With the sole exception of Italy, I’ve never been to a country as fashion-conscious as Kenya. Kenyans (or at least Nairobians) are for the most part uncommonly sharp in their…
Category: <span>Essays</span>
Essays from Patrick Cumby
Here’s where I ramble on about stuff I care about.
“Is there a problem?” I ask. The Uber driver, a soft-spoken man in a ramshackle Toyota, is smiling, but his expression is strained. He’s leaning through the driver’s door, searching…
Our Nairobi apartment community is lovely. It is also a fortress. It is not only gated, it is completely surrounded by high walls and guarded by a dozen colorfully-uniformed security…
Nairobi is both what I expected and not at all what I expected. The climate reminds me of California, as do the eucalyptus trees. The tropical flowers and ornamental trees are amazing. There’s the obvious poverty but also obvious wealth, and a palpable feeling of optimism among the citizens we’ve met. Kenya is poised for greatness, if the attitude of its people is any indication.
The man offers me a date. “Very good dates. My wife buys them at our local market.”
I take the date and eat it. The skin is dried and tough, not at all like the store-bought dates from the States. He watches me carefully, waiting for my reaction. I nod appreciatively and swallow. We’ve been waiting together at the departure gate for about ten minutes. The Cairo airport is shabby by western standards, and there are very few amenities in the terminal. I am grateful for the tough date.
The man yawns, and I remark that perhaps we’ll get some sleep on the five-hour flight to Nairobi. He chuckles and shakes his head. “I can never sleep on a plane. I was kidnapped once while flying. Since then, I am always nervous when I fly.”
It’s three in the morning as the plane from Cairo lands in Nairobi. My fellow passengers are bleary-eyed and grouchy, mostly Kenyans and stone-faced Egyptian businessmen with a few excited tourists sprinkled like salt on a plate of tired beans. It’s pouring rain, so it’s hard to explain why the ground crew parks the passenger bus a hundred feet from the base of the aircraft’s exit stairs. Everybody gets soaked running through the downpour to the bus. Nobody’s mood improves as we crowd into the transport, drenched and sticky, clutching our soggy carry-on bags. It’s standing room only, and we lurch into each other as the bus starts off toward the terminal.
We’re not even officially started on our 10-degrees around-the-world trip and we’ve run into our first significant roadblock. If our first destination country is any indication, we’re in for a LOT of frustrating bureaucratic obstacles. Case in point: getting a visa for Kenya.
Fellow creative writers, join me in a mind-meld with Beethoven, and together we will steal some of his magic juju.
Good creative writing comes from a bucket of words in the subconscious. When the bucket is full and the tap is open, the words pour out in a manic rush, creativity burning up the page. As the bucket empties, the flow slackens, and is eventually interrupted when the last dreg from the bottom finds its way onto the page. Then you’re done. Finished. Empty.
Sweat pours down his back and stains his shirt as he fights the controls. His left hand grips a metal lever connected to a small wooden box by way of a brass gear. This lever controls the amount of electricity that is allowed to pass from the overhead streetcar wires down to the motors beneath the carriage. By carefully, but forcefully, manipulating this lever the driver is able to increase the speed of the beast, releasing bursts of roaring power as we climb the steep hills. It is a real, physical battle in every sense of the word.
The river is sluggish and bright blue against broad sandy banks and a distant tree line, many miles away across the rice fields. At the water’s edge, a small enterprise of bamboo stalls sells dusty packaged cookies and water bottles brought here by jeep. Background music from a battery-powered radio; we are many miles away from the nearest electrical pole, the lyrics in a strange language. Little girls in what look like Disney princess outfits (but that pass as normal here), boys in blue shorts and white school shirts, some torn and threadbare but all immaculately pressed. One boy has a pink My Little Pony backpack so dirty that the imprint is barely visible; his white uniform shirt has a gaping hole under one arm. He climbs out to the end of a rickety scaffolding that hangs out over the water and dangles there like a monkey, hooting and laughing. In America every adult present would be panicking and the ferry-keepers would be worried about litigation, but here no one cares.