Comforting, yet off-putting

Kenya is weird.

I’ve literally been staring at that sentence for the last 20 minutes trying to decide what to say next. It is so confusing here, that I am at a loss for words . . . I know what you’re thinking. “Allie? With nothing to SAY?! That’s downright apocalyptic.”

Don’t stress, I’m over it now.

It’s really easy to feel comfortable here. The food is great, you can get nearly anything you want. There are fabulous places to eat Italian, Japanese, Indian . . . and that’s pretty much all I need so we’re set there.

The ONLY American fast food chain that has made it here is Kentucky Fried Chicken though. Go figure. And as an American, it is assumed that I LOVE KFC. People are bummed when I explain that I don’t even remember the last time I’ve dined with the Colonel.

I did learn that there are complex regulations in most African countries which hold the fast food chains out to protect local businesses. This is one of the many ways Kenya is kicking our butt. Kenya would also win in a “Buy Local” competition. That phrase literally has no impetus here. By default you can generally assume what you’re buying is grown, slaughtered, or pulled from the earth here in Kenya.

The gal at Happy Butcher down the road looked at me like I was crazy when I asked. Because, duh, Allie, refrigeration capabilities are as unreliable as the electricity. So it has to be as local and fresh as possible.  The produce at the grocery store is all Kenyan. Why mess around with imported fruit when you’re IN the tropics and can grow it your damn self? And the jewelry. If it’s bronze, silver or copper, it’s Kenyan. If it’s beaded, the beads are probably from India. And the vendor may tell you “Oh, it was made by the Maasai!” Which is probably true, but more than likely made in the slums by someone with a Maasai grand-daddy. Which is just fine by me.

The night-life is legitimate. There are also clubs to be avoided, as with any major city. Some a bit more stabby than I’m used to.

The slums, I know, are off-putting to some. Kibera is a celebrity slum, and it’s certainly no safe haven. But generally the people are nice and actually fun to barter with, in comparison to most people in this town. And there are a couple of NGOs housing their people within the slum for the sake of proximity (and cost) and security seems reasonably ok, which sure surprised the hell out of me.

The culture is so inviting and because it’s such a giant hub, you can find bits and pieces of familiarity everywhere. The food for one. And also the music. For a while I thought the cab drivers were just pandering to me and turning the radio to what they figured mizungu music was. But upon further investigation, this never ending stream of Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, ABBA and Mariah Carrey is actually the preferred musical experience here. Making me, I’ll own fully, ignorant and borderline racially insensitive. Sorry everyone.

Most popular songs are as follows:

-       How Will I Know? (Whitney Houston)

-       Dancing Queen (ABBA)

-       Get Outta My Dreams Get Into My Car (Billy Ocean)

-       Africa (Toto) although, full disclosure, this one is largely my doing . . .

I’ve also heard a fair amount of Chaka Khan, which I have been more than happy to indulge. I’m all kinds of done with ABBA though. And what the hell is Billy Ocean doing in West Africa? No Billy! YOU get outta MY head! And go back to the 80s.

Currently Celine is serenading the office about her “heart.” And how it “will go on.” Ugh.

My favorite delightful moment of familiarity came last weekend though at the Sunday Maasai Market when I started to barter with a gentleman who I noticed was sporting an Oregon State Beavers t-shirt. My delight failed shortly after though when he tried to sell me a print for $70. “I’m the artist!” he says. “I am Maasai!” he claims. First of all, no you’re not the artist. The guy two stalls down has the same print. Second, the whole Maasai thing? Not a selling point for me. You, sit, purchased this for 40 cents and are trying to charge me $70. Stoppit. Why are all OSU fans such jerks, huh? . . .

Kidding! (quack quack)

OH! Now we’re listening to Cher. Wonderful.

The familiarity is weird enough on its own. There are more foreign feeling towns in the US. But there are obvious differences that dial up the weirdness.

Like being fenced in all the time. For example, right now I’m sitting in the office conference room, and I’m about to go to lunch. (If only to get away from another Whitney ballad). I’m going to have to unlock the conference room door, pass through the main door AND the metal gate before I can even get out to the parking lot which is surrounded by an 8 foot wall and electric fencing. Then I have to find a guard to open the main gate.

Outside compound, the road is bordered by the perimeter walls of every other home and compound between here and the main road. I’ll walk one block, pass through another 8 foot high gated check point, cross the main road and enter, you guessed it, another walled in compound. Only this one has a shopping center and restaurants in it.

I’ve tried to imagine what this city would look like without walls, gates and guards. My guess is that it would be breathtakingly beautiful. But instead it’s abruptly punctuated by variegated grey and barbed wire.

Fabulous. The radio version of “A Whole New World” is playing. That’s a poetic enough ending to this post.