Saturday 2 May 2026
I have to book my travel up to Samburu on Wednesday. After many days and much enquiring in both Swahili and English, I have managed to get the name of a shuttle service which goes Nairobi – Isiolo. I have mentioned the Kenyan relationship with information before. I find it tooth grindingly frustrating. Opinion is offered freely and often. Wild conjecture is practically a national sport. But actual facts are offered like crumbs to a starving child. And rarely more than one at a time, after multiple attempts at specific questioning. If “burying the lead” were an Olympic sport, they would be champioms But I now have a name. And have found their office which, unfortunately is in very central Nairobi – a place which has become its own kind of hell where vehicles go to sit in endless exhaust shrouded jam and large matatus rule.
But first – and, hopefully, before the rain comes back – we go to the big market. It can be a confusing place, especially, as it is now, full of massive puddles and mud, meaning people have had to move to harder ground. It is a depressing place at the moment. Business is “very down” as they say here and I am seen as someone who buys. Cowrie John has surpassed all expectation and made the two belts that a couple of customers have asked for. They are stunning. But mostly it is people begging me to buy even one thing so they can get ugali flour to take home.
My sister Sue pointed out, after reading some of these diaries, that there must be SOME good men in Kenya and, as if to prove her point, I meet one. I buy some stunningly beautiful soapstone bits. Really classy stuff. I am chatting to the young man whose stuff this is. I tell him about Mama B and he GIVES me a piece to add to what I have. This is a huge thing for hime to do. Huge. I am positively discombobulated. His picture is here, along with some of his other handiwork. I take my goosebumps off and continue around. Five hours after arrival, the rain comes everything disappears under massive plastic sheets and more, bigger mud puddles start to form.
David and I head to hell. The area is one of those to be avoided at all costs. To paraphrase that wonderful Monty Python travelogue, everywhere you look there are “more fucking matatus”. However the guys in the 6′ x 6′ hole-in-the-wall office for the shuttle company are lovely. And a five hour trip in a Nissan 10 seater shuttle is about £7. To be fair, the first two hours will probably be taken up just getting out of central Nairobi.
Back at Corner we are approached by a local hawker who sells hats. I do not want a hat but he is an old man who is almost in tears and all ne needs is the money to buy some food for his gamily tonight. So I give him 200 shillings. Just over a pound. He should not be reduced to this. When I see him tomorrow (and I will) we will discuss a business that might do better in the rain than sunhats and stetsons. The rain is now torrential and is made more exciting by a total blackout. Life lesson for this evening : you never know how deep a puddle is until you step in it.
Today’s cover picture is the view from inside one of the little stalls. They are really quite small!
