Hurry Sickness – why slowing down is the right thing to do

A lifetime ago, I worked in central London. I’d commute from Guildford to Waterloo, then board the underground train (tube) to Euston. I did this every day for 4 years.

I became a master of the commute. I knew where to stand on the platform so that I would be directly in front of the door.  I knew exactly where I was going in the labyrinthian tunnel system. I knew to stand on the left-hand side of the escalator and to always walk up or down, never stand EVER. Walk walk walk goddamn it! And always a brisk and efficient pace. People that stood, that looked at tube maps, that appeared lost were, to my mind, utter losers. 

My commute meant something to me. That I stood exactly where the doors of the train would open signalled THIS IS MY CITY. That I never had to look at a tube map meant I was uber cool, a hip young hipster, that knew one of the great capital cities of the world inside out. Power walking through the stations, tutting at those with a slow gait, ramming those tourists who stood on the wrong side of the escalators – this meant I was busy, important, going places. I was successful. 

Two years ago, I went home and took a trip to London. I couldn’t remember the way to get where I was going. I stopped and looked at the tube map. I wandered aimlessly through the underground tunnels, occasionally doubling back to correct my mistakes. I stood on the escalator, rather than walked (on the correct side of course – I’m not a heathen). 

I remember so clearly this last trip on the tube. I remember thinking, gosh, how things have changed. I realised I had been getting it wrong all along. Those stationery tourists weren’t in some indefinable way lesser than me, they were in all likelihood greater than me. They were taking their time to enjoy their experience in my fabulous city. Those people with time to peruse the posters for West End shows, sales at Harvey Nicks and a cheap season ticket to the London Eye had given themselves the gift of space, calm and time. Speed doesn’t equal success, knowledge of a city doesn’t make you superior, knowing that whatever you do, you are experiencing it fully, that’s what makes you a winner.

I know with every molecule of my frame that success is people who allow themselves time to see the world around them and to experience the sights, sounds, and smells of their surroundings. People who move slowly are often calmer and less stressed. I’m not making it up. It’s true. It’s called hurry sickness, the need to be everywhere all the time completing all your jobs and being the first to every event. People with hurry sickness have an innate fear of missing out and fill their days and their diaries with more events and appointments than they can manage. They often burn out, suffer from stress and anxiety. Something, incidentally, that I suffered with in my London life.

I know all this, so why therefore is it so hard for me to adapt to the slow pace of life in Kenya?

By UK standards, I am fully cured of hurry sickness. I go home and I’m slow on the tube, slow in the supermarket. I suspect slow in the brain department after not holding a full-time job for over 10 years. I tell people Pole Pole. Slow down, enjoy life, smell the roses. But in Kenya, I am a maniac. 

Everything moves extra slowly here. We are moving house, and it’s been weeks to agree on even the simplest things. Can we paint the walls? Wait a week. What’s our moving in date? Wait a month. Do you want to buy this item of furniture? Still waiting for a reply. I make an appointment for 9 and turn up at 8.55 and my builder arrives at 11.30. My frustrations build and build and build until I’m almost incandescent with rage and take it out on a bottle of wine on the weekend or the running machine in the week. 

My friend sent me a link today of a fellow expat blogger in Kenya who had posted a video of how she struggles here. She misses her family; she misses the familiarity of home; she misses fitting in and not always standing apart in a culture that is nothing like our own. 

I thought a lot about this video. How sometimes we just want life to be easy but living abroad is rarely easy. Just as I knew London inside out, and could spot a tourist a mile away, so, too, do I stand apart from a beacon of confusion in a world that ebbs and flows around me. Despite trying to learn Swahili, I don’t understand what people are saying. I don’t know if they are being cruel or kind when they laugh and I hear the word Mzungu on repeat. I don’t know why people turn up 3 hours late or not at all and it doesn’t seem to be an issue. There are a million different ways I could tell you that our cultures and country set us apart, but mostly I don’t know why I can’t be more like my Kenyan friends. Why I can’t slow down, take it easy and relax. 

I get so fed up with myself. I wish I didn’t find everything frustrating. I know that I will get an answer to my questions eventually. I know that someone will turn up late, so why don’t I just grab a cup of coffee before the meeting and turn up late myself. I know that I will be charged more than my Kenyan counterparts and I should just accept it. I know that if I want to understand what people are saying, I should take Swahili lessons.

I know that Kenyans think I am mad with my fussing, huffing, and hurrying. I know that if I slowed down, I would enjoy life more. Sometimes I think that the entire world needs to take a massive deep breath, to lie in the sun, to laugh in the street, to be more Kenyan.

I know that I’ve gotta beat that hurry sickness. But not today… there’s far too much to do today and I’m late already.

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