Al Jazeera and life on the other side of the world

It's so interesting sometimes, how different cultures are. Our driver and I were having an interesting conversation about living somewhere else. He moved to Nairobi from Mombasa. Life is difficult, but he just thinks the change in perspective is so important, and everyone should do it every now and again.
I've just returned from a whirlwind 'tour' of Kenya. 'Tour' makes it sound like pleasure, but it was really gruelling! I went from Nairobi to Mombasa to Malindi, back to Nairobi, then to Eldoret, then Kitale, Kisumu, Kiisii back to Kisumu and finally back to Nairobi again. About 8 cities in eight days! Working every day - one or two company visits per day. By the end of the eight days, I couldn't remember when I had been where!
Anyway back to the issue of 'perspective'. In Kisumu we stayed at a fairly nice hotel. I switched on the TV and searched as normal for BBC and CNN. No BBC, no CNN, only Al Jazeera!
I spent the next few days watching Al Jazeera - whenever I was not at work. Interesting programming actually. Sad to say I had always linked Al Jazeera with Jihad and terrorism, but it was a lot more than that. A news channel with more of an Middle Eastern and Asian perspective. So news about the Middle East, India, Australia, and some stories from Africa. Surprisingly I recognised quite a few BBC and CNN reporters - including a BBC weatherman I think, who had defected to Al Jazeera. Interesting few days.
Another 'happening' this week reminded that I was on the other side of the world. There was a powerful earthquake in Sumatra this week. Like any other Trinidadian, I have no idea where Sumatra even is! And I actually know a fair bit of geography. Well the following day I heard that tsunami warnings in Tanzania and Kenya (where I am) had been called off! Imagine I was thinking an earthquake in Sumatra was just interesting news, when it actually could have had an impact on life where I am now.
Talk about small world.

Knocked Up in Nairobi

So I'm back in Nairobi again! Time passes SO quickly.

My first time in Nairobi was about 4 years ago when I was leaving Tanzania. I still had the real MAD adventure spirit. People had told me all kinds of horror stories about the place. Back then, before the days of Kamau and Gianthiwa Lodge (see a veryearly post), I stayed in a hotel called Terminal Hotel. I arrived in this 'dangerous city' at about midnight, and got a taxi to take me to Terminal - a very frightening name when you don't know where you're going. Terminal wasn't so bad, though I bolted the doors and put my suitcase in front of it, and I left anyway in the morning as the sun came up.
So fast forward now to four years later (at times it also seems longer). I'm working on a REALLY interesting project - so I'm consultant now, not backpacker. The funny thing is the driver took me back to Terminal Hotel and asked if I wanted to stay there. I went in and asked - any TV, any internet? The bell hop looked at me in bewilderment. So I guess I've passed that stage.
I'm staying at a 3 star hotel - not a no-star, and when they booked it for me, I had a long long list of demands - must have in-room TV, toilet and bath, hot water, restaurant, wireless internet, pool and on and on. I've really grown up I guess.

Of course the other thing is that I'm 23 weeks pregnant, so can't rough it like I used to. I mean after the baby boy (?) is born, then I can take him on some rough rides :-) but for now, I'm taking it easy. I thought I was doing okay up to tonight. I had been eating in the hotel restaurant and another one near work most days. Nothing too adventurous. Tonight I said, time for some street food!! Anyone who knows me, knows that's my thing: the thrill of something CHEAP (yeah I'm cheap ;-), and tasty, and the risk of 'doing it like the locals. I settled on some 'Massala Chips' in a fairly decent looking place - so it wasn't real street food - but it wasn't expat food either. Massala Chips are french fries that are then stir fried in pepper, and ketchup - doesn't sound like anything special, but I've always loved them, and how can you go wrong at Ksh70 (just over US$1).
From the minute the minute the waitress brought the plate I started to feel sick. It was just too much. I finished about half my order and took the rest home - where I ate some more, started to watch a movie then fell asleep.

Well I guess Azure (baby name for now) does not like street food! because I woke up about four hours later feeling sick! I have had no nausea at all during the pregnancy, but I think the old oil, pepper and whatever else might have been running around the kitchen and used for seasoning, the whole mixture just hit me for six! So okay Azure, I give up, only restaurant food for you for the rest of the trip.
Right now I'm searching for some water to flush out my system.

Lamu Day Three

My tail and I decided to visit Matandoni, which is another town on Lamu island. I saw someone with a basket the day before and asked where it came from and my tail told me ‘Matandoni, I can take you’. I don’t know how many other towns there are in this area, so when he suggested we go there, I thought why not. I asked how far it was, and like a true village person, he said not far.
We met at eight in the morning, had breakfast and then set off.
My leg was still acting up from the walk to the beach the day before, so along the way I asked about hiring a donkey, but we couldn’t find any to take us. So we walked. I turned into Grumpy Smurf, as our ‘not far’ turned out to be quite a distance, which I should have realized it would. My map said that Matandoni was about 6 km away. 6km, I figured was a little bit more than the Queen’s Park Savannah in Port of Spain, where I occasionally exercised. It seemed easily do-able. What the guidebook neglected to say is that it was 6 km through sand and under blazing midday sun. There was no road – why did I even think there would be? So even though the walk was across fairly flat land it was torture for me. My hip felt like it had fallen out of place.
While we were walking I was so bad humoured that all the while I grumbled to myself ‘why didn’t I just go to the beach’, ‘what the hell are we supposed to see in Matandoni anyway’, I wondered if our long walk would even be worth the effort.
Eventually after about two and a half hours we arrived there. Gitau (my tail) informed someone in the village what we were there to do and they led us through some streets and put us to sit in a shed with some baskets and left us. We waited for a long time, watching some children play just outside the shed. Finally an old man came to greet us in broken English. “You are great man, you are chief of village, you are happy to meet woman” I realized he had confused you with I. He was a very pleasant man, very happy to meet us, and of course realizing that I was about to leave some money in the village even happier.
We sat and negotiated, and the old man wheeled and dealed until I left 1,000 shillings with him, in exchange for which I had some baskets and a mat. Somehow I left feeling that I had been taken advantage of. Maybe I wasn’t, but after walking two and a half hours, you assume that you’re going to get some bargains, which I didn’t. The price of the baskets and mats was only fair. I had gotten better prices in Tanzania. I was wondering how on earth I was going to be able to make this into a good business deal. Oh well.
Now how would we get out of that God forsaken place? We had walked so far and there was not even a beach at the end of all that. They had a mud beach, not even black sand, gooey mud with tiny crabs. The tide was out so far that the boats were left stuck in the mud. Our options of getting out were not easy. Could we hire a donkey I asked? No one wanted to send their donkey, because how would it get back? What about a dhow? Our helpful translator, who had appeared with the old man, said in an American accent. ‘We ken get one fiy you for about 1500 shillings (about US$20), okay?’ He had to be crazy. Now I started to get upset. I didn’t want to walk back. Fifteen hundred shillings was actually a lot of money here – three nights accommodation. Possibly the bus fare to Nairobi etc. I didn’t want to squander it on taking a dhow back to the other side of the island. Besides I felt I was being taken advantage of again. Nobody here would spend that kind of money to go anywhere. Why should I? Now of course that I put things into perspective and think that my taxi from JFK to my aunt’s apartment in Manhattan costed $50, I guess 20 doesn’t sound so bad, but it’s the principle of exploitation that upsets me, not the actual cost. Our accented guide started to realize how unhappy I was, because I kept muttering to Gitau about how bad the prices were, and we had walked so far etc. etc. so said ‘Never mind, we gonna do some good business, we gonna work something out!’ He put us to sit on a bench and went off to look for a dhow captain to ferry us back. Gitau and I sat and waited, in our boredom we took a few pictures of ourselves, of some children, and we waited. Eventually somebody came back and picked up my bag and told us to follow him. Our guy appeared just behind and said ‘I got one for 400, s’okay?’ Well I guess I could work with that. But that of course just reinforced (at least in my mind) that I was being exploited.
So we walked to the boat.
The dhow journey back, made up for all my bad humour for the entire day. It was a peaceful, quiet sailing trip, about 30 - 40 minutes to a point where the ferries leave for Lamu. The dhow is similar to the pirogue – a simple fishing boat with a large diamond shaped sail. Some dhows have engines, ours did not. We sailed through the mangroves, sometimes with too little wind, sometimes with too much and the wind would fill the sails and cause the boat to almost tip over. I can actually swim okay, my only worry was that if the boat tipped, my camera would go into the water and I would lose – yet again precious photographs. I didn’t even worry about crocodiles, but I didn’t think there were any. They left us at the ferry, after which we took a normal priced ride (50 Ksh) back to Lamu.

Lamu Day Two

I came to Lamu to be alone. I don’t know why I insist on being alone while on vacation. I’m a funny creature, when I’m alone I think I need someone to share this with, when there is someone I want my space.
One of the ills of tourism (at least in my view) is that it creates a space for the ‘beach bum’, the gigolo, the hustler, the male escort for the woman who travels alone. Of course the same exists for the men too, but I actually find the beach bum stands out more.
Today I stopped to say good morning to someone who I bought some exquisite (but inflated) coconut handicraft from, and I acquired a tail for the day. Well this morning I thought, ‘oh well, I didn’t really where I was going anyway, so what harm?’ by this evening (I write at 7:45 p.m. and I just amputated my tail) I wanted to scream!
I sat and chatted with my coconut craft colleague and some friends of his for quite some time this morning, which must have been when I could be accused of sending the wrong signals. I made the mistake of asking where I could get some yogurt to buy. A seemingly innocent question. The answer of course was more complicated than could be anticipated, this being Ramadan. You see here on Lamu no one is comfortable eating in public during Ramadan, which also means no one will sell you any food. My plan was to buy my yogurt and head for the beach where I would spend the day do some strategizing for my business and my store, until I could eat a decent meal at a nice restaurant in the evening. So when I asked where I could get some yogurt and expected to be directed to the place, I was wrong. Getting my breakfast would prove to be akin to buying drugs, a process that as an outsider could not be easily done. I needed a guide.
This guide lead me down some winding streets around and around till finally we came to a business that was closed, we had to go to the backdoor and knock very quietly till finally someone came to the second floor window. We had to shout out what we wanted and eventually some came down and brought the yogurt. I complicated the process further because my plan was to buy two yogurts, one to eat now and one for the road. When the yogurt was brought downstairs and I realized it was homemade, I sent back one, which meant that they had to make new change for me. When the change came down, I asked for a spoon, and of course the runner had to go up again. He brought down a metal spoon. Of course I’m from a plastic society, so I looked in shock at the spoon, as we were on the street. They had handed me the yogurt and locked the door. What was I to do with the spoon? I looked at my tail, Gitau, and asked ‘now what do I with this spoon?’ ‘We’ll bring it back later’ he replied. Talk about trust.
I now needed to rely on my tail to put me back onto a familiar path. He led up some streets and down some others, pointing various things along the way. ‘Drat!’ I thought, ‘now I have a guide, I’m going to have to pay this guy!’. So I asked him to lead me back to the path so I could walk on my own. ‘Hakuna matata’ he assured me. ‘By the way do you want to sit and eat?’ I didn’t mind. He went up to a compound and knocked on the door and we walked in. The compound was a traditional ‘barrack style’ yard, everyone was seated outside under a tree, while two women were preparing some food. We sat while I ate. What I thought would take 30 minutes ended up taking about four hours! I ate, they bought me a beer, I started discussing some very deep issues with a good looking and intelligent teacher of Swahili, and I think my guide was trying to get a free lunch for us. Maybe the women knew better and decided to cook even more slowly than ever, because we left at 2:30 and the food was far from ready, or maybe that was just Ramadan and the food was to eat after the fast was broken, that I doubt a little because we ate and drank while they were preparing food, everyone including the two Muslim men who stopped by dressed in skirts and kofias (skull caps), and they drank beer too! Behind closed doors anything goes.
The talk was interesting; everything was fine, until they all started to get a little drunk. I don’t drink enough to get drunk, so it’s always a problem for me to be in an environment with heavy drinkers. The scandalous woman cutting the potatoes started to talk more loudly and move her hands more freely as she spoke (with knife in one hand!). By 2:30 I really had had enough, there was no free food that would make me sit for another minute!
We got up and continued our walk to the beach – the long way. I guess that part of the day was okay, but I was HUNGRY! He was suggesting that we pass back to see how the food had progressed. I wasn’t really interested. I had planned to treat myself to dinner that night, and was starting to get upset, you mean I’ll have to treat this bum too? Anyway we walked and walked and walked. Actually to the next town and back. Really there was no other way to go as Lamu Island has no cars. On the way back we stopped at a small shop where I was finally able to get some food, not the shrimp I was dreaming of, but oh well. Not before all of my aches and pains started to appear, first my bad hip then my ankle. I had reached a point where I really could be alone. We were then met by some friend of his who had managed to inveigle 100 shillings out of me this morning. He sat at our table and started to talk about how African he was, and so pleased to meet his African sister and blah blah blah. As it got dark he managed to get another 70 shillings out of me to buy his drink. If you want to get me mad, ask me to buy a drunk alcohol! I know it seems small, especially since men buy each other drinks all the time, but I have such difficulty buying cigarettes and alcohol for people. It’s the moralist in me!
Anyway to cut a long story short, I got fed up. He walked me back to the hotel. It was already dark. I never had my shrimp. He wanted to show me where he lived, but could I leave my bag at the hotel. I said I might as well come one time. Then ok. He continued to lead me down some winding streets till we reached out by the beach. Oh I just live around the other side of the beach. Maybe it was true, but I was definitely not in the mood, and to besides it was dark, my leg was acting up, and he was a little drunk, and no I don’t want to smoke a joint or sit on the beach and watch the waves. So I politely asked him to take me back. ‘Oh no Latifah, what are you thinking? I didn’t have anything bad in mind. I just want to show you where I live.’ Yeah whatever. I wasn’t upset, just a little grumpy because I never got my shrimp (well maybe I got another kind because he was very short!) and never got any time alone. Oh well….

To Lamu

I have always been one to pick the most remote spot on the map of any country and decide I want to go there! In Brazil I wanted to go to Oiapoque (though never made it), in Trinidad I chose to go to Toco, Cedros and Moruga, in Uganda I went to Kissoro, in Kenya I chose to go to Lamu.
Lamu is Kenya’s oldest inhabited tows, and is supposed to have changed little over the centuries. Access is exclusively by boat from the mainland, though there is an airstrip on a neighbouring island. There is reportedly one car on the island belonging to the District Commissioner. The streets are narrow and winding. People walk or use donkeys. Sounds like my kind of challenge.
I first heard of Lamu three years ago while in Tanzania, during its annual Swahili festival. I find Swahili culture fascinating and saw a very good documentary on the festival on Tanzanian TV. Last year while in Kenya again I had considered going to Lamu but chose to go to Ghana instead (and yes, I went to the most remote spot there too). This year I passed through Kenya to go to a conference in Zambia and decided it was now or never.
I had to weigh several options. Kenya must be the most exciting place to visit in Africa; there is so much to do. Masai Mara park? Karen Blixen museum? Mount Meru hike? A trip across the border to Ngorongoro or Serengeti? Cultural villages? The beaches around Mombasa? I said no to all, and chose to go to the remote village of Lamu.
So now I write from this remote island near to Somalia. I survived the trip!
My safari began almost by chance. Though I had the idea of coming here all along, I really had some business to do in Nairobi, and wasn’t sure how long that would take, so my plans had to be very flexible. My supplier, Richard, and I had a very good meeting on Wednesday and he asked what I was doing on Thursday, if I wanted to go to the town where the work was done, Kisii. Of course! Those of you who know me, know that I need no second offer. So we made plans to meet the following day. I informed my hostess that I’d be traveling and packed my bags. My plan was to go to Kisii, then on my return visit Mombasa, another Kenyan city that I’d never visited before, then come back to Nairobi to collect my things.
In the middle of the night I get a text message from Richard. ‘Can’t take you to Kisii tomorrow, maybe you should go directly to Mombasa and then we’ll go when you come back.’ So in the morning I was on the bus to Mombasa, all the while wondering ‘what am I going to do in Mombasa?’
The ride was LONG. About 8 – 9 hours. The landscape was beautiful as it always is in this region, if not a little monotonous. The dryness, thorn bushes and baobab trees can only keep us interested for so long! However there were some colubus monkeys along the roadway just before the city of Voi to provide some interest.
The heavens opened about an hour before we arrived in Mombasa. I steupsed as I remembered looking twice at the umbrella then actually taking it out of my bag! So I arrived in Mombasa, which on an ordinary day is probably a pleasant city, to pouring rain, and in some places knee high flood waters. I was not pleased. To make matters worse I ended up with a phenomenal taxi bill (almost the cost of my bus ticket!) because the taxi had to take me to the bus station, and then two hotels. The first because I decided I did not want to stay in Mombasa and was trying to get on the next bus, and two hotels because the first was full.
I ended up staying at Berachah, a clean but simple place with a restaurant inside. Very important on a rainy night.
The following morning my expensive taxi came back for me and drove me about two blocks to the bus stand! At night I couldn’t work out the distance! I was lucky enough to get the last ticket. We boarded on time, but somehow no one could get the bus started! We left an hour late.
Being Ramadhan and given that we are along the East African coast, Islam is everywhere. So when I was just about to turn on my IPod, the loud speakers began to blare what could only have been the sermon for the day in Swahili and Arabic. This continued for about 3 hours! Then they switched from the evangelizing gentleman to a woman, giving her sermon, also in Swahili, among the few words I picked out were something about ‘sketi transparenti’ (transparent skirts), I’m glad I couldn’t understand it because I suddenly became conscious of the fact I was one of only two women in the bus with an uncovered head, and I was the only one in short sleeves.
Ramadhan probably was not such a good time to go to Lamu!
My expensive driver promised me the trip was five hours. I don’t know if his Swahili time is different to everyone else’s but it took eight hours. An interesting trip through a vast and empty landscape. The highlights of this trip were seeing hippos bathing in a pond, baboons running across the roadway, prehistoric palm trees that looked like they came out of The Flintstones, exotic ladies selling milk at Garsen junction wearing only khangas and beads and silver jewellery and finally realizing that the two army men we picked weren’t just hitching a ride, they actually were our armed escort to protect us from Somali bandits!
When the bus finally stopped I looked around and was disappointed, where were the beautiful coconut trees like what one saw along the coast in Tanzania (or in Cedros!)? We were surrounded by mangroves it looked like we were going to Caroni. The ferry to take us to the island also reminded me of Caroni, and my trips to the Amazon and the Pantanal in Brazil. Anyway as we drew nearer to land, things seemed to look up, and now as I write this almost four hours after landing, I think I’ll stay an extra night!
What has convinced me? It’s a simple place with nice people (though the ubiquitous beach bums can be annoying), good food, reasonable prices, wonderful architecture and there seems to be a beach with coconut trees nearby – hope the weather changes. I may spend my time writing, taking photographs (I lost my photographs of Zanzibar) or on the beach. Then I’ll go back to Nairobi collect my things, ship them off and go back home.
Would I come back to Lamu? Who knows, it’s a long grueling journey – even for a knockabout traveler like me, but of course I like the challenge and maybe next time I might want to go even further.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles 1 & 2

Planes, Trains and Automobiles 1
I’m on the bus to Mombasa, and surprise surprise, we are back to normalcy, a world where fares are marked and you pay what you see. No negotiation required. On the bus to Kabale, every passenger paid a different price. Your price depended on your begotiation skills. My skills were fair so I paid 18,000 Uganda shillings. The woman next to me was more efficient so she paid 15 thousand. In Mbarara, two hours from our destination, they unceremoniously put us all out and into a matatu. I was upset and launched my angry tirade against the conductor.
‘Kondukta’, I complained in my best East African accent, ‘you people are dishonest! You overcharge me to my destination, now instead of taking me there, you put me into a taxi and leave me!’
‘Madam’ the conductor said, ‘we will pay for the taxi, but you were lucky! Look!’ he showed me the other tickets, ‘You were not overcharged! Look! All these people paid more than you!’

Planes, Trains and Automobiles 2
Another surprise in Nairobi, buses with seatbelts, air-conditioning and a seating plan!

Planes are old news for me. I don’t care about what’s outside the window. Except for my flights over the Sahara – by day and by night, the landscape is normally not that exciting. On buses though I give up the aisle and scramble to the window to look at the changing landscape.
My window seats have afforded me views of
Giraffes in Arusha, monkeys and baboons in Uganda and Kenya, gazelles in Swaziland, endless bucks while driving through a national park in Uganda, as well as the changing landscape breathtakingly spectacular mountain views along the way to Kissoro and Kabale near Rwanda, prehistoric trees along the coast in Kenya, evidence of the Rift Valley in Tanzania, Kenya and even Uganda, and finally the varied cultures expressed through changes in architecture and even clothing on the line outside.
For me it’s not the destination, but the journey that is exciting.

Squatting in the dark waiting for the critters to bite

Hello,
Well I'm back in civilization if we can call Kampala civilised ;-) I was visiting a friend in a village. Last night she asked if anyone in Trinidad would know what an outhouse was! And I really wondered.My memory of using a pit latrine in Point is very vague! I seem to remember walking past the pigs to do so? Daddy could correct me on that. I wonder if Andre knew that life at all? Last night in the village we had no water and no lights,and my friend Phoebes has a coalpot. At about 8 in the evening I decided I wanted to have a bath and use the toilet! What drama! She had no torch and I had to find my way to the latrine with a candle! Which meant walking very slowly so as not to blow it out,and praying that no animal is going to runover my foot (or worse bite my exposed behind!) while I'm squatting.Of course the bath meant heating the precious water and giving me a little in a bucket so I could sponge off. Luckily Kabale is very cold so you can survive with a bath evrey two or three days ;-)
I survived, but decided last night I could definitely not live out here.
Phoebes fortunately should be able tomove to a new housewith kitchen and toilet inside by next year.

Ode to Mozambique

Few people really know about what drew me to Africa, but tonight a 10 minute interaction with someone I had never met before reminded me.

I was in Zambia at a review conference hosted by the Commonwealth Secretariat to analyse two projects that had been recently undertaken. I had led one of these projects in Uganda for six months in 2005.

Our conference had ended and on the last evening we had dinner at a very sophisticated restaurant in Lusaka. I was seated next the one guy at the conference who I had thought remotely interesting, and was chatting with the coordinator, the guy and two women who worked at the CYN offices in Lusaka. My ‘Nice Guy’ mentioned that a friend of his had been waiting for dinner to finish so that they could go out afterwards. His friend was from Mozambique, but didn’t know anyone in Lusaka so he was seated alone in a corner. I, of course had spent 6 weeks in Mozambique in 2005 and had suggested that we invite the friend to join us as our dinner had been going on for hours – what would expect if you bring together 26 people – and the poor guy had been sitting alone all night, but Mr. Nice Guy didn’t have the courage to ask his boss if his friend could ‘storm’ the dinner, and I didn’t know the boss well enough to make the suggestion.

At some point in the evening, the friend had decided he had had enough and walked up to the table to chat with Nice Guy, who introduced him to me. He was Elder. I said “Tudo Bem” to Elder in Portuguese and he looked so relieved to find someone who he could speak with that his face lighted up and broke into a smile, and he confidently sat with his drink in hand and we started to chat about the usual – where was I from, where did I learn Portuguese etc. etc. What happened next though is that Elder simply took over the show for the next few minutes. He politely switched back to English explaining that he could not be so rude in the company of so many people to speak in Portuguese. He was just as fluent in English as he was in Portuguese. Elder moved the conversation from banalities about the Portuguese language to a level of depth that I had forgotten about. He discussed history, politics, current affairs, economics … explained why Mozambique was in the Commonwealth, explained what he felt the West was trying to get out of its new interaction with Mozambique … he went on and on. I was mesmerized.

When he stopped for air I introduced him to Judy, our Liaison Officer at the Commonwealth Secretariat. At our conference we had been discussing Mozambique and the problems with working there etc. Judy was happy to meet him and I watched in fascination the confidence with which Elder interacted with Judy. He wasn’t intimidated by the White woman from England. He was discussing the same issues with her – the difficulty of being outspoken in Africa, the impact of the West on Africa etc. I could only listen.

Then I remembered that was it. That was the reason. The sophistication, the confidence, the charm, the worldliness of The Mozambican, particularly The Mozambican Man. I had become fascinated with Africa because of Mozambique in the first place. Mozambique – a forgotten corner of Africa, one of the least African of the Africa was actually responsible for my being here.

I was taken back to a time when I used to have similar political discussions as a student in Brazil with my colleagues from Mozambique. Ilidio, Sergio, Dunga, Oscar, Paulo de Farmacia and later on, Roberto, Engels, Paulo Matabele, Miguel, e aquele amigo do Paulo M. Wonderful, confident, strong, beautiful men. Maybe I never discussed anything with them, maybe I just listened.

I have never been that deep or that political, but I have always been fascinated by people who were. I hadn’t found that level of intellectual depth in the general public before I met my friends in Mozambique, and probably haven’t found it since, and most certainly not anywhere else in Africa as yet. It was my love or appreciation for my friends in Mozambique that had pushed me to go to Africa the first time, and though I’ve been to nine African countries so far, my social and intellectual experience in Maputo certainly stands way out ahead of the other places.

In 2004, I finally got to Mozambique, 10 years after the love affair had started. You, the reader would never believe of course that apart from a casual fling with Paulo M, and with such deep relationships with 10 wonderful men, I never had a Mozambican boyfriend! And even when I reached ‘The promised Land’ I ended up in a complicated relationship with a West African man. Oh well I guess I missed that chance. Who knows, maybe I’ll end up in Moz again in another 10 years.

Sinto falta da malta. Mozambique e maning nice!

For the record, in case you're wondering which 10 countries I've been to, so far: Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, Mozambique, South Africa, Swaziland, Ethiopia, Ghana and Zambia

To market, to market, to buy a ....

Sunday in Kampala. Bored out of my mind! No TV, tired of listening to radio, already cooked, washed and cleaned. What to do with my late morning? Why not go to market!
I love markets anywhere in the world, especially in South America and Africa. Owino in Kampala is pretty exciting. There you can find EVERYTHING under the sun. A great pastime if you have little to do and a small budget.

I knew I needed to get a few things still before leaving Kampala at the end of my contract and Owino was definitely the place to go. So armed with 40,000 shillings (about US$20, but I only planned to spend half) I hopped into a matatu (maxi taxi) and whizzed down the empty Sunday streets to the market.

Sunday in downtown Kampala looks like any other day. Full of people, cars, street vendors, garbage and red dust every where. I walked the half block from the taxi stage to Owino market. There it was, Owino, Shoppers Paradise. Picture a ‘post-armageddon’ Port of Spain National Stadium taken over by the Drag Brothers. Owino, for some reason reminds me of something out of a science fiction movie, like Mad Max or something like that.

I approach Owino, which is in fact a Stadium that has been swallowed by the market that started next door. There are several entrances across a ‘moatlike; canal. As you walk into Owino, you must be prepared, vendors, grab and touch, not harassingly, but that is their way of trying to persuade you to look at their goods. On this Sunday, one of the vendors kneeled and and blew me a kiss. I, for some reason, was VERY offended. I found the gesture a bit obscene. Then he held my hand, and said he knew me and couldn't understand why I was treating him like this. I slapped his hand and told him to let me go, which he didn't, again asking why I was behaving like this. I slapped his hand repeatedly. We looked like we were having a lovers quarrel, and I was very afraid that the man would hit me back and of course no one would defend me. Eventually he let me go, and I hurried away. Though hours later I actually did seem to remember him as someone I knew. A vendor who I had bought shoes from some weeks ago.

But I wasn't there for shoes, I was on a different mission. Owino, like many other markets in Africa is a place that you can get ANYTHING under the sun. I've bought predictable things such as fruit and vegetables, and shopping baskets, but there are more exciting things available there. Previous trips have produced miscellaneous items of new and used clothing, including designer labels, shoes, raffia for giftwrapping, an extension cord, a knife and even earphones for my walkman.

Today's mission was to find a leather jacket, some samples of nice shirts which I could give to my tailor as inspiration, and some good reading material. I heard that you can even find books at Owino, but I had never actually seen the booksellers myself.

I knew where the stall with the leather jackets was. I wove my way in and out of the narrow aisles, dodging soapy and muddy water, stepping over plates of lunch of matoke (imagine coocoo made of green banana) and beans, over piles of clothing being sold at 500 shillings a piece, until I found the Leather Jacket Man. Three of his jackets looked like what I was looking for. He took them down for me to try, while he got a pocket sized (!) mirror for me to see how I looked. They all fit well, too well. My guy didn’t understand I actually wanted to use my jacket in Autumn or winter when I had to travel, and not just for ‘style’. The jackets were too small. He tried to entice me with the price, going from 45,000 to 30,000 is 2 seconds. I was tempted, but left them.

I continued browsing, then it occurred to me, I had meetings in London on my way to Trinidad, and I had no formal business clothes. Maybe I could find a suit in Owino. Yes a suit at the market, this is Africa! I found the ladies who sold suits, and third time lucky. I found the suit of my dreams. Cream, nice microfibre suit, great fitting jacket, nicely designed trousers. This one had never been worn, it still had the original tags from a well known London department store, or maybe this was yet another Owino scheme for shoppers like me. I ask the price, and the tells me 38,000. I had no intention of spending that money, and had learned anyway ALL prices are negotiable. Our exchange went like this:
“Nyabo (madam), I’m sorry I only came to market with 15,000.”
“Oh madam, this is a good suit, nice fabric, you come, you try.”
I tried it on. It certainly felt good.
“Nyabo,” she said, “you are so smart, so beautiful!”
These women knew how to work it. She borrowed another pocket mirror from her neighbour and showed me how I looked. Yes it did look good. A little tight, but maybe I could eat less 'matoke' for the remaining few days in Uganda to shed a pound or two.
"So Nyabo, how much you give me for this suit?"
"Oh madam I only have 15,000, what's your best price?"
Our good natured bargaining went on for about five minutes. Eventually I got her down from 38,000 to 20,000. The bargaining always ends with the phrase "You bring cash money!"
So there, I had a beautiful designer suit, a steal of deal. I left Owino about an hour later laden with my suit, 3 shirts for my tailor, 5 novels, freshly made peanut butter, and just to remind myself that I'd been to the market, a handful of tomatoes.

How we can really help Africa

A Village called Kampala

Of course you know.... This means War!

...In the Picture, My Kenyan friend Emily by the Old Taxi Park. Photo taken by Kiti...
There is a war raging in Kampala on a daily basis. War, you ask? In Kampala? I thought the war was in the North of Uganda. Yes there is that horrible war in North Uganda that has been going on for almost twenty years, but I don't mean that one. I'm referring to a smaller war that goes on a daily, even hourly basis. The war between commuters and taxi conducters!
Twice a day I have to strategise for my commute to work or home, and at the end of the day, I must also plan my strategy for the following day or following few days.
There are several modes of transport in Kampala. There's is the 'boda-boda' system, convenient bicycle and motorcycle taxis that weave in and out of traffic, and get you where you want to go in the shortest possible time. Though sometimes GREAT risk to life and limb, as you are at the mercy of this driver, who could be in any state at the time. One friend has actually had the misfortune of discovering her boda driver was drunk after she had got on. She only realised when the reek of alcohol hit her face after they were heading down the road at breakneck speed. Luckily she got home safely. Another form of transport is the 'special hire', which is hired 'door to door' taxi. Obviously a more expensive form of transport. And finally there is the 'matatu', which we in Trinidad would refer to as maxi, also called taxi here.

Taxi fares, like all prices in Kampala, are negotiable. When you get into the taxi, you've got to know what you want to pay, or the conductor will short change you. Sorry for you if you don't have exact change! The fare also varies according to the time of day. Highest at rush hour in the morning, and around 6pm, and also high late at night when there are few transport options. Case of supply and demand.
After four months of getting robbed on a daily basis, I've worked out my strategy. I hum theme tracks from old war movies as I make my way to the taxi 'stage' (taxi stand). First I informed my employers that, since I live pretty far from downtown Kampala, and I'm at the complete mercy of conductors when I come to work at 8a.m. sometimes paying close to three times the fare, I would no longer subject myself to such exploitation. I changed my hours to 9 - 5. Instead of spending 1 hour in traffic on what should be a 20 minute ride, I now leave home at about 8.30 when taxis are looking for passengers, instead of the other way around.

My next strategy was to learn how to count in Luganda. Though most people in Uganda, including conductors speak English, Luganda is the first language in Buganda Kingdom, where Kampala is located. In the beginning I could count to five, as the numbers 1 - 5 were quite similar to Swahihli numbers. The fare that I should pay is 500 shillings from Kiwatole to Kampala Centre, 200 from Kiwatole to Ntinda, 300 from Ntinda to Kiwatole. So if the conductor said "Bi Tano" I knew he was meant 500. Now 600, 700, 800? It was all Greek to me, or should I say Luganda. So I decided it was time to learn: Lukaga, Lusanvu, Lunana, as long as I heard those words, I knew not to get on!

Finally, the key to winning the war, having exact change! I have gone through incredible lengths to ensure that I have the right change for the fare. I went to the bank recently and withdrew about US$20 in change - just for taxi fare. The tellers eyes nearly fell out of her head when I requested the cash in 500, 200 and 100 shilling coins (about US 25c, 10c and 5c). I then stacked all of my little coins into stacks for each day of the week. And I wouldn't use that change for ANYTHING else. I remember one day a poor woman asked if I had change for 5000 shillings. I sympathised with her, but told her point blank "Sorry, NO". I had gone through too much trouble to make my change.

Though I said 'finally' in the last paragraph, this last point is the real 'Victory Point'. The conductors, like to collect the money before they reach the stage, in order to save time, or to have enough time to find the wrong change to give you! So they ask who's coming out at the next one or two stages, and request payment before they reach. Me, I've learned. I just keep silent. When we reach my stop, I just push my way out, and regardless of the fare - lukaga, lusanvu, lunana, I just put my five hundred shilling coin into the conductor's hand and walk away without looking back, whistling my victory tune to myself. The Daily Battle - fought and won!

Coming of Age Rituals in Uganda

Odeio gente fresca!!

Hah hah, este blog vai em portugues, desculpe, mas vai assim mesmo. Este fim de semana fui para Sipi com tres amigas minhas. Elas tinham os planos de ir, e como eu sou a aventureira, me queriam como companhia. Tem certeza, eu avisei, olha eu nao sou viajante tradicional. Geralmente meu programa e um pouco mais 'rough'.
Sim Lesley, elas confirmaram, voce e tao legal, tao viajada, tao experiente, etc. etc.
Ok. Beleza, mas falei que, "Olha, sabado to um pouco ocupada, so posso viajar depois da uma. Mesmo assim Lesley querida, venha! Cancele seus compromissos mais tarde. Sipi vai ser legal! Esteja pronta a 12 em ponto!
Ok. Acordei cedo no sabado resolvi tudo que tinha em 1 hora e meia, e entao recebi um SMS. Lesley, a gente se atrasou. So podemos te encontrar as 12.30. Ok. Tudo bem, o que poderia fazer ein? Eu que tinha um montou de coisa para fazer, mas bom. E ja estava a caminho ao ponto de encontro. Mas o ponto era um restaurante, e eu ainda nao tinha almocado. Entao comprei um jornal e sentei para almocar. Ok. 12.30 veio e foi

Grasshoppers in Season!

You know the matatu rides are very culturally rich and informative!
The other day I was waiting for the matatu to fill up at Kiwatole stage. Stage is the local word for bus stop, and Kiwatole (Chi-wa-to-lay) is my neighbourhood. The Kiwatole stage in Ntinda is always bustling with activity. People selling everything! Fresh fruit and vegetables like pawpaw, pineapples, tomatoes, cabbages, green peas and fresh red beans etc. As well as food for those on the run like roasted plaintain or 'gonja', roasted corn, groundnuts, chapatis and 'rolexes' - which are chapatis rolled with a fried egg, chicken, liver, beef or goat on a stick etc. In between we have the guys carrying everything on bikes - like bananas, cloth, coal, water, as well as the 'boda-boda' (motorcycle taxis) drivers just sitting around waiting for passengers.
So I was scanning the Ntinda-Kiwatole scene looking around to see what was new, if I needed to get anything to buy, or could convince the conductor to go and buy it for me, when my eyes fell onto a boy with a basket of something VERY VERY new, in between the green peas and the ground nuts. It looked like a basket of some kind of bush - some short pieces of grass.
Until one moved!
They were grasshoppers! Considered a delicacy here in Uganda. I thought it was a rural practice, but there they were for sale, right in the middle of Kampala.
The following day at work, I asked about the grasshoppers, and got lots of helpful information.
"Oh you just fly them"
What???? Oh you mean "fry".
"Yes, you just fly them. After removing the leftover wings, then they have to be washed, then after that, just put in the saucepan, add salt, then you start flying them." said the office assistant Robert.
So what do they taste like?
"Oh my friend, I've failed because of the taste! At least me, I prefer ants, because they don't have that smell like those grasshoppers, and they don't have that much oil."
Well me, I'm still thinking about when and whether I will in fact buy a kilo of grasshoppers instead of a kilo of nuts and munch on them on the way home.
I'll let you know when I do.

Where does gravel come from?

My matatu stops at Kamokya (Ka-moh-cha) market everyday next to a several piles of marble stones, pebbles and slabs. I normally sit near to a window, and I idly look at the marble and admire its beauty.
One beautiful Friday afternoon, as usual, we stopped at Kamokya market and I lost myself in the beauty of the marble piles. Large slabs, small slabs, fist-size rocks, penny size rocks and finally small gravelly pebbles.
As a designer, I appreciate the colour, shapes, sizes, repetition of design etc. We normally have to wait at Kamokya for a good while, for other passengers.
This time a noise, a little metallic 'tak,tak,tak', brought me back from my usual daydream to the land of Marble. My eyes followed the direction of the noise, and today I was able to see how all that marble was created.
A man was sitting next to one of the piles and chipping away at the little stones until he had fine pieces of gravel.
I remember about ten years ago, a similar scene in Brazil. There I would lose myself in the beauty of the pavements with the 'Copacabana' black and white wave patterns. Then one day also at a bus stop, in Salvador Bahia, I saw how these patterns were created. Men would go down on their hands and knees and put each little stone in place. I was horrified then. 'That was slave labour!' I had thought, 'How could a man go down on his hands and knees to produce a pavement in 1994! '. Today however, a little more grown-up and maybe hardened by world travelling, I thought almost nothing of this scene, a man turning a slab of marble into gravel, by hand in 2005. It only reminded me of time when I valued human labour so much more.
The matatu had filled up and we pulled off, and my view changed from marble to houses, banana trees etc. I would be able to forget about the man and the gravel till another day.

Kiira Road Blues

We do the Watusi... and we're seven feet tall!

In the picture, chaotic Nairobi Inter city Bus Stand. The 'picturesque view from Gaianthiwa Lodge and photo of Kamau (right) and another Gainthiwa member of staff

Some of you might remember that old campsong:

Oh we're from Nairobi
And we're on the destiny????? (doubt this was the word, but I was too young to make sense of the song)
We do the watusi
and we're seven feet tall

Well last week I was in Nairobi. I didn't do the watusi, and didn't see any seven feet tall folk. But Nairobi was cool. Literally maybe more like cold on the first day. This was my second trip to Nairobi, though the first time I spent less than twenty four hours. Nairobi is a bustling modern city with skyscrapers and slums. It somehow reminds me of Johannesburg. Maybe only because it's so modern, yet so African. You'll see the guys in the suits and leather jackets next to the Maasai with red hair and red blankets.

The song continued:

The cannibals may eat us
But they'll never beat us
Coz we're from Nairobi
And we're on the ball!

Nairobi has a reputation of being one of the most dangerous cities in Africa. Travellers are always warned not to arrive in Nairobi at night. I arrived early morning at about 5:30 a.m. I had studied my guidebook well, and memorised the name and address of a popular backpackers hotel so I wouldn't have to look like I didn't know where I was going. Anyone asked I was from Nairobi, and on the ball ;-) So I spent one night at Hotel Terminal, a rundown, cheap but overpriced roach motel, but with very pleasant, helpful staff. That was the first time I had ever seen cockroaches just crawling casually all over the place. I felt like they would run off with my bags if I didn't keep an eye on them.

Anyway I had two phone numbers of people I knew in Nairobi. I needed to find some locals to hang with so I could know what I was doing and where I was going fast.
After a few hours I found one of them, a friend from Kampala, who was on the exact same beat as I was - shopping for her business. I knew I had to stick to her like glue.

So she invited me to move to her hotel, but warned me that there were no sit-down toilets! Me! Been there done that - no sweat. So I moved to an even cheaper cheapie hotel for traders like me. US$3.30 a night! Gianthiwa guesthouse with its walls that badly needed a paint job, shared squat toilets that no one ever remembered to flush, shared showers, but on the bright side - there was running water so the toilets could flush if you really wanted to do that, but no one really wanted to, and low and behold hot water anytime day or night, and there was security - the manager, Kamau, a big strapping Kikuyu man with dyed teeth, stood at the door every night to ensure the safety of his guests.

Anyway to cut a long, long, long story short. I spent about 10 days travelling - 4 in Nairobi, 4 in Dar Es Salaam, and two more in Nairobi on my return. Though I planned my trip to Nairobi from Kampala well and arrived in the morning, I had no control over the trip from Dar back to Nairobi and arrived at about midnight. I had the misfortune of sitting next to a lecherous cannibalistic wolf of man, who had bought me some cashew nuts, a Coke and an apple, and had figured that by midnight that he was going to eat me and invited me to share a hotel room with him, you know since I was new to Nairobi. I pushed him aside and said "I know where I'm going!" and walked away singing to myself "Coz I'm from Nairobi, and I'm on the ball". I could see Kamau the Kikuyu guard looking out for me, smiling on the stoop of his rundown hotel. "Mzungu, you're back."

That's how we do it in Finland!!!

In the pictures.... 'Family' outing - Eric and I have dinner with Kiti and her parents. Kiti and I at the monthly National Theatre open air Jam session.


My room-mate is a wonderful person. She's from Finland and is everything that we imagine Scandinavians to be - very pale with white blond her and very, very light, blue eyes.

She really enjoys her African experience. She works with children and adolescents in both urban and rural settings. Everywhere she goes little barefoot Ugandan children run behind her smiling, shouting and waving "Mzunguuuu, mzunguuuu, Hellooooo, Muzungooooo" or "Mzunguuuu, mzunguuuu, Byeeeee Mzungooooooo". Mzungu means foreigner, but is used mainly for white people. Many of them had never seen such a white person in real life. But she loves Uganda, Ugandan food, Ugandan music, Ugandan culture, her Ugandan friends.

This week she was really excited because her parents had decided to come and visit and see for themselves why she really liked Africa so much. She told them okay, you're coming to Africa to see how I live and understand the culture. You're coming from Europe, I want you to bring your luggage full of toys and things to help the Ugandan children who I work with, and I want you to contact all of our friends and encourage them to give you used toys so we can distribute them to a few foundations here.

So they emailed her to tell her of the progress, they had got so many donations from people, just like she had requested. They'd bring everything with them.
The day came and she went to the airport with a Ugandan boyfriend to collect her parents. They all came home and we waited very anxiously to see what they had brought with them for the African children.

First they apologised profusely, they didn't realise that their luggage allowance was only 20kgs each, so they had to leave lots of stuff at the airport, but they had chosen carefully, and thought they had brought the most useful items.

What we wondered had they chosen? Did they chose shoes? clothes? toys?

They opened the suitcases. Look! they exclaimed.

We looked but could not understand what they were showing us. What on earth had they brought??

"Look" they showed us excitedly. "We brought reflectors!"

Eric, a Ugandan, and I looked at each other blankly with big imaginary question marks in speech bubbles over our heads.

"Yes, reflectors are very useful. In Finland it is the law, young children have to wear reflectors!"

Then slowly I began to see the light (no pun intended). Mr and Mrs F. come from a part of the world where it is dark for 6 months in the year. Of course the children have to wear reflectors. They had no idea what the little Ugandan children might need, but surely they must need reflectors!

Good intentions but... they had brought about 30 kg of relectors to distribute to children all over Uganda!

Anyway I was still excited to get my reflector, as I'm sure the kids will be too.

Now those mad matatu drivers can see me in the night trying to walk along the side of the road, while dodging the cars and trying not to fall into the gully!
I imagine some little children in a village like Bugiri which might not have electricity, opening their packages of reflectors and wondering what to do with these plastic things, but as resourceful as African children are, I know they will become well appreciated toys.

Do you want to help African children?

Can I politely suggest that the children in rural Uganda who walk to school barefoot in threadbare school uniforms would greatly appreciate it if you donate shoes, clothes, books, toys, money to the local hospital, library, schools, etc. etc. not reflectors, even though they make a really great fashion statement.

This tiny episode illustrates just what happens with a lot of the foreign aid.
Thanks for my reflector Mr. and Mrs. F. You're great people.

Keeping up with the Joneses - Part 2

As I said in the last blog, I normally live simply, and I'm quite contented with this simplicity. I like my space and my privacy that's all, don't really care about how other people live.

Well one day I left work pretty early and decided to beat Kampala evening mad rush, paid a 'boda boda' to get home, and finally got home around 5.30. I had an appointment later so I wanted to get ready without any hassle. I strolled up my wonderful paved road, and idly put my hand in my bag for my key. Hmmmm, wasn't there. Must be in a another pocket I thought.... no not there either. Okay, now where the heck is this thing. I called our caretaker - yes the caretaker has a cell phone and speaks English. "Joseph, I've forgotten my key at work can you come and open the door for me?" Sure no problem, he came opened the door and I went and left my bag in the shared kitchen, and decided I had to go back to work to get the key, as Joseph said he didn't know where the spare might be or if there even was one. While leaving my bag in the kitchen I got an sms from my Congolese friend Christian saying that he was on his way to see me to give me some cloth from Congo and another 'make-up' gift - we had had a 'falling out' the week before. So I replied and said "if you are nearby I'll meet you along the way if not I'll meet you at the office as I have to go back to get 'something'".

So Christian said he was already on his way and would be there soon. I was to wait for him at the bus stop. My friend Christian who claimed that he was nearby, in true African time style, took a whopping 45 minutes to get to the bus stop, and then when he finally got there we couldn't find each other. The bus stop is more like a bus terminal with no proper landmarks so it took another 5 - 10 minutes to actually find each other. Of course me and my impatient self I was very angry and shouted at poor Christian in my broken French about why he had made me wait for so long, I could have gone back to the office and come back already!'What are you doing now Christian? If you think I'm going to stand here and talk to you, you lie! You better come with me and talk with me in the matatu!' So he jumped in the matatu with me and accompanied me back to work, but was so sheepish that he didn't say a word. As it had already gotten dark, and Christian being a man of honour, decided that despite Lesley's wrath and terrible temper he could not leave this Mzungu (foreigner) woman to go back to the office alone.

We arrived at the office about half an hour later in almost complete darkness. Luckily the caretaker lives on site, so he opened up for me and I ran inside to find the key. I checked everywhere on the desk, under the table, behind the computer. No KEY! Now I was really upset! What to do? I ran back outside to meet Christian, who was still waiting to give me the cloth and the gift. Okay I half listened while he apologised for last week's disagreement and presented me with the gifts. Two beautiful wooden trays to beautify my home! Sure, wonderful, but what if I could never get back into my home! He escorted me back to the bus stop and left me to make my way home. I hadn't told him that I had no key, because of course I could do without the offer of 'stay by me!' from this man. I called and cancelled the other appointment.

What to do, what to do? I arrived home and went to look for my landlady who lived in the building next door. Apparently she was over in our building with the caretaker and some other people. They were at an apartment that had just been vacated. I went across and knocked tentatively. "Irene" I called out, "did Joseph tell you I lost my key????" "What? no he didn't. What now? Where are you going to sleep? We don't have a spare for that room!" The ground could have opened and swallowed me up. I thought there was a spare, just that Joseph did not know where it was. So Irene told me to come in and sit and wait till they finished their meeting and afterwards they'd decide what to do.

So I entered my neighbours' apartment. Though the apartment was directly in front of my room, I had never even glimpsed inside. Now here I was inside waiting for the meeting to finish. I sat on the edge of the faux leather sofa and looked around the apartment. Hmmm what a nice place. I sat back a little bit more comfortably, and reached over for the remote control. Wow a working TV with CABLE!! I flicked the channels till I found East Africa TV, which is like a local MTV. I hadn't watched TV in 2 months! I heard the door open and Irene and co. walked out. 'Okay we've decided that you won't find a locksmith tonight so you can stay here, and in the morning we'll decide what to do.' WOW!!! Thank you!! She went back to her house, and Joseph stayed around for a little bit and said he'd check on me later when he came to turn off the generator. I forgot to mention that we had no power in our neighbourhood every other night, but the luxurious apartments in front are serviced by a generator. So there I was in a nice posh apartment with a living room and dining room, an 'inside' toilet and shower with hot and cold water, AND electricity, instead of in my little hole with candles. I could get accustomed to that.... Imagine not having to walk outside to go to the toilet or use the shower!

Anyway I decided to just go in the back to get something to eat from my bag, which was still in the kitchen. I felt my way around in the darkness, got the bag, got the food, then I thought, let me just try my door... I put my hand on the handle and turned slowly. It opened. What!? It was open? But where was the key? I lit a candle and looked around. No no key, but of course the room was a mess anyway so I couldn't find any key in that half light. So I took my food and went back into the Joneses apartment to watch some telly, sprawl out on the sofa, use the toaster, microwave etc. I walked through the whole house, flicked the lights on and off, turned the water on, flushed the toilets (yes there were more than one!) I was like a child at Christmas.

Anyway it had to come to an end sometime. Lights came back around 11 and I decided to go back 'home' to look for the key. I sent Joseph an sms to say that my place was open and I'd gone back home. I looked everywhere in the room, overturned everything, and then finally gave up the search around midnight. I got ready for bed and closed the door. As the door shut I heard a little jangle... there were my keys in the door right where I had left them in the morning.