Ngong Show...

If I had to sum up Ngong (which I don’t, but I will) I would say: fruit juice, corn, sugar cane, electricity (or lack thereof), cold showers, the ability to sell my roommates, mzungu how are you?, late night chocolate runs and becoming too comfortable. Got all that? Let me explain. The simple pleasures. These are aspects of my day to day life (I’ll still tell you about Living Positive Women’s Center, I promise). They are not the big excursions and crazy adventures, they are the things that have become my reality; the things that I wouldn’t normally write about, but to really feel Kenya and more specifically, my time spent in Ngong, they are crazy important. There is Phillip, the man who runs the fruit juice shop across the street from where I live. I was introduced to him by Isaac on my first day. He is an amazing guy who spends the time to talk to us about our families and how we are enjoying Kenya every time we walk into his shop. My only qualm that I have with him is that I’m sure that he puts something in his fruit juice. I get the shakes if I go for a few days without it; it’s that good. Even on days that I don’t get the fruit juice I stop in to say what’s up to Phillip on my way home from work. He really likes us and he is one of my favorite characters in Ngong. The corn venders are all over the place in Ngong and throughout Nairobi. They are guys that set up a makeshift grill and torch corn all day. At first I was scared to try it… warnings about my mzungu stomach made me weary of street vendors. But as soon as I mustered the courage to try it, a beautiful love affair began. Put the chili sauce and the lime on it. Game over. Sugar cane is the same story. I get it every day (20 cents for a whole cane). The men selling it hack it up with machetes and serve it to you right on the side of the road. Mmmm mmmm! The electricity in Ngong could not be more spotty. It is off more than it is on. It first started on the night it rained, which we thought was normal, they weren’t prepared for the rain. But now it happens at least once every day. It’s not that bad, you get used to it. Use flashlights and candles; to be honest its kind of fun. It’s a running joke with my roommates and house mom. We place bets on it. The thing is, its not just our apartment or apartment building. It’s the whole area of Ngong, all at once. Oh well, T.I.A… The cold showers are another story. You have to jump in and jump out, jump in and jump out. You soap up your hair and duck it under. Soap up your right arm, duck it under. Soap up your left arm and quickly rinse it off. It is the hokey pokey. You put your left leg in, your put your left leg out, you put your left leg in and then you scream because you can’t feel it anymore… I look forward to bucket showers. BUCKET SHOWERS. You can at least heat up the water in the bucket! Then you use a cup or a pitcher and you scoop the water out of the bucket and pour it on the desired part of the body. It is an art. A science… A skill that I am yet to acquire. Talk about awkward; half covered in soap and dripping wet having to walk outside to refill the bucket. This is my life! The ability to sell my roommates is simple really, although it doesn’t sound that way. Every time I walk down the street with my female roommates I get at least 4 to 5 offers, either monetary or goats or some other form of currency, to let the prospective buyer take my roommate off my hand. Although I’ve been tempted a few times, I haven’t pulled the trigger yet. Maybe later on in my trip when I am strapped for cash… mzungu how are you is the only phrase that EVERYONE in Ngong knows how to say. Most people speak at least some English, and some people have a better vocabulary and handle on the English language than I do. But even the people with the lowest level of education, even the kids who are too young to speak fluent Swahili know how to say “mzungu how are you?”. So as you can imagine, in a town where some people have literally never seen a white person, a community where mzungus are rare and reason enough to stop what you are doing and stare, I hear “mzungu, how are you”, quite often. Late night chocolate runs (being about 9 or 10 at night, if that late) have become a tradition in our house. There is no sugar in any of the food, so we usually get nightly cravings. Luckily there is a candy store just around the corner and the roommates build up the courage to make our way (post sundown) to the candy store to pick up some dairy milk, top deck chocolates. That may mean nothing to you, but I promise they are worth the risk of walking through the streets of Ngong at night… yeah I said it. They are worth risking your life and 25 cents you bring to the candy store to buy them (maybe a touch dramatic but you get the point). Getting too comfortable. I have been in Kenya for 3 weeks. It feels like 3 minutes and it feels like 3 years. I feel like I just got here, but I feel like I have been living here my whole life. I need to get pickpocketed. Slow down, let me explain. I need to come back down to earth and remember that I can’t be so comfortable here because it is a place where I am not exactly a chameleon. I postulate that there are 3 ways for this return to reality to take place. 1) get pickpocketed 2) get sick from the food or water or 3) get robbed at gunpoint. Literally almost every single mzungu that I know in Nairobi has had at least one of those three things happen to them, and a lot have unfortunately had more than one of those things happen to them. I figure that if I had to choose one of those three things; I’m going with pickpocketed rather than carjacked, but that’s just me. Hopefully (knock wood, wherever you are) none of those will happen because I am still on my toes… I’m just saying….

Finding My Calling...

If you asked me at this point in my trip what is my favorite part of Kenya, I would most likely talk your ear off for about an hour telling you about the best thing ever, only to change my mind in the middle of a thought and tell you about another aspect of the culture, or music, or the pigeon that I saw on the side of the road one day... Then, right when you thought I was finished, I would probably get really excited about something completely different and start over from scratch. So instead of listing everything that I love about Kenya, I’ll update you on my current obsession (and possibly the reason that I will never come back from Africa). The matatu. I am abandoning my plans of law school and professionalism and disregarding the years of education (and tuition fees) in order to pursue my true passion. Being the conductor of a matatu. If anyone is reading this and thinking this is a rash decision, you could not be more wrong. I’ve been in Africa three weeks, there has been plenty of thought put into this. For example, I have the lingo down. A matatu is a van, with huge speakers on the inside (seems to be a requirement) blaring hip-hop, reggae or dancehall. You can’t make phone calls because you can’t hear yourself think, so if you need to communicate to the world outside of the matatu, you have to text. The conductor fits 22+ people into the 14 person van and hangs out of the open door yelling at people on the side of the street, recruiting them to join the party. There is usually no room for the conductor so he extends his body out of the open door and jumps off while it is moving to fit people in and runs to catch up and jumps on as the matatu leaves the stop. He collects the money from people (ripping off wazungu ((plural mzungu) unless you hear the price at the beginning, which is good because all of the wazungu will think that I won’t rip them off because I’m white and then BOOM!... works in my favor!) and hits the side of the van twice to signal to the driver when he needs to stop and yells “twende! Twende!!” (lets go, lets go!) to let the driver know it is time to reenter traffic with reckless abandon. I’ve gotten really good at the prices and the destinations… “Bau-m-bau Ngong!!”… “Thirty bob, em bul-bul!!”… I’m telling you, I was born for this! You need to be persuasive as well. There are usually a bunch of matatus at the station and they are all competing to get people into their vans. The faster you fill up, the faster you start moving, the faster you refill, the more money you make. It is aggressive and cutthroat. I have always had a way with words and can be very persuasive. A little work on my Swahili and I think I can give these other matatu conductors a run for their money. I ran this idea by Isaac and he told me that not only would I be the first mzungu matatu conductor, I would be the most popular matatu in Kenya because everyone would be so interested! This line of work does not come without risks. There are battle wounds, from falling out, or not jumping back in correctly… but it’s a risk that I’m willing to take. Are matatus safe? Are they reckless? Are they fun? No, yes, yes. Every time you set foot in a matatu it seems to be an adventure, so how can you maximize the adventure? Work in one. The logic is flawless. Why am I infatuated with these vehicles, you ask? A few personal anecdotes from the matatus escapades that I have been a part of:

1)      Title: Musical Chairs

My roommate, Nikki and I boarded a matatu. The conductor told me bau-m-bau (20 shillings) to Karen. We boarded and grabbed a seat by the window (definitely the preferred spot). Midway through our trip the matatu stopped to pick up some people on the side of the road (that’s where you catch the matatu… there are no scheduled stops, just where people are and where people ask to be let out) and our conductor hopped out, but didn’t get back in. Another conductor took over his spot and manned the “hanging-out-of-the-door position”. A few minutes down the road, the matatu stopped again and this time the driver got out and walked away. Another man jumped into the driver’s seat and started driving…. No one in the matatu flinched, which is the best indicator for when something is wrong. If the Africans think something is fishy, it usually is, if they don’t, its usually common practice. The new driver took us down the road for about 15 minutes covering a few miles in the process and the new conductor started collecting money. Right as he asked me for 40 shillings for the ride (double what I was told I should pay, but still 50 cents American), the original conductor hopped back into the matatu, out of nowhere! How he had gotten ahead of us, got dropped off, found this matatu and jumped back in will forever remain a mystery. He looked at the new conductor and in Swahili told him that he promised me and Nikki that it was 20 shillings, confirming that it was the man that had convinced us to get in his matatu back in Ngong. The new conductor said some sharp sounding words that passed WAYYY over the two wazungu’s heads and gave us a look as he took our collective 40 shillings. With a new driver, a disappearing conductor who returned to save the day and a new conductor adding to the drama and excitement, the inkling entered my head that I wanted to be in a matatu. Plus, evidently you get the power to teleport as soon as you get the job… which would be nice.

2)      Title: Buying Sugar Cane

This is a short story, but a good one. In an especially fancy looking matatu (lil wayne posters plastered all over the inside and a Minnesota Timberwolves sticker plasterd to the rear window, making it impossible for the driver to see anything behind him) our conductor slapped the side of the car twice (signaling to stop) even though no asked to be dropped off and there was no one around on an abandoned road with a few trees lining the barren land about ten yards from the road. As we stopped, even the Africans were looking around with slightly puzzled looks. A man immerged from behind a tree holding a small, nondescript black plastic bag. The conductor reached out of the window and shook the man’s hand, not very discretely depositing a few thousand shilling in his palm. The black bag was then given to the conductor who whistled and said “twende (lets go)”. The matatu took off again after barely coming to a complete stop. My roommate and I exchanged “only here” looks and the matatu conductor said under his breath “…sugar cane”. I don’t mean to mislead you with the way that I am writing this story down. I believe him. What other job in the world can you stop on the side of the road and pick up a mid day snack?… not sketchy at all.

3)      Title: Changa’a

A little context: Changa’a is an illegal brew made by Kenyans using bleach, whiskey and any other cleaning chemical or toxic household substance that they can get their hands on. Other than causing blindness (could be after your first sip, could be after your 1,000^th… that’s part of the fun) and being crack-like addictive and a lot of times leading to rotting from the inside out, resulting in death…. There are no side effects. I’ve been meaning to try it, but its surprisingly hard to get your hands on (I’m not sure how my sarcasm has been translating in previous posts, but I REALLLLLY hope that one got across). So, now the story. I brought a bag of sugar cane into a matatu one day (actual sugar cane, I PROMISE) and I was sitting next to the conductor, who was a really nice guy. At one of the stops I offered him some of my sugar cane… the bags of sugar cane have soooo much and they are very sweet so sometimes I can’t finish them all. He accepted and was very thankful. So much so that he offered me some of his Fanta, which was in the orange bottle but was a murky brown. I asked him what it was and he said “changa’a”…. decision time. As much as I have always said that eyesight is the most overrated of the senses, and it is rude to turn down a direct offer in the Kenyan culture, I nervously laughed and graciously declined the offer. I think that you might need to have a drink to stay sane in the matatu conductors line of work…. As long as he doesn’t switch with the driver.

4)      Title: Wrong Side of the Road

Matatus are known for passing cars without thinking twice, sometimes to the chagrin of all the passengers and the conductors as well (again, the faster you get to the destination, the faster you unload and then refill). They cause, and are involved in tons of accidents (especially in rural areas)… In the heart of Nairobi traffic (notoriously some of the worst in the world behind India) going in the direction that we were traveling in, our matatu driver decides to get slick. He cuts to his right (remember, Kenya drives on the opposite side of the road from America as it was, until relatively recently, a British territory) into oncoming traffic, which was going considerably faster than our standstill. The only problem was that there was a car coming straight at us and our position in the traffic had been filled almost instantly. Now it was time to make a quick decision. With a car barreling at us and honking, our matatu driver continues to cut to the right onto the OPPOSITE shoulder. He drives for about a half a mile on the opposite shoulder, swerving off-road on the right to avoid buses stopping to pick people up before deeming it appropriate to get back onto the legally-designated-correct side of the road. Where in the Western world can you have this adventure?

Oh, the life of a matatu conductor. Goodbye Western World. It was nice to know you.

 Today was a rough day. This afternoon I found out that Kefa was born with HIV. I don’t know how to lead up to that statement, so I have to just say it. It is devastating and horrifically unfair. Moraa told me that when he was left on her doorstep he was a “dead baby”. She didn’t think that he was going to make it more than a few weeks. Now it is almost a year and a half later and he is healthy and happy. It is just impossible to wrap my mind around the fact that he is struggling with such as serious disease. I can’t be morbid about it because I believe that he has so much life to live, it’s just very upsetting. These kids at the Faraja Children’s Home have already dealt with more traumatizing things in their short lives than most people will have to deal with in a full lifetime. She has an 11 year old, who before landing in the care of Mama Moraa, was displaced and homeless in Kibera for months. She had 3 brothers show up on her doorstep crying, unable to tell her their story for over 2 years because they couldn’t handle the memories. Each of them are individuals, with stories that boggle the mind. It’s so easy to forget that, but Kefa’s story was a rude awakening in a lot of ways. I promise the next post will be happy, but if you are going to be a part of the journey, no matter how positive this experience is and has been, there are always roadblocks and bumps in the path. It is part of the experience and it is part of life.

The Rose That Grew From Concrete

Did u hear about the rose that grew from a crack

in the concrete

Proving Nature’s Laws wrong it learned 2 walk

without having feet

Funny it seems but by keeping its dreams

 it learned to breathe fresh air

Long live the rose that grew from concrete
                when no one else even cared!
                                “The Rose That Grew From Concrete”  -- Tupac Shakur

**What would my blog be without some sort of Tupac reference?**

The Faraja Children’s home where I work was started by Martha Moraa Bosire (Mama Moraa) while she was living in Kibera slum. Kibera is the second biggest slum in Africa, housing over 1.3 million people (only smaller than Sowetto Slum in South Africa) and is one of the more dangerous places you could place yourself on the face of the earth (more to come on Kibera, I took a visit a few days ago, but we will get to that later). Moraa was born and raised in rural Kenya. She was well educated, graduating from teaching school and got a job as a teacher in the Kenyan countryside. Her husband was killed while she was living in the country and she was forced off of her land during a time of political turmoil. She lost her job and was forced to move to Nairobi to look for work.

When she arrived she lived with her family in Kibera until she was able to afford a place of her own in the slum (land costs about 35,000 Ksh or $450 per room in Kibera… not that I’m testing the market…). Moraa had two (biological) sons living with her in Kibera, who unexpectedly, brought home two friends from school whose parents had passed away. After providing shelter for those two local orphans, children began arriving at the doorstep of her 10 x 10 foot aluminum sheet house… and out of the kindness of her heart, she accepted them with open arms.

In 2007 political and tribal violence broke out all over Kenya, but concentrated itself in the narrow passages of Kibera. Thousands of families were forced to flee, sometimes leaving their children behind, and many more thousands of parents were killed leaving orphans alone to fend for themselves in harsh reality of the slum. Soon the number of children under mama Moraa’s supervision swelled to 34 as the number of orphans in Kibera ballooned. She was forced to move out of the slum, partially because she couldn’t fit in the crowded “house” anymore and partially because the violence that was tearing the country apart threatened her family’s safety.

She was somehow able to find accommodations for her and her children, after 4 displacements, just outside Ngong where the Faraja children’s home currently exists in the broken down and tiny house that houses all 35 members of the tightest knit family I have ever seen, heard of, or read about. If you read my first round of posts, then you already know Kepha. He is the youngest person at Faraja at around one and a half (he was left at the doorstep of the children’s home in Ngong so he has no birth certificate and has an estimated birthdate). The oldest member of the family is Dama, who is 17 years old. She takes on the responsibility of second in command behind mama Moraa. Mama Moraa (referred to as mommy by all 34 children) works 24 hours a day, just to keep the orphanage afloat, and besides a handful of volunteers (I am currently the only one that she has), she has sole responsibility for all of her children. She is the mother, housekeeper, administrator, social worker, after school tutor, cook, maid and every other position imaginable at the orphanage. My responsibilities at the orphanage entail helping mama Moraa with EVERYTHING! A typical day starts by washing the dishes (by hand, using a bar of soap and an old ripped up sock or glove as a washcloth, scrubbing the cups and plates etc. and rinsing them off in a bucket. Once they have the suds off them ((the water gets GROSS)) you use a second bucket to rinse it clean and then leave it out to dry). This process takes a long time, as you can imagine, and is followed by feeding the chickens (yes I said feeding chickens, it is so scary and I hate it, I think about the movie “birds” every time I step into the coop) cooking whatever food they have available and sweeping the dirt and rock front yard (…you try to figure out when a dirt floor is clean).

The national food of Kenya is Ugali, a cornmeal and flour dish that is cooked over an open flame until it hardens (it is gross unless it is mixed with meat or beans) and every Kenyan you talk to tells you that it gives you power. I now know the truth. Cooking ugali is what gives you power, not eating it. You sit over an open flame in 90+ degree heat and stir this pot that gets heavier and heavier as the ugali hardens. By the time it is cooked you are lifting and stirring what feels like 150 pounds—it’s a full body workout! I apologize, my mind wanders, but just know that when I get back to the states I will cook this stuff for whoever wants it… I’m the American Iron Chief of Ugali.

Kepha remains with me every day because he is too young to go to school! He has a new obsession. Sunscreen. I bring it every day because the African sun is about ten feet off the ground, and he caught me spraying myself with it one day. He put his hand out (he had never seen sunscreen before… weird, he really needs it) and I sprayed some on his hand. He flinched so hard, but I showed him how to rub it in and he started giggling uncontrollably. Now whenever I put some on he comes running over and uses the spray to shower himself and rolls on the ground laughing. Again, I’m wandering….

My least favorite job is going through the beans and choosing the good ones vs. the bad ones. Kefa helps me and we listen to the radio, so its bearable, but you have to go through close to 15 million beans a day (divide by a little more than pi this time) and throw the ones with bugs in them out so the kids don’t eat some nasty African bug. It’s necessary because the food they get is almost exclusively donated, so they can’t be picky, but it still needs to be safe to eat. I guarantee that I am now in the top ten of people of all time who graduated from Deerfield High School in the field of picking bug infested beans and separating them from the good ones… Then the kids come home and the fun begins! I get to play with them. Playing with the kids is amazing! They are so entertained by anything and they are always having a good time playing with each other.

Besides the day to day activities and fun, the orphanage is a mess. The house and children are living in dire circumstances and it is impossible to overstate their need for help. Despite the best efforts of Moraa, and the tireless work of her children in the upkeep of the house, the orphanage, meant to provide shelter for the abandoned, love for children who have lived through hate and in some circumstances, life in the face of death, is desperate. Moraa never intended to create this safe haven for some of the world’s most in-need children, and therefore never had a business plan or a means to make money. It is so in need that it has flown under the radar of all charities and has no funds. Now, seven years after she took in her first two orphans, facing eviction from the small, run down house with no shelter to turn to, with no funds for food; everyday a constant struggle to nourish her 34 children, let alone herself, I find myself in Ngong, attempting to do all I can not only to help the orphanage, but to give Moraa a much deserved break. She needs a minute to breathe, to kick her feet up and maybe, probably not, but maybe… sleep. The orphanage is in rough shape because they have no money to bring people in, and one woman who needs to take care of everything. She cannot tend to administration and upkeep when she has to cook for 35 people, take one kid to the doctor (over 30 minutes away), wash the dishes, worry about all of her kids getting to school. All of this is difficult enough and add the fact that she can’t afford the matatu ride into town (50 cents) so she has to walk back and forth which burns 45 minutes in transit alone. She doesn’t even have time to apply for help from outside sources, so the situation continues to get worse. The need is real and the stakes are incredibly high. These children have come from less than nothing, no love, no food, no refuge and have created something incredibly beautiful.

The Faraja Children’s Home is a rose that grew from concrete. The orphanage is an impossible accomplishment, overcoming obstacles to become a true marvel, and a testament to what is possible from the power of kindness, determination and love. No one in the world cared about these children after they lost their parents, slipping through the cracks of humanity, but the orphanage has blossomed (not without struggle, BELIEVE ME) into something beautiful. This is only my third week at the orphanage and I have learned more from this place about dedication and hardship, how unfair this world truly is and how so much positivity can fight its way to the surface even amidst the lack of basic necessities. I have watched a grown woman cry because her 34 children have gone hungry for days with no means to get food in the near future. I have been on hand and knee scrubbing dishes in water that would make me dry-heave before this experience. But in the same day or even sometimes the same hour or minute, I have also seen a one and a half year laugh the most pure and joyful laugh you can imagine. I have watched silently as a group of children… CHILDREN, who haven’t seen food in God knows how long, serve their adopted brothers and sisters before they take their first helping. It is a powerful place, I assure you that-- and this rose growing from concrete, inhaling the polluted Nairobi air did not come about without the same struggle that keeps it alive. It is difficult to find words with enough strength to carry the weight of the burden that this place endures. I promised I wouldn’t get too depressing on you (I may have lied in some of the posts…) but I hope that you see the good and the bad. Because that is what Kenya is, the happiest place in the world with some of the saddest circumstances.

** just as a side note, if you want to donate ANYTHING to the Faraja Children’s Home it would be incredible! Whether it’s $5, old clothes, ANYYYTHING (a million dollars would be acceptable too) it would go farther than you could possibly imagine and you would be 100% certain it was going to a good cause and would be making a difference. I refuse to turn this blog into one of those commercials with sad music and pictures of kids with flies on their faces and I honestly don’t expect any response to this extra note but I just wanted to throw it out there. There is ZERO pressure, I promise.**

No Reservations... With Ben Hewitt

So… If I remember correctly, last time I left you I had just gotten back from Outreach Weekend. Let’s see where we should pick up again. As much as I can’t write a blog about EVERY day, every day brings another story and another adventure. In this entry I am Anthony Bourdain, exotic food connoisseur, world traveler and author… minus the heroin addiction. The target is Carnivore, ranked as Africa’s top restaurant (I have no idea how one could POSSIBLY have a ranking system for that) and rated in the top 30 to top 50 restaurants in the world (depending on who you are talking to who, again, I have no idea who is doing the talking). Carnivore is an African Fogo de Ciao (for my Chicago people), an African, and upscale version of Samba (for my Madison people) and just a huge meat fest (Brazilian Steakhouse) for anyone who doesn’t know what the hell I’m talking about. When you walk into Carnivore it feels like you are walking into the jungle. It is a tourists dream. Picture Africa in your mind. This is what the person who designed Carnivore is going for. There are tribal masks, wooden carvings of giraffes, elephants, hippos and every other African animal you can think of. There is outdoor and indoor seating available and we were escorted through the large indoor section into the outdoor section, set up like a safari camp ground. It is well lit with electric bulbs, but there are torches strategically placed all over the outside to make it feel like the brightness is being created only by torch light. The outside is set up in a large circle, with wooden poles holding up the Maasai-hut-like roof. In the middle of the circle is a small concrete path that cuts through a grass opening with a small pond on the far side (from where we were sitting). With the ambiance set, the waiter comes over and tells us about the set menu. You receive bread, salad and soup followed by a massive lazy Susan (I think that’s what they are called, they are circular and rotate on an axis so that you can spin them and get the condiments on the other side) of dipping sauces and vegetables (waste of space at a restaurant called carnivore, who are they kidding?). The dipping sauces include garlic, curry, berry cocktail, mint and a few others that I can’t remember (or pronounce)… which I didn’t ask what was in them for fear of ruining their incredible taste. Carnivore is known for its exotic meats and is not for the weak stomach. The first thing the waiter does is inform us, with his own great personal disappointment, that the Kenyan government has recently outlawed the killing of game animals for food, this includes the giraffe, impala, zebra and a few other forms of meat that were formerly on the menu. I resist the temptation to storm out of the restaurant appalled only when he tells me that they still have unlimited camel, crocodile, wildebeest heart and ostrich along with unlimited goat, beef, chicken and pork (Jacobus, assuming you learned how to read in the last few months and are reading this, you would have done SERIOUS damage at this place!) I order a Dawa or 2 (I was just trying to stay in character, Anthony Bourdain is known to have a drink or 7 with his dinner on the show) and am pleasantly surprised by this local concoction. It is made exactly like a mojito, but instead of crushing up mint at the bottom, they use sugar cane and top it off with a pinch of some sweet seasoning that makes you forget that there is any vodka in it. It is a perfect dinner drink because it is so light, which was EXTREMELY important as the meat spectacle (I know you are going to steal that phrase, Glass) had yet to begin. They started us off easy with a little pork chop and ribs. We experimented with the different sauces, ALL of which were incredible! After that came the goat (unbelievable when eaten with the mint sauce… it melted in your mouth… actually… I’ve never seen anything like it). Then came the Steak, and the fancy chicken wings (which were not very African, but most likely gave some of the Westerners in the building a relaxing feeling of home). One of the best parts of Carnivore was their ability to get you to let your guard down. Nairobi is a big, bustling city where you need to be constantly alert of your surroundings and Carnivore takes that into account by providing and incredibly comfortable atmosphere that takes you out of the stereotypical “scary” Africa, and into the stereotypical “tourist” Africa, not that any of us were complaining. It was amazing to have a meal in public without checking to see the girls bags were still under the table and my phone was still in my pocket (Nairobi is admittedly not that bad, but like any situation, I find it much better to poke fun at a situation than to complain or worry). I’m sure it was partly the Dawa doing the talking but the restaurant seemed relaxed while still providing the fastest service I’ve seen in Africa or the States (Africa is not known for its promptness, if you haven’t picked up on that!). After expanding our stomachs with the “everyday meats”, Carnivore upped its game to a duck liver (the only thing of the entire evening that I didn’t like… it just reminded me of dissecting animals in bio labs and I still tried to eat it, but had to swallow without breathing to minimize the taste… not that adventurous). Finally, with the anticipation reaching dizzying heights, the camel came (sorry AladinWestlands neighborhood in Nairobi with some time to kill. If you actually have that problem, give me a call and I’ll show you some cheaper options with just as unforgettable food! Hope you enjoyed my review of Carnivore. Not gonna lie, I have a lot more respect for Anthony Bourdain’s job now than when I started this post.