Exploring culture and cuisine: Babygirl's journey through Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International Airport

BABYGIRL AND THE HUNGRY BARBERS

"Give Thatha one springroll," Babygirl tapped her tiny granddaughter in a plaited ponytail and cartoon character frock as the sweaty throngs around us jostled for a bucket seat in the transfers hall of Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.

It had been 14 hours and interminable delays since I had brushed my teeth and had two slices of thawa toast lathered with orange marmalade. It was not even halfway on my annual pilgrimage to the Jaipur Literature Festival.

The two litre ice cream tub came lined with tissue paper that had soaked up all but the last bit of the copious frying oil. "My name is Mrs Pillay and this is my son-in-law and daughter from Broadlands. This angel is Kaiyuree, grade RR, but we call Puppet for short. My daughter is a chartered accountant. Where you from?" The generous granny had not only pushed a second springroll in my direction but summarised 64 years of her autobiography in a matter of two minutes adding at the tail, "And you can call me Babygirl."

The tasty tinfish snack transported me to Park Rynie Beach on Boxing Day where generations of Durban Indians have gone on the day after Christmas, laden with biryani pots, bedsheets, coffee table and the regulation Jutland or pilchards sandwiches in fluffy white bread laced with raw onions and chillies. There can't be too many places in the world that can transform the humble silvery fish into a mouthwatering delicacy, and Babygirl certainly had it down to a fine art. Her skills also extended to interrogation. "What you'll be doing in India?" I was so tempted to tell her a salacious story about meeting an illicit lover in Pondicherry but I didn't have the heart to torment her. "They poured my coffee out in Joburg. Lucky they gave the flask back. I filled hot water in the plane. The powder is in my bag. You want some? So expensive to buy in the airport."

It was a joy being on friendly terms with Babygirl. Maybe it's my face or the gap-toothed smile that have strangers constantly wanted to feed me. Even if I'm filled to the brim, I have real difficulty in turning down offers of food. Puppet had run the length of the hall after a child chasing a balloon. "Popsy, don't let that child out of your sight ...." she hollered to her daughter and proceeded to give me a frightening lecture about human traffickers. Before I could get to tell my mundane story of hitting the Indian book fair circuit, Babygirl rattled chapter and verse her own itinerary.

"My daughter going for a conference in Pune so we said we will all go one time. For a long time I was liking to see the Taj Mahal and the temples in South." Her mind was not entirely on her trip. Her great worry was whether her housebound husband would water the hydrangea and feed her precious Pekinese his special diet at just the right times. "Now that the children have all left the house, Tipsy is my life."

Her husband didn't warrant significant mention other than the fact that his meals for fourteen days were also prepped and labelled in the freezer. I wondered whether he had been left any tinfish springrolls. My glance at the tub on Babygirl's lap had her thrusting the remaining two straight into my face. "I hope you got a nice seat. I'm in the emergency lane because of weak bladder," she whispered.

Babygirl was harmless enough but her questions had the ears of the row of returning Pakistani barbers pricked to attention. "Why your wife not with you? When you coming back? What shopping you planning?" I thought back to the days when the suitcase aunties travelled to India on the SS Karanja and came back laden with saris, brassware and every now and then, mandrax. India's cultural boycott of South Africa was imposed in 1946 as a weapon in the fight against racial discrimination.

As noble as that cause was, it cut Indian South Africans off from the subcontinent save for the odd film reels and vinyl records that sanctions-busting merchants brought into the country via destinations like Singapore, Hong Kong and London. The suitcase aunties did a roaring trade. Lolly who lived down the road from me in Chatsworth travelled to India every three months. The word in the district was that she never needed to lift a finger when she landed in Madras. Her local fixer was at the airport in a sparkling Ambassador car ready to whisk her off to the Connemara for nights of passion in between her shopping sprees.

Lolly was eventually to spend some time in an Indian jail for her additional shopping of prohibited substances. The empty tub was wiped clean with the oily tissue and would surely see duty again. As she put that container away, out came the chicken drumsticks and roasted peanuts. The Pakistani barbers salivated. I had to draw the line there for fear of a stomach ache if they stared at me tucking in.

I had already caught out of the corner of my eye, one of them swallowing every time I bit on the springroll. The airport announcement came as a saviour. The flight was ready for boarding for Mumbai and the barbers scrambled for the gate. "Take my number," Babygirl insisted.

I whipped out my notebook and wrote "Broadlands Springroll Aunty 0829408163". Imagine the trouble at home if my notebook was opened to a mysterious Babygirl.

*Naidoo is on his umpteenth visit to the Jaipur Literature Festival and will be keeping readers updated.