The Color of Money

So there I was, sitting on my bed, chuckling for the umpteenth time at Eddie Izzard's witty remarks about Jeff, the god of biscuits, when my phone started vibrating.

- Hey man, you up for a few beers?
- Always
- Meet me at Gypsie's in 30 mins, k?
- Got it

I wasn't actually feeling like beer at the moment, but he was the guy who was supposed to hook me up with job in investment banking, so I wanted to know if he had some news. I took a cab to Westlands, the part of Nairobi "where it's all happening", and I don't mean the violence, but the nightlife. I hadn't been at Gypsie's before, but I had heard that it's one of the nice local places, where all kinds of people were able to enjoy each other's company in peace. That turned out to be both right and wrong, depending how you look at it.

It was still early, but the place was already filling up quickly and the DJ was setting up his huge PA on the terrace. I looked around for Vince, the guy I was supposed to meet, and soon found him hanging by the bar with a frosty Tusker, the official beer of my visit to Kenya. He was wearing cargo shorts, a print t-shirt and baseball cap with the acronym of his college in the US.

- 'Sup, bro?
- I'm good, I'm good, how 'bout yourself
- All good.. You wanna Tusker?
- Do I have a choice? (grin)
- Hell, no!! (laugh)

We sit down and he starts explaining the situation regarding me possibly working for his dad's company. I pay close attention for the few minutes, until I gather that I've heard all the important parts and the rest is just details that will change completely even IF I end up getting the job. It would include me basically being the human resources manager of a small investment bank, in other words, boss for all the local employees. I have no experience from an investment bank, or any other kind of bank for that matter, nor do I have any education on the subject under my belt. BUT, I'm theoretically a marine, which is a huge help when dealing with anything American, AND I can tell (borderline) offensive jokes in four languages (learned a few new ones from the bush babies in Zanzibar), which counts for several university degrees and years of experience in any field. So I'm not worried about the details, and instead concentrate on the people in the bar. It really is a colorful lot, locals, tourists, KC's (Kenyan Colonials: old money whiteys, who think they're royals), Europeans working in Nairobi etc. I smile at a German guy's severely short shorts, that reveal his blindingly white hamstrings, as he orders a beer with an accent that he has stolen from a B-class WWII-movie. I shake my head and simultaneously catch a glimpse of a girl whose looking my way. I look behind me to avoid the classic "I'm so money I don't even know it"-mistake, only to find a wall. She keeps looking at, I am convinced, me. Don't get me wrong, women have looked at me before, but this time there are several things that don't add up:
1) I haven't shaved my beard in a couple of days
2) I'm sporting an overgrown buzz-cut
3) I'm sporting my Top Gun t-shirt, compliments of the Amsterdam-connection
4) There is a South American-looking beef cake with his hand on her hip
5) She looks like the girl from..well..any of Nelly's music videos

Vince soon notices that my attention has been distracted and looks over his shoulder. Instantly he finds what I'm looking at and turns back around laughing, just in time to catch my best impression of Human Question Mark.

- You wanna hit that?
- .....WHAT?
- I said do you wanna go talk to her?

My brain quickly runs through all the information that it has on situations like this (no matches), and the through all the euphemisms and subtexts in the English language (plenty, but none fit).

- Ummmm...no, thanks
- Really, she's hot, though, don't you think?
- Well, sure (also, most water is somewhat wet and the sky is occasionally blue..)

I walk him through steps 1 to 5 and place some emphasis on additional, and perhaps the most important step number 6 - the reason I'm in this logic-forsaken, post-election mayhem in the first place - Tsuuls.

He shrugs, admits that it might be a bad idea and takes a big gulp from his Tusker.

- But seriously, IF you'd want to, any girl in here, man..ANY girl.

We engage in a lengthy conversation about inter-racial relationships in Kenya, and I feel like I should be taking notes, just to avoid getting unwanted girlfriends while asking for directions during my time in Nairobi.

- Hey, you mind if we go for a ride, I'd like to change clothes and I could show you something
- Sure man, you're the host

We hop into his SUV and head east. After about 20 minutes of driving I have no idea where we are, since none of the roads have visible signs and none of them are straight for more that 40 meters at a time. Suddenly Vince makes a hard left and a uniformed Kenyan jumps out of nowhere to open a gate in front of us. We pull up at the parking lot of a huge mansion-like building as the guard salutes us, as if we were somehow very important.

- We're here, at The Muthaiga Club

I find out that I'm suddenly a guest at the most prestigious and cash-money country club in East Africa, whose members include the "president" Mwai Kibaki, for example. We strut in the door of the "men's bar", a bar where women have never been allowed. I feel I should have a gray mustache and monocle, maybe even a pipe. This problem is soon fixed, as Vince exchanges a few friendly lines in Swahili with the bartender, who whips out the cigar box. We help ourselves to a pair of nice Cubans and proceed to pick a whiskey, or actually a whisky, since I pick the Scottish Jameson, fearing that I might have to pay for this fun. Politely I reach for my wallet, but Vince will not have any of that and casually signs a notebook and ushers me forward. The library has the "who's who" of Kenyan history on its walls and a collection of business publications on its tables. Vince walks me through a few important (white) dudes and cheerily tells the tale of the president bringing his mistress to this library through the back door while his wife had to wait outside the front door of the "men's bar". Growing fearful that I will O.D. of chauvinism I ask him to show me the rest of the place.

Vince kicks open doors and gives me the tour of the impressive facilities that the members have at their disposal: the dining halls, the terraces, the hotel rooms upstairs (seemingly exclusively designed for extramarital activities), the tennis courts, and shows me where the golf course begins. Not too shabby for the J-Man.. Not that I'll ever be a member, but still.. Moments later our cigars are butts in an ashtray, our glasses are empty on the bar, and we have hopped back into the SUV to continue my shock therapy.

Vince's house is huge. This didn't exactly come as a surprise, but the size of the house is nonetheless compelling. Vince's amiable huskey comes to greet us and I scratch it while Vince disables the security. We step in and he shows me the bar, while he goes to change into something a little more executive than shorts and sandals. I whip up a round of Grant's, again consciously avoiding the expensive stuff, and making sure that Vince's drink is mostly rocks, after all, he is the driver. We hang out at the gargantuan balcony for a while and I explain the concept of Sauna to him, as well as the importance of wearing everything one owns when it's -66 C with the wind-chill factor.

An hour later we're back at Gypsie's, talking to some KC girls that Vince finds attractive. To me they look like your average skinny British chippies, but he must have his reasons. Perhaps a fetish in bad teeth or general ignorance.. Still, the guy's been more than generous to me so I play the wing-man, a role that I have played more times than Hugh Grant has played a goofy romantic. Because of my vast experience in this kind of activity it only takes a slice of my attention and I can resume my people-watching. Highlights include an old fart who has deliberately forgotten to button the last 6 buttons of his linen shirt for that "wild lover"-look. He's hanging out with four prostitutes, of which one is pregnant and the other keep competing in who has the best "I hate my life"-expression. There is some commotion on the dance floor as its average height suddenly rises by a foot, when a young Dutch couple decide to show everyone else how it's done to the beat of Darude's Sandstorm. Again I shake my head in amused disbelief and again I catch a glimpse of the music video girl..

She's still there, still glued to the Latin dude, and still staring at me, but this time on the dance floor. Vince's girls suddenly feel like dancing to some techno-crap and naturally I have to follow. About two minutes later Vince and the girls start arguing about something in front of the DJ-booth. The music is blaring into my ear, so I can't hear what they saying, so I do the "awkward white man" 2-step and look like an idiot. (vast experience there, too) Then I see the music video girl approaching, the Latin guy in tow. She's coming right towards me and my head spins like that of a baby owl, hoping to fold pre-flop, thus avoiding a fight with the Latin dude. Behind me is a speaker, on my left Vince is putting on the vibe, so the only way to go is right. It turns out that even right is sometimes wrong, because I practically run into a drunken English-looking woman, who is having an epileptic seizure...or dancing..it's hard to tell. She screams in my ear that she's Lucy's mom. I have no idea who Lucy is, or why the hell her mom wants to dance/seize with me. However, terrified to turn around, I rely on the "awkward white man" 2-step, until Lucy's mom starts to compliment "my awesome moves". I feel nauseous. Quickly excusing myself I beeline for the bathroom to get away from it all. Vince soon enters the bathroom, together with an extremely tanned Caucasian with a funny accent.

- ..is what it's all about!!, the Caucasian emphasizes
- What is?, I ask
- Africa. It's where it's all happenin'. I've been an international journalist for 25 years and I can tell you: THIS...is where it's all happenin'.
- So you from S.A., right?, Vince asks
- Yup, Johannesburg. The only place that beats Kenya.

They compare a handful of African countries while taking a leak, and I decide to go for the 80's hang by the hand dryer.

- So J-Man, why did you run away from the hottie?, Vince inquires
- She was a bit too intense, the guy wanted to kick my ass, and I think she was a prostitute
- Well, sure, but you wouldn't have to pay, the South African interjects
- ...WHAT?
- Yeah. Young, sporty guys like you, you're a jackpot for them. It's kinda like a long-term investment for them. They may not get money right NOW, but if they're your "girlfriend", you'll end up buying them stuff. Besides, hanging out with a muzungu raises a local girl's status like nothing else..TRUST ME, I've been there.
Vince nods at me, smiling.
- True story, bro.
- What about the Latin guy then?, I ask, thoroughly puzzled
- Survival of the fittest. She thinks you're hotter, richer, or Latin guy is old news. Either way, she's yours, if you want, the South African breaks it down.
I proceed to explain my reason for being in Africa and the guys back down.
- All right, man. Good talk, though. See you guys later.

The South African guy exits and we soon follow him back to the bar. Vince goes back to his girls and I sit at the bar, in desperate need of a large Tusker. As I'm sipping away I feel someone graze my back and turn to see the behind of the music video girl going to the bathroom. Phew.

Finally Vince is done with the ladies and we can go home. The whole ride home I try to process everything I have heard and seen during this somewhat hectic night as Vince explains how things went with the Brits. As we pull up in front of our gate I thank him for everything and start wrestling with the lock.

Just as I'm coming to the front door and I think I can finally relax I see Kiki, the host family's adult daughter, and Russo, the old and angry German Shepherd with it's teeth exposed. Not cool. Kiki tells me to head for the door slowly, which I do with ninja-like smoothness. Too late. Russo jumps at me and I pivot to avoid receiving it in my lap. However, the few Tuskers have slowed my reflexes down to not-so-ninja-like and Russo bites down on my knuckles. I manage to shake myself free and walk to the door swearing like a pirate.
- Did he get you?
- Nono, sometimes I just bleed for the hell of it..



As I take my bloody pants off to go to bed I empty my pockets and what do I find in my back pocket...

It turns out that Paul Newman and Tom Cruise were wrong. Even though the green dollar may be the universal currency, even in Tanzania, in Africa the color of money is white. And it comes with blood..

Wild Life

Right. Time to wrap up the Zanzibar trip:

To get away from the hustle and bustle of Stone Town, Jewelz had reserved a room for us at Santa Maria Coral Park, a small resort on the eastern coast of Zanzibar. Once the minibus had dropped everyone else off at their respective hotels, the Spice Tour driver took us across the island to Pengwa, where out resort was located. The poorly paved road turned into a gravel road, which soon turned into an even smaller and bumpier road. That, however, only took for two minutes and soon we had arrived at our destination.

There was not a soul to be seen. Nor did we hear anyone or anything, save the wind and the soothing sound of the tide coming back in. I stood still and a growing smile appeared on my face. Now THIS was what I was talking about. Shortly a dude appeared, wearing shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt and a huge smile. The reception was outdoors, as was everything else. They weren't that big on walls on Zanzibar either. Jewelz checked us in while I grabbed the key to our bungalow or "banda" and rushed to the bathroom, which would be my trademark on this paradise island..

All in all the place had only six bungalows, each housing two people, so the ambiance of the resort was peaceful, to say the least. The wind and tide, that turned out to be famously huge, drowned out all the other sounds, except at night, when it became background noise to the hooting of the birds and the manic laughter of bush babies.

On the second day we got to talking with a Swedish couple from Göteborg. We became friends for the few days and formed, together with the staff of the resort, the nucleus of the New Year's festivities. Well, to be honest, the other guests were nowhere to be found, but had they been there, we would have definitely been the nucleus.

Or, to be completely honest, the nuclei, because the party was at two physical locations. The bar next to the beach, and the bonfire on it. (the beach, not the bar) The beach party, however, was somewhat smaller, as it consisted only of Jewelz and the extremely eager and happy snorkeling instructor/handyman Suli, and some burning sticks. But what it lacked in size it made up in intensity..

Still, the best part of the stay was definitely the nature. The sea was obviously amazing, in good and bad. The water was warm and the snorkeling was a lot of fun. I saw a huge bright red starfish and dozens of smaller ones. As I don't possess an underwater camera, below is a picture of a smaller version that lived on the beach. The coolest maritime animal was, however, the blowfish. This bad boy was huge when Suli threw it into the boat, but suffered soon an acute case of asphyxiation (and possibly lupus), and shrunk to 1/5th of it original size. Hilarious. Naturally I put the poor bastard back into the ocean before its pulmonary system failed completely.

Notice the cool diving mask lines..

Moving on to the amphibian creatures, the crabs were plenty all over the place. There were sand crabs, like Crab Man in the previous post and the "hermit" crabs that inhabited empty shells. Lisa even became an unintentional murderer of one of these critters. She found a large beautiful seashell on the beach and took it to their banda. A couple of hours later they came back from lunch to find a dead crab that had managed to drag its body out of the shell, but sadly never made it back to the beach. So kids, whenever you pick up a seashell, make sure nobody's home!!

Don't worry, he's still alive.

As for others species that we encountered, there were obviously a lot of birds. They, however, were loud and rather boring, as they mostly stayed hidden and just concentrated on waking up people at steady intervals. But the award for the coolest animal is very close, almost a tie. The silver goes to Jeff the Lizard! This guy set up camp in our bathroom and casually hung out with us, even through showers. It's hard to tell from the pic, but he was about the size of my palm, but still managed to stay on the wall and the ceiling.

"Crap, they spotted me!"

And the winner isss.......

Komba!(swahili) Or Eddie the Bushbaby. This nocturnal fur ball came to visit us on New Year's Eve, right after dessert. The receptionist told us that they love mango, which explained its sudden interest in us. I tried to invite it to hang with us, but seeing that we had already selfishly eaten all the mango, it hopped into a bush (oh, so that's where it comes from..) and joined its buddies in the tree tops. The lot of them then spent the rest of the night laughing their hairy butts off, with a voice that sounded exactly like Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop, hence the name. During daytime they were nowhere to be found, so I deducted that they must have been somewhere coming up with new knock-knock jokes to tell each other the next night.

On the morning of the fourth day I was filthy (salt, sand, sweat...combination of factors, really), quite severely sunburnt and ready to go back to Nairobi. I appraised Jewelz in her wisdom, as she had booked us flights from Zanzibar airport to Nairobi, and we didn't have to repeat the horrendous, yet interesting, bus ride back.

Once we got to the airport, it looked like all hell had broken loose. And it had, in Kenya. I will discuss the volatile situation in the country in a later post, but suffice to say that everyone was very keen to go home, or wherever they were going, and one flight had already been canceled. One American couple had been waiting at the airport from 5 in the morning and they looked like they were either going to break down in tears or go on a killing spree if they didn't make it to the afternoon flight. One thing that didn't exactly help the situation was the local authorities habit to routinely overbook the flights in order to maximize the capacity usage. Fortunately we boarded the plane with time to spare (8 mins after it was supposed to take off), after paying the "leaving-the-country-tax", my first one, ever. It had to be paid in dollars, naturally, while the plane tickets were paid in Tanzanian Shillings..

I bet the airport has seen some fascinating scenes, when cranky tourists, stressed to make their flight connections, have been asked a random amount of dollars in the name of a mysterious tax that is "built into the ticket prices" in other countries and airports, when they're out of cash and the nearest ATM is a 30 min taxi ride away, after which the money has to be exchanged to shillings. And the only information on this ridiculous tax is a torn piece paper that looked like an old flier, in the corridor leading to the bathrooms (read. holes). OutSTANding, isn't it?

Well anyway, we made it, and even got a glimpse of the great Kilimanjaro, which I was supposed to climb, before one jackass decided to inconspicuously rig the elections by a quiet 1,5 million votes. Sadly that may be closest I ever got to that peak. Mt. Kenya, however, is still on the table. After all, I have to climb something after buying a shitload of equipment and dragging it to another continent.

I shall leave you today with this hilarious onomatopoeic detail:

Top 4 Photos from Zanzibar

4. Mosque in Stone Town (by Jelwelz)



3. Tree at The Market (by The J-Man)



2. Heart-shaped Stone (by both)



1. Crab Man (by The J-Man)


Depending on where you read this, you can send me comments about the blog on the blog's website: kauheessa.blogspot.com, on Facebook, or on Better Than Sliced Bread's website. Thank You for all of your comments so far. They are appreciated and make writing this blog all the more fun..

Gran Spice Turismo

Having survived Stone Town with its numerous nocturnal challenges it was time to take a "spice tour". At 900 hours a van came to pick us up from our "hotel" and we headed for the central parts of the Spice Island. After about 45 minutes of all kinds of roads we arrived at the plantations. The government owns 95% of the plantations, which guarantees their conservation and the plantations that we visited were, therefore, a kind of mosaic of different plants, grown for tourist and research purposes. Although, as far as I could tell, the research consisted of a bunch of teenage boys climbing the trees, peeling the fruit and the plants, and crafting all sorts of accessories and gizmos for the visitors, in hope of a few shillings. One dude even weaved an ornate frog-shaped necklace out of palm leaves, which he gave to an ignorant German girl, who took everything they made (the necklace, rings, drinking cups, bracelets etc.) and was appalled and thoroughly flabbergasted when the kids politely asked if the lady cared to spare a few coins for their efforts at the end of the tour. (never hit a woman...never hit a woman...)

Our cheerful guide, whose name is impossible to pronounce without dislocating one's jaw (there's a silent g somewhere in there), took the charge and proceeded to tell the story of a fruit that smells like old hell but tastes brilliant. It turns out that, if one is not too fond of the copious amounts of prostitutes that will invariably surround the said person at any Tanzanian night club, one should eat a couple of these bad boys and the problem solves itself. (will try later) After a good chuckle the guide started the tour and we naturally followed. We walked around narrow paths and gravel roads marveling the different fruit and spice trees and bushes. Some personal favorites were:

The mysterious "hairy strawberry" that was mostly used for its color as lipstick, in food, and on the forehead of Indian women.


The Egg Nog fruit, that has been used in East Africa as an aphrodisiac for women for centuries. Should men try to take a bite, they would shortly fall asleep, we were told. Unfortunately we didn't have the time to subject this uncanny fruit to empirical testing. Oh, and it's other parts make for outstanding chili.


The palm tree. There are three different varieties on Zanzibar which are all used differently. One is good for building houses, other's coconuts taste better, the third one's leaves are the thickest and provide excellent raw material for building durable roofs. According to the guide, the palm tree is the most useful plant of them all, because every part of it can be put to significant use and it thrives in a wide variety of surroundings.


We also found out that clove tea cures diarrhea and papaya seeds constipation, so that one can play stop'n'go games with ones stomach, if need be. Moreover, papaya makes for brilliant booze, although its production is now illegal, since it can turn you blind on random occasions. A cheaper "light" version of Russian Roulette, anyone? Ginger turned out to be quite a plant, too. All of its parts smell and taste different, AND it's root IS Chinese "tiger balm". Smells exactly the same and has the same effects, who knew? Finally, when I discovered that I have been lied to all my life and that black, white, and red pepper are all the same plant, I could safely conclude that I had learned more during the previous hours than during all of the home ec./cooking classes combined.


After the tour we got to visit an old cave, where an Arab sheik had kept his slaves after slave trade was banned in Zanzibar. It was damp, painfully hot and breathing in the cave was like breathing through a straw. The lad who told us the story of the cave also told us that it has two fake exits, made by the vindictive Mother Nature herself. The first one, crowded with spiders and other nasty creepy crawlies, ends in a dead end after becoming narrower and narrower all the while, so that one eventually suffocates to death. The other one is perhaps even more cruel. Similarly, it goes on for ages, until there is a part where one has to crawl down an extremely narrow hole. The good news: after this the slaves could witness the light of day coming from ahead. The bad news: the hole is in a vertical cliff, dozens of meters from the ground, and it is impossible to climb back, so the only option is to base jump without parachute. And perhaps the most grim part of all of this is that the other slaves had no way of knowing whether their comrades had managed to escape, other than following them, to which you already know the result...

You can imagine that we were rather relieved to be able to take the stairs on the way out, and even more so after spending the next hour on a hidden paradise beach, half a mile from the demonic cave.

How to Sleep Well in Stone Town, Zanzibar

0. Do not eat Pasta Arrabiata for lunch (or add local chili to it)

1. Do not eat shrimps for dinner
2. If you have to eat shrimps, don't take the "spicier" dish
3. If you do the above anyway, do not order spiced tea "to calm down your stomach"

4. Do not turn down the fan from "full" to "2/4", prioritizing silence over temperature
5. Do not move the table in front of the door "for security reasons"
6. If you do, remember that it is there when you go to the bathroom

7. Make sure there is plenty of toilet paper available before you go to bed
8. If there isn't, make sure that the water from the hand shower isn't too cold
9. When you jump up from the toilet, be aware of the wet floor
10. After using the hand shower, make sure it doesn't leak on the floor

11. Do not try to wet your sheets with cool water and hang them below the fan to "enhance the cooling"
12. Remember to remove the mosquito net BEFORE getting out of bed
13. see number 6

14. Make sure that there aren't any roosters on the backyard BEFORE you accept the room
15. If there are no other rooms available, make sure you have a silenced rifle in the room
16. Make sure that your room is not close to a mosque, where the Imam invites people to pray at 5.30 am
17. see number 15

18. If you have to go to the bathroom every 5 minutes, there's no point in going to bed in between, just sleep on the toilet seat.
19. Remember the 5 cm of water on the bathroom floor, before you try to sleep on it.

As a matter of fact, your best bet is to avoid sleeping in Stone Town at all costs. Unless you want to pay 250$ for an air-conditioned, hopefully soundproof room, and bring your own food (and a rifle, just in case).

Damnation Without Relief

Since rest (much like lunch) is for wimps, we woke at 5am the following morning in order to catch the 6.30 bus to Dar-Es-Salaam. I had set myself a pot limit with the Tuskers the previous night just in case, for which I thanked myself on several occasions during this little sprint across Kenya and Tanzania. This whole trip to Zanzibar was carefully planned by Jewelz, so all I had to do was follow her, fill in obscure forms every few hours and pay random amounts in various currencies, which I'll get to later. This may sound like a walk in the park, but please, read on.

The city center was already crowded. It was election day and everyone wanted to cast their vote in time, which they had plenty, until 6 pm, but I guess no one wanted to take any chances. Unfortunately, despite the zeal to vote and more than enough time to do it, the election would become a sad, violent farce, which I will cover in another post altogether together with its repercussions. Anyway, the streets were filled with antsy and slightly cranky Kenyans, as was the bus station when we arrived. There were two buses. One that was in rather good condition even in western standards and even had a toilet. I assume I do not surprise you when I tell you that it was not our bus. Our bus was probably from the 80's or early 90's, had no toilet, no air conditioning, seats that reclined but refused to re-incline, a corridor that was about 35 cm wide and windows that would open just enough to allow a gust of air to graze the 'fro of the person behind you, but had no effect in your personal state of overheating. But because we had no expectations whatsoever regarding the transport system, we weren't that disappointed. It wasn't too hot (yet) and we even got something of a breakfast (water, a mysterious meat roll, and an egg) ((like you do)).

About four hours later we arrived at the Tanzanian border.

(notice how the skilled photographer missed both mountain tops, cut the beautiful tree in half and inclued a piece-of-shit-Toyota...thanks)

We had filled some forms and followed the crowd through a small village into what tried vigorously to be an office and failed miserably. The visa payment was made in dollars, since it's such a relevant and strong currency especially in East Africa.. (WAKEY WAKEY!!!) We got some faint, unclear stamps and continued by foot to Tanzania, where the bus was hopefully waiting. Miraculously it was there, and we boarded it after quickly visiting a local toilet located "behind other building, next to big tree". As soon as we had sat down the driver started the bus and straightened his ankle. During all this time no one had uttered a single advice or notification, nor had there been any signs to tell the odd tourist what on earth to do at the border. We felt like we had dodged a bullet because nothing had been stolen and the bus hadn't left without us. Africa tends to lower one's expectations pretty quickly.

The roads in Tanzania reminded of the part in Ace Ventura II, where Jim Carrey is bouncing around violently in the driver's seat of a safari jeep. And when the camera zooms out the spectator can see that the road is perfectly paved, and that the chubby guy on the passenger seat is sitting completely still. The only difference was that we were bouncing involuntarily because the road was light years from being perfect. Nevertheless, they were still far better than the roads on Kenya's side, because calling them "roads" would be pushing the term quite a bit. So in that way, the trip had taken a turn for the better. In other ways it was deteriorating at a steady pace. We had water, but we didn't dare to drink it, because nobody knew when we'd stop next. The sun was getting hotter and there were no curtains to block its furious rays. The smells were getting more aggressive and the plains were only interesting for the first 6 hours.

Every couple of hours we'd stop (for gas, or a couple of times because the driver wanted to chat for a moment with his homeboys in the tiny villages. Whenever the bus stopped, however, the locals flooded the bus and tried all to sell us soda and peanuts, both a huge no-no. Peanuts make you thirsty, when you're thirsty you drink, when you drink you pee.. Sadly this complicated cause and effect system didn't occur to any of the villagers or the driver and no one bought anything. IF the passengers had been allowed a 5 minute bathroom break every 2 hours or so, the villagers' sales would undoubtedly quadrupled and the trip would have been hugely less agonizing, but the driver wouldn't have any of that..

The second of the total two (2) stops on this 15,5-hour pleasure cruise was on a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Again, there was no indication whatsoever how long we had so we ran for the toilets. After a minute of careful aiming we returned to the bus only to find that its doors were closed. We didn't want to in to the station because the smells had exacerbated significantly and the food they served was nothing short of just plain scary. So there we stood outside like a couple of idiots, back towards the wind that blew clouds of sand on us, repeatedly declining offers to buy "meni fruut for gud prais". Personal note: "not taking no for an answer isn't always positive". After what seemed like an eternity but was actually about 20 minutes the jolly chauffeur reappeared and let us in with our fruit (a person can only say no for 236 consecutive times until his brain implodes).

Only moments (5-6 hours) later we arrived at Dar-Es-Salaam bus terminal, which was still a good 5 km outside the urban area (WHY?). The taxi drivers had cleverly decided that they'd bill five times the regular price, because there was no other way to get to town and everyone was desperate to go to the bathroom, shower, eat, sleep or basically just be as far away as possible from the tin can from hell that was the bus. After some minor haggling we were on our way to the Executive Hotel.

Don't take me wrong, I'm not saying that the Executive Hotel wouldn't have good qualities. All I'm saying is that it has one very bad one: it does not exist. Jewelz had booked AND paid the room at this infamous hotel through a UN travel agent, who said that the hotel didn't have web pages but was otherwise very reliable and nice. She had given Jewelz the name, the phone number and the area where the hotel was allegedly located. None of the 15 taxi drivers knew exactly where it was, so we aimed for the area first and took it from there. Once we asked for directions around the area we were informed that such a hotel does not exist. There is an Exclusive Lodge, which we checked, but they had never heard about us. We called the phone number, where an uninterested lady told us that she was no hotel and stop calling. Well..

We browsed the Lonely Planet East Africa, desperately trying to find any hotel that was at least somehow safe and under 200$/night. We found one, but they didn't take any cards or Kenyan dollars, but would have taken Swiss Francs or Euros, the man said smiling. Another taxi to the only ATM that was open at night and back to a third hotel, where the receptionist from the second hotel had made a reservation for us. I had some trouble understanding his business logic but let it go before my brain started "If it weren't for my horse...".

The only two positive things about the night were that the hotel room had some local music channel that played early nineties pop/rap music videos, which gave us a few chuckles, and the fact that my superior calculus skills confused the taxi driver so badly when exchanging the rates from Kenyan Shillings to Tanzanian Shillings to US dollars to Tanzanian Shillings that we ended up paying about half of the price that he originally asked us.

Viciously grinning I fell asleep with my Leatherman under my pillow, ready to unleash hell on any poor soul who would have the nerve to touch our door.

Black and White

As has been the trend in my hitherto adventures, once I arrived at Nairobi, I hit the ground running. After sleeping a few hours, shaving my beard and listening to derogatory comments about the shortness of my hair it was time for my first African dinner..

As getting around in Nairobi is about as safe as juggling burning zippos at a gas station blindfolded, it pays to have a reliable taxi service that one can use without greater concerns for getting robbed. Sadly the driving habits of the locals, including the cab drivers, as well as the abysmal roads, ensure that death might always be around the corner, like 2Pac put it back in the dizzay. But hey, you only live once, twice or nine times, depending if you're human, 007, or a cat, right? Either way, a couple of the guys from the local taxi service, that the UN interns have found quite affordable and even surprisingly reliable, wanted to take us to a christmas dinner at a local restaurant. Thankful for the nice gesture we agreed and hopped in the cabs, that took us to the first "restaurant".

Now, generally I'm not too picky where I eat, especially considering the circumstances, but in my case the word restaurant usually provokes a mental image that includes food, glasses, cutlery, walls, door, waiter/tress and maybe even tablecloths. This place had none of the above. None. We walked in to the shack/saloon-like contraption, sat on two benches at a table that had things on it that I failed to recognize. After sitting there like a bunch of idiots for about 15 minutes, making small talk with the two cabbies that were our hosts for the evening, one of them hollered something in Swahili at a random drunken dude sitting at what must have been the bar to which the the dude grumbled an unclear reply. The cabbie smiled at us, got up, and curtly ejaculated: "We must go another place, here is no food left." To quote perhaps the most famous pet detective in the world: "AAAAAAALLLLLLLRIGHTYTHEN!!" We hopped in the cab and speculated in Finnish what the next place could possibly be like..

About 20 minutes later we arrived at "Chicken Palace". Again, the name was a bit misleading, since it was neither a palace, nor did they serve chicken, but we didn't let those pesky details slow us down. After carefully dodging the spike mats!!! leading to the parking lot and getting out of the cab we got the first good glimpse of the place. It was a three-storey wooden house/veranda/balcony unlike no building that I had seen. The Swalihi reggaeton music was blaring close to a pain-threshold volume while the children played in the swings outside. There was almost no light with the exception of a few dim lights from the inside, that was actually the outside, because they're not big on walls here. The place was packed and we had to elbow our way in, blindly following our native hosts. Past the dance floor and up the stairs we waded, desperately trying to keep up with the others. Halfway up the stairs a little girl froze in her steps, pointed at me with her finger and whispered loudly in mixed confusion and terror "MUZUNGU!!" ("whitey"). I tried to smile mildly and avoid scaring the poor girl more. As we finally sat down in a dark corner (the only kind there) one of our hosts, Anthony, explained that this was a popular place around christmas time, and that a lot of the people here came from villages outside Nairobi, and that I was probably the first white man she had ever seen. No wonder she freaked out.

The purpose of the visit was to enjoy njama choma, a local delicacy, which was basically roasted goat (or other) meat with no sauce. Having learned a tad of solidarity from my mentor in that area, F'baian, I smiled and looked excited. Actually I had probably never felt so out of place in my life. I was the only white (more like whiter shade of pale, actually) man out of the hundreds of people in the building (if you don't count a Korean/Swedish/Finnish guy with sunglasses on), I couldn't see anything because "the locals they do not like lights", and I didn't even have a beer in my hand to focus attention to. Slowly things started going our way as we finally got some cool beer, the cabbies arranged a candle for us, and some locals came up to us to introduce their children to us, so that they would stop being terrified. And I'll tell you this for free: THAT felt a little weird, but I suspected that wasn't going to be the last weird feeling of my time in Africa, so I dealt with it. After waiting for about an hour and a half, during which I had to explain to our dark-as-the-night-cabbies a couple of Eddie Murphy's nigga-jokes (which was kinda intense), we got out njama choma. Apparently there weren't any goats left in the country because of the season, so we got beef (lol). A solemn guy showed up with a wooden plank with a huge lump of meat on it, and an even bigger knife, which he started swishing around with commendable accuracy, to chop up the meat to edible bits, naturally. To my genuine surprise the meat was partly well done and all right, partly medium and delectable. Kudos to the chefs for concocting excellent food with just fire, meat and some salt, but I guess that's all you need.

(Myself blending in to the couch, Tsuuls, and Kennedy the Cabby)

After this highly original dinner and another round of beers we paid (nothing) and decided not to start a break-dance circle but headed back home. In retrospect, the second place didn't have glasses, cutlery, walls or tablecloths either, but at least they had food, a door, an even a sorry excuse of a waitress. :)

The next day we were scheduled to attend a Boxing Day brunch at James's house, which we did fashionably late. The house could not have been a more complete opposite of the Chicken Palace if it had tried. It has some serious walls, for one. First the outer brick walls with armed guards and guard dogs. Then sturdy house walls with bars in all the windows, and finally a panic room upstairs with bullet-proof doors and walls thick enough to take a missile at close range. The owner of the house had been one of the founders of the Nairobi stock exchange and currently ran his own investment bank, so it wasn't a great surprise that they had had THREE!! robbery attempts within the last year. Where is Macaulay Culkin when you need him?

After getting over the security arrangements I concentrated on the people, who were overwhelmingly white. The only ones who weren't, were the staff, which took some getting used to, but apparently they liked their jobs and got paid fairly well. There were people from all over from Nairobi, connected through international school, work and more importantly money and skin color. It sounds nasty, but it is the naked truth. Because of this realization I felt initially a little out of place as well, but soon one of the Americans asked me about the Finnish army and my frown turned into a smile. An hour later he offered me a job as a human resources supervisor in his firm. True story. I'm still considering his offer.

The food was western, tasty and abundant, and even the beer was cold. After careful consideration (six bottles) I decided that Tusker Malt was better than regular Tusker, and nodded politely when the host offered me another one of those frosty bad boys. Some more people showed up, including an Irish/Kenyan DJ, whom I especially enjoyed talking with. Being well-educated, a native Kenyan, but also a European, he offered a very fresh and all-around view on both the political and the sosio-economic situation in the country. Naturally we also viewed the current status of the melodic house music industry in Mombasa, where my natural skills of improvising (= bullshitting) showed to be very useful. Upon his exit we shared about 14 different rap-hugs and/or handshakes, which I pulled off without greater awkwardness and promised to hang out later. We stayed for a while and talked to the others, who all turned out to be quite amiable people, albeit a bit spoiled on some occasions. No offense, just being real.

All in all it was a very special double header for the J-Man. As a final note I have to add, that no matter how much people can (and should!) look beyond skin color, it is something that is always there, and it would only be naïve to claim that it would not be a factor in all interracial contact. But whether it becomes a positive or a negative factor is, of course, up to the people in question.

Peace, and remember: "We're all black when you turn off the light" (unless there are candles, or it's daytime..)

Flights, Fidel and Facial Hair

So here I am, in the UN headquarters in North-Western Nairobi. It's only been a little over a week and I already have enough material to write a book. That's Africa for you. But seeing as the tense situation in the city isn't going to cool in the next few days and I don't have a lot to do right now, why not start at the beginning..

Just days before christmas I realized that my hair was too long and I didn't have time to get a haircut. Kindly my Sancho Pancha, Mark, stepped up and offered to help me in cutting it with a home barber machine. Due to a miscommunication in the process (I thought Mark had put a plastic part back on to the cutting blade, but obviously he hadn't.) I ended up with a bald streak from my forehead to my monkey butt, so I had to shave it all off. The feedback was abundant. My new look also reduced Mark into a hysterically giggling heap every five minutes for the next day or so.. It seems to be turning into a farewell ritual.

My last night in Helsinki didn't exactly go as planned either, as a cheerful reunion turned into an awkward smiling-session, so when the morning finally came I was more than ready to leave the country.

The people-watching turned out to be a lot more boring that I thought. Instead of the dynamic, high-paced, multicultural airport that I thought Heathrow to be, I found myself in a crowded, uninteresting Terminal 3 with a lot of cranky people, who waited for the same 5 flights leaving in several hours. On the upside, I got to spend that time with two of my fellow country-persons, K and A. They were heading to Nairobi as well and were did a pretty good job at killing the 12 hours. It included wondering what the multi-faith prayer room might look like and being too lazy to actually walk the 15 meters, having a rather absurd christmas dinner at TGI Friday's, building innovative lounging systems out of benches and chairs that were clearly not designed for it, arguing over who won the useless guessing quiz, telling international stories (mostly me) and complimenting me on all the international achievements (also mostly me), buying 3 different types of adapters and returning them all, and so on..

The flight itself was mind-numbingly uneventful. I was actually hoping for turbulence at one point, just to see some action, but it was no use. I was sitting between an African-American African woman (i.e. a black Kenyan) and an obese Englishman (a fat geezer), so I if would have tried to get comfortable, let alone sleep I would surely created some kind of minority issue. So I was stuck watching bad movies at ever poorer quality on a screen that was literally smaller than the one in my cell phone (it's 2008, British Airways, wake the funk up!!). Finally we touched down and miraculously I found the tiny blondie that I am often affiliated with. The weather was amazing and hasn't changed since, go figure. We got home, which turned out to be a lovely house in a safe neighborhood, and to my surprise, our room was big, clean and cool. I suddenly remembered that I had slept about 2 hours in the last 2 days and passed out.

Two definite christmas highlights for The J-Man:

1) a dude on the plane that looked exactly like Fidel Castro (not resembling slightly, but as if he were Fidel's clone or at least a twin brother). Naturally I stared at him in amusement until he couldn't decide whether I was hitting on him or plotting to kill him and asked me if he could help me. I wrestled with the urge to ask him if he knew how to run a medium size Caribbean country, but chickened out at the last minute and uttered something to the extent of "sorry, no, yes..moustache..it was steve..sorry"


2) I was forced to shave my beard again, due to a bet that got me nothing, even though I won it. That sucked. But I guess it's better that my garufrendoo talks to me if we're going to share a bed for the next few months.

Check back for a report on race, beer and meat within the week-end.