What Hope for Kenya?

The first impressions are strong. The land of Kenya, the highland part of it no less than the coast, is obviously African. But, to an American who spent part of his youth in the West of his own country, it is disturbingly, almost enchantingly, familiar. Coming into Nairobi airport from the North, and looking out and down from the plane, one might be flying over Wyoming at one moment, or over Arizona the next. Mount Kenya and the Aberdare chain might be Western mountains. Nairobi itself is like a California town in the sunshine —and one recalls that Anne Lindbergh said it was “like Pasadena.” The illusion is sustained by the gardened appearance of the place, which goes back, one is told, to the work of Peter Greensmith, who, as Director of Parks, has been a wizard with the omnipresent bougainvillea.

The Western illusion is sustained by the climate—only in this instance one thinks of the Mexican plateau. Nairobi, just under the Equator, is 5,800 feet up; though the sun shines hot and direct, the air is cool, and the tsetse fly and the mosquito are far away. This is not malarial or sleeping sickness country. From the city’s many suburbs there is the hint of mountains in the distance.

JC

About the Author

John Chamberlain

John Chamberlain (1903–1995) was an American writer.

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The first impressions are strong. The land of Kenya, the highland part of it no less than the coast, is obviously African. But, to an American who spent part of his youth in the West of his own country, it is disturbingly, almost enchantingly, familiar. Coming into Nairobi airport from the North, and looking out and down from the plane, one might be flying over Wyoming at one moment, or over Arizona the next. Mount Kenya and the Aberdare chain might be Western mountains. Nairobi itself is like a California town in the sunshine —and one recalls that Anne Lindbergh said it was “like Pasadena.” The illusion is sustained by the gardened appearance of the place, which goes back, one is told, to the work of Peter Greensmith, who, as Director of Parks, has been a wizard with the omnipresent bougainvillea.

The Western illusion is sustained by the climate—only in this instance one thinks of the Mexican plateau. Nairobi, just under the Equator, is 5,800 feet up; though the sun shines hot and direct, the air is cool, and the tsetse fly and the mosquito are far away. This is not malarial or sleeping sickness country. From the city’s many suburbs there is the hint of mountains in the distance.