The Dark Continent

Everybody wants to demystify Africa. Likewise, I had a yen for setting out in the Conradian heartland. So in 2004, I found myself packing my bags for an awfully good break far from my hum drum life. I took off to do some volunteering social work and joined a complete group of strangers from different walks of life -- all bound by that odd zeal to indulge in some philanthrophy, some adventure. That saw me through eight months of bohemianism backed by a zombie-like appearance (well, they lack the expertise to cut straight hair in Africa, it's only braids, hair extensions, hair ironing and shampooing that salons there thrive in. They have the most fascinating of hair though, spiral-like curls. While they envied mine, I envied theirs. Human nature, you see, you are never satisfied with what you have!)

Kenya where I was based for most part of my stay was wild, crazy, and, often, perilous. Kenyans love to drink and chew on 'mira' or khat, a cash crop grown extensively there and in Ethopia and Yemen They get a high from the mira, the way Indians get a high chewing 'kwai' or 'tamul' or 'supari' as is the different name known for 'paan'. And many of the humanitarian planes and cargo that go to places like Somalia carry loads of khats and few passengers. Brisk business too! It's the twigs they savour, which are sold in bundles. Weekends are the time when mira revelry is at its peak as people huddle together or cars line up along certain points for a taste of that 'soft' drug. I tried a stem or two but stayed out of the loop. So much for the mira.

Revelry is something that comes very easily to Africans. Be it at the local feasts, pubs or at Carnivore (one of the world's exotic night clubs in Nairobi), or at the safaris. It just takes a Sasa or a Jumbo (hello in Swahili, the most widely spoken language) to break the ice. People love their drinks and women love to show off their booty and dance. From the surface of it all, you think it's a complacent life. But fear was something that wasn't unique to me alone. What do you assume of a place where inmates keep their houses under tight lock and key 24 hours and look upon every visitor with suspicion? Even in insurgency-ridden places like the north east, nobody lives under such paranoia. As a foreigner and with my Muzungo (non-Indian, whites and the rest are called that) looks, we were easy prey for muggers -- pasports (used in illegal human trafficking, which is rampant we were told) among other things targeted to make a quick good buck out of selling. True enough, among many close shaves I had with muggers, this one takes the cake. I was busy SMSing while sitting by the window seat of the motato, the local transport, when this youth clasps my hands then swiftly takes it and alights out of the moving vehicle, leaving me non-plussed. A local friend even had this story of people rolling up their car windows if they happen to be driving and talking for fear of their arms being chopped off -- all for a mobile!

This is not to say that the India that I come from is bereft of conmen, muggers and thugs, but that they happen with such impunity there is what makes the difference. And never have I seen English-speaking beggars, children who hound you with "mama give me one bob".

Plucking memories from life in east Africa, I had an enriching experience but the lurking fear outweighs all other memories. I wouldn't, without a moment's hesitation, say I came out a very optimistic person at the end. So as far as the title of this post goes, I am right on.