It's Raining, It's Pouring

And how! The Long Rains have shown their teeth since they arrived late on the 28th February. They were initially very welcome because the Short Rains of late 2017 failed to materialise, making Nairobi a dust bowl. Everything had a gritty feel and whether the water had washed clothes or bodies, it ended up the same shade of African earth... 

Naturally, this being Africa and Africa never doing anything by halves, the first two weeks of March suffered devastating downpours, flooded streets and fields, collapsed bridges and the Rift Valley cracked a little further, right across the Nakuru road and through houses innocently straddling the well hidden fracture.

The rains eased to the occasional drizzle and we felt the season was probably behind us when we scooted down to South Africa for two weeks. Wrong on so many levels, the heavens opened the minute we left and the deluge hasn't stopped. Yet again, open pieces of land resemble rice paddies, whole sections of road are under water, fast gushing streams splash where pavements should be and the mud, oh the mud. Glutinous, sticky, red gloop clings to everything it touches, filling tyre treads and making even Pugly, our little 4x4 Rav, slide to and fro. I've rapidly learned two things - wear wellies 'tween house and car and tread carefully; never be further than a rapid hand grasp away from something solid to cling on to. This mud not only sucks the shoes off your feet, it is a gelatinous ice rink of slipperiness. And it simply will not come off, it has to be painstakingly dug out of shoes and tyres.

We heard over the weekend that the rains are set to last another six weeks, a full month longer than usual. It's not all rain, though. The sun comes out to play quite frequently, making everything steam gently and for a few hours we can bask in the pleasure that only sunlight on your face and arms can bring. Then, pow, the heavens open again.

Him Outdoors' latest project is building an outdoor covered area which is a work in progress and still lacks a roof therefore social engagements at home are tricky to say the least. Friday afternoon and Saturday blazed warm and bright and we felt confident enough to invite our next door neighbours round for sundowners. Playing safe, we set out the chairs and snacks very last minute when we thought we could get away with a garden event. We'd no sooner all sat down then we were gathering snacks, drinks, chairs and ourselves, galloping to the teeny covered veranda we have as the Rain Gods blessed our gathering with intermittent sprinkles.

An hour later another guest arrived and we felt brave enough to try the garden again as the skies were clear, which lasted long enough for us to set everything up before doing the rain fandango yet again. This time, it didn't ease for hours and when sundowners (ha, ha, ha) drew to an end at about 21h30, we had four people facing instant immersion in the dash from our front door to theirs. "Make a gate in the fence between your door and mine!" Emma suggested. In the meantime, we settled for an umbrella relay. Christina went first, then tossed the brollie back over the fence along with one of hers for the next lot of runners. Shrieks of 'watch the mud at the gate' competed with the drumming of heavy rain on the mabati (corrugated iron) roofs. 

Bless the rains down in Africa goes the song and for sure, rain is always welcome here for those in solid houses with a sturdy roof. How the poor street vendors in Karen keep smiling as they brave the wet, desperately draping their goods with pieces of plastic and dashing through puddles to take their wares to customers sitting warm and dry in their cars I do not know. As always, the cheerful, uncomplaining resilience of Africans leaves me warm and fuzzy and I will not for a moment complain about my ruined suede shoes or squelchy, mud covered feet.

Little Treasures Lighting Up Our Lives

I don't altogether agree with Robert Louis Stevenson that "to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive", although in my experience months of research, planning and anticipation adds tremendously to the overall enjoyment of a longed for adventure or experience. To the point, in fact, that on the morning of departure I am often physically sick, clutching grimly to the porcelain toilet bowl as the enormity of achieving a dream and the realisation that the day has actually arrived slaps me on the chops with nauseating force. Carried away in blissful planning and preparation, somewhere along the path I forgot that there was actually a point to it all and usually discover at Zero Hour that I am terrified by the entire thing.

Not, of course, that any of the amazing adventures have ever disappointed, far from it, but the mental engagement and emotional investment is a huge part of actualising the dream process and is at least as much fun as the adventure itself.

But not all treasured experiences are the result of lengthy budgeting and preparation. The shiniest pinprick stars in my firmament arrived unexpectedly, thanks, perhaps, to a malfunction of some type, or being in the wrong place at the right time, adding immense awe and wonder at the sheer happenstance of it all.

Thursday last delivered one such joy to Him Outdoors and I. Late afternoon began with the regular, hum drum supermarket visit which, in our case, most often ends with a drink on the way home. Deciding to share the love and forgo our usual, wonderful, Italian haunt at The Hub and not overly excited by the other possibilities HO came up with a doozy - Asmara, the Eritrean restaurant midway between the supermarket and home and the closest restaurant to where we live which we've been planning to visit come payday. One day. Why not drop in for a beer and a G n T and see what's what?

If you've read any of these blogs, you'll know by now that HO and I are extremely, well, diverse in so many things and our arrival at Asmara opened that crack again. HO, in the driver's seat, pulled up to the front door, glanced in and announced that this wasn't his sort of place nor what he had in mind for sundowners. Moi, in a post shopping state of heightened irritability, was having none of it, especially as we were obviously the only customers and James, bless his waiter heart, had rushed through the portals to welcome us and proudly show off the extensive menu. Insisting that we were here, this was a recce, all experiences count, I hopped out leaving HO to find parking and followed James for his offered tour of the establishment.

By the time HO stomped in, James and I had explored the upper level, checked out the private dining room and surveyed the wall of wines. HO joined us in time for the tour of the bar, lower level, outside dining and grounds. We settled upstairs and sat back to gratefully slurp at a Tusker baridi and an icy G n T. 

Delighted to have patrons, James, with his impish chuckle and dancing eyes, popped upstairs with the regularity of an efficient metronome, upsold us on a rather pricey bottle of Australian Shiraz, delivered a charcoal burner and insisted that 'it is very cold in Karen at night. You need to be warm.' No suffering on his watch, then. Try as he might, and he did try very hard in the most charming way, none of the dishes he described swayed us to stay on for dinner. Not that night, anyway.

Leaving HO to settle up and drawn by an enticing aroma in the foyer, I found myself intrigued by the little tableau. A beautiful woman in white was sitting in front of a well-dressed table while one of the waiters sat on a stool alongside rattling who knew what in a small pan over a jiko (tiny charcoal burning stove). Sensing my curiosity, they waved me over and invited me to try my hand at coffee bean roasting because that was what they were up to. Needing no arm twisting, I sat down and began to gently shake and toss the aromatic beans while simultaneously giving Marta the 3rd degree, quickly discovering that:

- she was from Ethiopia, living in Nairobi and working in reception for her uncle, Asmara's owner

- the gorgeous little jiko, square instead of the usual round, was from Ethiopia

- Ethiopians ALWAYS have a cookie or popcorn (?!) with their coffee, and drink about 10 cups a day

- all Ethiopian women have to learn how to roast beans, cook chicken stew and make perfect njera. Not only to avoid shaming their husbands and in laws, but for their own pride and self respect too.

- Every household, no matter how rural, will make each cup of coffee from scratch, roasting sufficient beans at a time for the required number of cups

- her pride in her culture is such that she volunteered to sit in the Asmara foyer every night, sharing her traditions with anyone interested enough.

-Marta was impressively patient with my endless and ignorant questions; she insisted that our experience be as authentic as possible. Right down to setting a small burner on the tray with coals from the jiko which she sprinkled with frankincense, wafting the fumes over the coffee to add to the overall indulgence.

HO, who had resigned himself to a long wait, sat patiently across the room catching up on his news feed, until the dinky little coffee servings tempted him to find his own cow-hide stool and join us. James, in the meantime, was delighted that we were still there and did his bit too, fetching samples of njera from the kitchen for us to try and saying that when we came for dinner he'd walk us right through the perfect Eritrean dining experience.

We left walking on air, completely taken with what we'd learnt and experienced - the people and the ceremony of drinking our favourite beverage with respect and honour. Hearts light with joy and awe, we vowed then and there that dinner at Asmara is on the cards sooner rather than later and as Marta has assured us that we'll find her there any evening, we'll pause a while to enjoy her gentle company and simply wonderful coffee. Life is full of little treasures, it's important to take a moment and embrace them.