Mama Mia Marketing

I have never ever been subjugated to the kind inane marketing crap as I get here.

But this week amused me greatly. The local church sent me a "Welcome to the Neighbourhood" and an invite to go meet and greet. Not to mention the usual marketing pitch for god. They did a pretty good job actually.

In same batch, an advert for botox written in the same vein as one would sell a sandwhich...check this out:

The botox advert:
In a city brimming with backroom dealing and polarizing politics, it's important to not let too much get under your skin. Especially stress. Unfortunately, when you're surrounded by overachievers in your 9-to-never job, the daily grind can start to show on your face. Smooth things over with today's Ruff deal: Pay $150 and get up to 20 units of Botox from Ruff Plastic Surgery -- a $300 value. Headed by award-winning plastic surgeon Dr. Paul Ruff, this West End practice has years of experience smoothing fine lines and wrinkles with this nonsurgical treatment. Available on most parts of the body, Botox doses relax stretched skin to promote a healthier, more vibrant appearance. It can be hard to keep your composure in the city that never sleeps (-in past 6 a.m.), but with today's 50%-off deal, you can certainly keep your complexion.

I ask you...seriously???

Nearly 12 weeks in....

So far I've learnt to say elevator, not lift, side walk not pavement, still have trouble with pants and purses - trousers and handbags..a calender is not a diary entry, to be 'pinged' is nothing sexual = it means to email or skype or text...not everyone gets my British humour and trying to find a decent news channel - impossible!

One week in...

Survived fat free fruit and veg - I ask you...supermarkets that seem to make no sense but offer endless choice at first glance - symmetrical streets, being the new girl, loneliness and wandering why I keep on uprooting myself - tearing myself off from everyone and everything I know...but this time I felt compelled, I couldn't stay in Africa..

But I want to note something I'd never seen before. A large African American woman in the supermarket had two eyes tattoed above her very ample breasts. It clearly said - grab a load of these - which made me laugh as they would have been hard to miss - but this is not the land of the subtle...
xxxx

Time to get back to it...

I found a diary of sorts of a trip I took when I was 21 and frankly, I couldn't remember much of it when going through it except I did recognise a certain dry, narrative that hasn't changed much in fifteen years. So here I am in the States - day 4 - half enjoying it, half feeling startled (Why for God's sake do they have to label fruit and veg as "zero fat" - words confound me.) But the kindness and openess of people is heatwarming - particularly the African Americans who make me laugh and chat on the streets and help me out when lost. My neighbours in the temporary apartment even came down to see if I was ok yesterday trying to tune in my TV - which when I did - promptly switched off as utter crap and gave me a headache. Found BBC Radio 4 instead on my laptop which was far more soothing. Anyway - to work tomorrow - onwards and upwards. Time to go...xxx

He lives in a slum

"Jo - the guards really like you." Do they I thought. What a strange thing to say.

"Yes, because you are kind and smile and give them food. They would protect you if you needed."

So said Stephen as he came over as we talked about his life, career, how things were going. "January - it's been hard. I did work for people and they didn't pay me. And - I would like to and visit my mum but I have no money. Oh..and I got put in prison last week.."

What? Why? Smiling at me for my naivety and innocence.

"Jo - this is Kenya. People are put in prison for anything. Me, I took a bus from somewhere I wasn't supposed to. Two policemen came and dragged me to prison asking for 2000 shillings. I only had 50 on me for my travel. But it was ok - they just made me work for the afternoon. It was good really..I could have been there 28 days.."

Right..so...then I asked it. Stephen - do you live in a slum? "Yes, it's a slum but it's not that bad. It's cleaner than Kibera. (The one the Constant Gardner was filmed in).But someone got electrocuted and died last month so now we have no electricity. But it's ok. We can live."

I gulped. Sipping tea in my three bed, three bathroom apartment with a pool and gym.

Stephen, I ask, "There's something I've always wanted to know. How do the guards feel looking after all these rich people when they have nothing. Do they hate it? Do they want to hurt people?"

Suddenly I feel stupid for my direct and possibly insensitive question. "Jo, it's about self-esteem more than anything. These people can be awful to us and shout at us for things that are not our fault. That makes us feel bad having crossed town - usually having walked to work as we can't afford the bus fare. And yes, if we earn 5000 shillings a month and a thug offers 15,0000 to rob someone or threatens our lives, then yes, some people do bad things."

Stephen looked at me clutching the bag of groceries I had hastily thrown together for him.

"All I want is to make a difference in this world. I want to stand up and help someone and be a good person. I don't know why you're helping me but you've given me back my self esteem and some qualifications. I know things will get better. Bless you."

As always, I feel humbled and grateful to have been one of life's lottery winners.

It doesn't take much to do a little.

Fck...we have no idea what it is to be hungry

So it's been so long since I blogged but as my eyes well up and I feel simultaneously angry, guilty and upset I just had to write. So I haven't told you all about Steve have I? Steve is a young Kenyan who used to be one of the guards in my compound. Steve is 21, bright as a button, got a big smile and a very gentle nature. He loves kids, never takes money when he does a job for people and always goes out of his way to help people. One day we got chatting - about life, the meaning of it, struggles, joys and those special moments. He asked me if I knew anyone looking for a worker -a cook, cleaner, driver as he coudn't stand working 6 at night til 6 in the morning 6 days a week for 5000 Kenyan shillings. His rent is 3,500, the bus is 50 each day and he has to eat and support his mum. By the way - to put that in perspective -I pay 2000 shillings a month just for my blackberry....
Long story short - I wanted to help him. Have I done anything worthwhile since living in Africa? Really? Working at the UN writing intangible, abstract speeches, lectures, papers, editing...god it all feels so pointless at times.
3 months in - he is getting 88 per cent in a graphic design course 2 hours a day. However - he lost his job 3 weeks back as the slave driving immoral unethical bastards that run these security companies decided he couldn't have a day off to see his sick mother. So he went - they sacked him.

Tonight he came around so I can give him next month's school fees. He has lost weight but was smart in a pair of polished shoes and an ironed shirt and black trousers. I give him a cup of tea and pull out some biscuits. We talks and talk ...too much to write here but I realise how wise this kid is. I ask him if he is eating. A long pause. "It's ok - sometimes I go hungry." I open my larder - god I feel embarassed - I pull out biscuits, crackers, a few cans of beer, beans and rice." Go eat and go study I say.

He looks at me and says "thank you - you have a big heart." Do I? Is it really any sacrifice on my part? He asks if he can hug me. Somehow that is too intimate. I smile and shake his hand and promise to see him soon.

Gems in the dust - Nairobi

Nairobi. A city that fascinates, repels, inspires, frustrates and amazes me. Ten months stuttering the answer to “Where do you live?” Pause. “Nairobi”. The predictable reply. “Oh Nairobbery?”

Then a paradoxical response, tinged with annoyance because I feel defensive towards my adopted city and also, dare I say it, a trace of smugness that I survive, perhaps thrive, in this alien environment.

I’m still unsure how I landed here, why I am here and for what purpose. The superficial rationale is easy – I came for a job. The deeper, personal and spiritual purpose continues to elude me.

Red dust. Tracts of incandescent green. Tattered buildings. Mega-brands. Safaricom. Zain. Malls. Traffic. Noise. Previously unheard expressions and words. Fear. Loneliness. Excitement. Echoes of past stories and histories. Election violence. Hijackings. Vestiges of colonialism. Tribalism. Familiarity of language but not of culture, vestiges of my own culture morphed into something totally different, now almost unrecognizable.

How does a white girl from North London makes sense of it all? What do I write about my impressions without sounding impossibly naïve, stupid, judgmental? Despite having lived in 5 cities in four different countries before landing here, this has without doubt, been the most challenging and strange so far.

My bewilderment is evident at all levels. The first time I was asked if someone should “flash” me, I stayed mute. Of course, in the UK, flashing has other connotations. Here it’s a missed call on a mobile phone to exchange numbers; an evolving hybrid English-Swahili slang to match the mobile age.

Nairobi is a deeply religious city. Christian radio bounces through the airwaves, shop assistants tell me I will be judged by the Lord if my cheque bounces despite my reassurances that there is money in the account. Thousands of people attend Church services on a Sunday and prostrate and pray to a higher power on the top of Nairobi’s principal sports stadium. At the same time, within this population, there is a sexual predatory openness, promiscuity, a familiarity that I find daunting, reckless, and raw. “You’re very defensive” I have been told when out dancing. “My friend likes you. You’re beautiful. Have a drink. Loosen up. Join us…” hissed in sour alcohol breath as I squirm, twist, and edge away from unwanted advances. Nairobi is uninhibited, expressive, reckless and to an outsider, strangely contradictory.

For those lucky few on an upward financial and social curve, I acknowledge and understand the obsessions with cable TV, big houses and fast cars. These outward shows of money are to be seen, treasured and respected. This may be a developing country but for those that have made it, there is no pleasure in understatement. Be bold, be flashy, express your success and be glad you’re not one of the millions still in the gutter.

Yet every day, I glance out of my car window and see old hunched women carrying bundles of illegally gathered firewood, backs bowed in two, often shoeless. I drive past mansions and see Masai warriors and herds of cows walking along the road in searing red cloth. I blink. Still there. My car attracts scores of badly dressed ragged children and the blind line the streets rattling cups. I open my window. Stupid girl. Watch for your bag, your phone. Close the door.

I see the same sweet 13 year old boy in tattered grey shorts and blue jersey selling ground nuts in translucent paper for ten shillings every day. Sometimes, usually, I give him money and through my car window we strike up a relationship borne of habit. The other day he grinned broadly, "Madam, madam...I have my grades - I had exams." He proceeded to go into a long explanation of which I understood nothing, except he had come 5th out of 32 students.

I was inexplicably proud of him - a poor tall boy in shorts selling nuts until 9 or 10 at night in the dark in a main road, managing to succeed. That's courage. I buy beaded bracelets I neither need nor want because someone needs to buy food that day. I become friends with the old man selling handmade bamboo elephants by the side of the road. The cars continue to honk and scream at me. This is Nairobi.

I can’t walk around at night. I feel trapped. Claustrophic. It’s an irony as the city is lush, green, and abundant but hides menace. I miss concrete pavements, streets, cinemas, boutiques, windy city pathways. Sometimes I even long to board a metro train to be able to speed somewhere, to dash off underground deep into a city and then emerge somewhere new. I am a prisoner to my car.

This brings me to driving. Chaos. No rules. Would closing one’s eyes and stepping on the accelerator be any more dangerous? Will someone explain to me why Kenyans are slow at nearly everything except on the roads? Banks, coffees, shops, talking, cleaning and cooking -nothing is rushed. Driving, however, is akin to being strapped inside a cross between a fairground ride and a missile. It is also, I’ve learnt, a battle of the wills here and a new found trust in a higher protective power.
I came here somewhat on an impulse. I feel denuded, stupid, unschooled in African history, politics, and the names of the different tribes, the nuances of race, religion and class. I picked up the basics enough to nod in the right places and reply in a half -way intelligent conversation - but probe too far and I hesitate. I feel cut off from this society and simultaneously, cut off from my own. I am living in a no-man’s land, not quite part of either and fumbling through this one.
Nairobi. Sometimes leaving the airport you see the lean tall giraffe necks silhouetted against the polluted grey city skyline grazing in the National Park. This city is bizarre, unpredictable, raw, earthy, and often cruel.

The hustle and bustle of parts of the city centre has a whiff of Dickensian London. A bygone era of squalor, dirt, trade hustle and bustle, the reek of food and chaos of an overcrowded urban centre. Disease, poverty, crowds of people eeking a living, the streets a second home to the traders, marketers and hustlers seeking their coin.
Do I like it here? Am I at home? In all honesty, my feelings reflect the city. I love it and hate it. I feel both richer and poorer for being here. I feel at home and alienated.

I feel moments of powerful energy and creativity and simultaneously, ambivalence. Amongst it all I cannot escape a feeling of being watched, of lurking danger and the daily torment of the poor. At times this city whiffs of fast deals, big money and luxury. There is an undercurrent. It may not be spoken of in everyday conversation, but this city has seen extreme violence, bloodshed and retribution as communities rip each other apart. That doesn’t just go away. It simmers, rises and subsides, contaminating the way people react, observe and judge each other.

I can’t pin Nairobi down; I can’t make sense of it nor quite work out where I fit within it. Perhaps that is its secret, to keep people guessing and wondering, what now, what next?

It may be a case of observing and waiting in the wings to see where and how I can play a role. Or perhaps it is a stepping stone which will only make sense sometime in the future.

Nairobi is of course, an easy African city to live in for many reasons. I can buy vegetarian sausages; I can go to the cinema, get my hair done and pick up a sushi take-away. It attracts brilliant eclectic people and adventurers, it nurses entrepreneurialism. All of this, I appreciate.

Yet, it is a city that will continue to shock, surprise and knock you down when you’re least expecting it. After a pause and reflection, it then usually has the grace to gently pick you up to face another day.

Gems in the dust

Nairobi. A city that fascinates, repels, inspires, frustrates and amazes me. Ten months stuttering the answer to “Where do you live?” Pause. “Nairobi”. The predictable reply. “Oh Nairobbery?”

Then a paradoxical response, tinged with annoyance because I feel defensive towards my adopted city and also, dare I say it, a trace of smugness that I survive, perhaps thrive, in this alien environment.

I’m still unsure how I landed here, why I am here and for what purpose. The superficial rationale is easy – I came for a job. The deeper, personal and spiritual purpose continues to elude me.

Red dust. Tracts of incandescent green. Tattered buildings. Mega-brands. Safaricom. Zain. Malls. Traffic. Noise. Previously unheard expressions and words. Fear. Loneliness. Excitement. Echoes of past stories and histories. Election violence. Hijackings. Vestiges of colonialism. Tribalism. Familiarity of language but not of culture, vestiges of my own culture morphed into something totally different, now almost unrecognizable.

How does a white girl from North London makes sense of it all? What do I write about my impressions without sounding impossibly naïve, stupid, judgmental? Despite having lived in 5 cities in four different countries before landing here, this has without doubt, been the most challenging and strange so far.

My bewilderment is evident at all levels. The first time I was asked if someone should “flash” me, I stayed mute. Of course, in the UK, flashing has other connotations. Here it’s a missed call on a mobile phone to exchange numbers; an evolving hybrid English-Swahili slang to match the mobile age.

Nairobi is a deeply religious city. Christian radio bounces through the airwaves, shop assistants tell me I will be judged by the Lord if my cheque bounces despite my reassurances that there is money in the account. Thousands of people attend Church services on a Sunday and prostrate and pray to a higher power on the top of Nairobi’s principal sports stadium. At the same time, within this population, there is a sexual predatory openness, promiscuity, a familiarity that I find daunting, reckless, and raw. “You’re very defensive” I have been told when out dancing. “My friend likes you. You’re beautiful. Have a drink. Loosen up. Join us…” hissed in sour alcohol breath as I squirm, twist, and edge away from unwanted advances. Nairobi is uninhibited, expressive, reckless and to an outsider, strangely contradictory.

For those lucky few on an upward financial and social curve, I acknowledge and understand the obsessions with cable TV, big houses and fast cars. These outward shows of money are to be seen, treasured and respected. This may be a developing country but for those that have made it, there is no pleasure in understatement. Be bold, be flashy, express your success and be glad you’re not one of the millions still in the gutter.

Yet every day, I glance out of my car window and see old hunched women carrying bundles of illegally gathered firewood, backs bowed in two, often shoeless. I drive past mansions and see Masai warriors and herds of cows walking along the road in searing red cloth. I blink. Still there. My car attracts scores of badly dressed ragged children and the blind line the streets rattling cups. I open my window. Stupid girl. Watch for your bag, your phone. Close the door.

I see the same sweet 13 year old boy in tattered grey shorts and blue jersey selling ground nuts in translucent paper for ten shillings every day. Sometimes, usually, I give him money and through my car window we strike up a relationship borne of habit. The other day he grinned broadly, "Madam, madam...I have my grades - I had exams." He proceeded to go into a long explanation of which I understood nothing, except he had come 5th out of 32 students.

I was inexplicably proud of him - a poor tall boy in shorts selling nuts until 9 or 10 at night in the dark in a main road, managing to succeed. That's courage. I buy beaded bracelets I neither need nor want because someone needs to buy food that day. I become friends with the old man selling handmade bamboo elephants by the side of the road. The cars continue to honk and scream at me. This is Nairobi.

I can’t walk around at night. I feel trapped. Claustrophic. It’s an irony as the city is lush, green, and abundant but hides menace. I miss concrete pavements, streets, cinemas, boutiques, windy city pathways. Sometimes I even long to board a metro train to be able to speed somewhere, to dash off underground deep into a city and then emerge somewhere new. I am a prisoner to my car.

This brings me to driving. Chaos. No rules. Would closing one’s eyes and stepping on the accelerator be any more dangerous? Will someone explain to me why Kenyans are slow at nearly everything except on the roads? Banks, coffees, shops, talking, cleaning and cooking -nothing is rushed. Driving, however, is akin to being strapped inside a cross between a fairground ride and a missile. It is also, I’ve learnt, a battle of the wills here and a new found trust in a higher protective power.
I came here somewhat on an impulse. I feel denuded, stupid, unschooled in African history, politics, and the names of the different tribes, the nuances of race, religion and class. I picked up the basics enough to nod in the right places and reply in a half -way intelligent conversation - but probe too far and I hesitate. I feel cut off from this society and simultaneously, cut off from my own. I am living in a no-man’s land, not quite part of either and fumbling through this one.
Nairobi. Sometimes leaving the airport you see the lean tall giraffe necks silhouetted against the polluted grey city skyline grazing in the National Park. This city is bizarre, unpredictable, raw, earthy, and often cruel.
The hustle and bustle of parts of the city centre has a whiff of Dickensian London. A bygone era of squalor, dirt, trade hustle and bustle, the reek of food and chaos of an overcrowded urban centre. Disease, poverty, crowds of people eeking a living, the streets a second home to the traders, marketers and hustlers seeking their coin.
Do I like it here? Am I at home? In all honesty, my feelings reflect the city. I love it and hate it. I feel both richer and poorer for being here. I feel at home and alienated.
I feel moments of powerful energy and creativity and simultaneously, ambivalence. Amongst it all I cannot escape a feeling of being watched, of lurking danger and the daily torment of the poor. At times this city whiffs of fast deals, big money and luxury. There is an undercurrent. It may not be spoken of in everyday conversation, but this city has seen extreme violence, bloodshed and retribution as communities rip each other apart. That doesn’t just go away. It simmers, rises and subsides, contaminating the way people react, observe and judge each other.
I can’t pin Nairobi down; I can’t make sense of it nor quite work out where I fit within it. Perhaps that is its secret, to keep people guessing and wondering, what now, what next?
It may be a case of observing and waiting in the wings to see where and how I can play a role. Or perhaps it is a stepping stone which will only make sense sometime in the future.
Nairobi is of course, an easy African city to live in for many reasons. I can buy vegetarian sausages; I can go to the cinema, get my hair done and pick up a sushi take-away. It attracts brilliant eclectic people and adventurers, it nurses entrepreneurialism. All of this, I appreciate.
Yet, it is a city that will continue to shock, surprise and knock you down when you’re least expecting it. After a pause and reflection, it then usually has the grace to gently pick you up to face another day.