NAIROBI Nov 18^th

What an extraordinary day. I was ushered into the office of the Director Emeritus at 8.30a.m., who turned out to be Joseph Gikubu, the only one of the three founders still alive. He gave me his totally undivided attention for 10 minutes and could not have been more welcoming. I then had half an hour with Matthew Kiriyaki, the current Director. What a nice bloke he is. Both of them explained the school’s roots, outlined the fact that the values they began with are still every bit as important now as they were in 1959 and expressed their gratitude to me as a representative of a school that funds three of their boys. They were almost gushing in their welcome but it could not have been more genuine.

I was then driven over to the Girls Centre, about 10 miles north of the city. This is only in its 6^th year. The Director, Margaret Wanjobi proceeded to look after me personally for the next two hours. She is an absolute livewire and has succeeded in pushing projects through that, left to the planners, would still be just drawings. The school runs in exactly the same way as the Boys, with teachers being employed almost exclusively to teach. Extra-curricular activities are run by the girls wherever possible. The school was a farm until 2005 and it is still very productive. It is now the girls who do the farming and the produce forms the basis of their daily food intake. New classrooms, laboratories and accommodation blocks have all been built in the last 4 years. They do not look like they are new, with their unfinished breeze-block and girder exteriors, and by British standards they are fairly raw inside. It is the equivalent of luxury here, however and the girls are immensely proud to be part of it. I spent some time with the three funded by Wellington, which was fascinating. They are all village girls for whom Starehe has given a way out of a life of early marriage, farming and child-bearing. One wants to be a lawyer, one a medic and one an academic. It was impossible not to feel a bit lumpy when they thanked me in turn, in rehearsed speeches, for the opportunity that Wellington is helping them to experience.

I came back to a post lunch meeting with Alphonse. I pumped him with questions. He gets very little discipline that comes as far as him. Most boys don’t break the rules because they are so aware of their privileged position and anxious to live up to it. The House Captains keep everything in check and are as happy to tell one of their peers to do up his shoelaces as one of the first years. Adults only get involved in serious pastoral issues involving non-school issues. The weekly Baraza, or parliament, is a forum where any child of whatever age, can air anything that is troubling them. The absolute rule is that what is said should not influence the way the child is treated once Baraza is over. Baraza is attended by prefects and senior staff, who only answer questions addressed specifically to them. Rooms in the houses are known as ‘cubes’ and house 4 students, once from each of the years in the school. There is an adult attached to each house but their role is almost entirely nominal. The younger boys strive to conform at first and to demonstrate positive initiative once they have settled. It sounds Utopian and it must be as near to it as it gets. The ideals of our public schools are similar but the outsourcing of day-to-day school issues to the students has foundered on the rocks of self-interest, self-indulgence and the knowledge that, if it comes to it, Dad’s bank balance will come to the rescue.

As we were drawing to a close, Matthew asked me if I would like to join him for assembly. This is a daily event at 4.00 and Matthew insisted I sat on the stage next to him. Thursday assembly, so I was informed, is a hymn practice for the weekend chapel service. The regular boy leader has finished his exams and left school, so Alphonse was in charge. He sang a decent solo version of ‘Be thou my guardian and my guide’, which the rest of the school did not know well. We were then encouraged to join in and by verse four it was not too bad. Alphonse was not happy with the 3^rd year, however. He made them stand on their own to sing verse one and when that was still unsatisfactory told them they would be back in the assembly hall, after supper, to sing it until they did so properly. Imagine a Wellington prefect telling all the Lower Sixth to front up for extra Congregational Practice. We then had a second year lead the school in a rendition of ‘Stand up, stand up for Jesus’, which was enthusiastically taken up by everyone else. Then, in my honour, the entire school sang the school song, after which Matthew asked me to say a few words. I simply stated that if I am half as welcoming to others as the Kenyan people in general and Starehe in particular have been to me, it would come over as being very generous.

Matthew then asked me to follow him out of the hall to the grass quadrangle outside. The students filed noiselessly out of assembly for roll-call, each year group occupying a different side of the quad. Inspection of appearance followed, carried out by the various captains. Those who did not pass did varying numbers of press-ups, in full view of the entire school, on the grass in front of their line-up spot. Finally, the school flag was lowered to the accompaniment of bugles.

It works here and does so in spades. Interestingly, the view of all the pupils and staff I have talked with is that with a new constitution ratified a year ago, with a leader who is publically anti-corruption and, thus far, clean privately and with the will and support of the people, Kenya is more positively placed now than at any stage since independence. With a future generation influenced by the old girls and boys of Starehe, it must stand a fighting chance.

I am writing this to the background strains of a brass band, without harmonies and sounding tinny, as only colonial bands can, playing Silent Night and Mary’s Boy Child with full oompahs. Totally incongruous.

NAIROBI Nov 17^th

I was both sad and glad to leave Watamu. Sad, because I have had a very enjoyable, fruitful and educational time there. Glad because it means moving on. Changes of scene are really positive experiences at the moment.

I am staggered with what has been achieved by the Local Ocean Trust, or LOT ( as the Watamu Turtle Watch has been rebranded ). As Nicky says, what started as two old bats with bees in their bonnet has become an increasingly important voice in the conservation process. Over 5500 turtles have been released from fishing nets, the Kenyan Wildlife Service comes to LOT for advice ( even if it is often ignored ), prospective developers of beachfront sites in turtle breeding areas elsewhere are communicating in increasing numbers and several groups with similar interests are using LOT as a working paradigm. Yesterday, some highly respected elders from local fishing villages were at the centre for a meeting. In Britain, it would probably have been a case of welcoming them before telling them what the conservation work is all about and requesting their support. In Kenya it works differently and the meeting was all about how fishing traditions have been maintained and developed down the years. At no stage did anyone connected with LOT make any suggestions or requests. It was simply the first part of what will be a prolonged consultation and was very much a listening affair. It may not be for several months, by which time the people at the LOT will have gained trust and mutual respect, that the elders themselves will probably raise the subject of how they can help. A similar series of gatherings with the senior active fishermen is the next stage. The ultimate aim is sustainable use of the huge resources available, rather than the current position, which is to the detriment of marine life populations, unique coastal habitats and, ultimately, local livelihoods. Good on ‘em.

I changed into long trousers and had a sweater handy for my arrival back in Nairobi. It was a sunny 27°C so I was immediately reaching for the cold water bottle. I was met by Margaret from Starehe’s sponsorship office and driven to the boys centre via the city centre and ridiculous traffic.

Starehe was begun just over 50 years ago as a centre for Nairobi street children, abandoned by their parents. Geoffrey Griffin had been one of the young local white officers charged with supervising detention centres for Mau-Mau youth during the rebellion in the mid 50s. He had seen the potential in many of those for whom he was responsible. When detention ended, the youngsters were turned out on to the streets. Griffin set up Youth Clubs in Nairobi to provide activities. One of the clubs developed into a residential centre at Starehe. The original 17 street boys were housed in two tin huts, provided with basic education and encouraged to adopt a philosophy of independent living. There are now nearly 1000 boys at Starehe, 70% of whom are on total scholarships, from all over Kenya. It is always 1^st or 2^nd in the national exam league table. I am intrigued to discover how it all works, with minimal adult input, except in the classroom. I am housed in the guest cottage, in the heart of the campus and have just had supper brought to me on a tray by Shadrach, the assistant cook, who presumably plies his trade over a fiery furnace. I am going to meet up with Alphonse, the school captain, tomorrow. I have loads of questions to ask but will probably funk any about how parents select their children’s names.

WATAMU Nov 16^th

My last full day in Watamu was spent cleaning turtle tanks and giving two of the turtles a sea bath. In taking it all in, once again, I am perfectly able to see how a European, with cash, would find this an entirely agreeable way of life. Satellite TV helps. The acceptance of the fact that you will employ a cook, cleaner and gardener also contributes to the lifestyle. The absolute selling point is the environment and climate. To wake up to the sound of breaking waves on a tropical beach consisting of pure white sand, even if it is covered in seaweed at this time of year, is worth a huge amount that money cannot buy. It is warm, sometimes too warm in the evenings and hot in the middle of the day. How much better is that than cold and damp, even so? Having said all that, it is probably a young person’s game. Children over the age of 13 almost have to be educated in another country, it is no place to be sick or elderly, driving is distinctly hazardous and friendships have to be conducted over long distances.

Nicky took me and another friend a few miles inland, where there is the last patch of unspoilt coastal rag forest, yesterday evening. We sipped a beer and watched while a family of elephants meandered down to a nearby water hole. They are magnificent creatures and it is very easy to project many human-like qualities on to them. They were led by a boisterous young male, all trunk and trousers, while the aunts and other siblings proceeded more cautiously. Mum brought up the rear, keeping them all in sight and drinking only once she had made certain there were no hidden dangers. As ever, their very existence is threatened by the encroachment of humans into their territory. What they have represents only a fraction of their original range, which extended right inland to Tsavo, about 120 miles west. They now have this ever-diminishing 400 sq mile area, which is fenced to keep them away from human populations but does not stop human populations bothering them.

I will not see Giovanni again, as he is off somewhere on business tomorrow. His is a fascinating background. He asked me to guess his African birthplace and I got nowhere near Addis Ababa. I should have. He is 67, born in 1943, when Abyssinia was still an Italian colony. His parents, living in Bologna, were amongst those encouraged by Mussolini to move to the land of new opportunity and did so in 1936. After the war and the loss of Abyssinia and Somaliland, his parents moved to Uganda. Giovanni went to school in Kampala and to university in Cape Town. All his family moved out in 1970, when Idi Amin became too much for them and Giovanni established a highly successful advertising company in Kenya. He ran this until he sold the company to Saatchi and Saatchi. It is a huge mix of national experiences but Giovanni is still staunchly Italian, despite having never lived there and sounding for all the world like a regular English speaking South African. Somehow Africa and Giovanni, and Nicky for that matter, are made for each other and vice versa. I suppose that, more than anything, determines the way the dice rolls when coming up with answers to the sort of questions I alluded to earlier. I like Kenya but I’m not made for it.

WATAMU Nov 15^th

I went to Blue Bay Baptist Church yesterday. It was a tremendous experience. I had spotted that there were two services advertised and, having been warned about the potential length of the average church gathering, thought I would go for the 8.30 option, given there was another at 10.00. It was raining as I walked the 3 kilometres to the church but I was keen to do it the African way and it was not cold. When I arrived, I was shown to a seat amongst 20 or so others, almost entirely youngish, dressed to the nines and female and without another white face in sight. Everything was already going on in Swahili so I simply clapped at the relevant places and sung my own words to the songs. This went on for about half an hour. No books or screens were used, it was all in sensational harmony and accompanied only by a set of drums. There was then a testimony slot and inevitably I was asked if I would contribute. One of the two males present then translated my message of thanks for the welcome and greetings from Crowthorne Baptist Church. This was followed by open prayer, when everyone prays at the same time. I could not tell if it was in strange tongues or Swahili. It started quite quietly, built to something of a frenzy after 5 minutes and then just stopped. I didn’t detect any prearranged signal but there must have been some indication for everyone to fall silent at precisely the same moment.

The sermon, delivered in Swahili, from no notes, by a very young preacher and translated into English entirely for my benefit by the only other male there, came from Revelation 2 and the words to the church at Pergamon.  At least it started there. It went on via several other references and various passionate statements to the conclusion that Satan lives on earth and God in heaven.  There was then a song, during which the children, who had been singing outside, came in, dressed in neat shirts and shorts or party frocks. They were followed by lots of other older people, again almost exclusively female and dressed to the nines.  There were more songs and at 10.15 I decided to call it quits.

I nodded to the bloke who had preached on the way out. He came over to ask me why I was leaving so soon. I replied that I had much enjoyed everything but had to be on my way. By this time we were near the door and he beckoned me outside to where we could hear ourselves speak. It turned out that I had been to the Youth Service, which precedes the main gathering. The real service followed seamlessly and, it was explained, usually finished around 1.00. I was profuse in my apologies but it was a struggle to make good my escape, so anxious was my new friend to prolong the conversation.

In some desperation I asked where it might be possible to leave a small offering, thinking it might help my cause. I was highly amused when the preacher produced an offering bag from behind his back. A couple of hundred Ksh ( about £2.50 to you and me ) meant honour was satisfied on both sides and I was on my way.

I went to Nicky and Giovanni’s for lunch. Giovanni told me that the church service is a real social highlight. They love dressing up, meeting together, exchanging gossip and having a bit of a party. It gives the women time off from domestic duties for the only time in the week. The men will be watching telly and drinking palm wine.

 I’m really glad I went.

WATAMU Nov 14^th

It was good to have the opportunity, on Friday, to spend 3-4 hours walking through the mangroves that fringe the creek area inland from Watamu. These are extremely fragile environments, diminishing in extent by the day and are a sort of tropical equivalent of British salt marshes. The purpose was to ascertain the extent to which recent human activity has damaged the mangroves, which are, notionally at least, protected in this area.

I was glad that Kahindi was in charge. I would have become hopelessly lost in the maze of roots and branches but he knows exactly which tracks to take. I was also mildly surprised that the mangroves were teeming neither with reptiles nor insects, contrary to what the movies would have us believe. I didn’t see a leech, was not pestered by mosquitos and apart from some fantastic birds ( including a brilliantly coloured mangrove kingfisher ), there was no other life on show. We were required to wade well over waist deep a couple of times. This meant it was impossible to take any pictures, which was a shame.

It was difficult to determine Kahindi’s reaction. He pointed out some old charcoal works – illegal- and many sites where the mud had been disturbed by fishermen digging for worms. This removes the necessary protective layer from around the mangrove roots, exposes them to tidal currents and results in them being washed away. Not many of these were new, however, so it may be that the rules are being observed at the moment.

He did point out, at a point where we crossed a deepish inlet, the place where his brother-in-law had been swept away and drowned in 2003. This was before he worked for the Turtle Watch when he was a fisherman and they had been digging for bait. His brother-in-law couldn’t swim, the tide had come in unexpectedly fast and high, it was stormy and visibility was poor and it just happened. He was remarkably matter of fact about it. It suggests that such events are relatively commonplace and that there is a greater acceptance of untimely death as a consequence.

Yesterday, Saturday, was a day off for everyone. I spent it at a local hotel where internet coverage is better and by the pool. There is a big sign saying it is for hotel residents only but the assistant manager, a young South African, was fine about it. Simply being white opens any number of doors. He did get two meals and several Tusker lagers out of me, I suppose. Most of those were taken in company with Will ( Australian ) and Bea watching the best England rugby performance since 2003. Interestingly the second most common language at the hotel after English, spoken by ex-pats, South Africans and Brits, is Russian. I got into a sort of conversation with a couple from Moscow who are here for a fortnight with their two girls. The father had heard of Wellington, via a business contact whose son ( name ending in ‘enko’ ) left in 2007. At least I think that is the case. I said it was now fully co-ed and left him a contact for Admissions. Even so, I think it would  be just a bit too cheeky to put in an expense claim for the drink I bought him.

WATAMU Nov 12^th

It was slightly a case of after the Lord Mayor’s Show today. Even so, four turtles were released in the morning, which would have been sold for meat and oil a few years back. The five volunteers and Kahindi, who is in charge of the rehabilitation of turtles which have been caught but are in need of treatment, took two of those which are coming up to release out for a ‘sea-bath’ after lunch. This is a bit like taking them for a walk. A line is attached to one of the flippers and they are allowed to swim around the shallower reef water for half an hour or so. The turtle I was supposed to follow is virtually ready to go, a situation confirmed by the fact that it headed straight off for the open sea at a pace I could not even dream of maintaining. Kahindi had it on the lead and he is a very strong swimmer but eventually he was worn out and had to wind the turtle back in. I know I shouldn’t think this but the animal did seem to be very grumpy when it was brought back out and just sat on the beach in a mood. The other turtle swam gently and peacefully around the reef and the three accompanying human swimmers were not unduly extended. It was quite playful on the beach and Kahindi thinks it may need to go back to sea very soon so that it does not become over-dependant on being fed and exercised. Oxbridge entrance question ‘Discuss the assertion that turtles have different personalities’.

Most of the turtles that are returned to the Turtle Watch come from a few fishing villages. These are, oddly, not very close to the shore. We go to pick up those that have come in with the early morning catch, usually entangled in the nets but occasionally beached. Travelling with Fikiri, who is in charge of this, in the official Turtle Watch vehicle, has taken me to places I would not otherwise have visited in a million years. There are many striking images. Inquisitive, colourfully-dressed, sometimes expressionless, often smiling, always grubby and generally welcoming children. Women pounding maize in pairs, hand-washing in groups, walking in stately uprightness carrying impossibly large loads on their heads, preparing vegetables for the pot and singing harmoniously as they do it all. Occasional groups of older men doing as little as possible and younger ones gathered around a few motor bikes. Chickens, of all shapes, sizes and degrees of health grubbing around the houses. Radios blaring a crackly and unrecognisable tune.  Mobile phone numbers charcoaled on the whitewashed parts of walls. It is a genuinely fascinating insight and it is an enormous bonus of the trip to be able to get so close to it.

It is impossible to avoid the conclusion that Kenya is on a ticking population time bomb, even so. The sheer number of small children seems to be overwhelming. How they will all be fed, housed, watered, educated ( whatever the official figures, I am certain that the literacy rate is below what is quoted ), cared for when sick  and provided with meaningful employment, at a higher standard than at present in 30 years time, is beyond me. I just don’t see that an annual growth rate of over 3%, bearing in mind that a mere 3% is a doubling of the total in 25 years, is sustainable.

 If I am hopeful it is because of people like Kahindi and Fikiri. Their willingness, dedication and industry is remarkable. The ex-pats would also say ‘unusual’. Time alone will tell.

WATAMU Nov 11th

David Attenborough would have penned a narration something like this..Two months ago a lone female turtle struggled up this beach from the water line to the point at which the vegetation begins. She excavated a deep hole and laid over one hundred eggs in it before covering them with sand and returning, exhausted, to the sea. Since then, the sand has insulated and incubated the eggs at precisely the right temperature. And tonight something very special is about to happen...There would then be a shot of sand moving at the bottom of a depression after which would come the quite breathtakingly thrilling spectacle of the first turtle emerging from the nest, followed soon after by its many brothers and sisters. I have seen a few wonderful wildlife moments but there have been none as magical as this.

The journey to the sea these tiny hatchlings have to make, they must make unaided. Any females that survive until maturity in 25-30 years time, which is probably 1, possibly 2 and in exceptional circumstances 3 of the 100 or so that hatched, will need to have made that journey so that it is indelibly printed in them because it is to this exact spot that she will return. There were plenty of ghost crabs in the vicinity, anxious to avail themselves of free food, but the presence of a dozen or so human spectators was enough to discourage even the bravest of them. Virtually all made it to the sea, negotiating huge piles of seaweed as they did. One or two would not have because they went up the dunes in the wrong direction. I found it quite difficult not to pick them up and put them on the runway we had cleared earlier but we were under strict instructions and they had to be allowed to go.

They are microscopic little things. The size of a hatchling’s shell is about the same as I can make by making an oval shape out of my forefinger and thumb. They float in super-vulnerability until they can learn to dive, which takes a few days, after which they have to avoid a raft of predators and other situations if they are to develop further. It is a high attrition rate and it ensures the strongest gene pool for the future.

I could have written about the villages we visited to collect turtles from fishermen in the morning. I could have written lots about the people staying near to the private beach where the hatching occurred who joined the Turtle Watch people as it did. I could have tried to sketch the total brilliance of the coastline where it is such a privilege to be working.

No way. Today was all about tiny creatures starting an immense journey. They will need all the luck they can get