Looks like Livingstone: Scandinavian Sins

”Did you see any animals?”
”No, nothing exotic anyways. Only some monkeys.”
Something I never thought I would hear myself say for an answer

That outstretched piece of land somewhere up in the north that they call “Sweden” is appearing to be more and more distant to us for every day that passes. At this point we are unsure if such a place even exists? This strange, exotic place where they say that polar bears roam the streets and everybody is blond and has blue eyes… Well, all right, it is probably not really that far gone. Yet.

Travelling can usually be considered the most effective time machine yet known to the common man. Not in the sense that one actually travels to another time, but in the way that it alters our perception of time. Although, here in Kenya I sometimes believe that I have in fact stepped through a time portal and ended up in the 70ies. Which suits me pretty fine most of the time, apart from when having to make my way through a cloud of compact, pitch-black diesel exhaust from a 50 year old Indian lorry. Nevertheless, I normally get the feeling that time is passing a whole lot slower when out travelling than when being home in the normal, everyday-life. I think that most people who have had the privilege to travel can say the same. However, I myself have never been out on a trip longer than 7 weeks before. I have myself then felt as if I have been gone for a very long time, when my friends at home usually say “I thought you just left?”. When constantly on the move, I do believe that the feeling of time passing in slow-motion, of a week feeling like a month and a month feeling like at least half a year, can be maintained for a long time. But when settling down in one place and getting into a somewhat routine-based and normal life in that spot, time should surely start to speed up again. So when does this happen? I do not know. All I can say is that even though I would say that me and Nils are feeling rather at home here in the north-western parts of central Nairobi now, our perception of time is completely twisted. Has it been three months? Six? A year? If it was not for the almanac, we probably would not have much of a clue.

When travelling around in the wide world, I somehow always seem to have a good eye for spotting normal and odd exports, various references and other remnants of Sweden and Scandinavia. And no matter how distant and obscure Sweden may seem to me down here in Kenya, there are still small signs spread out over the country. Some stranger than others. The Volvo 240 greeting us the first day at the Chiromo Campus is probably something I will remember for a very long time. Some time ago I finally got to meet the owner. Turned out that it belonged to an old biology professor who did a project in Stockholm during the early eighties. Whilst there, he was fascinated by the box-like cars that were everywhere around him. So when he had returned to Kenya and some years later needed a new car, he arranged for the import of one 1989 year model Volvo 244. He has kept it ever since, not because he has an interest in classic cars, but because it just keeps on rolling and he just simply could not be bothered looking for a replacement. I would say that old Volvos are quite overrepresented in the Kenyan traffic, when compared to other European brands. Could be their reputation of being somewhat built like tanks that suits the sometimes very rough roads and aggressive traffic in this country. Also, in a place where finding spare parts and specialists can sometimes be troublesome, it is good to have a car that requires limited and low-tech maintenance.

Swedish decadence in the ditch

Classy Volvo 940 SE getting some attention

Laid back

Me with Dr Kaaya, the owner of the finest car in Chiromo!

Signs from home

Speaking of the inhabitants of the northern parts of Europe, we have for more or less obvious reasons mostly met Danes. That including Kenyans who has lived in Denmark and speak more or less fluent Danish, and Danes who have lived in Kenya for many years. It seems to be an unusually high proportion of Danish living here in Kenya. Could it be the heritage from Karen Blixen? Hard to say. Also, some of our fellow mates in the university laboratory are sporadically saying something including the word “Danish”. Unfortunately the rest of the sentence is usually composed of at least 80% Kiswahili. And even though I have asked them what they are talking about, I am yet to get a straight answer. When it comes to the Swedes, they have not been very present apart from our industrial heritage of Volvo 240s rolling around the streets and empty Absolut Vodka bottles thrown in the ditch. I would say normally, it is very often when moving around in a neon metropolis, misty jungle or a lonely mountain, that you come across at least one other Swede. It has happened to me all over the world, and it is an equally strange feeling every time. Because no matter how much some people give immigrants a hard time for only socializing with people of their own nationality, Swedish are sometimes not that different when abroad. It usually doesn’t take more than a few minutes for Swedish people in a party anywhere in the world to somehow locate each other, isolate themselves in a corner and start talking about “Dala-horses” and blood-pudding in Swedish. It gives a very strong feeling of home, even when being thousands of miles away.

Even if they (we) are a quite rare species here, the three months have been enough for at least some exposures of random Swedes. The first one was when just walking home from work, and crossing the road just before home. Suddenly we heard a loud “Hey!”, but we didn’t think much of it since it is quite common that people call out loudly to each other here. Then came another “Hey!”, which made us turn around and meet the eyes of a man driving a car. He then continued to address us in Swedish and asked “You are from Sweden right?”. He had seen Nils’ bag which bears the logo and text of Engineering Physics in Uppsala. We were so surprised that we only had the time to shout some automatic response before he was gone with his car. Another encounter was when we had our regular Saturday lunch at the “Yaya” shopping centre. When sitting in the restaurant we played the old game of “guess the nationality”, and we could not help but think that a couple of women sitting at a table close to ours could in fact be Scandinavian. We tried to hear what language they were speaking, but it was far too noisy in the room. But when on the way out from the shopping mall, we walked passed one of them by coincidence. And Nils was just then, not aware of her presence, saying something to me in Swedish. It was quite a lot of people around us talking in different languages. But Nils talking Swedish made her twitch and turn around. At least to me that is a pretty good proof that she was if not Swedish at least Scandinavian. Just yesterday I was stopped by an elderly couple when walking to work. It took me a while to realise that they had started speaking Swedish with me, something I really did not expect in that situation. Again, they had seen something. This time it was my t-shirt with the text “Riksgränsen” printed on it, the name of a ski resort far north in Sweden. After conversing with them for a couple of minutes I had to excuse myself to continue my walk, and got an invitation to the “Glögg-party” at the Swedish Society in Nairobi.

Turns out the Swedish presence in Nairobi might be a force to be reckoned with after all.

Swedish contraband. The strangest was that this was to be delivered to Nils' Indian relative here in Nairobi. Who would think that a Swede would smuggle spices from Sweden to an Indian living in Kenya?