What being brown does for me

I'm sorry to say that the hassles of doing business in Nairobi -- or more accurately, trying to do business -- are getting to me. After three weeks of sweating and cursing, we finally got an Internet connection in the office, so now, for $70/month, we can conduct business at roughly one-tenth the speed of the cybercafe across the street, which charges less than $1 per hour (and has a better soundtrack). Whatever, I call it a victory.

It's the end of the month, so time to ship off the expense reports to the home office. I had Eric run down to the FedEx office with the envelope, but he came back a few minutes later still holding it. Apparently, the FedEx people didn't let him send a package marked, "Bill to Recipient." He suggested I go down there and try, and used the Swahili word for "white person." "They will probably do it for a mzungu," he said.

He was right. I was there and back in 10 minutes, package sent, no problem. Eric just laughed. "They only need to hear the mzungu voice," he said. I laughed at the idea of me being a white person, but you also have to wonder about the screwiness of a society that doesn't trust its own people. Kenya used to be a stable country on the way to prosperity, but its leaders looted the people so bad that petty crime has become a way of life. And we expense-account expats, with our need for high-speed Internet and overnight international mail service, are among the few things still keeping the economy going.

Well, I've just glossed over some pretty serious stuff that's probably a lot more complicated than two sentences. Sorry. It's the end of the week for me -- tomorrow I'm off to Cape Town to visit Bhargavi in the Paris of Africa (she loves when I call it that). Expect pictures next week of glistening beaches, upscale shopping and dining, and mzungus galore.

Conspiracy theorists

Before I go, Chris Dufresne writes in the L.A. Times today about Saturday's USC-Arizona State game and notes "eerie" parallels with a game in 1996, when then-unbeatable Nebraska was upset on the road by ASU (and one Jake Plummer), 19-0. Apparently Nebraska was trying to become the first school to win three national titles in a row (so is SC), Nebraska came in with a 26-game winning streak (SC's is 25), Nebraska was coached by Tom Osborne and ASU has an assistant with the same name, etc.

Yeah, and Lincoln had a secretary named Kennedy and Kennedy had a secretary named Lincoln, and they both got shot by guys with three names, who themselves got shot by guys with two, and I still say USC rolls, 38-17.

News flash: Liberian women are "faster than lightning"

I'm heading to Liberia next week to cover the country's first presidential election since the fall of Charles Taylor's terrible regime in 2003. Searching online for hotels in the capital city, Monrovia, I came across the "three-star" Hotel Africa -- and this ringing testimonial from an unlucky American guest named Parker. Should be a good trip...

Hotel Africa has always been my best place. I love it regardless of all that have happened back home. I think they are doing a great job trying to keep taht place up. But oh Jesus, those girls are faster than lightening. The least fchance you give them, they are ready to loot your pocket. Please, people, when you see a fine fine girl in that lobby, watch you back, pocket wallet,...and oh! Oh! even your luggage. You might see the bag but make sure to check for it might just be very empty. That is the only bad experience i had while in Liberia. I really don't blame the hotel management, it was my own negligence.
Parker, from Minnesota

Safari time!

I probably violated some Kenyan law by going two weeks without seeing a game park. This was quickly rectified Sunday with a visit to Lake Nakuru National Park, two hours and 200,000 potholes northwest of Nairobi. The impetus for the trip was Veronica, a friend from Boston, who was in town for 36 hours and wanted the full Nairobi experience.

Veronica arrived a little weary. She had spent the previous three weeks in Mali visiting her sister, who works for a Canadian NGO in Bamako, the capital. On Friday night she went to the Bamako airport, ticket to Nairobi in hand, and was informed that the flight was full. You see, Veronica had not called to confirm her reservation, which the good people at Kenya Airways apparently felt was tantamount to flushing her ticket down the toilet. “Welcome to Africa,” Veronica said.

So she took the next day’s flight and, after a day-long layover in Abidjan, Ivory Coast, landed in Nairobi at 5:30 am Sunday, when I picked her up. We got back to my apartment to find our safari guide waiting. Welcome to Nairobi. We set off a half-hour later, the only two passengers in a 9-seater van.

The park is one of the most popular in Kenya, probably because of its proximity to Nairobi and the presence of pretty much every wild animal indigenous to the region. Just about all of them have been brought to the park from other places, but Nakuru isn’t a zoo; there’s virtually no human intervention and the animals roam freely as they would in the wild. We asked our guide Justice (his real name) whether we could step out of the van for a closer look; he told us that, by law, anyone walking on foot in the park can be shot on the spot. Fair enough.

From the safety of the van, then, we saw across zebras, rhinos, gazelles, impalas, flamingos, baboons, monkeys, German tourists and -- best of all -- giraffes that came within spitting distance of the van. I was most impressed by the giraffes, which are even odder looking in person than you’d expect, with weird prehistoric faces and spindly legs, while Veronica insisted we stop for every baby animal no matter the species. She was especially taken with a nuclear family of rhinos, mom and dad with baby, out for a Sunday walk.

When not gawking at the animals, we discussed whether zebras have truly fat asses or whether it’s the unflattering effect of the horizontal stripes; which country produces the most difficult tourists (Justice says it’s France); why baboons are so damn ugly; and which is the most popular animal (Justice says the giraffe). Justice was a cool guide, apart from getting annoyed that V and I decided to skip lunch in the park (a $20 tourist-trap buffet), and when he dropped us back at home we left him with a nice tip. We might be frugal, but we’re not French.


Why I should have gone into broadcast journalism

Due at the airport early Sunday anyway, I woke up a little earlier to catch the Internet radio broadcast of the USC-Oregon football game (anyone who thinks this is insane, Bhargavi, may be right). After a typical slow start on the road, my boys found their mojo and ended up burying the Ducks. Almost as entertaining as the Trojans’ offensive fireworks was the cheerfully inarticulate commentary of the USC radio broadcasters. My three favorite quotes:

1. “Bush running behind David Kirtman as he always does some of the time.”
2. “The USC faithful starting to make some noise down in our far leftern end zone.”
3. “Leinart trying to audibleize…”

Happy buffalo 

Whoa, Mr. Giraffe...getting a bit close 

Veronica in her best safari pose 

Rhino family strolling by the lake 

Zebras chillin 

Veronica likes this picture because it looks like the giraffe is on my shoulder and about to eat my ear

Cultural imperialism's greatest hits

I know a lot of you have traveled more than I, so perhaps you can answer this question: why does the world love our bad music? I'm still several days (and perhaps a well-placed payoff or two) away from getting Internet service in the office or at home, so I'm using the cybercafe across from the office to get online. It costs less than $1 for an hour on a decent connection, but the tradeoff is the place plays a constant loop of the worst American music of the past generation.

Highlights from this afternoon alone: Kenny G, Phil Collins, Ace of Base, early Mariah Carey (at her pre-breakdown screechiest) and -- in a rare and inexplicable choice -- the theme from "Dallas." If I knew people would still be playing this song after 20 years, I would have shot J.R.

It's not like there isn't a lot of great local music here. And yet as I write this, Madonna is urging me (for at least the third time this week) to Get Into the Groove. Apparently, I have yet to prove my love to her. Frankly, it's making it hard to get any work done.

The friendly skies

A brief diversion from Nairobi: This story of the JetBlue flight out of L.A. is pretty nuts. As a former member of the L.A.-East Coast jetset, I'm riveted to the coverage. The pilot deserves a raise and a comp day.

My favorite part of this story? The L.A. Times talked to a passenger who was, eerily, watching news of the flight live on Fox News Channel (every JetBlue seat gets its own Direct TV screen). The Times reports: " 'At first I just thought, "Of course, Fox News," ' he said, discounting the story as sensationalized. 'But then it was on MSNBC.' "

Warning: impending international incident

THURSDAY MORNING UPDATE: A few seconds after starting the car, a yellow light on the dash started flashing. No idea what the light meant -- the icon is best described as a squiggle. So I punted. Put the car back in the spot and called a cab, saving the international incident for another day. Stay tuned.

Original post from Wednesday:

We got the company car to work finally (this involved hiring a mechanic, then hiring another one after the first one stopped answering his phone, then waiting three days for the new guy to figure out directions to our building, then persuading the building not to tow the car as the mechanic was "on his way," then hearing from the mechanic that the battery needed to be charged overnight, then reinstalling the battery only to have it die completely, then -- this afternoon -- putting in a new battery, which worked).

Now it's time to drive the car home, which is why I'm killing time in an Internet cafe. Driving here poses several problems: (1) they drive on the wrong side of the road; (2) Nairobi drivers are, incredibly, worse than Boston drivers (the preferred term is "Massholes"); (3) it's madness to drive here in rush hour, which runs roughly from noon until midnight; and (4) I've only driven stick twice. So there's a very real chance I will stall hopelessly in one of the many roundabouts in downtown and be beaten senseless by an angry mob.

I'm debating going across the street to get a drink. It could actually improve my skills, or at least move my blood alcohol level closer to that of the average taxi driver.

The idiot American

Thanks for coming. Lots to write about after a busy first week, but
generally I'll try to keep these posts short.

I arrived in Nairobi late last Sunday, and immediately set about
making an ass of myself in front of my new colleagues and neighbors.
Eric, the 28-year-old Kenyan who is my office assistant, brought me
from the airport to my apartment, where the first thing I did was flip
every light switch in sight like a five-year-old. I didn't notice that
one of the switches was slightly bigger and had a tiny alarm bell
painted on it, so Eric and I were duly surprised when, about five
minutes later, four security guards showed up at the door wielding
nightsticks, LAPD-style. My predecessor selected this apartment
precisely for its security system, and clearly he had chosen well. I
apologized profusely and explained that I was new to the building and
that it wouldn't happen again.

Which made it all the more entertaining when, two nights later, I
inadvertently flipped the alarm switch again. (It really does look
like a light switch.) Realizing what I'd done, I ran down to the front
gate and told the guards on duty to call off the security company. At
which point the security car pulled into the driveway and I confronted
the same four guards from two nights before. I said sorry, they stared
at me blankly, then the driver muttered something and drove off.

After they left, the guards on duty, clearly smelling blood in the
water, tried to convince me that I needed to pay 500 Kenyan shillings
(about $7) for the false alarm. I've learned from my short time in
East Africa that moderate resistance is usually enough to fight off
this kind of attempted shakedown, so I just said I didn't know
anything about that and the guards said OK and left.

But this brings up a delicate issue -- security guards (everyone calls
them by the Swahili word, askaris) are a key constituency for expats
here. The stories of "Nairobbery" are true; half the people I've met,
Kenyans and westerners alike, have been mugged, carjacked or
burglarized in the recent past. You don't walk around the city center
after dark, you don't wear fancy watches or carry expensive-looking
bags, and you certainly don't piss off your askaris.

Although my building is ringed by high stone walls topped with an
electric fence, we're not too far off a main road and I'm acutely
aware that I live alone in an apartment with a lot of valuable
computer equipment. Keeping the askaris happy is a necessity. So at
some point I will have to tip these guys nicely; I just knew I
couldn't start off as the idiot American who just throws his money
around. I'll try to leave that to the guys in the khaki vests and Land
Rovers who have clearly just flown in for safari.