It’s the beginning of July, and I’m starting to question why I’m writing this. I’m still processing my experiences from my second trip to Kenya, and I’m not entirely sure why I went or how it went.
I suppose it was a mix of keeping my word, evaluating whether I could actually imagine living there, and hoping to reconnect with my reason. This is happening around the same time I posted The Effort & the Effect 7, roughly two months ago.
I started talking to my reason again. She criticized my English spelling and grammar on this blog. In response, I sent her a “savage” emoji, which unfortunately displayed as a middle finger. She took it badly and asked me what I wanted. I told her, “You.” She didn’t respond. Amid all this, I got a notification that my flight to Nairobi via Istanbul was ready for check-in. I realized it was leaving early the next morning. I hadn’t had that on my radar—I guess that’s what vacation does to me. I seriously thought I had another day. I started packing hastily, hoping I had everything before going to bed. She doesn’t know I’m coming to her country, let alone her city.
My alarm went off in the morning, and I forced myself out of bed. The train ride was uneventful, almost routine. I wondered how many times I’d crossed that bridge by now.
I arrive at the airport early and make use of my lounge pass with some breakfast. It’s decent, but nothing extraordinary.
The flight departs on time, and I’m glad I booked a window seat—I love watching the sky and the world from above. It calms me, makes me feel good, even happy.
I watch a movie and nap a bit when it gets boring and I can no longer see the earth below. As we approach Istanbul, my mood shifts. This city is massive – I had no idea.
For some reason, we’re stuck on the runway for what feels like forever, and it reminds me of my time in Mazar-i-Sharif. The Istanbul airport is gigantic and ostentatious, instantly validating every cliché about Turks I heard growing up in Germany. Yet, it’s beautiful in its own way. The lounge pass here is worth every penny—unlike the earlier one. The buffet is incredible: snacks, desserts, everything. I tell my diet to go to hell and make the most of my four-hour layover. There’s even a “Salt Bae” restaurant—can you believe it?
As my flight to Nairobi prepares to board, it’s already evening, and I’m thrilled about my window seat—until I realize the plane is more than half empty. I could’ve taken the middle row, stretched across four seats, and slept comfortably. The socks and eye mask don’t help much, especially with my seat neighbor in the two-seat window section crowding my space.
I love the sunset from the plane, but it doesn’t compare to the one I saw returning from ISAF. I end my series of five-minute naps when the lights of Nairobi start to dazzle me through the window.
As always, customs takes forever, and I’m too tired to figure out why my Safaricom SIM isn’t giving me data this time. I agree to a $15 fare to my Airbnb. The driver, a friendly Kamba, warns me about women from other tribes with a chuckle. The view from the Airbnb’s balcony is stunning, a welcome sight after the long journey.
I’m parched as hell. There’s no water in the apartment, and I’m not about to drink Nairobi’s tap water. I look up a shop and head out. The guards stop me at the gate: “This isn’t a safe area at night.” After some back-and-forth, one grabs a stick, arms himself, and agrees to escort me—but he refuses to head toward the 24-hour shop I found, steering me to a closer one instead. We chat along the way, but I don’t feel the same connection I had with Nicolas. When I see people sleeping on the ground against the walls, I understand the guards’ concern. Back at the apartment, I thank him and decide to tip him the next morning.