Children were everywhere. Standing by the side of the road with fingers in their mouths, rolling heavy tractor tyres up the twining alleys, driving away leprotic dogs or mangy goats with well-aimed stones. They were thin and poorly clothed but Gaby did not see one who was not smiling.
She wound down the window and unfolded her visioncam.
I’d put that away if I were you,’ T.P. said. ‘Or you’ll end up with a rock up it. Not that it matters to me, but they might miss and I don’t want to have to pay for another new windscreen for this buggy. You think this is bad? I tell you, this is one of the good ones. You should see Pumwani. Jesus. Ten million people: Nairobi’s population doubles every five years. If it was me, I’d take my chances with the Chaga, but the UN says evacuate and so we evacuate. One day they’ll run out of places to evacuate to. It’s not an if, it’s a when, but they can’t see that. This is what happens when you try to apply military thinking to something totally outside its conceptual framework, like an alien colonization.’
Traders had spread plastic sheets on the oily red earth verges and laid out their wares for inspection. Piles of misshaped oranges, unsteady pyramids of Sprite cans, knobs of maize blackened over hubcaps filled with charcoal. Flies were shooed from grilling skewers of meat with whisks of shredded newspaper. Seeing white faces, children sprang up, shimmering bangles looped over their fingers.
‘Karma bracelets, they call them.’ T.P. hooted savagely and swerved around a home-made water cart that was little more than an oil drum on car tyres hauled by an emaciated pony. ‘Hokum for the New Agers. They’re actually optical fibre. Grub the stuff up faster than Kenya Telecom can lay it down. Funny thing is, there are people not even five minutes into the country who’ll stop and buy one. That’s the thing about this place, there’s always someone trying to sell you some damn thing or another.’
A white aircraft appeared over the slum. It came very low, very fast. Its wheels hung down like the talons of a bird of prey. It seemed far too huge and heavy to be kept aloft by those ridiculous wings. Gaby cringed as it passed over the highway in a howl of engines and dropped toward the threshold lights.
‘Was a time when all this was open bush,’ T.P. said. ‘Dead Tommy’s gazelles all over the place. No road sense. Giraffes used to saunter right across this. You stopped for them. Okay. Catechism time.’ He glanced as long at Gaby as the traffic would allow. ‘Rule one. With your complexion, never ever go out without a hat for six months at least. Melanoma you can do without. What’ll you do?’
‘Wear a hat.’
lThat’s correct. Two: you’ve got green eyes, right? Wear shades. All the time.’
‘Don’t need to. I got an eyejob done. Pupils photochromed: it lasts a year.’
‘Not out here it doesn’t. You’ll get six months max with the UV levels at this altitude. Don’t forget to get them redone; crowsfeet you don’t want. Underwear.’
‘Cotton. No artificial fabrics. Don’t breathe.’
‘And what’ll you get?’
‘Thrush if I’m lucky. And no bodysuits either.’
‘That’s correct. And if you do get fungus?’
‘A tampon dipped in live yoghurt.’
‘Not likely ever to try it myself, but that’s what I’m told. Money.’
‘Keep it in your shoe, but always have a hundred shillings handy for mugging money. Avoid conspicuous wealth.’
‘Current scam is threatening you with hypodermics filled with HIV-infected blood. Whether you believe them or not is your call, but don’t trust your jabs. HIV 4 farts in the face of the Pasteur Institute and you’re home in a bodybag in six months tops. Therefore, no unprotected cocks, white, black or any other colour. What’ll you do?’
‘Be a nun.’
‘That’s correct. And be careful about things like going to the dentist, or getting your hair cut, which you should. Half an inch all over.’
‘I’d sooner stick needles in my eyes.’
‘Be permanently hot and sticky then. Your choice. Water.’
‘Don’t trust it, even in hotels. Wash your teeth with bottled. No ice in drinks, peel all fruit and treat salads with extreme caution. And don’t drink beer out of the bottle.’
‘Those two guys.’ He pointed at two men walking hand in hand along the side of the road. ‘Gay or just good friends?’
‘Just good friends. African men have no problem showing same sex physical affection.’
‘Good girl. I think you might actually do here. Of course, culture shock never hits right away. It waits until you think you’re comfortable and feeling you know all there is to know. Then it goes for you. It can kill you. You’re booked in for three days at the PanAfric. Sorry it can’t be longer, but unlike UNECTA, we have to operate to strict commercial principles. Bad news is UNECTA’s pushed the private rental market right up into the ionosphere. Best advice is book into a cheap guesthouse and be prepared for a lot of footwork. What should you do?’
Gaby McAslan did not answer. The sun had burned away the dawn mists. Golden light spread across the tin roofs of the shanties: in the middle distance the towers of Nairobi rose sheer from the encircling townships. Light caught their many windows and kindled them into pillars of fire rising from the dark earth. Gaby lifted her visioncam and videoed through the Landcruiser’s filthy windshield. It would not catch it; video never could catch it. The act of putting a frame around it killed the magic, but perhaps an echo might be held on the disc, enough for a moment of a moment.
They were into the urban traffic now: private cars – 4x4s mostly – and buses, yellow and green behemoths that had never been washed, belching black diesel smoke. Their windows had been replaced by steel bars. T.P. swore expressively as one cut in front of him on a roundabout – keepie leftie in Swahili, he informed Gaby. They passed a big church and a covered market, the national football stadium and the country bus station. They crossed the railway and turned onto a tree-lined highway with parkland on one side and downtown Nairobi on the other. Gaby watched a beautiful, tall black woman in a red onepiece run along the side of the road. She moved with a liquid, unconscious grace that made Gaby feel angular and badly put together. The sun was high now. Shafts of light fell between the buildings into the avenues. T.P. turned the Landcruiser onto Kenyatta Avenue and drove against the flow of the morning traffic up a shallow valley wooded with tired eucalyptus and acacia. Pedestrians thronged the red earth footpaths where the edge of the highway had crumbled away. Posters for toothpaste adorned the bus shelters. T.P. threw the Landcruiser up a curving concrete drive that opened abruptly on the left. It led to an anonymous international-style hotel perched on the hillside.
‘This is you. My advice is go straight to bed and sleep it off. These overnight flights bugger your clock gene. We aren’t expecting you in until tomorrow anyway. We’ll fix you up with an EastAf Teleport account, but it takes a little time, so your PDU won’t be doing much for a day or so.’ He leaned across and opened Gaby’s door. ‘Sorry to have to boot you out like this, but I’ve got the end of the world to attend to.’ As she got out, she heard him mutter, ‘What is it with this place for Irish girls anyway?’
The door slammed. The wheels spun. He was gone. She was alone with an overnight bag and the clothes on her back. Her feet had swollen inside her boots on the flight. A porter in a red fez arrived to carry her bag the twenty feet to Reception.