NAIROBI - On the Street without my Breathalyzer

(These are the journals I took whilst travelling in August and September 2009. Not wanting to spend all my vacation in Internet cafes, I decided to handwrite them and then type them up when I got home. I hope to post regularly over the next few weeks, but that depends on both time and discipline. But we will get there! We begin in Nairobi on the evening of August 23rd.)

Things get off to a less than promising start when the promised cab is not at the airport to pick me up. They may be avoiding meeting flights because of the imminent danger of swine flu; as well as the inevitable visa forms I'm asked to fill in a questionnaire to ascertain my probability of having H1N1. "Are you suffering from any of the following?" it cheerfully asks before reeling off a little list including "Headache", "Sore throat", "Cough", "Sneezing" etc. etc. You know; the sorts of things which you might get from, say, sitting on a plane for twelve hours. I answer no, and stifle my coughs as I hand over my Yankee dollars to purchase a tourist visa. (Don't worry, world, I didn't have swine flu. But more on my exciting illness later!)

Thankfully, East Africa is full of cabs. Really. They're everywhere. So twenty minutes later I'm driving through the cold Kenyan night in the company of my first of many drivers called John. He's typical of most of Kenyan cab drivers. Not only because he's called John, but also because he's unerringly enthusiastic despite it being 10pm on a Sunday night. "This is the worst night to be driving," he tells me as he weaves round some questionable road users, "everyone drinks all day on Sundays, then don't think about it when they drive." That strikes me as a slightly odd statement to make. "Don't the police catch on to that?" I ask. John shakes his head. "They know. But they can do nothing. They do not have those..." He then begins to make a Darth Vader style heavy breathing mime. "Breathalyzers?" I offer. "Yes!" he slaps his hand on the wheel with great enthusiasm.

After giving me his business card with both work and home numbers, he leaves me at my first night's stop; The Kenya Comfort Hotel. I mostly chose this place because it's cheap and right in the heart of the city's central business district. In the middle of the night, the area is somewhat seedy ("That's a lot of women just hanging out by themselves...") but the hotel is really rather good. It has doors; which lock. It has a shower and a toilet; which work. And it has a 24 hour restaurant; which is good. They are using their immensely large flat screen TVs to play an episode of Oprah. But I can forgive them.

By the morning, the hookers have left the corners around the hotel and have been replaced by cab drivers. They stand. They wait. And then they pounce on anyone who wanders out of the hotel. It doesn't take long to be whisked back to the airport by another John who, also, is extremely enthusiastic and keen to hear all about the mysterious country of Canada. This is my first chance to talk about Kenya's current favorite son: President Obama. I tell John that his first international visit was to Canada. This makes him very impressed. I don't have the heart to explain that it was just a hop over the border for him.

For just one night's stay, Nairobi has been somewhat exhausting. Everyone is interested, and intrigued. You don't want to disappoint anyone by not participating fully in the conversation they offer. You will, of course, eventually disappoint nearly everyone if you don't buy the inevitable service offered by conversation's end. But I'm getting ahead of myself; the true touts of Nairobi aren't in full swing at 6am on a Monday. And in Zanzibar during Ramadan? Well, they have other things to think about...