You’re probably thinking there’s only so much boozing that can be done in Nairobi
Airport. Well, as I soon discovered, when you’ve got a ten-hour wait for your flight
back to Heathrow, there’s actually very little else to do there. Apart from an on-site
“curio shop”. After a very brief look around, I soon found that the only curiosity about it is that somebody at
some point must have thought anyone would ever buy anything from such a miniscule collection of tatty,
So you find me sat in the Just-Posh-Enough-To-Charge-Too-Much bar, sinking my first Guinness in a fortnight
and wondering why I thought it would be a good idea to choose an outside table – this is, after all, a fucking
airport, not the Serengeti. Nonetheless, as I cheerfully imbibe an intoxicating mixture of alcohol and car exhaust
from the access road, let me pass the time by spouting random nonsense at you regarding my trip to East
Yes, you read that right! It’s not a joke. After a couple of months of training, I’d worked myself into peak
physical condition (pause to clang back the rest of my pint) and reached the top of the World’s Highest
Free-standing Mountain. (Whenever I hear that phrase, it always sounds to me as though all the others are
held up with scaffolding. (What it actually means is that all the really high mountains are part of a range, as
opposed to being isolated. (Sorry, I’ve just realised there was absolutely no comedy value in that
clarification whatsoever – here’s a joke to clear the air: “How do you kill a circus? – Go straight for the
Why Kilimanjaro? Because it’s the highest mountain in the world that’s climbable with no technical skill. In
theory, anyone can do it. Unfortunately, as soon as that fact became generally known, the Tanzanian
government had to stop people entering the National Park unaccompanied by an official Guide, because
Kilimanjaro Mountain Rescue got sick and tired of pulling half-dead foreign tourists dressed in khaki shorts
and t-shirts off the upper slopes. For fuck’s sake, that’s like trying to swim the channel having equipped
yourself with a bag of potatoes and the John Barrowman album.
(Now there is a point worth picking up on: the John Barrowman album?! What did I miss there? That’s the
bloke who plays Captain Jack off Doctor Who, right? What’s next? Billie Piper launching a music career?)
Anyway, time for another drink... Maybe a beer this time.
With a shrewd understanding of the tourist market, the area’s two best-selling beers are Safari Lager and...
wait for it ... Kilimanjaro Lager. Although one of the region’s more interesting brands is called Tusker Lager. And the weird thing about that is where the name comes from; it’s named after the elephant that killed one of the company’s founders. How bizarre is that?!
Come to think of it, does that mean when they were founding the company they found themselves really
strapped for a name, and then along comes Tusker who gores one of the brewers to death and all his
mates – far from being distraught – just go “Tusker? Hang on a minute ... that’s got a catchy ring to it!” Or,
even weirder, does that mean they’d already picked a title, when Mr Elephant came trampling along, and
they decided to change it to the name of the thing that killed their buddy? There’s a touching tribute for
you. (Kind of like using the symbol of a crucifix to commemorate the life of Jesus.)
But I digress. The first thing I noticed after touching down at Nairobi Airport (which somehow managed to
be utterly terrifying and actually quite cool at the same time) was a security guard with unquestionably the
biggest weapon I’ve ever seen. And no, I don’t mean that all the rumours about African men are true
(although, let’s face it, they probably are; at one time or another, we’ve all seen photos on the internet...); I
mean, this guy was carrying a rifle that almost deserved to be called “hand-held cannon”, the sort of thing
Arnold Schwarzenegger would use to shoot down foreign warplanes – and that’s since he’s been made Governor of California. I have to say, in terms of inspiring confidence for the visitor, such weapons make you feel about as safe as a convicted holocaust denier visiting the Oxford debating society.
On the subject of which, I don’t want to get into political satire – I’m a bit too pissed, for a start – but I do have to ask the question about that whole Oxford debacle; how the fuck can you be convicted of denying the holocaust? Okay, you’re being dumb, wrong and downright offensive, but last time I looked you can’t actually be arrested for any of those things in Britain (if you could, Strictly Come Dancing would be like a criminal gang meeting).
(Okay, I’ve since checked out the “facts” on Wikipedia and it turns out there is a sensible explanation. However, it’s not an interesting one, so instead I’m just going to give you another joke: “What has four legs and says ‘boo’? – A cow with a cold.”)
Next drink...
I concluded after two weeks that there’s definitely no Swahili phrase for “bugger off and stop bothering me”,
because the street vendors in Africa just can’t grasp the concept that you might not want to buy a t-shirt
or an overpriced print of a lion or some kind of bead necklace thing. Come on guys, if it’s 8.30 in the
morning and I’m sat in a jeep loaded up with mountain-climbing gear, do I really look like I’m in the mood
to purchase a dainty little piece of jewellery? Well, apparently I do – successfully persuading the traders to leave you alone would be about as likely as my granddad making friends with a black lesbian asylum seeker.
And, as for the Masai warriors, don’t get me started on those bastards: Masai fly-pitchers would be closer to the mark.
For some reason, Kenya is a nation that seems to have far more than its fair share of schools and
churches. I don’t know why but there it is – every third building seems to be either a school or a church.
And the churches are all named somewhat over-enthusiastically: The Kenyan Triumphant Church Of The
Holy Trinity or National Church Of The Lord Jesus Who’s Really Brilliant or The Really, Really Good Church
Of Excellent God And Fantastic Christ Hooray!
Not that Islam doesn’t have a presence in this part of Africa. Opposite the hotel where I was staying in Tanzania was a sizeable mosque, and you should have seen me just bursting with religious tolerance when I was woken by the call to prayer at 5.30 in the morning. I’ll say that again: five fucking thirty in the fucking morning Allah be praised. Even cuddling up to my teddy bear, Mohammed, is no comfort at that time.
Right, one more pint and I’d better get up and start moving around while I still can...
After climbing Kilimanjaro, I took an overland trip to the 15-mile-wide Ngorongroro Crater (try saying that after a skinful). Ngorongoro is a safari game reserve, which is one of the places listed in the book Unforgettable Places To See ...
Before You Die. A cheerful morale-raising title if ever there was one. And I do notice that this “before you
DIE!!!” suffix seems to be tagged on to “things to do” lists pretty much as the norm these days.
(Someone once told me that if you were making a list of things to do before you die, “Shout for help”
should probably be number one.) Last time I took a trip to Waterstone’s, I found copies of 1001 Books
To Read Before You Die, 1001 Films To Watch Before You Die, 1001 Symphonies To Listen To Before
You Die and – my absolute favourite – 1001 Gardens To Visit Before You Die.
1001 GARDENS?!?! Have we gone fucking crazy on this planet?!
Okay, signing off time now. How about one more joke for luck?
“What did the slug say to the snail? Big Issue, sir?”
