Hakuna matata

Travelling in Nairobi is an exercise in patience. Fortunately, I am now on brilliant terms with nearly every taxi driver in the city – all of whom, somehow, seem to know me. I certainly know them. Daniel knows Joseph who knows Albert who knows...and so on. A trip that should take five minutes invariably takes 40 and, in that respect, it’s not unlike driving in London. Without the white vans.

But it’s much, much more fun; people casually walk across the main road, stopping cars with an invisible force field. Roundabouts are more stopabouts, or jamabouts, and everyone is relaxed about the whole affair. They're relaxed about everything in fact. A five-minute delay in Britain reduces some drivers to quivering, shaking wrecks, spitting venom at anyone who will ignore them, although perhaps that’s just me. I realised last night that tapping the dashboard with my angry fingers was going to get no one anywhere, least of all me and my driver to our destination.

I’m at Ruaraka today, a ground more English than many in England; an almost perfect circle with mature acacia trees around the boundary, broken up by the advertising boards around it. It took some finding, though, as there are two clubs called Ruaraka within spitting distance of each other. In fact, this whole area is chock full of sporting clubs, often sponsored by various banks – squash, cricket grounds, gyms and others all crammed into a small area – which is terrific to see.

I was reminded by a player yesterday that my comparisons between Britain and Kenya aren’t very instructive. There are problems in Britain, problems in Africa – problems everywhere and, in that respect, he felt it was pointless highlighting them. True enough. But there is a fine line between comparisons and criticism. For a Briton visiting Nairobi for the first time, comparisons are inevitable...but I’ll keep them as just that: comparisons.

Hakuna matata.