The Baringo Kid:confrontations with Africa

The Baringo Kid:The Baringo Kid:The Baringo Kid:The Baringo Kid:confrontations with Africaconfrontations with Africaconfrontations with Africaconfrontations with Africa

Thomas F. PawlickThomas F. PawlickThomas F. PawlickThomas F. Pawlick

The Baringo Kid: Confrontations with Africa

Copyright (c) 1996 Thomas F. PawlickAll rights reserved.

Universal Publishersan imprint of uPUBLISH.com

2000 • USA

ISBN: 1-58112-707-3

www.upublish.com/books/pawlick.htm

For Fanueli and Bernard, from the Mzee

CONTENTSCONTENTSCONTENTSCONTENTS

Part IPart IPart IPart I1. The first step . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92. A good Samaritan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143. Bring Kaopectate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254. The mercenaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365. "How is you?" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 526. No credit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 657. The Baringo Kid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77

Part IIPart IIPart IIPart II8. Routines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 839. Anna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9610. A shoot at Limuru . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10811. Fishing Naivasha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12912. Kilimanjaro . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14413. The ghosts of Mombasa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

Part IIIPart IIIPart IIIPart III14. Callback . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17115. Somali madness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19016. Glossary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199

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1. THE FIRST STEP1. THE FIRST STEP1. THE FIRST STEP1. THE FIRST STEP

Bang! The plane hit the runway with a brain-jarring whack,popping open the overhead luggage compartments and rainingsuitcases down on passengers' heads. Screams and oaths.

"We've arrived at Jomo Kenyatta Airport," our unapologeticBritish Airways pilot drawled over the aircraft's public addresssystem. His passengers, jolted out of their seats by the roughlanding, darted here and there to retrieve lost bags, as headded: "It's six a.m. local time, and they tell us the weather isquite mild."

We were in Nairobi, Kenya, in January 1989, the start of anew year and, for me, an entirely different life.

I'd come from Ottawa, the capital of Canada, to work for ascientific research organization whose "help wanted"advertisement in The Economist had not only promised a tax-free salary a third again higher than what I'd been making, butsomething far more important: adventure--and escape.

The preceding few years had been, to put it mildly,disastrous. I'd lost a job I cared about, been forced into a long,entangling lawsuit and, after more than a year ofunemployment, been plunged into the maelstrom of divorce,family breakup and the loss of the farm that had been home.Except for the oldest daughter, my children--especially my sonEd--had become strangers. Work, when it eventually cameagain, was boring. At age 47, I was burnt out, disillusioned,broke from paying off lawyers and ready to try my luck atanything, as long as it meant a change. The recruiter for the research group had been encouraging.He'd come all the way from Africa to Ottawa to convince me Ishould take the job he had on offer and, sitting across the tablefrom him in the restaurant, I'd had visions of glory whilechewing my steak. He wasn't just offering a job, but the

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priceless experience of residence in one of the most storiednations on earth.

Few countries have been so favored in literature as Kenya,like Canada a former British Crown colony, which gained itsindependence in 1963 after a long and bitter guerrilla war--theMau Mau "emergency." Theodore Roosevelt, ErnestHemingway, Robert Ruark, Karen Von Blixen, Beryl Markham,Romain Gary, the great statesman Jomo Kenyatta, playwriteNgugi Wa Thiongo, picaresque novelists like Charles Mangua:all have chronicled and helped define Kenya's past and hopefulfuture.

And yet--perhaps in large part because of this romantic,literary history--few countries are so little understood in theWest. Americans and Europeans seem to have a preconceivednotion of what Kenya "should be," based on what they've readand imagined, and are extremely loath to give up theirstereotypes. Like the American Old West, or the MedievalJapan of the samurai, the legends have replaced reality.

You see this "invincible ignorance" (as a Scholastictheologian might have called it) among the busloads of camera-laden tourists who debark in the game parks every day--drapedin khaki safari jackets and floppy, Hollywood-on-the-Zambezihats, the men imagining themselves to be so many RockHudsons or Robert Redfords, the women all feeling likeKathryn Hepburn: African Queens. The cartridge slots in allthose safari jackets are empty, since legal, responsible huntingis now banned in Kenya (only irresponsible poachingcontinues). The relationship between the visitor and the localpeople--Kikuyu, Luyia, Luo, Maasai, Pokot, Kalenjin--has alsobecome one of the exploited versus the exploiters. But no oneseems to realize it, or more accurately, wants to realize it.They've paid too much money, and come too far, to have theirdaydreams shattered.

I had no way of knowing this, of course, as I sat in the

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restaurant slicing filet mignon into bite-sized cubes and talkingto my future boss. All I had was a vague feeling that this wasthe direction in which I was supposed to go. My answer to thejob offer was "yes."

------------------------In the weeks before I left, surprising events took place,prodigies which I recounted in letters to friends, wondering as Itossed and turned in fretful attempts to sleep at night if theywere somehow consequences of the decision to leave for partsunknown, confirmations that my course was right:

"It's getting pretty close to departure time and I'll be toobusy next week to do much writing, so I thought I'd drop youone more line, to give you my Kenya address and say MerryChristmas," I wrote one friend. "A lot has happened in the lastfew weeks, and a lot is still going on. You were probablysurprised to hear Ed's voice on the phone. I was even moresurprised, about a week and a half ago, to see him walk in thedoor and say 'hi Dad!' It turned out Peggy had been talking tohim about making peace with me, and found him receptive. Itwas a little like the scene in The Chosen, where the rabbi says,'if your son takes a step toward you, run the rest of the way tohim.' Ed took the step.

"Within 24 hours we were in the woods, near my place inHammond, hunting grouse for our Christmas dinner. We wentagain the next Saturday, near Harrowsmith, and actually huntedthe ridge behind the farm where we were last together as afamily. We took home three grouse, a rabbit, and much, muchmore. In January, Ed hopes to go into the U.S. Army to do hishitch and get the education benefits they offer."

Despite this positive turn of events, and excitement at theprospect of adventure and a new job, I felt a mixture of unease,of sadness at leaving everyone behind--especially Ed, whosereturn had created the opportunity for a fresh start that we'dbarely begun to build on--and surprise at the depth and

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strength of the feelings that were unexpectedly surfacing. "Atnight, alone in my room after midnight, I spread a throw rug onthe hardwood floor, kneel in the familiar seiza (meditation)position, and concentrate on my breath, moving out and inagain," the letter continued. "Outside the window, a tall,scraggly poplar tree sways in the cold air, bare of leaves, andbehind it the sky holds pale clouds, scudding across like ghostsover the Ottawa River. Thoughts run unchecked, I let themcome and go, trying not to force anything, thinking of mybreath, feeling the hard floor against my legs, and listening tothe wind."

--------------------- Only a year after that early-morning, rocky landing at JomoKenyatta Airport I would tack a paper sign on the bulletinboard of a neighborhood grocery in Nairobi: "For sale--expatriate leaving." The list of items posted ran from a Hitachivacuum cleaner on sale for 4,800 Kenya shillings, to a washingmachine, going for 15,000. (The electrical system in Kenya issimilar to that in Britain. None of the 220-volt appliances onsale would work with North America's 110-volt current, andhence would be useless "back home.")

One year is a very short time, far too little to permit anyoneto understand another culture on anything more than a surfacelevel. And yet, depending on what happens and who one meetsduring the pilgrimage, a year can be a very long time, alteringcompletely a person's outlook on life and one's relationshipswith other people, re-arranging forever what used to becomfortable illusions.

I can't pretend to truly understand Africa; to do so wouldprobably require fluency in several tribal languages and at leastfive years in a rural village. But Africa showed me something Ifeel compelled to try to return in kind. I've seen much morethan the average, well-heeled European or American "safari"

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tourist, certainly more than the average television or wire-service journalist, parachuted in to cover a one-time-only newsevent and orchestrating with quick facility the ugly, sound-byteimages of violence and deprivation that pass in the West for theonly African reality. I've met individual people--Africans andtheir often unabashedly mercenary non-African visitors alike--whose lives and personalities could speak volumes to anyonewith the patience to listen. They are the real, contemporaryEast Africa, human beings whose lives, intersecting mine andthose of my family, helped weave a new texture from what hadbecome too many unravelling loose ends. It may not be the whole truth, but I feel confident that whatI recall in these pages--much of it written or outlined while stillin Nairobi--is at least a truth. I regard it as a gift received, adebt incurred. Recounting it may offend some people, perhapsfriends who I don't really want to offend.

It is, nevertheless, what I saw, and how I reacted to it, wartsand all.....beginning with the traffic in the streets ofNairobi........

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2. 2. 2. 2. A GOOD SAMARITANA GOOD SAMARITANA GOOD SAMARITANA GOOD SAMARITAN

Trying to describe what driving in Africa is like makes yousound like a stand-up comedian, fishing for laughs byexaggerating. Only it's not exaggeration. Guidebooks, likeR.W. Moss's Nairobi A to Z, are blunt:

"Standards of driving are bad. Red lights are ignored,vehicles from lay-bys and side turnings as well as overtakingbehemoths obstruct one's path with terrifying frequency.Motorists may halt in mid-road just for a chat....roadconsideration and courtesy are in short supply. Potholes littersome city roads and add to the hazards the motorist has toface.

"The infamous matatus (independently owned buses) arean informal or alternative means of transportation: private,custom-built and reckless. As they hurtle round the citystreets, flying reckless conductors from their doors, matatusare the despair of law-abiding motorists."

All this is true, but it's like admiring the steel skeleton of abuilding under construction. Without the plaster and bricks,there is no aesthetic effect.

At the circusAt the circusAt the circusAt the circusMy first cross-town trip in Nairobi, after the drive in fromJomo Kenyatta Airport, was a cab ride from the city center outto the tile-roofed headquarters of my new employers insuburban Gigiri. Some African cabs are in roadworthycondition, and drivers who work for the Kenatco cab fleet evencharge fixed rates. But the hotel doorman made no brand-name distinctions. He called the first taxi in sight, a crumpledgreen Mazda so dented even its dents had dents. All four tireswere out-of-round and unbalanced and the right rear wheelwobbled. I gave my bags to the middle-aged African driver,

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who went round behind and undid the wire that held the trunklid shut. In went the bags. I sat down on the back seat, itsstuffing poking out through holes, and looked for a seat belt.There wasn't any.

We'd already agreed on a price, and launched into trafficimmediately, quickly covering the city block to the nearestroundabout. The roundabout--a British legacy, thankfully rarein North America--is intended to permit continuous trafficflow in both directions at intersections. In the horse-drawn19th century, when traffic was light and speeds slow, itworked reasonably well. People called them circuses, as inPicadilly Circus. In modern Africa, which is no longer horse-drawn, the word takes on new meaning. Trucks, buses andmatatus careen into these traffic circles at full speed, going bythe unwritten rule that whoever gets there first has the right ofway.

My cabbie was determined not to be the nice guy whofinished last and I gripped the bursting seat cushion as wereeled around the curve. My head banged against the sidewindow.

The rest of the ride continued the pattern, misaligned taxishimmying and bouncing, until we came to a police check.Kenya's traffic police carry fully automatic rifles, not pistols,and they set up checkpoints at strategic locations alonghighways. These consist of yellow-painted steel barriers withrows of vicious spike teeth sticking up. Usually manned byfour constables, the barriers would shred the tires of any carthat tried to pass, while its driver would be riddled with 9 mmbullets. Needless to say, everyone stops. Most motorists,especially those with red diplomatic plates, are waved quicklyon. But trucks, matatus and other public service vehicles(PSVs) are stopped for "safety inspections," namely, bribes.

Less than a kilometer from our destination, my driver waswaved to the shoulder. He got out, and a furious conversation

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in Kiswahili followed. One of the policemen kept kicking atthe cab's bald tires, frowning. The cabbie's comments, roughlytranslated, appeared to be "shit," and "double shit." His "fine"was 500 Kenya shillings. The fare we'd agreed on was Shs400. For taking me out to my first day on the job, the cabbiehad lost Shs 100, or roughly $5. As Shs 500-1,000 ($25-50)was a good average monthly wage for many Kenyans workingin Nairobi, this was a serious kick in the groin. The bald tires,of course, stayed in place, and would continue to stay in placeuntil the next checkpoint, where another enterprising officermight make another Shs 500. Losing money like that, thedriver could scarcely afford to buy new rubber.

One of the policemen, rifle slung nonchalantly across thecrook of his arm, looked at me, watching nervously from theback seat.

"Is this your first stay in Kenya?" he asked."Yes.""Well, welcome to our beautiful country," he said.He smiled politely and saluted.At the time I had no idea of the value of Kenyan currency,

but I tipped the cab driver another Shs 100 when we reachedmy office. He smiled ruefully, appreciating the gesture. ----------------------I took the wheel myself a few days later, having been issued acompany car--a brand new, white Toyota, plate number KZN811. It was the kind of car that deserves affection. It hadspeed in every gear, cornered well, and took the worstpotholes (in Kenya, routinely three feet wide and a foot ormore deep) in stride, only once losing a hubcap. It even gotgood gas mileage, double that of more sluggish Mazdas andPeugeots.

That it would suffer at my hands was not intended.My first hesitant ventures were from the hotel to my office,

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driving on the unfamiliar left hand side of the road, downKenyatta Avenue to Uhuru Highway, up Uhuru to MuseumHill, across Forest Road to Limuru Road and my office, nearthe sprawling complex of the United Nations EnvironmentProgram (UNEP) headquarters in East Africa. I drew lines onthe street map in yellow hi-liter, like rolls of string to lead meout of the labyrinth, and kept the map open on the seat besideme.

At 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., Nairobi's streets are choked withwhat local people, without intended irony, call "crush hour"traffic: huge red-and-yellow, exhaust-fume-belching KBS(Kenya Bus Service) buses, shimmying taxicabs, blue flatbedBritish Leyland trucks, their trailers full of constructionworkers standing and holding onto the railings, matatuspainted in red, blue, green and yellow geometric patterns, andhundreds of aggressively conditioned individual drivers, eachdetermined to get to work and back without benefit of trafficlaws.

The matatus sport legends and mottoes painted in scriptletters on their sides. Some--"Nakuru Success," "NjoroDefender," "God gives, Gakombe lives," "My Majestic"--aremerely proud. Others are forbidding: "Doom comes to all,""Death holds no fear," and, mockingly, "Asante sana (thankyou very much)." Still others attempt bravado, but trip up onthe spelling. One bumper proclaimed its driver to be a"Kikuyu warrious."

All African drivers break the rules of the road, but themost aggressive group seem to be the Asians (people of Indiandescent are called Asians in Africa), particularly Asianwomen. Why this is so is a mystery. Perhaps, in an essentiallybrutal situation, they feel they must be more brutal than mento survive. They are incredibly pushy, poking the noses oftheir cars out from side streets into moving traffic. If a vehicle,at 50 kph, flinches instinctively away, they push further. Foot-

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by-foot they cross roads or enter traffic streams, blockinglanes and provoking curses and slamming on of brakes.

Irritated at such slowdowns, matatu drivers pull off theroad, bounce up over the curbs and roar along the shoulder ofthe highway, honking, or "hooting" their horns like maniacsand scattering pedestrians--many of them uniformed schoolchildren en route to and from classes--with completedisregard for their safety. Gridlocks in heavy traffic arecommon, with vehicles stopped at right angles, bumperstouching doors, trapped drivers glaring. No one pays anyattention at all to stop signs.

Once, waiting at an intersection, I watched as a carapproached, came to a halt in the middle of the main road,then pulled off onto the shoulder, took aim, and ran straightinto a lamp post, knocking out a headlight. The driver thenbacked up, turned into a side road and drove sedately away,as if deliberately running into lamp posts was an everydaychore. The driver was white, not African. "It must besomething in the air, that gets to everyone," my companion,also new to Kenya, observed. "Or maybe he was an Italian."

Another day, I waited behind a stopped KBS bus,astounded at the number of people crammed inside. Thepassengers, packed tight in the aisles, pressed against thewindows, yet the driver kept taking on more people. Finallythe limit was reached. As one more passenger clamberedaboard, shoving hard against the bodies in front, theemergency exit window in the rear popped open and a manfell out, hitting the pavement flat on his back. The bus pulledaway, leaving him yelling and dancing in anger. I couldn'tvery well run over him, yet a cacophony of horns hootedbehind me, impatient for me to move on.

After a few weeks of this, my confidence, or ratherrecklessness, gradually increased. Roundabouts no longerinspired panic. It was no longer shocking to see cars parked

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helter-skelter on sidewalks, road repair crews of women withsacks on their backs filling in three-foot potholes with sand(not tar, sand), or to slam unexpectedly at night at 60 kph intoan unpainted, unmarked, six-inch-high speed bump, rattlingthe teeth of passengers and shaking puffs of ashes out of theashtrays. Despite the warnings of more experienced residents,I became aggressive.

"It's strange, when I think about it, how many people Iknow who have been killed in traffic," my supervisor told me.She'd been in Kenya 16 years, and apparently kept track."There must be at least 20," she said--more than one personalacquaintance per year.

"I saw a horrible accident this morning," an African co-worker said. "Some little car ran under a truck and the truckknocked the top off the car. Those people's heads were lyingin the street."

I heard, but did not register. The constant, reflex rudenessof other drivers grated. In some half-conscious way, I think Iwanted revenge.

Something absurdSomething absurdSomething absurdSomething absurdThen I came out of the roundabout at Forest Road andParklands, heading north on Limuru at 50 kph with the streamof traffic, and watched in disbelief as a battered Austin Miniwith an African at the wheel pulled out from a side street withless than 15 feet in front of the oncoming cars. It was absurd.The car on my left swerved around the Mini's back bumperonto the shoulder. The car on my right pulled around the frontbumper into the oncoming lane, narrowly missing a truck. Isaw the African in the Mini looking toward me, an expressionof guilty resignation on his face, and was actually glad I wasgoing to hit him. I deliberately pressed the accelerator to thefloor.

The impact was like something out of a Keystone Kops

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silent movie. The Toyota struck the Mini broadside, noseagainst the Mini's door. A cloud of dust flew up and the hood,trunk and passenger side door of the Mini flew open. TheAfrican's head snapped sideways, and motion seemed to stop.There was an instant's delay and then, with almost slapsticktiming, the Mini's door and spare tire teetered and fell off ontothe pavement. I sat, as if witnessing some ridiculous practicaljoke.

Then the horror stories came suddenly to mind: "If you'rewhite and the accident looks like it's your fault, the bystanderswill kick the shit out of you;" "Make sure you have lots ofshillingis on you, to pay off the police;" "If you hit an Asian,he'll try to skin you for the insurance;" "Hope nobody's injuredbecause the onlookers will make it worse;" "Lock yourvaluables in the trunk right away or take them with you, orthey'll steal everything from the wreck...." Ad infinitum.

The African driver got out of his exploded car, limping.He looked back at me fearfully over his shoulder, as if heexpected me to try to hit him again before he got to the side ofthe road. Two onlookers, both black, came up and helped himhobble, glaring at me, the mzungu (white person) who'd hit anAfrican. The crowd that gathered babbled in Kiswahili, wordsI didn't understand. I felt very conspicuous. The Mini wasclearly at fault. Why did I feel guilty? The English word"telephone" suddenly came to mind and I got out of my car,pushing open the slightly sprung door with difficulty. Quickly,I took my briefcase, a panga (machete) I'd just bought for usein my garden and several other items from the car, wentround, put them in the trunk and locked it. Then, avoiding eyecontact with the crowd, I glanced around for a store or otherlikely building that might house a public phone. None were insight, only apartment buildings and a distant school. TheMini's driver had disappeared. The sun was hot and I feltshaken by the collision, but decided to head for the school.

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It wasn't in session. The gate in the iron fence surroundingit was locked and no askari (security guard) was in sight. Iwalked on, turning into a nearby street. It was lined with moreapartments, the gates to their compounds locked. Finally, Ispotted an open gate at what looked like a warehouse of somesort, with a green-uniformed African askari lounging justinside.

"Jambo (hello)," I said. "Do you have a phone I coulduse?" It was obvious from my appearance that I was stressedby some sort of trouble. The askari looked at me for a moment,and something registered in his eyes. He smiled, but it wasn'ta friendly smile at all.

He had a mzungu at a disadvantage.In Nairobi it's a rare askari that doesn't speak at least

some English, and even a unilingual guard would understandthe word telephone. But the askari pretended he didn'tunderstand. "Telephone," I repeated, pretending to dial andhold a receiver to my ear. "Is there one inside?" I pointed. Theaskari's smile became a sneer. He motioned me away, as ifshooing a mosquito. I moved to step past him into thecompound, but he stepped in front of me, his face an inchfrom mine, a thick rungu (nightstick) in his hand. His smilebecame wider. It was plain he wanted a fight. I considered agrab for the rungu. Then I heard a voice behind me.

"Are you looking for something?"The accent was Indian, and came from the driver of a car

that had stopped in the road behind me. A witness. The askaristepped back.

"A telephone," I said. "I need to make a call.""Get in, I'll take you," said the Asian. "Was that your car

back there?"His name was Kuldip and he was the administrator of a

school, going home on his lunch hour. Another Asian was inthe back seat, also going home for lunch. They'd recognized

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the logo on my wrecked car and come looking for me."Was anyone hurt?" Kuldip asked."I don't know. The other driver was limping, but he left

before I could talk to him.""An African?" asked the man in the back seat."Yes.""He may have been driving without a license and didn't

want to be caught.""My friend has a telephone in his apartment," said Kuldip.We entered the parking lot of a four-storey building,

where women in saris and turbaned men indicated thepopulation was mainly Asian. Climbing the stairs, I noticedthe smell of curry, and thought vaguely that it seemed trite. Anelderly woman in a sari opened a door and then showed me toa phone.

Afterward, Kuldip drove me back to the accident site towait for help, missing his own lunch in the process. I asked forhis card, in order to thank him properly later, but he had nonein his pockets. I wrote down his telephone number on a scrapof paper, and promptly lost it. Shortly, two of my employer'sAfrican drivers, Theo and Barnabas, arrived in another car.

In Nairobi there is a shortage of police vehicles. If youhave a road accident and call the nearest station for help, youare told to come in and pick up an officer to assist you. If yourcar is smashed beyond mobility, it's just bad luck. To reportthe accident, I had to go to Parklands Police Station, pick upan officer and bring him to the crash scene. Shillingis mighthave been necessary, but Barnabas was a former Kenya trafficpoliceman. "Let me handle everything," he said. "It will bebetter that way."

It was. No shillingis were required. The policeman tookthe report, drew a map of the site, and helped us push theruined Mini out of the road. It's driver was never found. TheToyota was still drivable, and within 15 minutes I was back at

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my office, ready for an afternoon’s work.

----------------------

The accident and its aftermath had been instructive in severalways, not the least being the glimpse it had given of theunderlying current of racial tension that runs throughsupposedly independent, post-colonial Africa. The askari'shate, born of who knows what past confrontations, was plain.I'd seen the same kind of thing before, in Detroit during theriots of 1967, when 44 people died and the city burned, andin Quebec in the separatist 70s, when century-old French-versus-English scores were being settled. This time, I'd seenthe African brand of racism--directed at me.

I also glimpsed one of its probable causes, in the attitudeof the British administrator at my office who arrangedinsurance claims and approved employee transportassignments.

"African took off, eh?" he sniffed contemptuously. "Notsurprising. Likely wasn't even his car."

"What about transport while the Toyota's being fixed?""Well, chum, as far as I'm concerned you can pick up your

feet and walk." He didn't like Americans or Canadians either.Fortunately, the African who oversaw the day-to-day

operations of the organization's fleet was a friend. "Captain"King'aru, known affectionately by the North Americans onstaff as "Captain Kangaroo," was Kikuyu and a former officerin the Kenya Air Force. When the air force was disbanded byPresident Daniel Arap Moi in the wake of an abortive coup byits officers, Captain had lost his job. But the title stuck.

"I'll find something," he said in his matter-of-fact way. Hedid. He always did.

Four weeks later, the Toyota came back from the bumpshop, as good as new. It would have come sooner, but there

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was some problem with the paper work. To celebrate, I boughtthree cases of Premium beer, one each for Captain, Theo andBarnabas.

I didn't buy one for Kuldip, whose number I'd lost. To thisday, even though his religion may not have allowed him todrink it, I regret that loss.

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3. 3. 3. 3. BRING KAOPECTATEBRING KAOPECTATEBRING KAOPECTATEBRING KAOPECTATE

The Hotel Milimani, located on Milimani Road just offKenyatta Avenue, provided the first real taste of Africa. The"settling in" grant furnished by my employers paid for a two-and-a-half-room, second-floor suite at the hotel while I lookedfor permanent lodgings elsewhere, and tried to get used to thenew environment of Nairobi.

That environment included a resident corps of intestinalmicrobes whose effects were referred to by fellow expatriatesas "Kenyatta's revenge" (after Jomo Kenyatta, first president ofindependent Kenya). Within days of arrival in the city, theyattack any newcomers whose systems haven't yet acquiredresistance--and their onslaught is irresistible. The day ispunctuated, at roughly half-hour intervals, by highlyembarrassing attacks of loud stomach rumblings, followed byan even more embarrassing urge to race to the nearest toilet. Aseries of terrifically loud, liquid explosions follow, succeededby a sense of exquisite, purely sensual relief.

The relief lasts a frustratingly short time--after which thewhole process begins again. "Drink a lot of beer," an officeconfrere advised. "It'll replace the lost fluids. But don't drinklocal water. That'll only make it worse."

The explosions reached a veritable crescendo. I wasawash in Tusker beer.

Then, one blessed morning, no stomach rumbles awokeme. Sometime during the night, my personal army ofhomegrown, transplanted Canadian/American antibodies hadat last gained the upper hand, turned the enemy's flank (so tospeak)--and routed him.

I was immune. And grateful.