Living in Nairobi and Owning a Washing Machine

I find living in Nairobi to be great – fun – fascinating - and also peculiar. I am laughing a lot (in a positive way) over the cultural differences, and mishaps that occur as a result, and am bemused by the lifestyle that those of us here working for development groups, or the UN, or some other aid agency, live.

Kenya has two official languages, English and Kiswahili, but many people speak Kiswahili more fluently. I constantly bump up against communication difficulties, usually because I’m too wordy, unclear and fast-speaking. It often leads to amusing and confusing interactions. For instance, if I get in the car and tell the driver, “I need to go downtown to the Treasury, but first stop off at the Village Market so I can use the ATM. Then I will need you to wait for me at the Treasury during my meeting, which might last 1 hour, but maybe more, so can you please wait and then bring me back and drop me off in the Westlands area?” I get a blank stare, 10 seconds of silence and then “So you want to go to Westlands now?”

My multi-phrased questions also do not work. Again I ask the driver, “Will you wait for me here in the parking garage or out on the street?” To which he responds “Yes.” Or, I ask, “You have arrived 30 minutes early, do you want to leave and come back or wait?” To which he answers, “You’re welcome.”

You are right in thinking that most of this is my problem, and I am just as confusing in the U.S., but here, the number of times a day I have conversations such as these, and the utter confusion it always breeds, is much exaggerated. What is more, because the Kenyan people are so nice and polite, I believe, they answer you as if they understand, instead of telling you they do not…I begin KiSwahili lessons this Thursday.

And, I am abysmal with pronouncing names. There are many Onyangos and Anyangos. Lots of Mwamburis, Wambuis, Wangaris and Mtambuis. A few weeks ago, a funny thing happened when arranging a meeting with a professor who wrote a report on Kisumu. I’ll say his name is George Otieno. After I left several unreturned messages with Mr. Otieno, I received a phone call from a George Atieno, in the Ministry of Planning, calling to request a meeting with me. I thought it was Otieno, from Kisumu, since I did not know Atieno, from Nairobi, and because I could not hear the difference in pronunciation of these two common surnames.

We arranged to meet in Nairobi and the day before I called to confirm. “You’ll be in Nairobi and not Kisumu tomorrow?” I asked, “Because a colleague is meeting with you in Kisumu today, so I want to make sure you, in fact, will be in Nairobi tomorrow.” 10 seconds of silence. “Yes” he answered, even though he surely wondered what I meant. The next day, I and the Columbia grad students marched into George Atieno’s office at the Ministry of Planning in Nairobi, prepared to talk about George Otieno’s Kisumu report. After introductions, I start, “we read your investment report and would like to discuss it with you.” Silence and a blank stare ensues. “What report?” he says. We laugh, thinking he is teasing, so I push the report his way, “this one,” I respond. “That is not me,” he says, none too cheerfully. More silence and I look down at the business card he handed me and, indeed, discover he is not Otieno. The silence continued for what seemed like hours as I sat there and thought, “well, then, who are you and now how do I get us all out of your office???” But it turned out that Mr. Atieno was someone I needed to meet in the national government after all.

The housing situation for those of us living and working temporarily in Nairobi is a bit insane, and everyone is obsessed by it – discussing locations, size of gardens, number of bedrooms and the best place to buy furniture. Most live in oversized homes that rent rather cheaply, but come completely empty, with nothing but walls and floors. Last Tuesday I moved into my house with a friend working at the United Nations Environmental Program, Cristina, a fun half-Italian / half-English woman. Our house is ridiculously large for two people who have only a few suitcases – it has 2 floors, 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, a large kitchen, sitting room and dining room, plus a 2 room-2 bathroom “servant’s quarters” in the back. We have had to purchase beds, tables, a refrigerator, oven, and even a washing machine – my very first one, something I never thought I’d buy in Kenya!

Understandably, everyone here is also consumed by their personal security. At the main gate to the 5-house compound where we live, we have a 24-hour guard –Samuel or Joel – and a guard dog. At the gate to our house, we also have a 24-hour guard – Sylvester or Joseph – and a guard dog. But the guard situation is more amusing than protective. Their main role is to push an alarm if we come under attack, and then run for their lives. They are required to push a button every hour to assure the security company that they are awake, still allowing them plenty of time to sleep during the remaining 59 minutes. Several times already I have pulled up to our gate and had to honk the car horn many times to wake the guard (and the dog) to come open the gate for us! But, you can’t NOT have a guard - as everyone does - so do we. We also have an alarm system, with panic buttons in every room that alert the diplomatic police when pushed; a safe haven upstairs where we are to hide while waiting for the police; and more bars, locks and padlocks than Fort Knox leaving me unable to imagine anyone getting in. It is a very strange way to live, and one to which I find a little hard to adjust!

(Pictured: The street kiosks right outside the gates to my house, where I can buy fresh fruits and vegetables, flowers, eggs, cell phone cards, you name it; My house, off Peponi Rd, Nairobi)