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..

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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..)

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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.

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Africa, I Hear You Asking…

I think you agree with me, enough about Spain. Now it’s time to look ahead, to KENYA!!

You heard me.

The story started when I was coming back from the gym one day at the Vigo university campus. I was listening to 2Pac, vigorously trying to forget the tights that the other dudes were wearing, AGAIN, when Jewelz, the light of my days, calls me. She tells me she got the internship at UN. I’m of course thrilled for her and, after congratulating her, proceed to ask where of the possible locations the internship might take place. “Bruxelles, D.C., or New York”? “Nairobi”, she replies. I stop, take my other earphone out of my ear, and ask her to repeat what she said, because I obviously heard wrong. “Nairobi”, she insists. “But that’s in Africa”, I cleverly point out. “Yeah, in Kenya, to be exact.”, she clarifies.

Well. There go all of my plans for the future. After confirming the previously revealed facts, I hang up the phone, get on the bus and sit quietly with a moronic, blank look on my face until I get to Plaza America, where I get off. I walk home, collapse on my hammock, and start reasoning: “I can’t let her go by herself, it might be dangerous, and we’re already currently apart for 6 months because of my exchange program. And it would be stupid to just visit for a couple of weeks. The plane tickets cost like a bitch, I need to like 6 different vaccinations, malaria medication, and a visa. She can’t fly here, or to Finland, where I’d actually be at that time, because of her work. ERGO, it looks like I’m moving to Africa. HOLY SHIT-BALLS, I’M MOVING TO AFRICA!!”

That was it, my mind was made up. Through the flawless logical deduction process described above I decided I’d move to Nairobi around New Year’s. I was aware of those dozens of stories I had heard about guys who marry the wrong woman and end up moving to Vishnu knows where. My old basketball coach being one of them. But then again, I had resisted the urge of falling on one knee even on those dangerous moments on Sunday mornings when you’re not exactly feeling like a 100 bucks, or smackers as my man IGL (“eagle”) calls them, and your logic is clouded by the remains of alcohol in your cerebellum and an attractive lady that, for some peculiar reason, does not kick you out of bed, even when you smell like asparagus. So I’m good, nothing to worry about.

Except for the few facts I found out after doing a little research on that paradise on Earth I was moving to. For one, it turns out Nairobi’s nick-name is Nai-robbery, because of the thriving street crime. Fun. Also, several foreign ministries advise travelers to stay away from Kenya, especially from Nairobi, unless they really really have to. AND, while trying to get travel insurance my current insurance company casually informed me that Kenya was on their list of war-risk zones and that the insurance would cost me an arm and a leg. AH! Oh well, I merely switched all my insurances to another company who didn’t think there was anything wrong with going to Kenya. Who says ignorance isn’t bliss? The silver lining, if you really want to see it, is that I had to take so many vaccinations that I can now have sex with Pamela Anderson, should that become necessary at some point in the future. Hell, Borat got close and he’s even hairier than I am, so the odds don’t look too bad after all.

Moving on..

SO, obviously I had to start organizing stuff, like how I can keep receiving student money from the government while in Kenya, without actually studying anything at all. Furthermore, we would have to sublet the apartment to avoid paying two rents and so on. AND to keep my sorry excuse for an academic career going somewhere, I had to complete a year’s worth of classes in four months. I could list more things but you get the picture. A lot to do, little time. Which is why I haven’t written here in a while. Well, that and the fact that I’m a lazy bastard most of the time, with moments of shining and uncanny efficiency. And now back to the drawing board. I’ll let you know how the preparations are going in the flashest of flashes, trust me. :)

Peace up, N-town!

P.S. Here’s a pointless picture of a Nairobian giraffe for those who only check in for the photos :

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