Every morning I travel to a different planet.I leave my little house in Buru-Buru, a neighbourhood populated by- as far as I can tell- some pretty normal people. My blood is still thick from Boston, in the northeast of the United States, where I lived until I left for Nairobi three weeks ago.

After 45 minutes, or maybe 2 hours if the jams are really bad, the dust and energy of the city hit an invisible wall at Muthaiga Road. This is the first sign that I am leaving Kenya. Just a few more minutes, up Limuru Road, takes me to a place that, I have come to realize, is populated by crazy people; The United Nations I came here to work for three months as an intern for the UN’s humanitarian news service. The plan was simple: arrive in Nairobi and crash at my friend’s house in Buru while I look for my own place and then live happily ever after, preferably with wireless internet.

Step one went pretty well. My friend, Agnes, and her two sisters took great care of me. As much as I enjoyed living in Buru-Buru, I resolved to commence “Step 2” quickly and went about finding the perfect place to rent. My requirements: closer to Gigiri and preferably with some nice and respectful housemates. And it shouldn’t be too expensive. As an intern, I am paid 400 shillings a day. To obtain this perfect apartment, I posted an advertisement on the UN’s online bulletin board: “wonderful and very mature and clean and perfect intern seeks similar to share beautiful home with for three months.” So “Emily” emailed me and we picked a day that I would meet her after work so she could drive me to her house for a look.

Emily’s home could have fit about five of my Buru bedrooms in the living room. She lived there alone because her husband was working in a mine in Zambia. I gasped a little when she told me that because it sounded so hard and dangerous. Until she told me of course he doesn’t actually work in the mine, he supervises people.

On a recent visit, Emily’s husband helped her fire their gardener. It was horrible. Her husband and the gardener argued for six straight hours. Emily cried the whole time. Emily went through the house pointing out all the security features. The electric fence. The dogs. The panic buttons in every room. The sensors on all the windows that triggered the alarm if you hit the glass. Emily had also previously mentioned something about her plates. If I moved in, she had stressed, she did not want me to use her plates. The reason, she said, was because she had gotten these nice things when she got married, and didn’t want anyone else to use them. I told her I understood; I was also recently married and got some nice kitchen stuff that I wouldn’t want to be messed up. But I probably wouldn’t want to live in a place where I would have to eat off the floor. After Emily’s place there was Sweta’s. It didn’t have furniture. And the bathroom was locked. I have no idea what Sweta felt the need to protect under lock and key in her bathroom.

Then there was Jane, a lovely woman but a bare-bones house that wasn’t quite right. She was also touchy about her cutlery. What was it with people and their kitchenware? I did not come to Kenya to steal plates! Another lady at the UN emailed me to say she had a room available and I emailed her back to see if she wanted me to come by her office to talk about it. Finally I responded to an ad that someone had put up on the UN bulletin board just as I had. A beautiful house on General Mathenge Boulevard with other UN workers, and living with a bunch of

other UN employees could be fun; surely we’d have things to talk about. I called the number and an Abdul answered. I was just leaving a church service with Agnes and kids were running around and someone was banging on the newly donated drum set that the preacher had devoted his sermon to thanking Jesus for. So Abdul was rather hard to hear. Plus he had a European accent.

“I forgot to ask you, are there any girls in the house?” I asked him.

“No, no girls.”

“Oh… Well, I’m sorry but I don’t think my husband would like me living with a bunch of guys.”

“We’re a (something I couldn’t quite hear) couple.”

“WHAT?” I shouted back.

“We’re two (something) guys. We’re (something.)

“You’re WHAT?”

“WE’RE TWO GAY GUYS, WE’RE A GAY COUPLE!”

“Oh! Well maybe my husband would be fine with that.”

“YOUR HUSBAND IS NOT FINE WITH THAT?”

Oh boy. Now I had to go see the room or else they’ll think I was prejudiced against gay Europeans. Abdul greeted me and showed me the room I’d be staying in. There were no curtains on the windows, but he said they’d been ordered and should be here soon.

“What about sheets?” I asked, noting the bare mattress. Abdul looked at me as if he was offended. “This isn’t a guest house,” he said. I didn’t really understand the difference

between providing sheets and curtains, but we moved on. Abdul began pointing out the

rules of the house: He and his partner were vegetarians, although it wouldn’t matter for me because they do not allow sharing of food. The cat was to be permitted to go anywhere she pleases, including my room. Music was not to be played in the living room. The search continues….