December Flowers

Merry Christmas!

Still Morning

It could almost be Japan.

These tiny boats take up position on the lake at dawn, fishing until late afternoon for tilapia and black bass.

Occasionally, if there is wind in the right direction, they hoist a dhow-like sail.

Folk

(click on sketch to enlarge)

staying on

white hunter

weeding

performing in The Mall

business lunch

rocking on down to Kongoni

the Mrs Singhs go Christmas shopping

A Visit to the Metropolis

Thursday, and we arrive at the Westgate Mall in time for lunch. (It takes a while to register – what with the heat beating outside in an iris blue sky  – that the mall is in festive mode: trees twinkle at every corner, scarlet nylon swags along the entire length of every balcony, fairy lights dangle from truly dizzy heights). A bit of a united nations sort of place, as usual the Artcaffé is packed with all sorts – scoffing away, chatting & joking, flirting & admonishing, wheeling and dealing, mobiles ringing, laptops vying for space amongst cutlery and glasses on tables. The interior is cool and dim, sparkling with ‘brasserie-chic’, but we choose a table on the terrace overlooking the street, beneath vast umbrellas, where the music is subdued. I gaze out into the buzzing sunlight and think about my daughters, the younger of whom is twenty-two today. We try to phone but as usual she does not pick up.

Nairobi being the place to get things done and pick things up, one’s list of jobs may have grown over many days, even weeks, to become extensive and diverse. It’s wise, therefore, before launching into the traffic, to make a plan. We duly consult today’s list of jobs, finding that as well as the bank, Safari.com, Nakumatt and the pharmacy, we need to pay a visit to Kapu Wazir, mechanics and purveyors of automobile parts. I’m quite pleased. There is something about driving across town, deep into the maze of unmade roads (often with kerbstones abutting packed red earth – no pavements) many with Asian names, the muddle of warehouses with rundown fronts (through which one may catch a glimpse of state-of-the art-machinery), interspersed with swanky showrooms displaying the latest in Land Rover, Mitsubishi, Toyota, Suzuki: trucks with massive wheels and dust-caked windscreens, parked perilously alongside high-end saloon cars. We pass an elderly gentleman in embroidered fez and immaculate white robe, leaving his brand new Mercedes (perhaps paying a visit, unannounced, to his business premises) and trailed by a little princess of a girl not more than three years old, exquisitely got up in bejewelled fuschia silk, her birdlike arms stacked to the elbow with gold bangles. “Top drawer!” says David, admiringly.

There is also something in the meeting of smells – heat and grease and chemicals, and in the hive of industriousness, with everyone cheerfully engaged (for Africans often seem to possess a keen aptitude for taking cars to bits and putting them together again), the never-missing-a-trick overseeing of the Indian proprietors in the background, polite and efficient customer service in the true & sensible sense of that term. Here, even the smallest requirement (in our case, just a few hundred shillings worth of spare lamps for the vehicle) can be met, and that peculiar blend of chaos and languor (some call it malaise) is conspicuous by its absence.

After that, its westward bound to look at the Muthaiga mini-market, quite close to the famous Muthaiga Club of Happy Valley renown, blah blah – though judging by the flash vehicles number-plated in red, the place is now patronised by NGOs and UN wives – indeed we spot a few of them in designer frocks and shades, indulging their offspring in the pizzeria, where a dozen waiters die of boredom as they wait about for lunchtime trade.

We are staying in a flat kindly lent by a friend who has gone up-country on safari. It is situated on the first floor of a small original block in the centre of the city close to the arboretum, which was set up in colonial times and planted with rare specimen trees from all over the Pacific. (We walk through it, but sadly it has somewhat gone down in the world). I can’t work out why this flat feels so familiar until it dawns on me that the leafy views through crittal windows, parquet floors and art deco style door furniture remind me of the 1930s maisonette where I lived in north London as a child: and at night, when lights from surrounding modern apartment blocks shine through the trees, bamboo & palms and cars come & go through security gates, it reminds me of where I lived, not far from the Bois de Boulogne, in Paris in the 1970s.

The next afternoon, we raid the bookshelves and discover a treasure trove of ‘old Africa’ books – early pioneers and settlers, colonialism, wildlife, hunting and safari – including a parchment coloured copy of something called,  ‘Colony and Protectorate of Kenya: The Origins and Growth of Mau Mau: An Historical Survey’. This is a Mr Corfield’s report, on behalf of the government of the day, on the origins and growth of Mau Mau. My avid friend devours it over the course of the late afternoon and evening, following me around and imparting large portions of it to me as I lay the table, prepare the food, cook the supper, set it down on the table, eat, clear away, and so on. It is riveting, if harrowing, listening. I resolve to read some modern African history.

On Saturday, I’m woken by the caretakers’ cockerel crowing at dawn, can’t get back to sleep and decide to make coffee. The milk is in the frig outside on the terrazzo landing, which means unlocking of bolts & padlocks. Outside on the staircase, the scents of red earth, (which seems to stain the very building, almost like Marrakech) and vegetation, compounded by a drumming sudden rain, rise up to meet me: and the clinks from a kitchen, an infant’s cry, a tinny radio, the distant hum of traffic reach me. Kate does not come in today, so we can make our own breakfast and enjoy it on the balcony, amid the red-billed fire finches and the red-cheeked cordon bleu birds tweeting and clowning for seed. It’s so soothing & reassuring here, and there is so much nagging away to be read; we decide to stay for one more day.

At lunchtime, we need to eat so drive out to Westlands again, where we find the shopping mall in a very different ‘Saturday mode’.  All the parents of teenage children in Nairobi must have dumped them there for the afternoon – every level is seething with adolescents engaged in showing out and showing off their labels. The rooftop parking lot is glittering with expensive cars, and every café and restaurant packed: it’s the start of the Christmas holiday and the mood is contagious, everyone seems relaxed, including me. I find a great bookshop, hitherto overlooked, called Savani’s – and over-indulge, but only one is non-fiction.

More Lion Pictures

I am not a lion! I’m an eland.

Flora, Fauna and Birdlife

Random images taken around here, in the Abedares and on the Mara. Once again, credit to Mathew Wyatt.

hyrax in the garden

hadada ibis

coypu, on the lake foreshore

sacred ibis

pelican

blue, white bearded wildebeest on the Mara

jackal

klipspringer

ostrich, on the Mara

Cokes hartebeet (Kongoni)

secretary bird

cornbill

another secretary bird

crocodile

impala

a fupi

a mango AND a fupi

sharing the job with the hyenas, cleaning up at the end

And A Little Night Drive

One evening we drive over to Crater Lake for sundowners. At the entrance, I’m vaguely aware of  a large group gathered beneath the tree but only one other vehicle in the car-park. As we set out on our walk one of the staff approaches us with a general warning about buffalo coming out of the bushes around the lake. By the time we’ve completed our circuit of the lake (me, somewhat more gingerly than usual), admired the flamingoes, finished our drinks at the bar above a roaring outdoor fire, and climbed back up the many steps (so many more on the return journey!) it’s dark.

Standing by his vehicle, surrounded by askaris including Rakwa carrying a rifle, is our landlord. A buffalo has attacked a local woman herding goats – tossing her around the bush and stamping on her ribcage or stomach, in so doing breaking several bones. Thought to be a lone bull still nearby in the bush, it needs to be found urgently. (Apparently, although unprovoked attacks on humans are relatively rare,  belligerence is a character trait that can become a habit or that may be passed on genetically, therefore exceptionally aggressive animals are best culled).

We’re invited to tag along. Tony drives and organizes, David sits in the passenger seat, while I climb into the back with Rakwa (although I don’t see much of him because his top half is out through the roof in order to direct the searchlight).

We head out into the dark, pushing through dense scrub. For a while, nothing we illuminate in our torch beams, is significant. Until finally, that black, primitive, cave-painting shape is spotted lurking in bush, on my side and slightly to the rear of the vehicle. We might so easily have missed him and truthfully a part of me (the silly townie part) has been hoping we would. The vehicle stops, the creature lowers his massive head, we stare at him for a moment as he stares back (I am thinking, as I’m sure is everyone else – but is it HIM?), the dull but deafening shot, (I look into my lap), the buffalo bellows and turns to blunder his last 30 metres into the dark. We leave as it is too dangerous to search on foot in the dark.

In the morning, I have a feint lingering unease about the buff but on our way back from our morning walk we run into Tony with Rakwa coming back, having found the buffalo dead in the bush, just a few metres from where he was shot.  They have already skinned and filleted part of him ready for the pot and distributed  the meat among the locals guys who live and work locally : clearly, they have no such hang-ups as I!

A Little Night Music

Jazz in Kenya? Or, what is good music for Africa? A very interesting question and one we asked ourselves when coming out here. All manner of classical music is prerequisite, obviously. From Mozart and the Tchaikovsky ballet suites to Yoyo Ma’s Elgar and Julian Lloyd Webber’s Brahms. Also, songs from the Auvergne and the haunting John Barry soundtrack from the film ‘Out of Africa’ – (corny, obvious, perhaps, but when selecting music for the cremation services of both my parents in recent years, for me nothing could beat,  I Have A Story for You. And,  I’m Better At Hello.

But what about so-called easy listening? Something light to toss a salad, pop a cork (or flip a bottle-cap) or cook up a stir-fry to? Natural sounds, especially night-sounds, of wildlife are evocative and unforgettable – cicadas, frogs (if you’re somewhere wet), hyena, birdcall, hippo – but after a while they become no less for it but, well, just the natural background like any other. So, David downloaded onto his laptop a selection of the jazz (and blues and other) that we play at home and hoped for the best. It sounds, not inappropriate, but just as good out here. These are just a few favourites and, dare I say, recommendations, if anyone is interested:

Nancy Wilson, Chet Baker, Ben Webster, BB King, Cleo Laine, Kenny Burrell, Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Peggy Lee, Charlie Parker, Jeff Buckley, Sinatra, Miles Davis, Nina Simone, Suba, Art Blakey, Nigel Kennedy, John Coltrane, Grant Green, Amy Winehouse, The Commitments, Tony Bennett, Lorraine Ellison, Ken Peplowski, Duffy, Ali Farka Toure, Dusty Springfield, The Everly Brothers, Gilbero Gil, Herbie Hancock, Aretha Franklyn, Bebel Gilberto, The Buena Vista Social Club, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Macy Gray, Ella Fitzgerald, Francoise Hardy, Isaac Hayes, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Alexis Korner, Bobby Gentry, Benny Morton, Benny Goodman, Big Bill Broonzy, Bill Evans, Sonny Boy Williamson, Anita O’Day, Sandy Denny, Benny Green, Bo Diddley, The Yardbirds, The Rolling Stones, Eric Dolphy, Dave Douglas, Sam Dees, Eric Clapton, Long John Baldry, Nick Drake, The Drifters, and so on….

Anyway, we have put ‘jazz’ to the test of approval from the natives. Two – occasionally three – genets (Matski called them, ‘The Janets’) visit us almost every evening. We think they live in caves nearby. Inquisitiveness first brought them to the veranda over a year ago and they soon learned to beg for the small chunks of beef and cheese on offer. After the six month break they returned. Now, they arrive soon after dark, eat well, then settle like cats (or camels) on the grass – if its windy they’re more twitchy and might sit on the branch of the tree – where they linger until we shut up shop and retire to bed. Food is clearly the main attraction, but supper is over and cleared away long before they leave. Like cats (in fact, they’re not cats, but related to the mongoose family) they seem to recognise and enjoy – almost soak-up – the atmosphere of domesticity and security: the companionship, the sounds of voices quietly droning on, and the jazz softly spilling from within the candle-lit cottage. As they sit there, ever-alert ears swivelling this way and that to catch the slightest warning sound, eyes smiling, tummies obviously savouring the sensation of fullness, they look so temptingly pick-up-able! We are obviously frustrated. We even call them ‘the Flukes’ because they remind us of our brother & sister Bengal cats, Phoebe (The Phebe) and Luca (best known as Baggy, for his beautiful pelt), left behind in Islington with our daughter, Jesse.

Baggy & The Phebe

Plain Days Like These

When my daughter was about three, a rather grand London acquaintance (with whom I was hoping to do some business) came to visit. Over tea and pastries, the conversation centred on her profession, which was publishing, and my daughter got bored and began hauling items out of the clean-laundry basket. Evidently her talent for narrative was already emerging, because she placed the family underwear on the dining table in front of our guest with a lively running commentary. “Mummy’s bra – Mmm pretty lace-y, huh?” … “And here are Daddy’s stripey pants. They’re smart, aren’t they? Except – look hole!”…. “Jessica’s – with Eyeore on.”… “And look! MY pink flowery knickers. Nice, really really nice!” At last, she came upon mine, which were black Sloggis, featureless and clearly a disappointment. “And Mum’s pants. Rather plain”.

Grand Acquaintance did not miss a beat. “O well,” she said, drolly. “Plain pants, for plain days.”

Ever since, ‘plain days’ in our house have meant times when nothing out of the ordinary happens. (Of course, the visitor became my good friend).

Many folk here get up with the dawn – safari types have to and it’s certainly worth watching – but often I’m woken at 7am by Samuel, stoking up the wood burning stove in the backyard beyond my window, after which he opens up the doors and clatters about in the kitchen. If I am already awake reading or on my laptop I still remain in my bedroom so as to abide by the morning ritual until he finally makes the announcement, with a flourish, from the end of the passage. “Tea is rrready, sahib.”

Morning tea (or, in my case, Nescafe) is taken on the veranda. After that, we set out on our morning walk. This takes us down the drive, through the red iron gates, across the clearing where the Maasai sometimes drive cattle & goats, through the nicknamed ‘primeval forest’ onto Crater Lake Sanctuary, as far as the boundary fence to the Somali’s farm – and back again: about an hour’s round trip.

Normally, we pass a fair amount of game – invariably vervet monkey and helmeted guinea fowl on the entrance to Lentolia House; eland, zebra, water buck, buffalo and Thompson gazelle along the drive; dik dik, giraffe, baboon, jackal, hare and, once, a secretary bird in the forest. The giraffe in particular seem used to us, and move out of our way languidly. Sometimes we even see other humans – on foot or on a bicycle or a moped: this morning, we stop to admire a syce in red silk, exercising a pair of fine chestnut show-jumpers.

After breakfast, if we’re alone and not going into town or elsewhere, I usually settle at the table on the veranda overlooking the lake with my laptop to deal with emails, and hopefully blog. ‘To blog’ – is that a verb? (Having looked at others for guidance, I vowed to avoid the pitfalls of being too personal, patronising, political, sentimental, pretentious, controversial, and so on. But its more complicated than I’d anticipated. Obviously, as a newcomer, one is ignorant, and everything is just a first-impression: the subject matter is overwhelming, hence very difficult to select, and Africa seems full of contrasts, not to mention ‘ying & yang’. Furthermore, one changes one’s mind as things become more familiar so that recently written posts soon become outdated. In short, I realise I know nothing! Nevertheless, I enjoy blogging, mostly because it seems an interesting way to keep up with family & friends, and partly because it gives my week some structure).

Now is the ‘short rains’ and though sadly we’re not getting much serious rain here, the weather is often overcast.  Mornings are usually very tranquil. Just the sounds of birdsong, hippo gruntling good-naturedly in the lake below us, staff chatting & going about their day (the occasional crying of Nancy’s baby) down in the house. They can be disturbed, however, when a troupe of monkey decides to maraud across our corrugated iron roof, and my companion goes on the warpath with his catapault.

Generally, at 1ish we stop for lunch, which could be yoghurt (produced nearby on the Delamere farm) or a sandwich, and coffee. After lunch, more writing and/or reading (I must get down to some drawing/painting soon) until tea (and Madeira cake) is served at 4.30pm, prompt.

Evening walks or ‘sundowners’ (when guests are here) up on the hillside, to take advantage of the view over the lake and the sunset, tend to end before dusk, which falls rapidly into darkness at 6.30 pm.

We try to eat a simple native supper: vegetables, vegetables and more vegetables – steamed or stir-fried or soup. There’s no lack of variety and rural Kenyans around here enjoy a mainly vegetable diet, home grown on their shambas, or bought at the local stalls or farms. You can get potatoes & sweet potatoes, carrots, beetroot, French beans both green & yellow, peppers, red & white onions, red & white cabbage, various greens, spinach, squashes, aubergine, tomatoes, mushrooms, iceberg, mange touts, sugar peas, garden peas, baby sweet-corn, corn-on-the-cob, broccoli, cauliflower, courgettes, cucumber, and many more. Fruit is also excellent – pineapple, mango, apples, oranges, lemons, limes, bananas, various melon including water melon, passion fruit, and so on… (One can also buy imported items from the super-markets, which are deliciously aromatic, unlike ours.  Catering for Asian, as well as African palettes and, to some extent, the international market, especially in Nairobi, these sell all kinds of rice, grains, couscous, pastas & cereals, herbs & spices, meats & fish, frozen & fresh). Kenyans often walk or cycle impressive distances on a regular basis, and almost without exception, look lean & fit. It’s only in town, but especially Nairobi, where the downside of western tastes & over-indulgence is apparent.

Usually, we sit outside until bedtime, watching the changing sky, stargazing, listening to the night sounds – cicadas, late hippo coming in, the eerie whoop of hyena – and feeding the genets with titbits of beef & cheese. Sometimes, if it’s cold, or particularly gloomy or stormy, we light a roaring log fire. Either way, we listen to jazz.

Animals can be heard at times throughout the night, maybe right outside, but mostly it seems very still: except for the cracks and creeks and groans of the cottage itself cooling down after the heat of the day.

Animal Crackers

These pictures are dedicated to Louie, because I think he’d like them …

Simba! Where are you?

Ssh … I’m hiding!

found you!

please! not again

oh, all right

We came within a few metres of this courting couple when traveling across The Mara recently – happily they were way too preoccupied to pay any attention to us.

mummy hippo & baby hippo

warthog

that’s close enough!

bull buffalo, annoyed!

mousebirds

mongoose, looking for snakes

flamingo, on Crater Lake

vervet money

helmeted guinea fowl

pelican on Lake Naivasha

dik dik – the tiniest antelope of all

hippo coming out of the lake at dusk, to gaze on the land overnight

water buck

spot the colobus monkey!

hog, with only one tusk

love my friend’s bum

more local lovelies coming soon …