Don't tell me anything about Nairobi! I've been there before ^{[see Nairobi #1]}, but this airplane makes things even Nairobier. Jomo Kenyatta Airport. After helping, to make some speed, the Nairobi immigration officer to find the Uganda exit stamp in the passport of the man queuing in front of me, I found Dano and Anne cheering me, behind glass, to my golf clubs, the only separate luggage in my shuttle plane, the only tiny piece of luggage in a totally deserted soccer field size baggage claim hall. A sub prime desert. It had been lifted off the band by a helpful hand, but I found it. An half hour late evening drive in their Range Rover that has seen it ALL, but over four, even six lane highways, no potholes, streetlights, lane markings, traffic signs, big office buildings left and right, is this Africa? Yes, approaching town we squeeze in the Nbi-jams, slowly passing 24x7 open luxury supermarket malls where everything is paid thrice (to African standards, half to Western).
Dano is photographer, Annemarie plays golf and is starting a bed-&-breakfast. The house looks trendy. In no time I succeeded to break a glass shelf of Dano's design set in the bathroom. Fortunately he was not particularly affected by the incident but I really could not go about town in these clothes of mine, so I was told. Quickly they dove up handsome orange trousers and striped polo (photo left), and ready I was!
No no! No socks in sandals! (I am just reading how daring trend setters at the end of the 19th century introduced sandals - with socks! - in London's high society - stories of entrance refusals in public bars etc.. But after all that was the time when the English taught Africa to wear clothes and refrain from the tattoos and piercings they now themselves eagerly show off with, lying naked on Brighton beach, so what's wrong with 21^st century Nairobi etiquette requiring clowns' outfits?)
I took my watch to Nairobi. Far from a regular utensil on my dhow but I somehow found it! Anne appointed herself immediately as my impresario and coach: "Friday afternoon we go and see a house we consider buying. So in the morning you could see the animal orphan nursery at nine, because the elephants are at eleven and you would be back in time to join us...."
Actually my life here is sitting ready to join any action taken, and follow. You move, but fortunately you do not need to think. I am Anne's driver because they have the wrong driver's chair in the Range Rover: the seat is to high. Anne is small and cannot reach the pedals, I am tall and sit pinched against the ceiling with no view. Who cares? We're in jams all the time anyway.
When I sit in the room, waiting for the next item on the agenda I read The Times (the top hundred of world stars "people who determine our future", each of them licked by a fellow network pal. This Californian rambo governor about "star" Ted Kennedy, full of awe and admiration etc. etc.). Or: glossy magazines about restaurants in Cape Town, or a celebrity visiting the Mongol nomads (nowadays bookable). Then off again. Agreeing with some of Dano's photo customers on a series of portraits. The man of the couple has time to ventilate his utter indignation about these publications grossly exaggerating Nairobi crime, going so far as to coin the term "Nairobbery". We have a lively discussion on the issue. Going back to our car he turns out to be limping. He is not working since last year after missing the stop sign of a car jack gang in the dark. He passed them. They shot him in the knee.

Golf. Yes I do play some golf, a good thing because Anne plays just about 18 holes (4 hours) every day and I am here to see her. Problem only is that her male and female club friends play scratch to 9 over at most, so on average I need one stroke more at each hole. Difficult not to feel disabled. In fact it is called a handicap. I do feel mine is just about optimal (who does worse than me still has to learn, who does better is on the golf course too often), but when you are lonely at my delicate top, it is hard to stay convinced of yourself.
The handicap compensation is the funniest thing of golf: your competition points measure whether you did good or bad compared to your past performance that defined your handicap. The winner is the one who beats his former self most thoroughly. Why flagellate yourself and keep track of this instead of just counting strokes? ^{[my mathematical grounds for this view on golf handicap]} Anne's insider answer is valuable: because that's what everybody does. And do not stand in the line of other people's putting, do not scratch out your blade grid with your nails, do not lick your club blade clean but use wet cloth and let your caddy do it, know your stableford par correction so as to pick the ball in time and not let your flight wait. Note scores at times when it does not detain your flight. Do not go to those guys cutting trees there, they are wood thieves and have guns, and no, we do not call the club house because using the cell phone on the course costs a KSh 20000/= fine.

O no! Just think of your butcher bill before taking her home! More: Cheetah gif