Michael Logan

Novelist, Journalist and other things ending in -ist

Van Morrison changed my life

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Nats was telling me last night how lucky she was to have met me and have her life transformed from a dull grind full of greyness and gloom into a Technicolor cartoon full of shiny happy bunnies dancing the fandango with cute little monkeys in waistcoasts while petals rain down from the sky. Hurray!

Actually, what she really said that she was glad she started fencing and met me because I had helped in the creation of Charlotte. I guess it is just common courtesy to thank the sperm donor, but I’ll take any kind of compliment I can get.

Anyway, this led to a discussion of life-changing moments. All our lives are full of little crossroads that would send us down different paths: John eats a bad curry and gets a dodgy stomach, so doesn’t go out to the concert were he would have met his perfect woman/man/hermaphrodite; Cindy’s alarm clock fails to go off and she misses the job interview that would have seen her become the most powerful woman in Auchtermuchty, holding dominion over 2,000 souls and the wee shop that sells tartan tea towels; Alfie sees a swallow, decides it is spring, takes a more scenic route to work and is promptly squashed by a number 54 bus, which at least has the benefit of providing a talking point for the bored commuters being ferried to their dull office jobs.

Most of the time we don’t notice these moments as they slip by or we don’t appreciate quite how much they would change or lives – well, except for Alfie, assuming he had enough time to think more than “Shiiiiiitttttteeeeeeee!!!!” before the driver was trying to clean his brains off the windscreen with the window wipers. I actually do have a moment from which I can clearly trace a path to where I am now.

It is 1992. I am 21 and sitting upstairs in the Horseshoe bar in Glasgow with my relatively new work colleagues from Linn Products – the high end music system company. I have taken a job stuffing components into circuit boards after dropping out of university due to a combination of factors, including laziness, poverty and a lack of self-esteem. The job is boring, but the people are great and my immediate boss is the exact double of Zelda from the Terrahawks, which somehow makes it more bearable. I have no clear idea of what I am going to do next. I am just content to be making some money to spend on records, booze and chemicals.

I am a terrible singer, but have glugged down just the right number of beers to be cajoled into singing on the Karaoke machine. I elect to sing ‘Gloria’ by Van Morrison, partly because I love Van the Man, but also because it is a shouty song and therefore suits my singing voice. My performance is what you would expect. Even above my amplified screams I can hear giggles and abuse. I content myself by spraying the ungrateful buggers with spittle every time I shout ‘G-L-O-R-I-A’.

Finally it is over, and I return to the table. Callum, who runs the test department – which comprises three or four guys whose diplomas from Cardonald College give them a faint air of superiority over the plebs – comes over and demands to buy me a drink. He is a huge Van Morrison fan, and wants to congratulate me on my performance (he is very, very drunk). We get even more drunk and talk about Van Morrison for an hour, then move onto other things, such as the fact I had finished 2.5 years of Physics at Strathclyde University. Callum and I become work buddies, and within three weeks he asks if I would want to go back to university to study electronics, with the fees paid by Linn (I had lost my right to fee payment in 2nd and 3rd year by dropping out). Of course I say yes. I go to Glasgow University, get my degree and promptly show my gratitude to Linn and Callum by going off to work for OKI in Cumbernauld.

So, here’s the chain of events leading to now:

I sing a Van Morrison song in a bar, and as a result get friendly with Callum. Consequently, I go back to University and get a degree. My degree gets me a job at OKI, where I meet Andy McVeigh. I rent a room in his flat. In a casual discussion one day, I tell Andy I used to fence. He gets all keen and says he wants to start it (Andy is a major womaniser, despite being bald since 19 and looking kind of like a turtle, and is sure he can get some action at fencing). I am not so keen, remembering how angry/upset I used to get when I lost at competitions, but he persuades me to come along with him. We join Glasgow West End Fencing Club, where I drink a lot, make some great friends and kind of fence. This goes on for six years, until I am just about to quit fencing because it has lost its appeal. Then Nats joins Glasgow West. After some ups and downs, we get together. She is going to Bosnia for a year, and after a few months decide we are in love, are going to get married and that I am coming to Banja Luka, the capital of Bosnia’s Serb Republic. I sell my house and car and go to Bosnia, where I trade in my soldering iron for a notebook and pen. We move to Hungary after a year, and I start to work for the German Press Agency. Four years later, I apply to get transferred to Nairobi, and we move. Nats gets pregnant, and along comes Charlotte.

So, there you go. If it weren’t for a drunken decision to sing a certain song in a certain bar, I would not have gone back to fencing and met the only perfect match for me out there, I would not have the gorgeous little Charlotte, I would not be a journalist, and would not be living in Kenya. All pretty big consequences for one little song, which I am now very glad I sang.

I would love to know if anybody else has a moment like that they can pin down. If so, leave a comment or send me a private message with your story.

The Old Man and the Shoes

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In a change from my recent carping about corruption, I want to recount a lovely exchange I had in an optician’s in Hurlingham yesterday while I was being fitted for contact lenses and having my glasses bent back into shape.

I was explaining to the owner of the shop that wearing glasses while playing football was not a great idea considering the number of elbows flying about, when an elderly Indian Kenyan waiting at the counter piped up: “Ah, you play football sir?”

I could immediately tell from his demeanour, his well-kept bushy white handlebar moustache and the gold chain attaching his spectacles to his face that he was something of a character. I indicated that yes, I did play football, if you can count petulantly clipping people’s ankles as they whizz past me as such.

“Let me tell you about my one time playing football,” he said. “I was at school in India when my father sent me from Kenya a fine pair of training shoes. I put them on and proudly walked about. Then somebody noticed that they were football shoes. In fact, they were the only proper football shoes for tens of kilometres around. Everyone decided I must be a footballer of some repute and invited me to play in a match.”

Now, normally when an old buffer starts banging on about the past, everyone around scarpers for cover, save for the poor person, in this case me, caught in the headlights. However, this old gent had such a fine storytelling voice and a mischievous glint in his eye that the two other staff members were drawn toward the counter and stood smiling as he talked.

“I turned up for the game, and people had come from villages around, drawn by the allure of these splendid football shoes they had heard so much about. I had never played football before, not even for one second, but I saw all of these players jumping around.”

He stopped to mime a warm-up session, picking his elbows up into the chicken-dance pose and kicking his legs out to the sides. If he had been wearing braces I am sure he would have hooked his thumbs into them.

“So, of course, I started to do the same thing. They put me in goal to start with, and for the first few minutes nothing happened. Then somebody can running toward the goal and thundered in a fierce shot. I didn’t know what to do and was more interested in showing off my great shoes than saving the ball, so I just put my foot up so everyone could see them.”

He lifted his leg high and slightly to the side, waggling his foot to demonstrate how he presented the best possible view of his footwear to the ogling crowd.

“The ball hit me right in the midriff and knocked me over. My shoes and I were carried off the pitch. I never played football again.”

He laughed when I pointed out to him that he could say he had a 100% record as a goalkeeper – one shot, one save – then went on his way. It was only when I got home that I realised I should have asked him what happened to the shoes.

The Old Man and the Shoes

by

In a change from my recent carping about corruption, I want to recount a lovely exchange I had in an optician’s in Hurlingham yesterday while I was being fitted for contact lenses and having my glasses bent back into shape.

I was explaining to the owner of the shop that wearing glasses while playing football was not a great idea considering the number of elbows flying about, when an elderly Indian Kenyan waiting at the counter piped up: “Ah, you play football sir?”

I could immediately tell from his demeanour, his well-kept bushy white handlebar moustache and the gold chain attaching his spectacles to his face that he was something of a character. I indicated that yes, I did play football, if you can count petulantly clipping people’s ankles as they whizz past me as such.

“Let me tell you about my one time playing football,” he said. “I was at school in India when my father sent me from Kenya a fine pair of training shoes. I put them on and proudly walked about. Then somebody noticed that they were football shoes. In fact, they were the only proper football shoes for tens of kilometres around. Everyone decided I must be a footballer of some repute and invited me to play in a match.”

Now, normally when an old buffer starts banging on about the past, everyone around scarpers for cover, save for the poor person, in this case me, caught in the headlights. However, this old gent had such a fine storytelling voice and a mischievous glint in his eye that the two other staff members were drawn toward the counter and stood smiling as he talked.

“I turned up for the game, and people had come from villages around, drawn by the allure of these splendid football shoes they had heard so much about. I had never played football before, not even for one second, but I saw all of these players jumping around.”

He stopped to mime a warm-up session, picking his elbows up into the chicken-dance pose and kicking his legs out to the sides. If he had been wearing braces I am sure he would have hooked his thumbs into them.

“So, of course, I started to do the same thing. They put me in goal to start with, and for the first few minutes nothing happened. Then somebody can running toward the goal and thundered in a fierce shot. I didn’t know what to do and was more interested in showing off my great shoes than saving the ball, so I just put my foot up so everyone could see them.”

He lifted his leg high and slightly to the side, waggling his foot to demonstrate how he presented the best possible view of his footwear to the ogling crowd.

“The ball hit me right in the midriff and knocked me over. My shoes and I were carried off the pitch. I never played football again.”

He laughed when I pointed out to him that he could say he had a 100% record as a goalkeeper – one shot, one save – then went on his way. It was only when I got home that I realised I should have asked him what happened to the shoes.

Corruption, poverty and society in Kenya

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After being so smug and detailing how I avoided paying a bribe to a policeman, I am ashamed to admit I bribed a parking official in Nairobi’s Central Business District on Wednesday. I paid because my wife and newborn daughter were with me: to go through the dance to avoid paying or to go to City Hall to pay the fine would have taken a lot of time, and would have forced Natalie to take two-week-old Charlotte (and my mother-in-law) home in a taxi with no car-seat or on a bus or matatu. I didn’t want that.

My offence was for a parking violation, committed because I foolishly trusted one of the many self-appointed parking attendants that roam the CBD to keep an eye on the car while we ran a quick errand. When I returned, a few minutes ahead of Natalie and Charlotte, two council employees came gleefully sprinting across to clamp the car.

Regardless of the fact that one of the officials was wearing a bright yellow overall emblazoned with the legend “Corruption is Evil”, the non-uniformed gentleman made it clear that a bribe was required. We negotiated and I paid him, shuttling notes into his eager hands under the cover of the dashboard. He shooed away his assistant beforehand, presumably so he would not have to cut him in for very much. We then pretended to drive off toward City Hall. Before he jumped out the car round the corner, the official shook and kissed my hand and told me he often “helped” motorists in this way.

I felt pretty soiled for paying the bribe. I should have insisted we go through the official procedure and pay the fine. I should have done what little I could to fight the problem that is hamstringing Kenya. But I took the easy way out.

It is no secret that Kenya is mired in corruption. A recent study by Transparency International ranked Kenya as East Africa’s most corrupt nation. Corruption – which undermines virtually every system of governance put in place in Kenya – is the major symptom of the every-man-for-themselves attitude, much of it prompted by poverty. For the majority of Kenya’s residents, much of everyday life is about the scrabble for money .

The scores of people who died near Molo earlier this year, when the overturned tanker they were collecting fuel from exploded, would not have been there had they been better off. Those people risked their lives for literally a few dollars. One high-ranking political buffoon blamed “greed” for the incident and several that have followed. He clearly doesn’t know what it is to be poor. For those scraping by in the slums of Kibera, Huruma or Kawangware, a few dollars can mean the difference between feeding your whole family that evening or just the select few. It can mean you have enough to pay the rent for another month or pay the school fees.

The struggle for survival is not good for Kenyan society, however, and the romantic notion of solidarity amongst the poor often doesn’t translate into reality. I have seen two security guards almost come to blows over a tip that was less than 50 cents.

Even the idea of doing a simple favour for somebody out of human kindness has been compromised. If you drop your hat and somebody returns it, chances are they aren’t doing it out of goodwill. They are doing it in the hope that you will give them something. The first time this happened to me, a man chased me to say I had left a bottle of wine on the ground. I went back for it and thanked him, thinking how nice it was to meet somebody honest. He then asked me for money for doing something that should be a basic courtesy. Again I can understand this, although it leaves a sour taste in the mouth. The people involved in such incidents have invariably been clearly in need of the money, and there have also been moments where people have done me genuine favours.

So the poor have an excuse. But what about those who are better off? What about the middle classes? What about the politicians who have a seemingly insatiable appetite for more money and no concern for how they accumulate it, even if it means diverting subsidised maize intended to feed people suffering from a famine? What about middle-ranking public servants, judges or police chiefs, all of whom can be bought for the right price?

Most Kenyans will tell you corruption is evil, but – like me – they will pay that bribe to dodge a ticket, avoid that large tax bill or get that job. They will vote for the guy they think can scoop the most money for their community or tribe, even if that guy is clearly bent. And they will take that bribe themselves given a chance. What many Kenyans mean is that corruption which doesn’t benefit them is evil.

I can’t explain all the factors that have created the “take what you can get” culture. But I do know that society suffers as a result. When the majority is doing little else than chase the dollar, people don’t have time to look out for each other. You just need to look at the chaos on Nairobi’s roads to see this in action: the majority of drivers won’t even pull over for an ambulance, something I have witnessed on many occasions. Why should they when they could just bribe a cop a few hundred shillings if they were pulled over for not giving way? Equally, few people will stop to help a stranded motorist or person in distress late at night, as it could well be a trap laid by carjackers.

I don’t want to live this way.

Unfortunately, by paying the bribe to that parking official I am accepting a system that values doing what is right for yourself rather than what is right. Living in Nairobi, amid a culture thoroughly saturated with corruption and a relentless thirst for money, changes you. And that worries me deeply.

Corruption, poverty and society in Kenya

by

After being so smug and detailing how I avoided paying a bribe to a policeman, I am ashamed to admit I bribed a parking official in Nairobi’s Central Business District on Wednesday. I paid because my wife and newborn daughter were with me: to go through the dance to avoid paying or to go to City Hall to pay the fine would have taken a lot of time, and would have forced Natalie to take two-week-old Charlotte (and my mother-in-law) home in a taxi with no car-seat or on a bus or matatu. I didn’t want that.

My offence was for a parking violation, committed because I foolishly trusted one of the many self-appointed parking attendants that roam the CBD to keep an eye on the car while we ran a quick errand. When I returned, a few minutes ahead of Natalie and Charlotte, two council employees came gleefully sprinting across to clamp the car.

Regardless of the fact that one of the officials was wearing a bright yellow overall emblazoned with the legend “Corruption is Evil”, the non-uniformed gentleman made it clear that a bribe was required. We negotiated and I paid him, shuttling notes into his eager hands under the cover of the dashboard. He shooed away his assistant beforehand, presumably so he would not have to cut him in for very much. We then pretended to drive off toward City Hall. Before he jumped out the car round the corner, the official shook and kissed my hand and told me he often “helped” motorists in this way.

I felt pretty soiled for paying the bribe. I should have insisted we go through the official procedure and pay the fine. I should have done what little I could to fight the problem that is hamstringing Kenya. But I took the easy way out.

It is no secret that Kenya is mired in corruption. A recent study by Transparency International ranked Kenya as East Africa’s most corrupt nation. Corruption – which undermines virtually every system of governance put in place in Kenya – is the major symptom of the every-man-for-themselves attitude, much of it prompted by poverty. For the majority of Kenya’s residents, much of everyday life is about the scrabble for money .

The scores of people who died near Molo earlier this year, when the overturned tanker they were collecting fuel from exploded, would not have been there had they been better off. Those people risked their lives for literally a few dollars. One high-ranking political buffoon blamed “greed” for the incident and several that have followed. He clearly doesn’t know what it is to be poor. For those scraping by in the slums of Kibera, Huruma or Kawangware, a few dollars can mean the difference between feeding your whole family that evening or just the select few. It can mean you have enough to pay the rent for another month or pay the school fees.

The struggle for survival is not good for Kenyan society, however, and the romantic notion of solidarity amongst the poor often doesn’t translate into reality. I have seen two security guards almost come to blows over a tip that was less than 50 cents.

Even the idea of doing a simple favour for somebody out of human kindness has been compromised. If you drop your hat and somebody returns it, chances are they aren’t doing it out of goodwill. They are doing it in the hope that you will give them something. The first time this happened to me, a man chased me to say I had left a bottle of wine on the ground. I went back for it and thanked him, thinking how nice it was to meet somebody honest. He then asked me for money for doing something that should be a basic courtesy. Again I can understand this, although it leaves a sour taste in the mouth. The people involved in such incidents have invariably been clearly in need of the money, and there have also been moments where people have done me genuine favours.

So the poor have an excuse. But what about those who are better off? What about the middle classes? What about the politicians who have a seemingly insatiable appetite for more money and no concern for how they accumulate it, even if it means diverting subsidised maize intended to feed people suffering from a famine? What about middle-ranking public servants, judges or police chiefs, all of whom can be bought for the right price?

Most Kenyans will tell you corruption is evil, but – like me – they will pay that bribe to dodge a ticket, avoid that large tax bill or get that job. They will vote for the guy they think can scoop the most money for their community or tribe, even if that guy is clearly bent. And they will take that bribe themselves given a chance. What many Kenyans mean is that corruption which doesn’t benefit them is evil.

I can’t explain all the factors that have created the “take what you can get” culture. But I do know that society suffers as a result. When the majority is doing little else than chase the dollar, people don’t have time to look out for each other. You just need to look at the chaos on Nairobi’s roads to see this in action: the majority of drivers won’t even pull over for an ambulance, something I have witnessed on many occasions. Why should they when they could just bribe a cop a few hundred shillings if they were pulled over for not giving way? Equally, few people will stop to help a stranded motorist or person in distress late at night, as it could well be a trap laid by carjackers.

I don’t want to live this way.

Unfortunately, by paying the bribe to that parking official I am accepting a system that values doing what is right for yourself rather than what is right. Living in Nairobi, amid a culture thoroughly saturated with corruption and a relentless thirst for money, changes you. And that worries me deeply.

The hunt for a vaccine

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As a journalist working in the developing world, I often find myself writing about creaking healthcare systems, but I have never been personally affected. Until now.

My wife Natalie last week gave birth to our first child, Charlotte Elizabeth. We are lucky enough to be able to afford to got to a private hospital for the delivery, but this did not help us when it came to getting a BCG vaccine, for there were no doses available.

Kenya has the 13th-highest prevalence of Tubercolosis in the world. The WHO reported 140,000 new cases in 2008. Yet it has now been suffering a shortgage of the BCG vaccine for around three months, putting tens of thousands of infants, including my daughter, at risk.

The vaccine is now the holy grail for parents, who are scouring Nairobi looking for it. Favours are being called in and rumours exchanged via text message. Gangs of furtive parents are lurking in doorways outside hospitals and offering wads of cash to passing doctors.

I was told that a private clinic was selling it for 20 euros – shameless profiteering since the vaccine is supposed to be free in Kenya. Nonetheless, I went there ready to pay. When I asked, the receptionist appeared to glance furtively around the room and announced loudly that she had no vaccine. However, she then had me write down my name and number and said she would call if any came in. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was being clandestine since they are probably selling vaccine obtained through government channels in a corrupt manner. She hasn’t called yet.

I now have another lead, which I am chasing up on. I can only hope that I get there before the other parents who would no doubt elbow me over a high railing or drop kick Charlotte over a fence to make sure they got the vaccine for their child. And who can blame them?

The question has to be asked why there is no vaccine in the country when donors have been pouring money into anti-TB programmes. The answer could lie in incompetence – which would not be a great surprise to anyone who has dealt with Kenyan government officials – or the old problem of corruption. The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, TB and Malaria has in the past suspended funding to Kenya for disappearing millions of dollars intended to buy ARVs through fraudulent NGOs, and that wasn’t even considered a big corruption scandal.

I have been too busy changing nappies and trying to get the vaccine for Charlotte to look into it properly yet, but it wouldn’t surprise me to find that somebody is putting children at risk in order to fill their pockets.

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