Shopping in the Rain

In lush, verdant, soggy, coastal South Wales, where I grew up, you didn't have one set of clothes for the rain, and another set. You just took the heavy duty cagoule everywhere, like a wartime gas mask. You knew that fine drizzle, or alternatively those heavy, pelting monsoon-like storms, would come down each day, no need for thought or alternatives.  Fogged up glasses with bits of soggy tissue stuck to them, drips from your nose, damp hair till lunchtime, sodden coat on the back of your chair, why would life be any different?

But Kenya - or Nairobi at least - is different. Here it's mainly dry. There are the short rains in November, when it seems to tip down at 3pm each day for around 40 minutes, just in time to soak dutiful mothers waiting for school pickup. And the long rains, 6 weeks of heavy duty rainfall, from March.

And the rain here, because unaccustomed, does necessitate new purchases.  R, the gardener, who cuts back the jungle-like branches which short the electric fence, sent me off for size 11 wellies.  And today mentionned, fluttering eyelashes, that though he now has all envelopping wellies, he actually doesn't have an umbrella or a raincoat either. I impulse purchased 8 metres of plastic sheeting, and Blue-Peter-like, have fashioned some rather nifty raincovers for our outdoor sofa, and for the roof of the guinea pig cage. 

Our night guards have to tour the garden each hour, and punch their number into a farflung clock, to check they are both awake.  Last year they got into trouble with the punctilious contract manager, due to a difference in interpretation. They didn't believe 'every hour' meant 'every hour even when its raining'.  It seems a universal assumption here.  The deliveryman who delivered my printing, which was meant first for Thursday, then for Saturday, said charmingly on Monday 'I didn't come on Saturday.' 'No, I noticed, why not?.'  'Well it was raining, wasn't it.'  On the other hand, given we live 2km from the nearest matatu stop, maybe a wise decision.  Though not one which would have much traction in Wales.

The matatus increase the fares during the rainy season, seeing their chance to profiteer.  Our housekeeper has already taken me to one side and shown how her commuting costs have gone up by 50% this month.

And, agricultural economy that this is, now that the rains are here and the ground is wet, the staff are negotiating leave to go up-country and plant their shamba. Sadly it coincides with the (fixed date) end of term, and my need for some childcare so I can get to work through the holidays, but oh well.  Last year the drought meant that L's harvest of beans failed, so it's all the more important.

For us, the foreigners with a car, the rain has less impact. Yes, in heavy downpours, the tv link to the satellite goes, so you miss the climax of Spooks or the resolution of Casualty. And then, two seconds later, all power goes, often for 12 hours or more - water in the system, somewhere.  The traffic is far, far worse - partly because of increased volumes and the state of the roads, but also, largely, because soggy pedestrians go into their own trance.  They look at the large puddle ahead, and leap into the path of the traffic to keep feet dry, rather than assessing the risk of being flattened by the stream, going at 30mph and with increased stopping distances.  So its nice to feel more in touch with more elemental agricultural rhythms, the shamba-keeper's gratitude for good, plentiful rain, the careful selection of crops for this season, sourcing of seed - where can we get yellow sweetcorn seeds, not the plentiful but tasteless white corn - the anticipation of a good harvest, the prospects of abundant food.