Kemp - Gangs II

MICHAEL JOSEPH
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS

MICHAEL JOSEPH

Published by the Penguin Group
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First published 2008
1

Copyright Ross Kemp, 2008

Photography courtesy of Ross Kemp and British Sky Broadcasting Limited

The moral right of the author has been asserted

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978-0-14-188974-0

Over the past five years I have spent a lot of time away from home. Admittedly, with individuals most people would cross the road to avoid in fact, anyone in their right mind would probably pay for a premium air fare to get away from them. I have seen poverty on a scale that most of us in the West will never experience. I have heard stories that still keep me awake at night and seen things that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

But not everything over those years has been doom and gloom. I think the crew and I developed an odd sense of humour, but then we were in some pretty odd situations, with some pretty odd people. As a result, there were some moments of great hilarity, when we would laugh and laugh at some particular incidents. When you spend your time investigating the gangs of the world, it pays to hold on to those instances. If I hadnt, I dont think I could have carried on making the programmes.

There was the time when Matt Bennett, the series producer, had to step in and direct the Los Angeles episode after the director was threatened to be killed by a Latino gang leader called Joker. (Believe me, Joker was no joke.) Joker had come up to me and said (these are his own words): If I see that mother fucker again, I am going to waste his arse on camera. And I aint fuckin wid ya. Although at the time, I felt this would have made award-winning television, I had a small soft spot for this director and promptly suggested Matt take over.

The next night we met Joker and one of the smaller Latino gangs he controlled in Anaheim, South LA. As we rolled up to start filming, one of the younger gangsters pulled a Ruger pistol out of nowhere, stuck it through the window of the car and pointed it at me, asking what he could get me. I suggested that we calm the situation down for a minute and got out of the car with the crew for a smoke break with our gangsters. In an attempt to bond Matt offered to put a fag in Jokers mouth, momentarily forgetting that the term fag is used for someone who is gay in the US. After a brief silence, during which I held my breath, Joker just burst out laughing. Hey gay boy, you want to put something in my mouth? At least it broke the ice and from then on Matt always religiously referred to them as cigarettes.

Our trip to Africa was longer than most in many ways. I have always been fascinated with this continent, the home of mankind. When we arrived, Kenya had just experienced some of the worst violence in its history, and the stories we were hearing were grim beyond belief: the desperation and poverty there were driving people to behave in unspeakably shocking ways. We were told about the Shit Squad, for example. These homeless orphaned kids live in the centre of Nairobi and frequent the few public conveniences there. To put food in their stomachs, they remove what doesnt get flushed away and cover their bodies in faeces. They then target wealthy people in the financial area of the city, with a rolled-up newspaper full of more faeces. If you dont hand over what they demand, you get newspaper and all. If you attempt to touch them, which I would advise against, you are not likely to get a grip anyway, youll only receive more shit (quite literally).

Another street gang operating in Nairobi is the Iron Bar Gang. One of them will approach you as you walk down the street and hit you full in the stomach. As your diaphragm collapses and air is expelled from your lungs, his cohort will come from behind with an iron bar shoved up his sleeve and hit you full across the oesophagus and put you in a neck lock. With no oxygen in your lungs and your airway blocked, its not long before you pass out. Most victims not only wake up penniless, but also suffer the indignity of walking home naked and shoeless.

Luckily, Kenya offered us some moments of light relief. One incident that springs to mind happened when arriving late at a lodge once frequented by colonials. Tired from our eight-hour journey across rough terrain, all we really wanted was beer, food and sleep. As we walked into the bar, dusty and sweaty, we were confronted by some of the hardest faces I have ever seen. Black farmers from around the surrounding area came there on a Friday night to drink and eat and, well, lets put it this way, there were lots of ladies of the night around. We werent exactly made to feel welcome, and as we were off to a baptism which commenced at first light, we necked a quick beer and headed for bed. Taking my bag up to my room (if you can call it that), I first noticed that the door had been kicked from its hinges, rendering the key in my hand obsolete. As I switched the light on the bulb erupted, then blew. With the use of my head torch, which had taken me some five minutes to find in the dark, I searched around the room and found the bathroom, with the obligatory missing toilet seat, washed and climbed into bed. In these cases its not wise to check the sheets. Needless to say they had a perfume all of their own and felt a little on the crusty side. I could already hear the whirring of mosquitoes above me. I looked through the mosquito net at them with my head torch. On closer inspection the net had holes big enough for humming birds to fly through, let alone mosquitoes. Having already succumbed to malaria once in my life, I sprayed myself in Deet, swallowed the anti-malarial tablet with a swig of water and turned the torch off. I was so tired that sleep came easily. I have no idea what length of time I slept for but it can only have been a matter of minutes.

Bang, bang, bang, bang. Heavy, high-heeled footsteps clattering up the stairs outside my room and along the corridor.

A sudden flurry of argumentative voices a man and a woman in a language I couldnt understand.

Zip, zip, clunk, clunk. The boots came off.

Jiggle, jiggle. The regular squeaking of a bed.

And then, suddenly, the sound of the man shouting in the throes of ecstasy while his partner yelled out what I can only imagine was a fake orgasm.

The business concluded, there was a brief pause before a tap started to run clearly someone was washing some part of their anatomy, but it wasnt an image I really wanted to conjure.