Kenyan highways

Before setting off for Kenya, where I’m spending six weeks helping The Spectator’s ‘Wild life’ columnist, Aidan Hartley, set up a school, I worried about the safety of my family. Would I be exposing my wife and four children to danger? I’d heard a lot of horror stories about violent crimes committed against the white population, up to and including murder. No, it was too irresponsible. I simply couldn’t leave them in Acton.

OK, I’m exaggerating. The murder rate in Nairobbery is higher than London. But the house we’ve rented on the Ridgemount Estate in the Rift Valley feels a lot safer than our house in west London. Not only is the estate patrolled by G4S, but we have two dedicated security guards who are here from sundown to sun-up.

There’s only one really dangerous thing about living in Kenya and that’s the roads. If you thought Spanish drivers were bad, you should try navigating the main highway out of Nairobi. The number of hazards on a typical stretch of road is so great it’s almost comical.

First, there are the matatus, the minibus taxis operated by rival street gangs that constitute the country’s main public transport system. They hurtle along at 60mph trying to beat each other to the next pick-up point, then screech to a halt in a cloud of dust. They’re so full it’s as if the passengers are trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records, and just in case you’re in any doubt about the drivers’ disregard for human life, you occasionally see one upside down by the side of the road. The names of the operating companies are emblazoned on the front and rear windscreens: ‘Da Bomb’, ‘Obama’, ‘Bad Boy’, etc.

Then there are the less safe forms of public transport, such as the motorcycle taxis known as boda-bodas.