THE SECOND TERM III

THE NAIROBI EYE

So what am I doing here in the lobby of the Norfolk Hotel again? Well, I'm not sure. Waiting for Peter (or Paul or Jonathan) is always part of being here. Watching tourists come and go. And thinking about life in East Africa and wondering how long I can continue to enjoy it.

It was only last week that things more or less unraveled at Ilboru. During tea break on Friday–for reasons that I don't know the faculty no longer takes tea during this period–I met Mr. Mnjokava and chatted with him instead of preparing for my last class of the week. He was also tired, not in the best of spirits, and unusually outspoken when he blurted out, “I'm sick of this being teacher on duty.” And so we talked a bit about the state of Ilboru. “You alone among the Tanzanian teachers seem to meet your classes pretty regularly,” I remarked to him. “Well, we're paid so little, we have to do something else to earn enough income. And I only teach when I have nothing else to do. If the cow needs hay, or if something needs fixing in the house, I do that instead.”

So I was not at my best when the last class started, and I faced a rather broad range of problems. They passed smoothly in quick succession, however, and then one of my favorite questioners, with an unusually impish grin on his face, passed me a slip with a handwritten problem on it. Actually, it was a rather standard derivation from American sophomore-level analytical mechanics. I think he was just trying to stump me.

The Norfolk is fully booked tonight, so I have to move, which partially explains why I'm sitting here in the lobby, next to the telephone, waiting for Peter (or Paul or Jonathan) to contact me as was promised. These three able-bodied men have two vehicles and one telephone at their disposal, I keep reminding myself, and daughter-in-law Jyoti is likely at home as well. Tour groups come and go unceasingly, and naturally they are more interesting when exiting this region than when entering. A business couple from Manhattan who had just ended a two-week tented tour of the Serengeti was most hospitable, even inviting me to share their Terrace table for a farewell coke before departure. They understood why I often came to Nairobi for hot water and lights; they had spent the previous night in Arusha's best hotel, the Mt. Meru, without any water or electricity. They also commiserated on the state of my right eye. While he checked out, she informed me that the New Yorker's recent and very negative review of the Met's new production of Die Meistersinger was representative of New York critics, and also that Elizabeth Drew had been fired from that magazine's staff by the new editor; it was really exciting to discuss important aspects of my past, and future, life.

I really didn't want to do that derivation last Friday, and I told the class, honestly, that it would never appear on a national test. But they insisted. I'd done it many times before, but not for several years now, of course. And even in my prime, after thinking about it for a few minutes beforehand, I had only about one chance in three of getting to the end without an algebraic disaster. So, after imploring them earnestly to leave the room quickly and quietly as soon as they were bored, I began.

Later a sizeable group–I mean that in more ways than one–of older American tourists wandered into the Norfolk lobby. They were to use day rooms until 6:00 and then leave for the airport, and home, at 9:00. They too had visited Tanzania, and everything had gone well until two nights earlier when the Sopa Lodge Serengeti had been under water and full of mud. They had spent last night in Arusha, without water and electricity, but for all of that they looked surprisingly clean and dry this noon.

At first I proceeded tentatively with the derivation, in my mind but not on the board, and then, seeing a clear route to the end, I moved on confidently. But, as so often used to happen, the expressions became formidably complex again, and I moaned inwardly, but not out loud. Then it was suddenly obvious, and I was joyful; the cross product terms would cancel out as they always do for physically significant quadratic forms. I wrote the final line, refrained from pointing out the significance of the resulting theorem, tossed the chalk to my smiling questioner, wished the class a happy weekend, and walked out to the sound of their appreciative laughter.

Nights in Arusha are much like nights on a Himalayan trek; there isn't much to do after the sun sets. So I often go to bed early, from necessity, and hope that I can sleep a significant part of the night. In Nepal the ground is hard, it's cold, and the minute pad under the sleeping bag is never in a horizontal plane. I usually fell asleep there simply because it was less miserable than staying awake. An Arusha bed is no less uncomfortable than the Nepalese ground, but here the surroundings are stuffy and warm rather than cold. And since the bed is more or less horizontal, even the novelty of occasionally rolling off the pad is lost.

Mosquitoes are a constant threat, and some form of precaution is essential. The Victoria House uses those lovely conical nets that hang from the ceiling and are impossible to fit snugly around a rectangular bed frame. And the porosity of the particular net in use here actually invites “mossies” to come inside. For the first night or two I simply waited until they had all gathered at the top, and then I simply crawled out of the net and left them there. They quickly learned how to escape, however, so I looked for another method.

Teresa Jackson suggested the use of mosquito coils, and she even bought the first box for me. They work quite well, especially when occasionally supplemented by a stick of Off. I won't say the coil became my prophylaxis of choice, however. The influx of bees one evening required much more heavy-handed techniques, but by the time a maid finally arrived with a can of Doom spray, I had already swatted most of them.

As is almost always the case now, I felt very tired, but not sleepy, that Friday evening after my successful class. When electricity is available, I read a little bit, although the light level is usually so low in the early part of the evening that this is difficult, or play solitaire as late as I can before crawling into bed. I recall nothing significant about this night except that my eyes were very itchy, and I rubbed them, gently of course, many times. This in itself was not unusual; the road from Ilboru down which I walk to town is extremely dusty, and I often wipe grime from the lower parts of my eyes.

On Saturday morning both eyes were very sore, and by that evening the right one was a mess. During the night it exuded pus and a clear fluid; the latter conveyed a burning sensation to my skin as it ran down my cheek, and by morning the skin was sore enough to make cleaning off the exuded material a bit painful, especially using cold water in a dark bathroom. I thought matters improved a bit during the day on Sunday, but by Monday morning I wasn't so sure. A colleague phoned the PC Medical Officer in Dar, and she responded with the name of an Arusha doctor who could refer me to a specialist. Since the problem seemed to be with the skin rather than with the eye itself, I decided that waiting another day or two was a lesser gamble than visiting a local ophthalmologist.

When Peter saw the eye a little later that morning, he agreed that it was a mess and volunteered the opinion that it was definitely a case of Nairobi eye. Everything he said about the malady fit my symptoms, and since only time was required to clear up the problem, I relaxed, but decided not to teach for a few days. Then, little by little, I began to piece together what probably had happened.

I recalled that something had flown onto my head during a recent night when I was asleep; it could well have been Friday. It felt sufficiently massive, that after flicking it off, I raised my head and looked around to see if something was crawling on the bed. Finding nothing, I fell back asleep. I also recalled that on that Saturday morning, in addition to the sore eyes, I felt a stiffness on the left side of my neck that I attributed to having slept soundly in an awkward position. It was only when I showered that I realized this soreness was from burned skin, not a stiff muscle. My likely assailant was a wormlike insect according to an entomologist who had identified it for Peter some years back, that exudes a fluid when brushed with the hand. This satanic liquid burned the skin as it dripped from my eye onto the cheek below; much the same occurred to the skin on my neck, but there the problem was not worsened by dried-up pus, so I minded it less. Perhaps I had brushed the creature off my head, it had crawled onto my neck where I had unknowingly crushed it and then equally unwittingly rubbed it into my itching eyes.

Late Tuesday afternoon Peter came by to say that the Jacksons had unexpected business in Nairobi and were leaving within the hour; would I like a ride? I hesitated only a little and then decided to go. The ride was quite a bit more dizzying than usual with one eye sealed half shut, and I was very happy on arrival at the Norfolk that they could take me even if only for that first night. I would never go to the Ibis Grill with one eye closed, nor even have its food sent to my room when in that condition, so instead I settled on the Kenya Farm Cheese Platter and a bottle of Beaujolais from the room-service menu. The Camembert was superb, the Brie very nice, and the wine, fine; about twenty types of breads and biscuits overran the tray, and sampling them was the most fun of all.

I waited until early Wednesday morning to submerge all of me, sore eye included, in one of those marvelous big tubs. How luxurious it was to have running hot water, bright lights, and big mirrors. In no time the dried pus was softened and wiped away, and even some of the dead skin was removed. I still looked to be the decided loser in a major boxing match, but most of the discoloration was now concealable under dark glasses, and best of all, the eye was again open enough to be useful. Later, in an unguarded moment out in the lobby, I even caught it appreciatively following a pair of attractive young women.

I had predetermined to be in another hotel by 3:00 that afternoon regardless of how the Jacksons’ three men, two vehicles, and one telephone did or did not impact my one-eyed world. In midday the front desk manager stopped to ask if I was okay; I'm certain he had seen my handkerchief daubing the still weeping eye and worried that I was uncontrollably lamenting a lost love. There is still an element of that for me in Nairobi, particularly at the Norfolk and Hilton Hotels, but that was not this day's major problem. Later, when I asked him where I might find accommodation for the night, he suggested the Hilton, which is where I went a little before 3:00.

Now the Hilton is no match for the Norfolk; I learned that over six years ago. But it must be pointed out that the piano player in the Hilton's Amboseli Grill, at least six years, two months, and four nights ago, far surpasses what I heard last month in the Ibis Grill; that guy wasn't even up to Victorian Music Hall standards. I had intended to make a final visit to the Amboseli, to check up on the piano player, but since the menu “during the Holy Month of Ramadan [is] a sumptuous and authentic Iftar Buffet… prepared by oriental chefs flown in from the Ramses Hilton in Cairo,” I will not; thoughts of terrorist attacks on tourists in Egypt and of the World Trade Center bombing would spoil my appetite. In the current environment they may even shoot the piano player for all I know.

On Thursday morning I was able to wash off almost all the residue of dried pus and dead skin, and except for the pinkness of the newly exposed layer, my face was rather normal. The PC medical officer for Kenya immediately said “Nairobi eye” when she saw me, and she was certain there was no need for me to see an ophthalmologist. She knew very little about the ailment, but she did think that a flying insect caused it, an opinion I have since confirmed from many sources. At the time, however, when she told me that she was married to a Chagga from Moshi, thought that Arusha was beautiful, and planned ultimately to retire there, I was more than a little skeptical of her opinion. I decided instead to pass on my questions to Edith Elizabeth, PC medical officer for Tanzania; at least she's married to a doctor.

When I checked into the Hilton, I left the “employer” box on the registration form empty. But the clerk insisted that the box be completed, so I scribbled in “US Peace Corps.” “Oh,” she exclaimed, “then I'll give you the special $57 Peace Corps rate.” I wonder why no one ever mentioned this to me before. It couldn't be that the Peace Corps prefers to keep its Volunteers away from the big city, could it?

I thought of doing some of the conventional tourist things this time in the city, but they all seemed a bit tame. My room has a lovely view over the Convention Center and down onto the hotel swimming pool. Well, I have to be certain that my eye focuses correctly again. But mainly I've been resting a lot–how luxurious it is to sleep in total comfort–and enjoying a bargain Chianti from room service.

Life in Arusha is getting more and more tedious and costly, and my productivity at Ilboru is steadily declining; I'm there less now because of living in town, and my students are less accessible because of increased administrative interruption and neglect. I intend to bid farewell to both by the end of May at the latest. Although I have requested reassignment, it seems unlikely to me that another teaching position will prove any more satisfactory than Ilboru. So I fully expect, like Tennyson's Ulysses, soon to be wandering toward home; but for me, alas, no Penelope awaits. Pole sana.

“For my purpose holds, to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars, until I die.”

W. Vance Johnson

06 Mar 93