The stolid wooden daybed holds me in an embrace of deep, soft pillows. I take a deep breath, filling up with forest-filtered air, and open my eyes. Overhead, sunlight sifts through the trellis lacework of leaves, stirring as a sunbird flits between chains of yellow flowers. Its ‘chic-chic-chic’ joins the gentle interplay of birdsong and rustling leaves.
Beyond the lanai where I’ve been napping, the well-tended garden cascades past the pool and across the green lawn to the bougainvillea draped hedge.
I wake with the urge to write, not about what I know, for I know little. About what I sense.
It’s Sunday afternoon in Nairobi, my last full day in Africa, and I have time to reflect on a new perspective in my travels: the life of an ex-pat - specifically Europeans or North Americans living temporarily in Africa – and how it intersects with that of “natives”.
I had very kindly been invited by a Canadian ex-pat to use her house as a pied-a-terre. As a senior official with an international aid agency she is provided with the necessities of life in one of Africa’s largest cities – a house in a good neighbourhood, a live-in housekeeper, a gardener and 2 security guards.
The life of an ex-pat in Nairobi seems sweet. Downtown Nairobi has a lovely government quarter of well-maintained mid-century office towers set around green squares and leafy plazas.
Next to it, a lively business district gives space to pedestrians bustling between well-stocked shops.
Embassies, UN and aid agencies and their staff occupy the leafy, rolling neighbourhoods north and west of downtown.
The climate in December is delicious: mid ‘20s, warm sun, cooling breezes off the surrounding hills. A critical mass of expats forms a lively community. These are
people who seem to live grand principles and big ideas. Their challenging lives are softened by modern shopping centres, inviting country clubs and restaurants, good schools for their children.
The roads are paved and the traffic moves – eventually. And there are people to serve them.
It seems easy to slip into a blessed place in the hierarchy.
- My driver patiently accompanies me on my round of souvenir shops, holding my bags as I buy, and waits serenely in the car while I spend the morning at the Karen Blixen museum ("Out of Africa") and the afternoon at the musty National Museum.
- The downtown waiter places my lunch in front of me and withdraws his hand only a few inches, watching my face for a sign that he has done the right thing.
- A grocery store employee meekly follows me around the produce section holding my purchases in a wicker basket.
- The line at the museum information desk moves aside to let me ask my question. I get the sense that I’m mysterious and unpredictable to the native population; it occasionally feels a little like fear.
I also see fear in the trappings of ex-pat luxury. I notice the razor wire atop high walls, the metal roll screens over windows, the constant presence of uniformed and armed security guards. My driver tells me there are quick routes in from the airport that the international agencies have declared off limits because of the neighbourhoods they traverse. The house next door, recently robbed, has cut down all of the tall trees around its perimeter hedge and is building a wall decorated with bright spotlights.
But I’m overwhelmed by the genuine warmth and openness of the Africans around me. They want to know what I think of their country and are pleased to share their optimism now that a new constitution is in place. They are curious about my life in Canada, my profession, my travels. And they want to share their own dreams. The forest ranger wants to buy a few hectares and plant a forest, giving mahogany and ebony the time it needs to grow. The gardener dreams of buying a flour milling machine to start up a business in his home district. The taxi driver has a website to offer tours and safaris. The vendors in the Maasai market refer to their blanket on the ground as their ‘shop’.I’m impressed by the enterprise, the ambition. I also recognize that the big dreams depend on making the right connections - an introduction, a sponsor, a connection.
It is a complex interplay of layers. To do their good work, the ex-pats need a cushion of comfort and security, and money flows into the economy to provide it. The money attracts a willing and deferential layer of the local community. Ambitious and hardworking, they hunger for the approval of someone who can give them a boost and they honestly believe that comfort is only a contact away.
This environment must harden the long term ex-pats. All of these wonderful, ambitious, deserving people, doing what they can to make your life secure and comfortable: how do you listen to their dreams, so accessible with the right assistance, and not react? But you can't help everyone.
There is no easy answer. Micro-financing has emerged as a form of ‘everyman’s aid’. The Kivu website makes this accessible to potential individual donors around the world, but I wonder how accessible is it to millions of potential recipients?
Wrapping myself in ex-pat comforts, I find it too easy to be distracted from these questions.
There is a violent rustling in the tree tops and the dogs go wild, charging about the garden challenging the monkeys on their evening commute to set foot down here in their domain. The ingredients for tonight’s dinner await in the kitchen. The housekeeper has ironed my shirt for my flight tonight, and, the gardener drops by to wish me a good trip home. They both wonder when I’ll be back.
I don’t even hesitate. “Soon”, I tell them. “Very soon”.
