How domestic tourism turns Kenyans into nervous wrecks

The typical Kenyan experiences a peculiar discomfort akin to a panic attack the first time they step into a five star hotel. Often, they will be in the presence of a political figure, a mzungu benefactor, or attending some nebulous conference funded by a do good NGO or a foreign government.

In short, a Kenyan would be mad to ‘waste’ cash in a big hotel. The first thing that strikes them is how clean and beautiful the place looks. And oh my gosh, the toilets smell like a kitchen and water actually flows down the taps, even on the grass!

This is the beginning of gross discomfort, having grown used to ‘hotels’, ‘taverns’, ‘inns’, ‘motels’ and other sophisticated sounding places which in effect are nothing but fornication zones with rickety beds.

In such places, the walls are paper thin. The randy goats next door romp noisily all night long to squeaky cheering from overworked beds only for sadistic staff to start banging cooking pots at 3am.

The hot shower never works, the towels are suspicious and the slippers are mismatched as a security measure. Well, at least they always have a Bible although only God knows when they are expected to read it. Before or after?

This is the environment a Kenyan is accustomed to. But haul him from his comfort zone and thrust him into the opulence of a five-star hotel.

Then in comes dinner,buffet, to be precise. Our man looks at the train of dishes and shivers with fright. There are all sorts of leaves and meats and...Wah! For someone whose dinner is ugali and sukumawiki seasoned with a few pieces of mutura, this is a feast.

So he picks bits of everything, only to discover when taking his seat that his plate is piled up to the rafters, yet other guys only have a leaf or two, a piece of bread and the toe of a chicken on their plates. Ku sweat nayo!

African tongue

There is nothing as uncomfortable as the realisation that you have too much food on your plate. But that is just the beginning of his woes. Five-star hotel chefs cook for mzungu palates, so the meat, chicken and veggies in those places are extremely unfamiliar to an African tongue and stomach.

The consequence of this is that when our man wakes up in the morning, the exotic food is still lying undigested in his stomach – like a stone.

Huffing and grunting on the priceless toilet seat doesn’t relieve the bloat. Not that it matters anyway because in a couple of minutes, he will stuff his belly with a tonne of food at the breakfast table and doze like a croc till noon.

Meanwhile, what is he to do with the ten white towels in the bathroom? In fact, which idiot uses a white towel anyway? And does someone honestly expect him to fill the bathtub with water and take a dip?

Note, this is a guy who goes for a celebratory beer when brown, dirty water miraculously sprouts out of his tap in Umoja. Beer, however, is the major cause of teeth grinding. 350 bob surely? That is enough for a barrel of countryman ‘whisky’ and a harlot reeking of Bint el Sudan, or any other cheap cologne. Anyway, guess his first stop from the five-star hotel? Kwa Njoro, for boiro and real booze.