Colombia, exchanged stories as we chatted with a glass of wine … or 8 we think it may have been at last count.
Lamu is definitely worth a visit … but make sure you fly!

It's not the destination, it's the journey ... yeah, whatever!

I no longer subscribe to the student myth that a journey is only worthwhile if it is a long and painful endurance test. I much prefer a flight and a comfortable bed. However, my budget does not always stretch to the idealised Condé Nast style of travel I dream of having one day, so every now and again, I have to suck it up and take the local transport. Of course it will always provide you with anecdotes, but are the stories worth the back-ache?
In Colonial times, the British sent thousands and thousands of Indian workers to East Africa to build a railway all the way from Kampala to Mombasa. These days, passengers can only travel from Nairobi to Mombasa, although the line to Kampala is still used for freight. The idea of travelling through Kenya on a train in a special compartment was appealing and is definitely worth a try – but just the once! We arrived at the train station in Nairobi to find it looked pretty much the same as any British railway station – well perhaps 50 years ago! Tickets checked, we boarded the train and slowly chugged out of the station. A porter came by and unwrapped a special kit bag with our blankets, sheets and pillows and made our beds. We were contented, thinking we had definitely found the ideal way of travelling through Africa – all the beauty and none of the discomfort! A few hours into the journey, the dinner bell rang and we headed for the buffet cart. As Second Class passengers we discovered that we were not entitled to a fresh table cloth. (Second class on grounds that the compartments hold 4 people instead of 2 and we were a group of 3, rather than second class on grounds of being tight-fisted). I later berated a friend who was travelling First Class for making such a mess whilst eating, but she complained that they were forced to rush their dinners in order to make room for the people in the second sitting. As the soup arrived, the train ground to a halt. My friend commented that it was very considerate of them to stop the train so we could enjoy our dinner without fear of slopping soup or stew down our clothes …Two minutes later came the announcement that a cargo train had derailed further down the track and that we would have to wait until somebody arrived from Nairobi to clear it before we could continue and that we should expect a delay of around 4 hours. 6 hours later, at 3am, we set off again. We weren’t worried though – we were comfortable in our beds and slept soundly during the wait.
In the morning we awoke to a fabulous sunrise overlooking Tsavo National Park (we think – if not, then something similar). We gazed out of the windows, looking out for any wildlife and we were in luck. We saw several goats and a herd of cows. The journey was still enjoyable and comfortable. After breakfast, we headed back to our carriage and relaxed some more. Then we started to notice the smell of diesel was getting a little stronger. We dutifully ignored it until we stopped again. We were right to be concerned – the underneath of our carriage was on fire! I get the feeling that these incidents are pretty run of the mill. The staff found that the brakes were jammed, removed the offending dust or whatever it was, squirted the fire extinguisher until the flames were doused and off we went again.
After something like 22 hours, we arrived in Mombasa. I have to say the approach was not the most scenic or fragrant, as we passed by the most enormous rubbish dump I have ever seen. But we knew we were heading for Watamu – and that’s another story!

Welcome to the future ... welcome to Nairobi

Nairobi gets a bad press. Its reputation for crime has earned it the nickname 'Nai-robbery' and neighbourly rivallry means Ugandans don't speak particularly highly of it (and vice versa we discovered - I became quite defensive of my adopted country!). If you read the Lonely Planet, then it advises you to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.
We spent a couple of nights there before boarding the train to Mombasa and I have to say I was more than pleasantly surprised. As you leave the airport, a shiny modern car takes you along a smooth 3 lane dual-carriage way into the city. Nairobi is a pillar of organisation compared to Kampala. I am ashamed to say that after living in Kampala for 2 years, I have never used a matatu. Not a single journey. On Day One in Nairobi, I was hopping on and off the buses like a local, taking advantage of the neatly painted signs on the sides of the buses and standing in the designated spot in the signed and official bus stop. Much easier than trying to decipher rapid fire Luganda!
The supermarket Nakumatt offered a dizzying range of products which left us Kampalarites awe-struck - ready-made hummus, aubergine dip, Dorset muesli, freshly baked granary bread topped with sunflower seeds, Philadelphia, cheddar cheese with a real bite to it, a whole range of lip balms and many more. I'm even considering taking a mini-break to Nairobi just to stock up on goodies!
Nairobi has all mod-cons. I bathed under an electric shower, a real one, not the Bolivian type that gives you an electric shock if youput your hand too close to the control unit. There are washing machines and vacuum cleaners and all sorts of gadgets - crikey if I lived in Nairobi I may not have enough excuses to have a maid!
Central Nairobi seems calm and collected. Even in the rush hour, the drivers keep their cool, patiently waiting to get through the throngs of traffic. I certainly didn't miss the honking of the horns. People dress smartly and walk briskly with a purpose. The city centre has wide roads and none of the litter thant plagues Kampala. It is pleasant to see and shows a pride in where they live.
Then there is the 'Little England' of Karen, the suburb named after Karen Blixen, author of 'Out of Africa'. This is true Muzungu Land, with a couple of buses passing through now and again to transport the hoards of askaris, maids, cooks, gardeners and other staff of the privileged few. The tree lined avenues hide the mansions that lie behind and signs point towards horse riding schools, private country clubs and exclusive restaurants. Oh to live in Karen ... I am starting to feel hard done by!

A fond farewell

If you think that airports are full of displays of raw emotion, then you haven’t been to an international school at the end of the year. As the learning grinds to a stop and the games and parties commence, the children and teachers prepare themselves to say goodbye to good friends and colleagues. The end of the school year always comes with a mixture of emotions – sheer exhaustion from a year’s hard work, relief and anticipation of holidays and reunions with loved ones, coupled with the feeling of the end of an era. Primary school teachers spend all day every day with their classes and strong bonds are formed with the children. It’s an almost family like relationship – we may have a little moan about what Little Johnny did today in the confines of the staffroom, but woe betide anybody else who dares to criticise Little Johnny!
Today was no exception. Even though we broke up at noon on a Wednesday, this week has seemed to drag on forever. The classroom has been stripped bare, we’ve played sports, painted and attempted to watch dvds – technology permitting. I have been lucky enough to receive well thought out gifts and cards with kind words about me. One letter in particular really upset me. I have a boy in my class who has a smile that would melt your heart. He loves nothing better than dancing and playing with his friends and has a heart the size of Lake Victoria. But … he can’t really sit still for very long and he can always find something else to do in class to avoid his work. His mum is an extremely busy lady, as the headmistress of a local school and his father is a well known pastor in Kampala. They mean well, but their methods are somewhat Victorian. This letter thanked me and blessed me for the work I had done with their child, before it went on to say that his behaviour was ‘the devil’s work’ and that she hoped that ‘God will reform him’. When I read this letter, I wished that somebody could reform his parents' views and help them say kind words to praise him and boost his self-esteem. However, I had to read the letter and carry on, with a smile pasted upon my face. On the same day, I received a touching card from a student, thanking me for boosting her confidence throughout the year. As always in this life I live, the lows balanced out with the highs.
This year, nobody in my class is leaving, but each year we say goodbye to students as they return to their home countries or embark on new adventures in unknown countries and continents. The children in our school are extremely resilient. They form new friendships quickly and always welcome newcomers with open arms. When they say goodbye, floods of tears are shed … but they recover quickly and continue with their lives.
We are also saying farewell to friends and colleagues today. No doubt more tears will be shed as we share memories and watch slideshows and videos recalling the past couple of years. I am saying goodbye to my flatmate and from August, will be living alone and hoping that somebody else will be there to rescue me from any scary rodents and to share a glass of wine at the end of a bad day. Our school will lose some very hardworking individuals who make it a better place. Meanwhile, we will also lose some close friends who have shared the experience that is Kampala with us over the past year or two.
I wish everyone who is leaving the best of luck. You will all be greatly missed and I hope that we can stay in touch. xxx

More malaria musings ...

I see from the news that I have started a bit of a trend and that Cheryl Cole caught malaria whilst on holiday in Tanzania. I would just like to say that I got it first and I did not copy her! I also noticed that the Guardian made a big boo boo and called it a virus - I knew better, that it was a parasite, and spotted later that they had realised their error and made a correction. God I am pedantic! It seems that the rich and famous are not above diseases and that the mozzies are indifferent as to whether they occupy slums or $1000 a night lodges. I was convinced that I had been bitten in Jinja whilst staying in the backpacker spot and that nothing untoward could possibly have happened whilst staying at the beautiful, more upmarket, Ndali Lodge!
I wonder how she would have got on if she caught malaria here. She is apparently spending a week under close supervision in a private hospital and is being given 3 weeks to recover. I was given a few packets of pills and told that as long as I didn't vomit I should be fine. When I returned a couple of days later, suffering from serious dehydration, I was told 'I told you so' by the ever grumblesome doctor. She gets to recuperate in her multi-million pound mansion which sounds a whole lot better than making a dent in your foam mattress. But then I am not as important as her - I don't have such an important job as judging the X-Factor, so of course I don't get such star treatment.

Pass the marigolds ...

Although I haven’t so much as flicked a feather duster around in the past four years, I find that cleaning is something I can not watch people do here. It is something that bothers me enough to make me leave a room, but not enough to motivate me to do the job myself! While I love returning home to find all my clothes neatly laundered and pressed and a sparklingly clean kitchen, I have sworn on several occasions, that I may well ditch teaching to set up a cleaning academy.
Let’s start with the greatest of the offences – mopping! I learnt at a young age, that to clean a floor effectively, all you need is the lightest drizzle of water and a strong dose of elbow grease. In Uganda, I find that elbow grease is in short supply and is substituted with copious amounts of detergent and enough water to cause a flood. The school cleaners can be relied upon to flood all available staircases just before break times and around home time, or any point in the day when human traffic is at its densest. I will never understand why they do not simply wait until all the people have passed through, but that would make far too much sense. Instead, they wait until the following morning, when the kids are pouring back into school, to clear up the muddy footprints … and make a few more in the process.
Now let’s move to the bathroom. This was always my most dreaded household chore. Ironing never bothered me, as you could always watch a film to pass the time and washing up in winter warms you up. However, I will never be able to shed the memories of cleaning out the feral shared bathrooms of student days. One of my pet hates is hair in the bath – it just makes my skin crawl, and even worse is hair in a plug hole. Just thinking about it makes me gag. I could just about cope with my own, but since I have dyed my hair brown, I even manage to freak myself out. I may have to go blonde again, if only for that reason. So it was inevitable that I would be number one customer for all of the disposable cleaning paraphernalia available in the UK. No need for skanky cloths or fetid toilet brushes – just throw on the rubber gloves, swish the ready-bleached cloth around and flush. All over and done with quite painlessly. None of this is available here and on occasion I cringe and wonder how many germs actually are killed in the cleaning process.
I recently discovered that my maid had been washing all the dishes and doing the laundry with cold water. Once upon a time, I would have refused to wash my underwear at any temperature below 60 °. Now I learn that everything, for almost two years, has been rinsed in cold water. I patiently explained that I would prefer her to heat the water and not to worry about the increased electricity bill.
I truly believe that this is one of the times when ignorance is bliss. I have not been struck down with disease and pestilence for not boiling the water and I have survived quite well in spite of a lack of disposable cleaning products. All of this is quite reassuring; after all I will not be able to afford domestic help when I finally return to the UK. Maybe all of this has made me immune to germs – meaning that I won’t need to bother doing any cleaning in the first place!