Monkey Business in Kenya

By Edward Bristol

Book II of the Gem Trader Adventures recounts the beginning of a new business model—selling gemstones on the World Wide Web.

Will people buy gems online? Edward and Lizzy dare to try.

Merging their money and their abilities, they acquire a suitcase full of gems, and, in complete secrecy, start a website from Lizzy’s beach house in Kenya.

They strive for global markets but cash-flow problems, medieval trade regulations and finally, drunken monkeys complicate their lives.

Soon, not only the monkeys need help.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Bristol
• Release date: May 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310684371

Edward Bristol

Edward Bristol travels the world for rare gemstones. More: www.EdwardBristol.com

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Mokey Business in Kenya

Copyright © 2015 Edward Bristol

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

In memory of Bruenhilde, the most sensitive Great Dane and Walkuere, the wildest monkey!

CHAPTER I

NAIROBI, Kenya, 2001

The OneOre jet taxied to the Jomo Kenyatta International airport terminal around noon.

Peter personally walked us to the private gate and said, If you need me, I’m open for business.

If there is a finer promise to hear from a gem-loving Fortune 500 CEO, I can’t think of it.

Lizzy gave him a hug and a kiss. I shook his hand, again.

Good luck in New York, Lizzy called as we passed the gate and waved, but Peter only wagged his head.

After the leather sofas on Peter’s jet, the Nairobi airport looked even shabbier than usual.

Ducking under the cold and harsh light, we hurried towards the customs barrier.

Even on a commercial flight, Lizzy and I would have attracted attention. But coming alone from a sleek private jet, a small battalion of custom-and immigration-officers in worn-out uniforms awaited us in eager silence.

We presented our luggage and passports. They didn't bother to ask if we had anything to declare, but motioned us straight away into a separate interrogation room.

First, they opened Lizzy’s oversized Samsonite. The team leader, his face reminding me of a carp-fish, dug through Lizzy’s lingerie while the others gawked at each item, whispering and smirking.

Lizzy watched them, her strong arms folded over her chest, patiently at first, but soon contempt and then anger began to rise in her face. I tried to make eye contact, but she ignored me.

Finally she put her hands on her hips, elbows spread wide, drew a deep breath and, in a sharp tone, addressed the carp-officer with a staccato of short questions.

My Swahili is limited and I never got to ask what exactly she said. However, it was very effective. The Carp froze, dropped her underwear and blushed. His team stopped laughing, examined their fingernails, tucked at their uniforms and rearranged their name-tags. He closed Lizzy’s case and then turned to my old suitcase covered with stickers, tags and stamps from all continents.

Anything to declare? he asked me.

Yep! I have gemstones in there. I opened my knapsack and showed the Ziploc bags from Madagascar.

He fished out one of the bags, held it up and his eyes glimmered ‘Christmas’—so far all as planned. Those gems would keep him away from the fifty five thousand in various currencies hidden in the inner pockets of my jacket.¹

They spread the gem-bags over the table, examined the stones and commented as if they had any clue what they were. I kept my eyes on their fingers to make sure no stone went missing.

After a short discussion, the team leader said, You need to declare.

I nodded friendly. Sure, I know.

With Lizzy by my side, oxytocin levels at record-high, I was all loving kindness, a beacon of compassion. These poor fellows did a terrible job for little pay. They too had to make a living and I was willing to contribute to society. I had already checked the room. No surveillance, no CCTV—not yet, not in Africa.

The Carp pulled a thick stack of custom’s forms from a drawer. I parried his move with an equally thick stack of small dollar bills from my pocket.² This was a routine process: pay upfront to avoid filling out endless forms only to pay later anyway—a short-cut that saves time and is often cheaper.

That day, however, things were different.

Lizzy frowned, grabbed the dollar bills from my hand and stuffed them back into my pocket.

We do this in good order! she said and began lecturing the terrified officers in Swahili. They argued. She threatened and pointed fingers. I groaned, but Lizzy did not budge.

Obstinately she began filling out the custom forms.

Come on, I whispered, we will pay, this way or that. Let’s just get it over with.

The suggestion earned me an angry glance and, You should not support this.

Whether we give it to them or to their government it’s the same, just quicker.

No, it’s not! She snarled. You should know better!

I doubted that the Kenyan government would make more efficient use of our money than these poor officers, but considered the argument unwinnable. In the end, after a lot of paperwork, bickering, stamps and signatures we paid 870 dollars in taxes.

Lizzy insisted on a receipt. It took another half hour to issue an official paper documenting that they had received 870 dollars in cash. It was obvious they had not used a formal receipt in a long while.

When we finally reached a taxi, night was falling.

Lizzy directed the driver through Nairobi’s inner city and then deep into a residential mid-class area. Simple one-family houses, some fenced with gardens, others just standing in the mud. Many had tiled roofs set on solid concrete. Most had electricity and running water, unsafe to drink perhaps, and the power would die regularly, but satellite dishes beamed everywhere. Not street lamps but grocery stores and tea houses lit the sidewalks, shared by many dogs, children, goats and grandmas sitting on stools, sipping tea and watching the traffic.

The taxi stopped.

That’s it, Lizzy said with an apologetic smile.

Her family lived in a classic rectangular cube of unfinished concrete with the irons sticking out from the top. As was common, the family must have planned for two floors,