Real quick:  it was a long trip.  4am dash out of Brooklyn to Newark.  An overnight stay in Heathrow, making friends with the linoleum.   At 5am, three hours ahead of scheduled flight departure, there is an enormous queue.  The Kenyan Airlines 767 is booked solid, almost all tourists. 

A late night cab to the hostel, 80mph down the highway.  The next morning is bright, a clear Sunday in what must be the Christian district?  Locals in their Sunday finest clog the streets near the hostel.  First impressions: lush green, trees and grass, a busy, mixed population: dark, fair, short, tall, western and traditional clothing mingling on my three kilometer walk into the cement city center.

Con men pick me out and strike up easy conversations: an artist, a teacher, safari guides.  The day before I arrived, the only other person in the 18 bunk room I’m staying in, a Japanese mechanic in between jobs, gave $15 to two men claiming to be hostel staff in need of gasoline funds. 

For the next few days, I’m seeking travel advice and meeting up with friends of friends.  Excited to be here.  I’m sure the malarial symptoms I’m exhibiting are just jetlag and the aftereffects of three sleepless nights.  Why am I worried?  A major symptom:  I’m seriously considering a haircut.