Joanna and Edd split SHOCK

It is with alarm and dismay that we report to you the SPLIT of Joanna and Edd.

Joanna continues to be a dutiful wife, washing clothes and watching the path for her husbands return whilst Edd:

Enjoys his freedom
Gallivants in foreign climes
Spends thousands! on Coke
Gambles thousands! on a single pool game
Enjoys all a foreign country has to offer
does things he would not be allowed to do if his wife was present.
AND gets propositioned by prostitutes (unfortunately, not like Leonardo di Caprio in ‘Blood Diamond’. When they say ‘Do you have company?’ he says ‘maybe tomorrow’. Edd just shrieked and ran away.)

On arriving back in Nairobi from Kibwezi, Edd who has been married to the beautiful Joanna for FIVE years immediately deserted her for the salacious Range Rover, K988 6FQ. Joanna’s only fault was not to be a broken down car in a foreign country.

It all started when the car would not start when on a trip to the Carnivore, that temple to greed and, erm, meat, and general debauchery. Even though the lovely Joanna was present on that trip she would not have expected what was soon to follow.

The Right Rev James ‘Burgers’ May subsequently took the car to Tanzania for a ‘teaching trip’. But this was just a shallow disguise. Soon, to their ‘horror’ oil, water and diesel started belching from the exhaust. The car just wouldn’t start and was abandoned in Arusha. On returning to Kenya the temptation started immediately with Rev Burgers May saying ‘lets go fix the car, it’s only the head gasket, how hard can it be’ (the answer, they were soon to find out, was ‘very’). Rev Burgers May is American, but if he were English such perfidy would be shocking. Unfortunately Edward in his innocence fell for this hook line and sinker. Instead of spending time with his wonderful and dutiful wife he decided to chase after a floozy, K988 6FQ, and spend his time playing with bolts as opposed to admiring the knitting.

To retain the anonymity of all concerned the number plate has been made up.

   

Are whites fair game?

We have been back in Kenya for a few weeks now and are finding it more of a culture shock than expected. Little things like having cold water. This was desired more than anything else in Togo but was unattainable. The thought of cold showers took up an unhealthy amount of conversation, becoming a dangerous obsession. Nairobi, where we find ourselves now, is so cold that a cold shower is the last thing on our minds. Indeed we only keep going by having frequent saunas.

Shopping in Dapaong

Of course, the real difference between Dapaong and Nairobi is the lack of white people in Dapaong. As everyone knows, white people are stinking rich and so have to have things more posh and hoity toity than black people. An example would be carrying bags. It is difficult as a white to carry a bag as friends/strangers/crippled old ladies try to carry it for you. Or lunch time

Shopping in Nairobiwith the staff, who get ugali and beans in a big pot, whilst we get separate ugali and beans in a dapper, white persons pot (and the rhyme ‘beans beans, good for the heart…’ is not talking about baked beans, it’s talking about Kenyan beans). Or booking into a hotel with a black guy, who will then sneak out and go somewhere cheaper the moment ones back is turned. It was therefore with relief that we found ourselves going back to Kibwezi, which is hot and has few whites as it is mostly ignored by the aid circuit and there is an old staying that any white person who comes to Kibwezi is cursed and will die. (Then again we all have to die at some point.)

I can’t remember what we said about Kibwezi last time so I shall probably repeat myself. No apologies I am afraid, I don’t really care and you will no doubt skip over the boring bits. The people here are from the Kamba tribe – distinctive idiosyncrasy being that they great people with ‘wotcha’. They were moved from their homes, a hilly and mountainous domain, when the Tsavo parks were created and relocated to the plains where many of them promptly died (didn’t manage to get the moving house vaccine). To rub salt in the wound they can see their old homes (the hills at any rate) from where they live now.

They are quite happy with the land they now have because it is amazingly fertile. This is because of all the ash from the bush that they burned to clear it. Sadly, although we have little knowledge of slash and burn farming (or, lets be honest, farming) we still have a shrewd idea of what is going to happen.

Kibwezi is one of the poorest (thank you Kenya poverty survey 2004) areas of Kenya and many of the people are subsistence farmers. Brilliantly, it rained last December after a three year drought. Not so brilliantly the crop pretty much failed when it didn’t rain again until March. Fingers crossed. When asked what we could give them to make their lives easier they replied ‘rain’. There was then a long silence.

So it was with great relief that we arrived in Kibwezi, back to our new normality of being a curiously disgustingly coloured person as opposed to such a rich person that we behave badly if we object to people blatantly short changing us. I even managed to make a small girl cry by looking at her, the satisfaction of this being compounded when the wood she was standing on broke and trapped her foot. She was almost gibbering with terror as I freed her and wailed as she fled to her mother who found it as hilarious as we did. Ahhhh sweet.

So what did we achieve beyond mentally scarring small girls for years to come? Well, as the people there are subsistence farmers they can’t afford school fees (at £15 to £30 per term for secondary school). So we paid for some of the kids to go to school, an outrageously cheap way of making people think one is astonishingly generous whilst contributing at the same time to the image of white people having so much money that they do not even notice when ‘astronomical’ amounts are spent. If anyone wants to feel good for £1 a week let us know.

Which kind of but not really brings us full circle to our starting point, the question: ‘Are whites fair game?’ Apart from feeling grumpy when we are ripped off but appreciating that we ourselves contribute to this ripping off through our generosity (casually doubling incomes) whilst understanding that in Dapaong anyone who wasn’t from Dapaong was ripe for scamming so it isn't just whites, one can only come to the conclusion that ‘we don’t really care, as long as it is other whites’.

And is Kibwezi really any better? Well, we were told by the hotel manager the rooms would be 1,300 but were presented with a huge, massive beast of a bill. When we asked to see the manager (who we had just seen in passing) we were told (with glances to the drive) that she had just left… So we paid and went somewhere cheaper (but don’t worry, it was still a step up from our African friend).

Now let me leave you with a final thought. So many people have commented that we have changed since coming to Africa that I feel the need to relate an example conversation:

Prof Igendia: You two have changed since you came to Kenya.

Edd: How is that?

Prof I: Your wife is a lot fatter.

Joanna has just got her revenge by telling me the shower head has fallen into the toilet!

Laze in Lamu

Let us resume our tale from our starting point in the last exciting episode of Jo and Edd’s amazing adventures; waiting for a plane that was late.

‘And why were we awaiting (ohhhhh alliteration, clever) said aircraft?’ I hear you ask. Well read on to find the numerous reasons for making said trip.

Now let me give you a bit of background to the blessed city so that you may understand the wonders that awaited us. Lamu is (apparently) one of the major cities of Islam, two pilgrimages there being worth one to Mecca. It is an ancient Swahili city more than a thousand years old whose origins have been lost in legend. Refuge of Kings in its day it was a city of learning to match any in the world. Home of an unsurpassed (again sadly in it’s day; now rather smelly) sewage system it sat on trade routes which made it drip with wealth. The streets are so narrow that cars are banned and donkeys are the main transport. The surroundings are long white beaches surrounded by (duh) sea filled with the most deliciously yummy fish and surmounted with sleek and graceful Dhows. The houses are cool and airy with vestibules backed by fabulously carved doors and filled with friendly and welcoming locals chatting away on their mobiles (hey nothing’s perfect).

And into this island paradise came Joanna’s sister Christina, who slept. I leave it to her to defend herself below, but you can make up your own mind…

We stayed in a house in the old part of Lamu, with two house boys who turned out to be excellent cooks although we were not so sure about the drop toilets (which were rather stinky) or the mossies. Our time was spent eating, snorkling, sailing, lounging and eating. Wonderful. Hilariously, Tom got sunburnt.

It was in Lamu that the perfect charity idea (read way to get money out of dupes) was stumbled upon; this being to have a society for the protection of donkeys and poor children. Both of these would appear on the literature, the money would pour in, and we would spend our time deciding which tropical paradise had the most needy donkeys for us to look after; on the beach whilst learning to scuba dive/kite surf. Hello ‘the Donkey Sanctuary’ from Sidmouth. Incidentally, they got £22.8 million income and they don’t even have the starving and needy children.

From Lamu it was a short flight to Malindi, also on the coast, where our budgeting was shown to be a bit out. Having flown to the airport we then had to walk into town. The highlight of Malindi for us was going to a swimming pool. Basically, don’t take Brits on holiday anywhere hot in winter. They melt.

It was then onto Mombassa by very keen matatus where we spent a happy few hours visiting a Hindu temple?!?, wondering around the old town (not the same after the treasure that is Lamu) and looking at Fort Jesus from the outside. Fort Jesus is typically African in that they have a bloody great castle but still leave cannons lying around to rust away on the beach. Highlight of this day was ice cream. Seriously, Brits in hot weather…

We then got the train from Mombassa to Nairobi, a marathon 14 hour journey and one of the great train rides in the world. The train bounces along the track like Roo on speed, only without the speed and incredibly slowly. After two hours we must have only been 20 miles from our starting point. The line runs through Tsavo, home of the famous man eating lions reckoned to have killed over 120 workers involved in the construction of the railway and home to a mammoth (geddit) number of elephants. Again in typical African style, this part of the journey takes place at night.

From there we went to Hells Gate with family May– a gorge on the South side of Lake Naivasha and one of the only national parks in Kenya you can walk and cycle in (they only have the occasional lion there now) although we still took a matatu. Our driver deserves a mention as he was very game, going down tracks that were for 4x4s only without a blink whilst everyone sat white with fear in the back. I think that Naivasha deserves a return visit some time in the future.

Then it was time to say goodbye to our family and time to relax in the beautiful surroundings of Karen, aka Wimbledon in the tropics. We consoled ourselves by scoffing Easter eggs.

Au revoir French West Africa

Well, here we are once again, at an airport awaiting an aeroplane which is, of course, late (30 minutes, we have just been informed). We also realise that we have been very remiss in not updating the blog for at least two weeks. This means that you will know nothing of our time in Ouagadougou and our return to Kenya. (incidentally, the plane when it arrived was all little and cute).

Let us start with Ouagadougou. Ouaga is still hot. It is still sandy. The people are still unreasonably friendly. Basically, it hadn’t changed much from the West African capital city we had visited two months before. What had changed was our desire for good old fashioned Western food and as such one of the first things we did was go for a Chinese.

Okay, quick rundown of our time there…

• Eating (a lot)
• Swimming in the American Rec Centre (God Bless America – the first and last time I shall ever say this and mean it)
• Met two of the most amazingly stereotypical Americans you can imagine (‘D’y’all know the Smiths from Nottingham?’ – to which the reply must surely be ‘Are you serious?!?’ I wimped and just said no.)
• Watch Reverend James baptise many, many people, which was somewhat sad as many of them were orphans or desperately poor, having come to the city for a better life (car) and found only unemployment, and poverty. In case you are wondering and have a spare million, the thing they want most is a school.

It was then back to Kenya alongside James’ amazing twitching leg (which didn’t stop for the whole flight and was rather better viewing than the film), to a period of rest and relaxation before being joined by family Passmore, ex-sister, for a safari. But first we had to negotiate Ouaga airport. This harrowing experience was much smoothed by a mate of James who got us through relatively easily. For example, we handed over our passports to James’ buddy, and when they returned found that we had cleared customs without being present. This may sound like lax security, but I am obliged at this point to mention that Ouaga security noticed Joanna’s scissors in hand luggage, something that Terminal 5 and BA had overlooked.

 This may sound too easy to some, and it was. We then had to pass security (having passed it twice), empty out our hand luggage (thanks go to Jo for leaving certain lady items in Edd’s bag, and then leaving him alone to explain their presence to a grinning policeman), go through security again before getting on a bus to take us to the plane. Waiting for 10 minutes, then driving the 10 meters to the plane, before being checked by security again, and finally being allowed to embark. They then had the cheek to ask for our boarding passes.

The safari was unfeasibly exciting. First we travelled north to Nakuru, where we saw cute lion cubs, and then south to the Masai Mara where we had the great pleasure of watching grass being eaten by gazelles, and gazelles being eaten by lions and cheetahs (which are quite quick by the way). Sadly, the gazelles’ looks were rather ruined by the whole experience.

The weather in the Masai was variable. At one moment we would be driving through an airborne lake; to open the windows being to invite in the lake and receive an instant soaking. An hour later and the sun would break through a gap in the clouds and we would be greeted by an incredible sight of golden grass under rain heavy skies.

 We also particularly enjoyed watching inferior tourist busses get stuck, whilst negotiating the mud with ease in our juggernaut (Toyota Land Cruiser for the goon- like detail people out there). We should have tempered our smugness because leaving the park for the last time we got seriously stuck, nearly uprooting a tree in our efforts to extricate ourselves.

And now? Now we continue waiting for our plane, which will take us to Lamu for a week of anticipated uneventful relaxation, so it may be worth skipping the blog for a fortnight or so. Au revoir (as we learnt to say in Togo).

And if I may, I shall leave you with one final thought: Poppa should wear pants!