Chewing the cud
Kenya 1984
The border crossing into Kenya was entirely without incident. That is worth a remark.
The train from Kampala crossed the equator early in the morning. Judging from the view, I found that hard to believe. We were rattling past green fields of corn and lush meadows with piebald cows grazing in them. I was not surprised when we crossed a thick pine forest. At the next station, men with wooden baskets full of juicy pairs walked through the train. It was as cold as back in Germany. Somehow I had imagined my first equator crossing to be different.
It got warmer when the train approached Nairobi after a journey of 12.5 hours. Nairobi was a strange sight after all the travelling I had done; reminiscent of a European city with high-rise buildings, wide boulevards, conference centres and luxurious hotels.
Once again the sun was blazing from a cloudless sky and my first priority was to find refreshment to celebrate my first day in the southern hemisphere. In the old days, sailors who crossed the equator for the first time were tarred and feathered. I celebrated my crossing in a more civilized fashion with a coke and a pipe. Because my supplies had run out and imported tobacco was obscenely expensive, I had to smoke the local tobacco which grated my throat but gave me a hefty nicotine buzz.
At the “New Kenya Lodge” I met loads of other travellers and soon joined a group going to the Sikh temple which offered free food for travellers twice a week.
We were led to a great hall. At the entrance we removed our shoes: men to the left and women to the right. Then we found our places: the men on wooden benches in the front of the hall, the women on coconut mats at the back. Dignified men in turbans and immaculate business suits walked among the rows sharing out food: dhal, chappatis and salad. I had barely started on the dhal when I noticed that the hall began to empty. A German traveller sitting next to me said that I should take my time. Soon, however, she stood up to to leave as well and I started to eat quicker, anxious that I might be the last one left. Just as I was ready to follow her, a man appeard with huge bowl of salad. I settled back down and held out my plate with a happy grin. The man pointed at the salad he had heaped onto it. “Vegetables?” he asked.
I said yes, of course it was a type of vegetable, but I had misunderstood the man and soon he stood before me once more with a large pot of curried vegetables. Soon another man appeared with more chappatis; he may have been sent my way; but by then I truly had enough.
Heavy with food, I slogged out of the hall. As I put my shoes back on one of the Sikh ladies gave me a smile and told me that there would be food in another temple tomorrow. I would not go hungry in Nairobi.
(Note: That was then. The hospitality of the Sikhs is somewhat abused by travellers!)
I caught up with the group and we rounded off the evening with sweet milky tea. The owner of the teashop presented us each with a piece of cake which I somehow managed to squeeze in.
That evening I learned about a wide-spread custom in Kenya: nearly everybody was chewing leaves. The juicy leaves and red stalks of khat, or miraa, contain a natural amphetamine. I heard stories about Kenyan athletes winning medals thanks to the speed-like quality of miraa — before it became subject to doping controls. Of course, I immediately tried some and it kept me talking late into the night, wide awake and happy.
After four days in Nairobi, I had settled into a rythm of lazy days and long nights. On this particular evening, Andreas – another German traveller – and I were looking for a particular “wild bar” which promised to be open all night, but we got lost. An Indian “restaurant” aroused my curiosity. There was no sign of cooking-activity but jars of exotic spices were lined up in a display cabinet. I reckoned they really knew their food. Perhaps the kitchen was closed? A bowl of big leaves swimming in a brown sauce attracted my attention.
“What are those?” I asked the man behind the counter.
I was about to learn what kind of “restaurant” it was.
“Betel leaves,” he beamed. “From India!”
With a flourish he introduced me to the art of making paan: The first bowl contained dried coconuts, the second aniseed, the third cumin. All were heaped onto the leaf and topped with a generous helping of grated betelnut, finishing with a sprinkling of cardamon and cloves. The man handed over the neatly-wrapped parcel and immediately prepared another, this time full-strength with lime, tobacco and “sour sauce”. I recklessly bit into it and my mouth puckered involuntarily as my stomach threatened to spasm. I dragged at Andreas’ sleeve and we smiled our thanks and quickly stepped outside where I spat the remainder of the pan surrepticiously into the gutter. I never did get used to chewing paan. But I do miss the khat.
Denni