How to break into a house in Kenya – preferably your own

On the 28^th of February 2009, I was a bit tired. Earlier in the day I had arrived back from the Masai Mara with my parents. And now we were heading out to have food with a few of my work colleagues (including Janet who had her parents staying).

We went to Carnivore Restaurant off Lang’ata Road, which is a honey pot for tourists are supposed to go and get their fill of game meat. (In fact, the Brazilian Barbecue at the Panari Sky Centre is better, not least because it is quieter). Anyway, on the journey I get that cold dread that I’ve latched the door and padlocked the grill with the keys on the inside.

So on arriving at Carnivore I was wondering what to do. I ate for the first fifteen minutes, before deciding that some action was required, so I excused myself saying I need to go and break into the house and I’d either be back while they were eating, or they would need to get a taxi back.

I called a couple of people and they met me at the front door with hacksaws. I rang the neighbour’s doorbell, and politely explained how I would like to climb over the high wall from their garden into the garden of my house. At this point it should be noted that I’d never met the neighbour before, as the house I was breaking into I was just borrowing. He was very helpful, and even began to explain his own methods of breaking and entering his own house. I stopped him before he had divulged too much.

In the neighbours garden (in the dark), we now climbed up the bars on their windows, onto the high separating wall, and then down the other side. The barred patio door was now before us. Conveniently, the latch in the sliding door no longer worked, and so we slid it out of the way to make room for the hacksaw. I was very pleased that I hadn’t put any wood in trough.

The hacksaw did nothing to the padlock. If anything, the hacksaw was wearing out quicker than the padlock.

 

Now it was time for Plan B. We drove about 7 kilometres to an office where we knew there was a very large pair of bolt cutters that had been once bought to break into a container when the keys got lost. If nothing else, the security guards must have been a bit bemused as it was by now around 10pm. Driving back to the house, we now repeated our steps through the neighbours and over the wall. Sliding the patio door out of the way once again, we fed the bolt cutters through, and each took hold of a different arm, and pushed then together. Three seconds later we were in. Shockingly easy.

And just five minutes after this, my parents arrived having been dropped back by a taxi.

And so, the lesson was learnt. My next question was wondering what to replace the padlock with – one that was breakable, or one that will last more than three seconds. I went for the latter and made made sure that a spare key was safely stashed away.

Normal?! Normal for who?

Lately I've been thinking on what is normal. What is my expectation of a normal life for myself? What about for those around me and a mile away in Kibera? Do they have the right to the same expectations of normal as me? A few weeks ago I drafted up a long blog entry about A and his daughter C (aged 6) who I last mentioned in November 2009. They've been through so much over the past year, and so I wrote it all down succinctly as a steam of thought. The paragraph stretched to a side of type. I'm sure I missed some events off. Such a crazy year. On Saturday 22nd August his daughter passed away instantly in minibus crash on returning from a funeral. A had been too unwell to attend.

What can be said after a year of hardships? My church home group here in Nairobi were regularly praying from A and C, that God would bring them through this period of trial to be able to lie down in green pastures in the manner of Psalm 23. With A being regularly unwell, there was always some concern for the future that his daughter would have been orphaned and so I take the view that she has gone on to heaven ahead of him. Yet it's still hard to understand.

I'm reading through Job at this time in my Bible reading. In Job chapter 21 verses 7 to 14, Job says:

 ⁷ Why do the wicked live on,
       growing old and increasing in power?
 ⁸ They see their children established around them,
       their offspring before their eyes.
 ⁹ Their homes are safe and free from fear;
       the rod of God is not upon them.
 ¹⁰ Their bulls never fail to breed;
       their cows calve and do not miscarry.
 ¹¹ They send forth their children as a flock;
       their little ones dance about.
 ¹² They sing to the music of tambourine and harp;
       they make merry to the sound of the flute.
 ¹³ They spend their years in prosperity
       and go down to the grave in peace.
 ¹⁴ Yet they say to God, 'Leave us alone!
       We have no desire to know your ways.

This is what I and my home group ask - why do good things sometimes, or dare I say often happen to bad people? Yet we also know that those who plotted evil against A and C, (who have even used the occult to attempt to bring misfortune) on them will one day be judged, and that will be an awful thing for them. For A, he has never had much prosperity to be restored as was the case with Job but our prayer is that God would continue to speak to him and tell him that he is good and his love endures for ever, even though it can seem hard at times.

So that's that. But what about the wider discussion on normalcy? Do I have the right to except God to keep me living comfortably? No. Do I have the expectation that God will one day remove everything I have other than himself? No. But he could. Would this change may understanding of God's character at all? Yes and no - my hope would be that it'd make me more into the person he wants me to be.

I'll continue dwelling on these things some more.

Mild Tempora-phobia - a fear of time passing

The view from my bed, Tiger leaping Gorge, day 2

We've all got a little of this phobia I think. It's been a while since I last wrote. 33 days left in the UK, then back to Kenya. I spent a couple of weeks in China, travelling with a friend there. I'll add a photo stream giving a flavour of what I saw. I'm not sure I can do the stories justice in a blog. Maybe one day I'll give it a try.

Congo - my ramble in the J...angle

So... Congo. For me, the trip was many little moments stitched together so I'll try and share a few with you:

While on the plane, seeing Roger find a magazine behind the seat in front of him that was dated from 1989, and the thought that firstly, the plane was that old (the laminate wood effect interior should have given it away) and that maybe the plane hadn't been cleaned in that long.

Flying from Entebbe in Uganda, I was awestruck at the beauty of Lake Albert and the steepness with which the hills fell away into the lake. On the Congolese side, from the air the hills looked like they were covered in thick moss with steep river valleys calved their way into them.

On the approach to Bunia, my eye was caught by the well ordered grid in which the town was laid out - this said “welcome to French-speaking Africa' to me”. In contrast, Nairobi is very clearly British-speaking Africa, with the roads strung together in a rather haphazard way. Once we had landed and disembarked, the first thing I noticed was the Bangladeshi soldier sitting next to a high calibre machine gun and armoured personnel carrier - this is the town from which the UN's MONUC mission is based. Half the airport had UN written on it - it's a bit like when you're at school and your Mum writes your name on things; she doesn't want you to forget what you own. I wonder how much the UN would misplace if they didn't label?

Bunia Airport terminal was about the size of a large bungalow. It was a bit dank, and on the TV there was a Kenyan soap opera airing. We were lead through to a little room where we had to each pay $25 because the passports had not been used in Congo (or maybe just at that airport) before.

At customs, men search men's bags, women search women's – here it seems that there is an undercurrent of superstition present.

On leaving the airport, we skirted the town and headed north on roads of compacted mud. There was normally a channel calved by rainwater down one half of the road, and it was rather bumpy. We were in a 4x4; our bags were in a pick-up truck.

On the way we passed the site of an alleged mass grave, caused by peacekeepers that had been weary of local gatherings and misread scenes, such as church gatherings.

Had to stop at a police check point - across the road was a rope and on the left, three men with guns and on the right a group of mud-walled and thatched-roofed huts. What were they after - $6 in road tax. As we were in a church-owned car our local colleague talked us through as church related journeys are exempt.

We arrived 45 minutes (and 15 kilometres) from Bunia at the conference centre.

On the Sunday I walked with three colleagues through the village. We greeted possibly 500 people and saw a few pick-up trucks carrying about twenty folks apiece - there were even people reclining on the bonnet, leaving just enough space for the driver to peer between them. One woman told us (in French) that before the  war it had been common to see white people walking round - we felt humbled - I think that's the right word - at the thought that by simply being there, someone would remember back to normalcy and wonder if it had finally returned.

Our evening entertainment  consisted of  My Big fat Greek Wedding, and Mamma Mia - awesome :o)

On the Wednesday I left to return to Nairobi. An hour of travelling got me back to Bunia, though to the high street where some of Congolese workers went to by fish - or rather a massive lump of fish, cut up with a panga (machete) - I've never seen any fish so chunky in my life (other than a porpoise), and in Eastern Congo it’s likely to be fresh water. It was at this point that a phone call came to tell them that their plane was already waiting at the airport, so they dashed off in one vehicle, and I went to spend an hour or two at the local university campus. It was great to see such vibrant campus with so many people crammed in. As it was by now lunchtime, we slowly ate through the Pringles I had bought at the duty-free store in Entebbe.

When I finally reached the airport I had to pay taxes to leave - about $125. Just the previous Monday, a new tax of $10 had been added to the cost. What's unnerving is that dollars are not the currency of DRC and there are no cash machines anyway - quite how you are meant to leave the country if you do lose your possessions is anyone's guess.

The journey back to Entebbe was in a small a 6-seater Cessna 205 (that’s not a Peugeot if you’re wondering). As I am disappointingly light and underweight, I was relegated to the back row where you cannot really sit upright or stretch your legs. The flight was just over an hour. On getting near to Entebbe, flying over Lake Victoria, there was a whole cluster of islands that looked like green bubbles on the water - wonderfully bizarre.

And so that was my trip – a wonderful adventure. Such a beautiful country. So big. You cannot help but wonder why it had to be subjected to so much hardship over the years.

These views are my own and based on just a few days there. I hope I have conveyed my experiences accurately and sensitively.

Hearing but not herring

The scene is that I'm walking past Nyayo Stadium on Saturday afternoon with a Kenyan friend. Inside an event is taking place with a very load MC.

Me: I don't like it when things like this are on. The constant droning from the stadium I can here from my house - really tires me out.

Friend: [Looking towards the stadium] He's a Canadian, but they're not laughing.

Me: A Canadian?

Friend: Yeah.

At this point I was confused. After a few more seconds the penny dropped ... he's a comedian.

The Preacher and the Frog

Last week I heard this short story:

One Sunday, in upcountry Kenya, there was a preacher. And he was preaching and preaching, on and on, he just kept going. By chance, a frog hopped through the open doors at the back of the church and at this the preacher paused and said "what's the frog doing here?" To which a woman near the back replied "He says 'Let my people go.'"

True story? Hope so.

Something what not to find behind the seat infront on a propeller plane...

...an international relations magazine from 1989, commenting on the Russian withdrawal from Afghanistan.

Viva la Congo

So, it's been almost two weeks since I got back from the DRC, and I still haven't written any insightful thoughts from my time there. It's fair to say that I've been a bit busy, but I'm also aware that I don't want to misrepresent eastern Congo - I'd love to tell you what's the same as in Nairobi rather than what the cost of the past few decades have been. I'll get something written soon.

Meantime, while listening to Coldplay in the office, I was reminded of the video below. It was put together by the Mark and Alison, brother and sister of Marlene who worked in Congo 2006-8 (Angi who worked with Marlene also features in a few of the shots, so here's a shout-out for her and her blog).

In the event of an emergency...

So, last Saturday, there I was sitting in my comfy leather seat on an Air Uganda plane that felt no bigger than a learjet, waiting for it to depart Nairobi en route to Entebbe, Uganda. My final destination: eastern D.R.Congo.

In the seats in front were a couple from the office who work across Francophone Africa. Their row had the emergency exit over the wings. The airhostess came to chat to them about how to open the door in the even of an emergency. This is how the spiel went:

In the event of something going wrong, the pilot will come over the intercom saying "Emergency emergency". At this point you will take the crash position with the rest of the passengers. Once we have crash landed, the pilot will switch off the 'fasten seatbelt light' at which point you can open the door. If this does not happen I will scream at you to open the door.

Wonderfully evocative language.

"...should be good."

That's what the text message says. The Kenyan Premier League kicks off this weekend and I've been invited to watch Nairobi City Stars vs Mathare United at Amboseli ground this Sunday at 3pm.

Last year I went to the first game of the season. Remembering that day never ceases to bring a smile to my face.  Here's the account of the day from a friend I went with: http://godisintheslums.blogspot.com/2009/02/i-predict-riot.html.

Enjoy!