I’m borrowing Martina’s account as mine is not set up yet. My colleagues have shared a lot about Kenya already, so in an effort to avoid telling a similar tale, I’ll just recount a relatively inconsequential story that might give you a bit of the flavour of life in Nairobi.
I arrived on a Sunday night and the next morning I walked downtown with Martina as a tour guide. We went to a popular fast-food joint called Kenchic which serves deep-fried chicken. I’m not much of a fan of fast-food, least of all of fried-chicken, but I must admit that this was the best fried chicken I’ve ever eaten. The portions were generous and the bird was healthy and plump. I ordered a half-chicken with chips (yes, more oil). After cooking, they cut the chicken into pieces with a menacing looking pair of scissors; they don’t disarticulate the bones as we do, rather they cut them mid-bone so it often takes a few seconds to recognize which part of the chicken you’re eating. They also shake a large quantity of salt onto the pieces before handing it to the customer. At each place along the counter there is a salt shaker and Kenyans tend to add more salt for each bite. A Kenchic salt shaker is not like ours with fine holes that allow a gentle sprinkle to come out; theirs is a small bottle with a single large diameter hole in the lid that shoots out salt like a small avalanche. With the high sodium content of the Kenyan diet, high blood pressure must be a significant concern. An even larger concern must be diabetes as their consumption of sugar is phenomenal. Kenyans take their tea seriously (they are a large exporter). They brew it with milk which of course already contains lactose, a sugar. To a single cup (not a mug!), they will add three teaspoons of sugar! Some will claim “oh, I don’t take much sugar, only two teaspoons!”. But none of this has anything to do with Peter … let me tell you about him.
After lunch, as we sauntered down the sidewalk, from out of nowhere a man appeared, matching us step for step and addressing us like he was the official Nairobi welcome wagon. “How are you?!” “Oh, Canada …. wonderful!”. His name was Peter and he was one of many would-be sales representatives that eke out a living by dragging unsuspecting tourists to a safari tour office in the hopes of getting a commission. These guys are like ninjas or stealth fighter planes or something (maybe Mr. Harper should cancel the F35 Phantom order and hire few of these guys??); you never see them until it’s too late. He had cards from every tour company imaginable, though most had a name other than “Peter”. He was pleasant enough and his tactics were not aggressive like the Moroccans or Egyptians would use. After a few minutes – using as much vigour as a Kenchic customer with a salt shaker - I managed to shake him off. But I had a feeling I would run into my phantom menace again, and I was kind of looking forward to it. About three weeks later, while walking several metres in front of Ben and Julie, I felt a presence “uncloak” (think Star Trek Klingon vessels … not some guy exposing his, well, “peter”) beside me and prepared myself for the safari sales pitch. “How are you!?” “Where are you from!?”. He had launched into his full spiel when I cried out “Peter! How are you?!” He was flabbergasted; gobsmacked; pick your adjective. I thoroughly enjoyed his discomfort as I reminded him that we’d already met three weeks prior. He recovered quickly and closed his gaping mouth, suggesting I might have friends that were interested in a safari. No, but I had a good laugh stopping him in his tracks like that. For the past two weeks I’ve kept my eyes open for him, wondering if I’d see him again before my departure tomorrow. So Peter, if you’re reading: third time lucky?
No comments:
Post a Comment