End of a Long Month

John, our weekend 'relief' guard has been losing weight. Markedly. Not in a good way. I asked him if he was ok.
'Yes, yes, I'm fine.'
But Tom reminded me its the end of January, - a long month after Christmas and forking out for presents and maybe a trip up-country.
'He's probably not eating very much.'

Even in East African high summer and bright sunshine, away from UK grey skys and biting frosts, January is a hard month for many. That Christmas trip up-country and sodas bought for wayward cousins eating into January's options. Start of the school year, uniform, books and school fees for the kids.

But we give money for food for lunch for the staff, so he should be getting a good lunch at least.
'Oh but I don't get lunch at the weekend, they lock the food in the kitchen.'
'But you mainly work at the weekend. The money is for you too. For you to eat whenever you are here.'

I was furious. I didn't mince my words with Philip, our gardener cum handyman cum cook for the staff, who takes monthly receipt of the cash for the lunches.
'This is not your money. This is money for all the people who work here. Whenever they work.  Not just money to buy food when you are here, so they go hungry at the weekends.  You need to apologise to John. And to find a solution to put it right for him and for the future.'

What gets me so outraged is that they are friends. Chat together. Eat lunch together on a Monday, when John also works.  Philip knows that the guards don't earn well. Earn far less than him, and don't receive the extra benefits he gets from us. Must have seen John getting thinner too, and been quicker on the uptake as to why.  But has pocketed the money for the last three years. Or to put a better gloss on it, has diverted the money to better meals Monday to Friday.  Stealing food from friends who are hungry when you yourself aren't in dire need is for me a heinous crime.

I think Philip thinks we're fools that we use our money to support his kids to go to school. He is happy to pocket the money, to count it out infront of me, to attempt - once only - to bargain me up, when he felt I could contribute some more. That made me see red, and I gave him full measure next day.

'If we were from your village and were helping send your children to school, would you come and say we should give more? I don't think so. This is our charitable contribution not part of your wages. I know that there are many children in the orphanage who would love a chance to go to high school, and who don't have parents in work - or parents at all - to pay for them.   Your children's education is your responsibility not mine, so please don't ever try to bargain up my charitable contribution again, or you run the risk that it goes to children in greater need than yours.'

He didn't get why I got mad, but did - in that global way of some men when faced with an irate woman - shake his head and back off. And its about my hang-ups.  His attitudes and behaviour aren't off the spectrum here, though mine aren't either. It matters to me that people who work for us get a good meal while at work. It matters that we try to share our good fortune on things which matter to us and to them, wages, food, school fees.  Within limits.  I believe it builds community, models what we believe to be important, makes a difference, gives back, supports people who are almost part of our family.  But I hate that Philip takes, fails to thank, and further, grabs what isn't his.  Messes up the whole idealistic thing. Makes me feel shamed and a fool.  It's not a sacking offence, though I wish it were. It could have been a failure to think of the needs of others, though I know it isn't.

And John, when I asked him later how he thought it could be put right, was gracious beyond.
'The money for the meals in the past, is gone. I think we should forget that.  And my money for the future, I think we should put it with the money for the night guards, because they always leave their food where I can get it.'

And the lesson for me from this?  I don't see Philip in the same way anymore. I forgave him nicking the avocados from our tree. Almost. But diverting food from friends?  I won't forgive that.  But without inflating our tiny efforts for people inside our tent here, there are benefit cheats in the UK  too, but people don't let that undermine the welfare state.  And I really wouldn't want to live with myself, with enough food and more in our fridge, if a guard were losing weight at our gate and we were turning an official blind eye.

Other blogs on this theme:
http://www.onthethresholdafrica.blogspot.com/2011/01/blind-ignorance.html

Robin Hood Rides in Kenya

This weekend I met up with an old friend from university - over twenty years hence - in a busy cafe. We don't meet up that often, he lives in Switzerland, and I was also taking delivery from him of a season's supply of mince pies. Great excitement. Big bear hugs, focused filling in of updates in our lives since last we met.

Two hours later the bill arrived.
'I'll get this,'
magnanamously, feet kicking the pile of mincepies under the table. But where's my bag?  Gone.

Nairobi cafes all warn about bagsnatchers, have little hooks under the table for you to secure your bag. But this time I'd had my foot on my bag the whole time. Except maybe for the bearhug, and thereafter, when it was resting on the other treasure, the mincepies (boxed).

Our waitress told of the three smartly dressed men sitting next to us, who'd waved her away while they decided, then disappeared. No sign of them now. No sign of the bag.  With my ID, driving licence, health insurance, family's cards for the Flying Doctor Service, business cards, a cheque, pair of glasses and sunglasses, house keys, carkeys - and little ticket to get the car out of the carpark - and 8000 KSh - some £70 - in cash, ready to do the weekend shop.

Fortunately the car was still there, and after an hour's negotiations about the lost parking ticket (for 20 KSh) off I drove.  Cancelled the cards, fretted about the locks, moaned about needing to rearrange ID.

Went to the local police station today to fill out the formal report. And just as I'd finished, got a phonecall from a bank in the mall.
'We've found your bag in our branch. Come and get it.'
Opened it to discover my things were still there. Of the 8000 KSh there had been in the purse, most of it - 5000 KSh was still there! Carkeys, check. Housekeys, check. Even of the things you could easily sell or use - the phone top up vouchers - still in situ. Driving licence - a hot ticket on the black market here - untouched.  It hadn't just wandered off on its own, things had been moved, - it couldn't have got to the bank, on another floor, unaided, - but still, not half as bad as it could have been.

On the day of the theft I talked with the security guards in the carpark as we waited for an hour for the barrier to be opened so that I and the car might leave, though we hadn't paid the 20 KSh fee.  Resigned to my loss by then, annoyed, but thankful that the car hadn't gone too.
'Oh well, I just hope they use the money for something good, school fees maybe.'
'No,' the guards were of one mind, 'Nothing good can come from stolen money.'

Well I don't know.  To take 3000 KSh and to leave the rest restores my faith in human nature.  Maybe, on looking through the signs of affluence in my bag, the thieves felt they'd bitten off more than they could chew, fear of retribution. But stealing 3000 KSh in Kenya is enough that summary 'justice', lynchings, can take place - though not in our sedate mall, and not at my urging.  People are sentenced to two years hard labour for stealing less than this.  The head of the carpark noted officiously to me when I complained at the wait to be let out without a ticket:
'People will be sacked if they let out one customer owing 20 KSh.' 
Really?  Well they shouldn't be. Not for 20 KSh.
But I'm hoping, choosing to believe, that these thieves needed the money for something important. School fees? An operation? That they levied a Kenya tax for enough to meet their need. And left what they didn't need.  And that, I think, is impressive.

A KenyaOldTimer briefed me on carjackings soon after we arrived.

'Oh its not like it used to be even five years ago. Up in Tigoni - the rural flowerfarming area close to Nairobi - where we live, when the mungiki gang carjacked you, they'd take your money and your car, and then hand you back your matatu fare so you could get home.  No one does that any more.'

No indeed.
'Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen...'


Also on this topic:

http://onthethresholdafrica.blogspot.com/2011/01/possession.html

Possession

There's German phrase which needs to be introduced into Kenyan society forthwith - 'mit sich gehen lassen', 'to let something come home with you'. The possibilities in English - 'pilferage', 'taking without consent', 'theft' all have a strong whiff of moral outrage, not really encountered in my day to day dealings with infractions here. 

Of course in many ways its not really surprising. On any main road out of Nairobi you see huddles of police pulling vehicles off the road for chance 'inspections', to be overcome by payment of a bribe.  What's thine is mine if I have power. endorsed from the top.  It's acknowledged. In the two-day national matatu strike last year, one respected economic institution conducted a study on the loss to the economy of the bribes to police which weren't paid by matatus on strike. Millions of shillings.  (So different professions become desirable in different countries. In a surprise discussion with a relief guard a few months ago he said wistfully, 'What I'd really like to be is a traffic policeman.'  'Mobile ATMs' they're called.)

'Where did you last have it?' isn't such a relevant question in Kenya.  It assumes that inanimate objects stay, immobile, where they were placed. Twice now at BigCorporate I have turned up, bushytailed, ready for work, to discover my computer, ethernet cable, power lead and all has disappeared. Walked off with a colleague for their use or been dumped into a mass dumping ground by IT Services. No shared networks in BigCorporate, so loss of hard drive means loss of all documents.  I've taken to using a flashdrive.

But its worst of all at school. No one expects children to be paragons of virtue in the keeping track of things stakes. But First and SecondBorn were the children of two working parents in UK, veterans of complicated liftshare rotas where Family One picks up to accompany to school, via walking bus, via school cloakroom, via after school club, via Family Two taking to Brownies and Family Three delivering home.  There were occasional disasters, where FirstBorn's school uniform got whisked off to far-flung work in FamilyFriend's car, and she had to slouch round school in non-uniform standout jeans all day.  But even in the worst case scenario, coats which had got left at gymnastics were still waiting meekly on the hooks in the council public changing room one week later.

Now in Kenya we (and others) source Clarks school shoes annually, one size large to grow into, transported if you (or a friend) travel to UK.  So the exasperation when they disappear on day one of wearing cannot be expressed.  It's not just happened to us. New children (and their brand new uniform) seem targeted. Four different cases that I can cite of distraught children and mothers on day one at a new school (and new country).  'But they CAN'T have disappeared.' 'But they have.'  And of course, relatively, we are so wealthy here. And of course it could be the far more impoverished cleaning staff.  But it isn't.  Rulers, rubbers, shoes, trainers, tennis rackets, gone, never to return. We've got through five compulsory sunhats in four terms.  I started out naming in UK style, nametapes sewn inside. But as my frustration has grown, so has my lettering. First and SecondBorn now have their names in ten cm high letters in indelible marker on the front of their caps. Hopefully if another child is wearing it, a child or teacher will bring the name change to their attention.

I'm not saying we're blameless, but the cultural expectations of swapsies too are different here. In term one, when SecondBorn came home in another child's nametaped shirt or socks we would wash them, and return them via the nanny or driver or whoever did the pickup. By the end of the term we were three shirts and four pairs of socks down. Reciprocity - or the authority to act independently to return an additional shirt to a mother without fear for ones job for stealing - in short supply here. So now I treat it as one out one in too. Become part of the problem.

Different too, the expectations of how much it is acceptable to swipe. I've 'tidied up' my children's Easter eggs after bedtime, even having sworn fervently that I wouldn't.  But I've been artistic. I've evened it up maybe, but I've known moderation.  I've realised there would be a small list of suspects with one name heading the list, and shyed away from the consequences of being disrobed.  SecondBorn came home in redfaced outrage from Saturday Cricket Camp last term. 'They ate ALL my biscuits while I was batting.'  His 'friends' and teammates sat and demolished all of his halftime snack, opening his tupperware, eating four biscuits, shutting it again, and then denying it barefaced when confronted with the evidence. 

Or the sad tale of our avocado tree. We didn't have a avocado tree in our garden in Hertfordshire. At our first harvest we were more than a little excited about its progress. No nonchalence here. Drooling salivation, and great jubilation that our first crop coincided with the family visit for Christmas.  'Would you like an avocado from our tree...?'  Smug smug smug.  This year we monitored the progress with interest. Stood under it and counted. Watched the ripening load with glee. Went away for one night. And returned to find the tree shorn of everything. Bare.  As with the Easter eggs there wasn't a long list of suspects.  We have an electric fence round the house, a guard perpetually stationned at the gate, and only one person, the handyman, with access to the ladder.  Miss Marple-like, I also recalled that our handyman's wife has set up a duka market kiosk (manufactured with over 50 cardboard boxes from our move.)  I don't mind sharing, having been asked, but really.  Had one of those firm, frank, forthright discussions I truly never used to have, which are becoming a regular part of life in Nairobi.

I suppose some might see these as victimless crimes, akin to shoplifting from a large and wealthy UK corporate.  For me it's even worse to steal from friends. Another Mum, embedded in society here, talks of her experience with one on one playdates. Toys disappear. You'll be getting the children into the car to return them home, and a child will say she needs the toilet and get out and go upstairs alone. And when she returns I'll think, 'That's another toy gone.'  Sometimes she has caught individuals red-handed, but the trend persists.  This isn't a case of three year olds, these are prosperous children into double figures, who should know better.  'But Catrin, haven't you understood yet, if you aren't caught here it hasn't happened.'

And that's true too. In our area brand new luxury houses are being knocked down, seemingly at random, to make way for a new road-building programme. Half million pound houses on quiet suburban streets, gone, from one day to the next. As I stood, mouth slack, outside the latest one, not two blocks down from us, someone explained these aren't just chance wilful choices. 'The road has been planned for years. The ones they've knocked down weren't legal you know. They didn't own the land, they did a landgrab.' And then built a half million pound house on the stolen land.  Nothing diffident or provisional there.

And now I'm trickling to an end without a conclusion, because these are tricky issues. But I think they matter.  The school says that things go missing because so many children haven't learnt to pick up after themselves, because their nannies pick up for them. I understand that's partly true. I think its also so, that children who are looked after by staff who are too scared to tell them off if they see them doing something inappropriate, may not learn wider senses of right and wrong on some things.  And there's the other part, my part in the saga, that it's embarrassing to put your head above the parapet and call people to account, try to coach to different action, try to model how things could be. One friend last week was called by the PE teacher. She rushed to school to discover her child hysterical, not, as she'd been told 'because he'd forgotten his trainers' but rather because another child was wearing them and refusing to give them back.  These trainers too were new, just bought in South Africa, and distinctive. They'd been put on a bench in the changing rooms while her son put his shorts on. They'd disappeared in three minutes. The other child said he had ones like this too.  But on investigation, his school shoes were two sizes smaller. After an hour's parental detective work in the changing rooms, restitution was made.  But most of us, I'd say, wouldn't push it that far. Would get embarrassed first. Would leave it to the school, who would brush it under the carpet as a Difficult Issue.  And that, I think, is how children who are tempted, become adults who act with impunity.