and that someone in the party might occasionally have to shoot a charging animal, but I hadn’t imagined anything shooting at me in return.
“So how dangerous is Kenya then?” I asked in a small controlled squeak.
“Oh, not at all,” they responded in unison.
“Well, hardly,” Will added.
“It depends on what you mean by dangerous, of course,” said Dan.
“Like bleeding and not getting up again,” I suggested. “Being shot and stabbed and so forth,” I added.
They assured me that that only very rarely happened, and that it was nearly always one or the other. You had to be very unlucky to be shot and stabbed, they said.
“It’s mostly diseases you have to worry about,” Nick went on. “Malaria, schistosomiasis, trypanosomiasis.”
“Rift Valley fever, blackwater fever, yellow fever,” said Dan.
“Dengue fever, bilharzia—the usual tropical stuff,” added Will.
But they pointed out that you can be inoculated against many of those and for the rest most people manage a more or less complete recovery, given time and a considered programme of physiotherapy. Many even walk again. I asked if there was anything else I should know.
“Well, the roads are a little dangerous—there are some crazy drivers out there,” Will said, chuckling.
“But apart from that and the diseases and the bandits and the railway from Nairobi to Mombasa, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” Nick added.
“What’s wrong with the railway?”
“Oh, nothing really. It’s just the rolling stock is a little antiquated and sometimes the brakes give out coming down out of the mountains—but, hey, if you worried about all the things that might happen you wouldn’t go anywhere, would you?”
“I don’t go anywhere,” I pointed out.
They nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, it’ll be an adventure,” Will said brightly. “You’ll be fine, absolutely fine. Just check your insurance before you go.”
And so it was that I became irrevocably committed to the African adventure which follows.
Saturday, September 28
We meet
at the Kenya Airways check-in desk at Heathrow, the five brave souls who are to form our party from London. In addition to me and Dan, they are: David Sanderson, a thoughtful and kindly fellow who is soon to take up a post in Johannesburg as CARE’s regional manager in South Africa, but joining us now in his capacity as urban specialist; Justin Linnane, an intent but amiable young maker of television documentaries who has volunteered to make a video record of the expedition; and the photographer Jenny Matthews, whose brilliant and compassionate snaps grace this volume. White-haired and sweetly unobtrusive, Jenny is easily the wonder of the lot. If you saw her in a supermarket you would take her for a schoolteacher or civil servant. In fact, for 25 years she has gone wherever there is danger—to Chechnya, Bosnia, Afghanistan, Rwanda. She is fearless and evidently indestructible. If things go bad on this trip, it is her I’ll hold on to.
The first good news is that Kenya Airways has given us all an upgrade on account of our genial goodness and dapper manner, and so of course gets a glowing mention here. It is a nine-and-a-half-hour flight from London to Nairobi, and we are very pleased to pass it in comfort, with a better class of drinks and our own party packs.
An hour or so after we are airborne, by chance I come across an article in
The Economist
declaring Nairobi to be the new crime capital of Africa. My attention is particularly arrested by the disclosure that street children come up to cars waiting at traffic lights demanding money and if it’s not given they rub balls of human excrement in the victim’s face.
I share this information with my new companions and we agree that Dan, as group leader, will be our designated “rubbee” for the week. Conveniently, Dan is in the lavatory when the matter is discussed and so the motion carries unanimously. In order not to spoil his enjoyment of
“So how dangerous is Kenya then?” I asked in a small controlled squeak.
“Oh, not at all,” they responded in unison.
“Well, hardly,” Will added.
“It depends on what you mean by dangerous, of course,” said Dan.
“Like bleeding and not getting up again,” I suggested. “Being shot and stabbed and so forth,” I added.
They assured me that that only very rarely happened, and that it was nearly always one or the other. You had to be very unlucky to be shot and stabbed, they said.
“It’s mostly diseases you have to worry about,” Nick went on. “Malaria, schistosomiasis, trypanosomiasis.”
“Rift Valley fever, blackwater fever, yellow fever,” said Dan.
“Dengue fever, bilharzia—the usual tropical stuff,” added Will.
But they pointed out that you can be inoculated against many of those and for the rest most people manage a more or less complete recovery, given time and a considered programme of physiotherapy. Many even walk again. I asked if there was anything else I should know.
“Well, the roads are a little dangerous—there are some crazy drivers out there,” Will said, chuckling.
“But apart from that and the diseases and the bandits and the railway from Nairobi to Mombasa, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” Nick added.
“What’s wrong with the railway?”
“Oh, nothing really. It’s just the rolling stock is a little antiquated and sometimes the brakes give out coming down out of the mountains—but, hey, if you worried about all the things that might happen you wouldn’t go anywhere, would you?”
“I don’t go anywhere,” I pointed out.
They nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, it’ll be an adventure,” Will said brightly. “You’ll be fine, absolutely fine. Just check your insurance before you go.”
And so it was that I became irrevocably committed to the African adventure which follows.
Saturday, September 28
We meet
at the Kenya Airways check-in desk at Heathrow, the five brave souls who are to form our party from London. In addition to me and Dan, they are: David Sanderson, a thoughtful and kindly fellow who is soon to take up a post in Johannesburg as CARE’s regional manager in South Africa, but joining us now in his capacity as urban specialist; Justin Linnane, an intent but amiable young maker of television documentaries who has volunteered to make a video record of the expedition; and the photographer Jenny Matthews, whose brilliant and compassionate snaps grace this volume. White-haired and sweetly unobtrusive, Jenny is easily the wonder of the lot. If you saw her in a supermarket you would take her for a schoolteacher or civil servant. In fact, for 25 years she has gone wherever there is danger—to Chechnya, Bosnia, Afghanistan, Rwanda. She is fearless and evidently indestructible. If things go bad on this trip, it is her I’ll hold on to.
The first good news is that Kenya Airways has given us all an upgrade on account of our genial goodness and dapper manner, and so of course gets a glowing mention here. It is a nine-and-a-half-hour flight from London to Nairobi, and we are very pleased to pass it in comfort, with a better class of drinks and our own party packs.
An hour or so after we are airborne, by chance I come across an article in
The Economist
declaring Nairobi to be the new crime capital of Africa. My attention is particularly arrested by the disclosure that street children come up to cars waiting at traffic lights demanding money and if it’s not given they rub balls of human excrement in the victim’s face.
I share this information with my new companions and we agree that Dan, as group leader, will be our designated “rubbee” for the week. Conveniently, Dan is in the lavatory when the matter is discussed and so the motion carries unanimously. In order not to spoil his enjoyment of
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