Kenya

Write about what you know, we are told. It is good advice. It means that you are basing your story on familiar ground. That familiarity will make the story more realistic to the reader.

Of course, writing science fiction means that there is much that is not familiar. I have, for example, never been to the planet Paya where the Chowra come from but there are places on that planet that are remarkably like places on our own planet; those form the basis for that familiarity.

Not known to the reader yet is that Book 2 of ‘My Name Is A Number’ is largely set in Kenya.

Remember? Write about what you are familiar with.

A short while ago I published a ‘Blog that describes a small part of my memories of working in Zambia.

Before going down to Zambia – and after returning from that lovely country, we worked in Kenya. We were based in the Kenyan Air Force camp at Eastleigh and would bus out to Embakasi Airport each day to work on the aeroplanes. 

The aircraft that we had then were all the great Bristol Britannias that came out to Africa from Royal Air Force Lyneham. They were called ‘The Whispering Giant’ because they were propelled through the sky by four Bristol Proteus turbopropeller engines with sixteen-foot diameter, four-bladed steel propellers mounted on the front of each one. They whispered.

Before I left RAF Lyneham my friend, Vinoo, gave me a letter to take to his brother who lived in Nairobi.

His brother would be aware that I had not forged it because it was written in Gujerati script!

On the first free weekend I went into Nairobi. We had been warned extensively about not using the local pirate taxis because they were certain to mug you; we had also been warned against walking through the shantytown outside KAF Eastleigh for similar reasons.

Waiting for a bus was taking an eternity so I elected to walked. Through the shanty town. Everyone was friendly and one family even stopped me and asked if I should like to take tea with them. Lunchtime? Why not? A pleasant half-hour in their company and I was back on the road again. Nobody bothered me.

In town I stopped a taxi that turned out to be one of those dreaded pirate taxis and not the recommended ‘Archer’s’ cabs. I asked him for Portal Street, he took me. No problem. No fuss. I arrived at my destination unmugged!

Houses of Parliament, Nairobi: 1966

“Vernon’s Pools (Kenya) Agency” it said on the sign. It was almost next to the great mosque – something I saw later as an irony.

Dujirichand Premchand, DP from now on, welcomed me and read the letter from his brother. He was delighted.

I was invited to his farm up in Nakuru. 

An adventure. How wonderful.

He drove a massive straight-8 Holden carrying a crowd of us. Mostly they were DP’s family members. It swept up the plateau, down into the rift and up the other side.

We stopped at Lake Naivasha. An enormous lake, a lake that had a third of it covered in Flamingos.

At the edge of the water I remarked to DP that the mud was very sticky.

“Not mud,” he shook his head, “Flamingo shit!”

Up at his farm where he grew sisal there was a tree outside the house. DP clapped his hands and all the leaves flew off leaving behind a skeleton of branches in the twilight. The ‘leaves’ were all fruit bats.

Vegetable curry with a yoghurt (lassi) drink for dinner – it was superb. My first curry. Loved it.

We could see Mount Kenya in the distance. Some time later I would ascend the lower slopes. Magical place.

Later we visited the Nairobi Wild Life Park. The sight of a long, thin tail held vertically with a brush on the end of it dodging away from us through the tall grass was amusing; DP informed me that at the other end of the tail was a Wart Hog.

It was in the Park that I was introduced to a refreshing cool drink. Passion fruit juice. Another first. Delicious.

Kenya was full of firsts. A huge net of oranges cost only six pence – almost nothing. The bag was called a pocket. Some pockets these guys had!

The ‘Rendezvous’ café would blend coffees to suit your taste from a range of pots that ran along the entire wall the other side of the counter. Exquisite.

On the buses – yes, I managed to catch a few buses later, I noticed that the Eurasian Indian ladies were spectacularly beautiful but all under the watchful eye of a chaperon!

On the way back from Nakuru we stopped for lunch at a café in Naivasha, where the lake is. DP asked if I should like to try a local delicacy. Of course, I should try anything.

The waiter was delighted. A big, beaming, white-toothed smile disappeared into the kitchen.

It arrived. Fish and chips. Each chip cut perfectly and fried precisely as required.

“Where,” I asked DP, “Is the fish from?”

“The lake,” he told me.

Yes, it was really tasty Tilapia but all I could think of was – ‘flamingo shit’!