Whenever I go to Nairobi, usually once or twice a week, I at some point in the day wind up at “the Office,” the upstairs restaurant otherwise known as the Simba Mbili (Two Lions). It used to have a much better name, Eff. I don’t know what, if anything that means, but the new name sounds like a curio shop. Anyway, it is where I meet Joseph and Tony. “OK, see you at the office at 11:00.” It’s on Tubman Street between Koinange and Muindi Mbingu streets just next to the City Market, where among other things I change dollars into Kenya schillings, behind the produce stand. Every time we’re there, waiting in the tight space to do business, Joseph gets a carrot which he doesn’t have to pay for, and borrows my knife, Mr. Spyderco, to peel it.

There are always lots of guys sitting and standing around on the block outside the office. The stairway up is narrow and always darkened and screams “foul play” to tourists. Upstairs it is reasonably clean, airy, almost always pretty quiet, and never crowded. I have been there, going back to 1998, dozens of times, and it has never been more than half full.

There was once an Indian guy talking louder on his cell phone than I have ever heard anyone talk in public. He was arguing about something. He’d hang up, or they would, call back after the ninety second rest between rounds and go at it again. It was difficult to make myself heard to Joseph and Tony at the same table over this guy’s racket, and this in a country where you can go a fortnight without ever hearing a raised voice anywhere.

I got there a little early the other day and decided to take a few pictures.

The restaurant never looks this dark, it’s just back lit from the sun through the windows, but the staircase is every bit this black. More about the guy in the picture later.

This is the view from where I usually sit, right across from where the man is sitting in the last picture. The window is right behind me here. With the new ownership and the new name, the office added a little nautical theme to its decor. Note the ship’s steering wheels. A big, barrel-chested Indian guy owns it now, and he can be seen there every afternoon, bullying the staff and schmoozing with certain regulars.

This is the other side of the room. I wanted a close up of the giant wrist watch on the wall, but the batteries in my camera croaked as I attempted it. The watch no longer tells the correct time, unless you happen to be there for a late lunch at ten to four, so its real value now is decor enhancement, I guess.

I usually take pictures with as little fanfare as possible, but when I snapped a couple from the back of the room, the waitress on the right, who is probably about twenty and as cute as she can be, wanted in. She was a natural in these “action” shots. The cook and the kitchen are directly behind the bottles on the shelf.

My table of choice is under this splendid art piece. Two Indian paramours, palms and soles hennaed, anointed with fragrances, their posture languid, sensual. You can’t really see it in the picture, but there are two strategically placed “rubies” on her fully tested top which reminds me of nothing more than Rudolph and his heretofore unknown twin guiding you know who’s sleigh tonight.

The food is basic and good. Chapati (Indian tortillas), ugali (corn four staple), sukuma wiki (kale), fish, stew, etc. Lately I have been getting a fried, whole talapia (fish) about the size of one of those board-mounted singing bass, and chips, for about four dollars.

The serious man in the picture, like a number of other patrons, didn’t order anything. He looked over his “papers,” taken from a clear plastic envelope, yellowed with age, and studied them. I could see a piece of binder paper hand written in blue ink and a worn woman’s magazine, like Good Housekeeping.

A few minutes after the photo shoot this man approached my table. He spoke almost no English, which is uncommon. With both of us working at it, and with considerable difficulty I finally got what he was asking for– Colin Powell’s address. At first it seemed like a stumper, but I didn’t want to seem uninformed, so after a few seconds thought I came up with:

Colin Powell
State Department
Washington D.C.
USA

and I thought it might actually work. They must know where to find him, at any rate. In his mind it was a start, but not a finish. The next push revealed this. He also wanted General Powell’s e-mail address and fax number. I didn’t see any course now but to admit my incomplete knowledge of U.S. famous person info and wrote on the paper under the address:

e-mail address ?
Fax number ?

This seemed like it would hold him over until he could manage contact with a real American.

Bicycles are the pick-up trucks of the people here. Almost none of the regular folks here have a motorized vehicle, and for a some even a bicycle is forever out of reach. Ninety nine percent of the bikes are of the same type. Black, putting the rider in a very upright posture, British seeming. You could imagine a bank clerk in a nicely cut but slightly worn dark gray suit and a bowler hat peddling to work near Paddington Station on one. They’re what Mary Poppins rides.

But here they are all-purpose vehicles, as often as not pushed rather than ridden by their owners bearing all manner of loads. Thirty gallons of water in several containers, a power lawn mower, a huge bundle of twenty foot saplings, stripped to poles, a twenty foot log, four people, crates stacked at least ten feet high on the rear rack, bushel bags of charcoal, twenty large canvas tarps folded and stacked, several crates of live chickens. You get the picture.

The ones used as taxis are usually fancied up with fringe trim on the seat, multicolored paint jobs, and gewgaws as various as imagination. They are held together with typical Kenyan ingenuity. Some wire here, a spot weld there, some rebar. And if you secretly yearn for immortality, but on this earth, in this life, search alchemical texts and get yourself transatomized into a bicycle tube here, and you will be as near your goal as never mind. They never give up on them. I have seen inner tubes with dozens of patches on them, more patch than tube, like Neil Young’s jeans at Winterland. When I was at Peter’s house in Kimongo 2, his brother was patching a tube with an inch and a half slit in it. Who wouldn’t want to be looked after so faithfully.

I watched some TV the other day. In line. First at Barclay’s Bank, Queensway Branch. Usually the foreign currency line is short, but the line is always slow. This time the line was long. Where you would imagine a security camera –up in one corner of the room facing out– was a television. A full grown giraffe, a monstrously big creature, was (soundlessly) being attacked by four female lions. One would run up from behind and throw itself on one of the rear legs and get kicked or flung off end over end like a rag doll. Then another, and another. They must have been awfully hungry, because they were taking a beating. At one point each leg had a lion, fully upright clinging to it while the giraffe kept walking trying to toss them off. The giraffe was so big, so tall, they couldn’t get at anything vital. Finally they relented. The pursuit seemed to carry on to the next day, and my line was moving so slowly that I think I caught it all in real time. Two adult male lions joined the others, and before long had toppled the giraffe. From that point on everyone on the savannah but the giraffe was happy.

I was in line next at Safari com., paying my cell phone bill. This line is always so long and potentially contentious it is moderated by security guards. On their TV I saw that an albino wallaby had been displayed to a good deal of fanfare in some zoo, and then, without any segue, the part of Godfather II where Michael comes to Las Vegas, Fredo learns never to go against the family in public, and Moe Green catches one in the eye. I about doubled my total TV time here in those lines.

It’s a little late, but here is the Church, Mary Mount Chapel, dressed up in its Easter best.

Here’s the pulpit.

And the gift wrapped gift given to us.

A view with a room

The Next installment of A Bug’s Life:

I looked about a foot and a half to my left while typing away the other night, and in the fold of the drapes found this. The covering material, about four inches long, was so strong and tightly attached that I had to cut it with the point of my knife. I dispatched the mother, two and a half inch spider inside it, violating my usual live and let live policy for non-mosquito bugs. The bottom of the sheath was filled with clear sticky eggs, and I didn’t want a houseful of these monsters.

Here are the discarded wings of one evening’s termite debutantes not allowed entry to the ball.

Another column of black ants, one of my favorites. A discrete column, transporting itself and its treasures down the road.

And finally, this is a title deed. Our title deed. Almost three months work, laying quietly on the table now. None of its insane convolutions evident in the plain appearance. I thought at times J.D. Salinger may have penned his next novel on the back of it, for all the chance we had of actually possessing it. But here it is. And here we are. Maybe some time later when we both have a long afternoon, I’ll tell you its whole story.

“What! I don’t believe it. You mean you finally did something useful and actually got the deed?”

This is me, with the deed in my pocket.

For all the glories of a clear title,

David

Posted on April 28th, 2006 by david
Filed under: David's Journal