Hakuna Matatu

I knew it was a little optimistic to get from Lake Naivasha to Jomo Kenyatta Airport in 3 hours by Matatu, but the receptionist had seemed so confident. Fortunately, the Matatu drivers aren't so naive. As soon as I told them my flight time they laid it on the line - hire me as a cab or you're buggered.

I suspected a hustle, but I'd originally planned to jump a taxi at the earliest opportunity, and here it was, many miles early. Other passengers were hoofed off the bus and off we went.

And what a good, good plan. The problem is, there is no such thing as the Nairobi circular, so any driver has to go through town. Driving through Nairobi is like walking through wet cement: technically possible but time consuming, completely exhausting and with the constant danger of getting fatally stuck. My driver excitedly pointed out a new traffic light and gleefully explained how these revolutionary items work. According to him, when the light is red, cars stop, an explanation sadly undermined by the behaviour of drivers all around him.

We arrived - at the wrong terminal, sadly, with 15 minutes to spare. A friendly police woman, rather than giving directions, hopped in the cab with us and guided us to the domestic terminal. I still had 10 mins and could relax for the first time today.

I should be boarding now, but Kenyans seem pathologically incapable of fuelling their vehicles *before* the customers arrive. Just as Moses (the safari driver, not the liberator of the Hebrews) had waited until he had a full minibus before visiting the little cars' room, so my flight has decided to refuel just as it was supposed to board. At least they didn't let us get on first.

It's got propellers. This always makes me nervous. 

On the plane I was able to meet my first white Kenyan, a 61 year old local artist who makes sculptures from drift wood. I'm going to look him up later and check that he doesn't put shells on things (He doesn't - this is him, no shells but a definite Boosh aesthetic), but he certainly knew more about art than I do (this is not difficult). He'd just lost his Dad at 88 to hospital malpractice, and I think giving me his life story was a welcome distraction. Odd to meet someone so relatively old who had nonetheless lost his Dad at the exact same age as mine. He sent all his children to (I suspect private) school in England, and they all decided to stay there. I suppose that must be an occupational hazard for White Africans, but I suspect he gets out there often enough for it not to hurt too much. On hearing my accent, he said; "I feel that we have already met, the way you speak," and may well have been taken aback to find that I was a trade unionist. He hid any disappointment well. 

I have booked in at the mysterious world of Ozi's B&B Hotel, a Lonely Planet recommended establishment that appears to heading towards Malindi's version of the Bates Motel. Finally saving money on accommodation, but am now pining for something with a pool - but local prices for such luxuries seem to be beyond me, especially if I want the comfort of decent security in Nairobi in a few days. There are also hardly any guests. I'm hoping the first ones I meet don't say "Red Rum" in funny voices. 

My greatest triumph of the day was managing to mistake an entirely random taxi driver for a member of staff and paying him my rent. In my defence he was inside the hotel when I arrived, helped me with my bag and was fastidious in checking that the room was to my satisfaction. So perhaps when I said "do I pay you now?" and he said "yes", he thought he had earned some sort of tip. But a 1000 shilling tip is probably unusual from a traveller in budget accommodation, and rather think he was a little bastard. For a start if it was an innocent mistake he'd have been back for more tips from the Twoflower impersonator in Room 2. 

Just as I was beginning to think that I was more likely to meet Santa than another guest, I was lucky enough to to meet Jo, an Australian woman, a little older than me, who had been travelling around Africa on her own for a year, passing through 25 countries (apparently when a tuk-tuk driver gave her shit for not agreeing to an extortionate fare with the words 'this is Africa', she was able to reply, in true Aussie style, "I've seen more of Africa than you, so fuck off"). She is off to Lamu in the morning, going against all governmental advice. I suspect she'll be fine.

If you're reading this, Jo, it was a pleasure to meet you.

Next to appear magically in Ozi's Haunted House of guestlessness were Ben, Martin and Lüdy, three volunteers from projects on Robinson Island and enjoying a spot of shore leave. 

Randomly tagging along to other people's fun is somehow more acceptable when travelling alone than it is, say, on the no19 bus. The boys were heading out on the town - it took the merest smidgin of an offer to join them for both Jo & I to be down the pub (the Kenyan pub being an admirable legacy of Empire, as is their skill with the humble chip). I seem to have rambled across British comedy, Keynesian economics, The West Wing, the Euro crisis, Stephen Moffat, the level of wealth one must attain before one becomes incorruptible especially if you're The Queen, the honesty of mass media and the average length of a game of cricket. Apologies to Benton, who managed to get a word in edge ways to tell me about wet snow in Burlington, Vermont and the attractions of leaf peeping. I didn't make any Due South references, since I realised that he was only just born when it was broadcast.

At least the heat isn't keeping me awake. That's because the thumping disco down the road, which is still going at 2am, is keeping me awake. Time for another episode of West Wing Season III on the iPhone, then.