“Remember one thing: cows for Kalashnikovs” said a friend through layers of alcohol induced haziness the night before I left for Kenya. I turned to him, as best offended as I could be after four drinks and said, “I’m going to Kenya and Tanzania, which is the safest country in East Africa, thank you. ”
When I finally reached Sofia, the village in Eastern Kenya I was going to stay at for the next month, the first order of business for my hosts was to sit me down and establish some ground rules. I should not walk alone after dark, I should not board any form of public transport and I should not even think about going to any other vilage or town or city without a chaperone.
My eyes were rolled as far back as possible in my head.
It wasn’t many days before I had to head to Nairobi, a 100kms from Sofia, for work. By 6.30 in the evening, I was on my way back, in a matatu – a means of public transport in Kenya that can seat 12 people – with a member of my host family, her constant worryign that it was already dark and how we should’ve just stayed in Nairobi overnight began to make the threat real for me. A little diversion on the road and we’re on to a no-road, when we’re suddenly stopped by about 6 men with big guns. Robbed, within my first week in Kenya. Thankfully only of very little money and all my silver jewellery.
The next three weeks are spent quitely adhering to all the house rules and yet, loving every minute of my stay – working with the kids, interacting with the community. The area has just recently emerged from a 6 year long drought, and the population is half what it used to be, I’m told. Even now there is very little water and most houses don’t have electricity. And then there’s HIV, the village seems to have decided to refers to the infection as “sickness”, and nothing more.
As my four weeks draw to a close, I prepare to head to Tanzania, to the safety of a friend’s house. Finally, the vacation starts. The first weekend is spent in Zanzibar, with it’s pristine beaches and breathtaking sunsets. Freshly returned from heaven, and then from a great seafood dinner, my friend and I are driving past the lonely streets of Dar Es Salaam. A few minutes later, we drive past the Tanzanian President’s house. Before I know it, there are big sickles and a group of men around me and my friend. We don’t want to hurt you, just give us all your stuff. And we oblige, this time we lose more than petty change. Phones, camera, laptop, all our cash, my passport.
Even so, I left my heart in Africa, along with a lot of my stuff.
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(Originally published in The Sunday Guardian, Delhi)
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