You know that scene in American Pie where Finch is running through school trying to find a bathroom? Imagine that set in Nairobi after a flood knocks out all the water in the city. Finch has to walk twenty minutes from his home on Spring Valley Road to the local mall, which has is supposed to have its own unaffected water tanks. But he gets there and waddaya know? No water today. So he hoofs it over to the next mall over. Cut and paste my face on to Finch's and you have my morning.
Hey John, why you having trouble this morning? Glad you asked. I've not really gone out in Nairobi yet. Wanted to go out last night, but the damn State Department is leaving forbidding warnings to westerners. So easily-targetted Nairobi nightlife is out. Y'know what else is out? My fucking power. Still. So I'm faced with a Saturday night at home reading Paul Theroux by candlelight. Ick.
Then my housemate mentions that she's going to Karen to have dinner with a pregnant friend. Lightbulb. I'm inquiring about a house there. I could get to know the neighborhood. My roommate says there's a nice shitkicking bar right on the edge of town. As the Brits say, Brilliant.
After a 30 minute drive, she drops me off at the bar, says she'll be back in three hours. I walk in, and it's slim pickings. Black couple by the fireplace, black group of young women who looks to be wrapping up their drinks, white group that looks friendly enough to be family, too forty/fifty women a bit in their cups. I sit at the bar and curse myself for not bringing Paul Theroux along to read or a pad to scribble on. And I order macaroni.
Talk to one bartender, who gives me perfunctory answers to three questions then drifts away. I order beer #2 from bartender Beth, and she's friendly. I ask the same questions, but she actually pulls a seat up behind the bar and answers them, then asks questions about me. She tells me about her tribe, the Luhya, which I innitially confuse with the Luo tribe. I did a story about the Luo's most powerful politician, and I have such a good time talking about it with her. I feel so damned worldly. It's not until twenty minutes later when we're talking about something else entirely, that she corrects me: Luhya, not Luo.
Two lessons here: One, I am an ass. Two, this is a bartender with exceptional hospitality skills. So I eat my macaroni and talk with Beth about tribal life and how she gets to work. Then she drops as a side note that they may close early, since business is slow. Translation: off you go, sucker. She calls over a white friend who's going out on a crawl. We talk for a bit, I pay for macaroni (was freaking excellent) and I get into his beat up Isuzu. I'm 45 minutes into the night.
Out the window of the Isuzu, I can see just enough to know that this is country that would put Montana to shame. The hills they roll, the trees they soar, the moon is a button on a great big blanket of dark blue sky. I think: This whole country is instant goodtimes injected right into my veins. The driver gives me the lowdown on the town: it's named after Karen Blixen, the protagonist of 'Out of Africa' and a woman of great historical import around here. Today the town is dominated by pretty much the same genealogical strain of white folk as it was a century go. They like the country here, and the houses and country club and bars they've built here, and they're not leaving.
Our first stop is "the camp site." I'm picturing pork and beans in can around a campfire, but it's actually a nice high-ceilinged bar on the edge of a national park. Outside the bar three trucks are parked, each about the size of the biggest model a civilian is allowed to rent from Ryder. But in the back, instead of trailers, they have cushioned seats, protected from the weather by semi-transparent canvas roof, walls, etc. It looks like there's a long tent on the back of each truck. My crawl buddy tells me that students from the UK ride these trucks from London through East Europe down the Middle East and into South Africa. It takes about a year. Lucky young SOBs.
We walk in, and sure enough, bright young brits have pulled about thirty chairs into a circle, and are laughing and gossiping. Apart from the group of thirty, three other young guys sit alone: either too cool or not cool enough. Crawl buddy orders beer for both of us. Tusker Malt for him, Tusker for me. The problem is, Tusker comes in a bottle that must be at least 24 oz., while Tusker Malt comes in a normal 12 oz. bottle. Oh well, he's older than me. We drain our beers and talk about the history of the town, of Kenya, about his new girlfriend. The TV is playing the Top 10 countdown, and that god awful Eminem song where he samples Aerosmith comes on.
The UK kids are enthralled. They stop talking, and turn in their chairs to watch Em rap sanctimoniously.
The song ends, and the bar fills with chatter again. Crawl Buddy points out the bar's dog to me. He has three legs, a couple scars on his face, and he's gray all over. I scratch his back, his eyes brighten, and his tail goes whomp whomp whomp. Best three-legged dog I ever met. Crawl Buddy tells me the dog defends his turf in the bar ferociously, and has beaten back a dozen other stray dogs who have tried to move in on the bones and bellyscratches this place supplies to him.
The number one song of the week, and it happens to be 50 Cent, rap's thug du jour. The UK kids look like my neice and nephew used to when I'd put them in front of the Teletubbies. We drain our beers and head out.
Crawl Buddy tells me about how many people have died on this stretch of road, either blacks walking home who were struck by cars, or whites careening off the road because a hairpin turn snuck up on them. He navigates it as effortlessly as a twelve year old running through the first level of his favorite video game. Next stop: Karen's Cafe, or something like that. Karen Blixen's house was converted into a cafe attached to a restaurant attached to a bar.
Inside the bar, the locals are chilling, in both senses of the word. They're taking it easy, but they're kind of icky to watch. They have the look of a peculiarly insular crowd that is too tied up in history, to cut off from the rest of the world. They dress confidently, but idiotically. Collars up, buttons open, hair styled in peculiar ways. I-never-left-the-frat-house peculiar. It's 11:00PM and kids are hanging around with the drunks, who pat their shoulders and tousel their hair. Which is wonderful and community-like in theory. But in reality, I'm creeped. One little girl looks about eight going on seventy-eight. Faulkner could walk in here and write a good piece about the weight of history and the guilt and paralysis of people who live with it. But I'm just looking for a drink.
So Crawl Buddy and I again drain our dissimilar portions and head out. Back to bar #1, which didn't close early after all. He drops me off, points out some white people playing pool who are friendly. Two guys are soused, one girl is looking for an opponent. I take her up on it and she beats me handily three times out of four. It's a friendly, uneventful game until apropos of nothing one of the two drunks throws his empty pint glass at the far corner, where it shatters. The girl chastises him, he ignores her. The waiter, black, comes up and asks if we need anything else. The glass tossing drunk says Yes, he'd like another, and please would you clean up that mess in the corner.
The waiter smiles, says no, and leaves to get the drunk another pint. The girl chastises the pint tosser again. The bartender announces last call. I order a last one (there are no small Tuskers to order. Only 24 oz. bottles. Oy.), and make a mental note that I do not want to live among these types. I lose another game of pool, and leave the group to go sit by the fire until my ride comes. It does, and we talk about our nights on the way home. My stories are better.
