Part 4. Hopping over borders
Friday, April 27th
I was taking pictures with my Treo yesterday, but can't find it anymore. Fudge.
The open spaces in/outside Nairobi are breathtaking. You cannot capture them with a camera, and I will never do it justice by trying to describe it with words. But I'll just say that the sky is vast ... and blue ... and the clouds are straight out of a fairytale. And the earth is bright terracotta all the way to the horizon. There is nothing blocking your sight, except for some sparse trees that seem to spread out horizontally like some natural unbrellas. I need to find out what these trees are called, but some of you'll know them as the trees that any African scenery is dotted with. On my way to the airport, I kept panning my eyes out from the horizon all the way up to the center of the sky, and then back down, and then back up again. It was so clear and so open that it felt like an iMax movie, where the scenery is actually in front of you, but also all around you ... it is so breathtakingly complete. Even with Nairobi's development, areas right outside the city still feel like you're in a completely different pristine world.
...
The airport came all too soon. And here's my Bangladeshi-power scoop for the day:
At check-in, I'd expected to pay about $55 for my extra bag. But stories I'd heard over the last couple of days about how corrupt and inefficient everything is suddenly kept harping at me. And I thought maybe I should try to use it to my advantage! So when the check-in lady told me that the overweight rate was $3/kg (hah! better than $3.5!) and that I owed her $42, I pulled my best Bangladeshi damsel in distress - widened eyes, trembling chin and all - and told her I had no idea and that was a LOT of money ...
Next thing, I was talking to her supervisor who asked me if I had $30 ... so the matter was amicably settled. :) Looking back, I should've countered with "I only have $25...". Oh well anyway, I'd won this round!! Hurrah!
Feeling pretty good about myself, I pranced towards the waiting chairs. Two bags ... and a $345 ticket ... AND only $30 damage. Wooh!!!
On my way to the chairs, a lady taking genuine pity on my financial situation said - Nairobi-Juba on Tue and Sat are $280, so you can buy them on those days next time!
!@%$!%^@$!^%$!
I guess Nairobi won that round.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Intro to UNHCR, Africa
Part 3. Nairobi UNHCR, Lion Place
Saturday, April 28th
The UNHCR regional office in Nairobi is in a building called Lion Place. Everyone knows where it is. Just ask. But that doesn't mean you'll necessarily get the right directions to get there. The two are totally different things - or maybe it was just my second day in Nairobi. Anyhow, launching from a partially-slowed-down matatu blaring messages from Jesus, i landed on the other side of the highway from where lion place was. Then in the most composed manner that anyone could, I scurried across the highway, and throught the ditch in the divider to the other side. Don't ask me, I'm Bangladeshi - I never use an overpass if there is an opening at road-level!
I had two things to do - get my Nairobi-Juba flight ticket and the sacred Sudan travel permit (essentially a cordless visa - a blue form unattached to my passport, where my photo is just stapled).
I'd been warned that the 1.5 hour flight would cost $360. (YES, I did a double-take over that price also, but accepted that the demand and supply curves cross at the $360 point in a way that the equilibrium has remained unchanged for over a year!) But I hadn't been warned that the permit also cost mula ...
Anyhow, the pleasant, ever-smiling Sarah the UNHCR in-house travel agent informed me that I could leave tomorrow for $371, or day after for $345. Now I've had a few difficult decisions to make in this lifetime, and I didn't exactly put this one in that category. But not to sound too unprofessional, I ventured "well I should really get there tomorrow, but I can check with Juba ...". (I'm so good.)
Then she proceeded to add that the cheaper airline might allow me to take extra luggage for a fee. All the lightbulbs in my head went off. Allow me to explain.
I traveled from Boston to Nairobi with two suitcases, fully expecting to leave one there, and traveling onwards with only one. I was going to pick up the other on my next visit to Nairobi (which was a remote possibility at $700 roundtrip). But this meant that I could take both suitcases this time ... oh joy & celebration! This is divine intervention ... it was because I listed to the sermon in the matatu so attentively ... or something ... who cares?
How much was it? - $3.5/kg ... means about $55 ... so the leaves in the decision-tree were - $700 and $55! ... shouldn't have bought that many things at heathrow, but whatever! wheeee ... I'm taking ALL MY LUGGAGE with me! I left the agency with an air of utter achievement. In another hour the permit was ready - detachable photo and all - and after pre-paying for the taxi to the airport I set off into vast Nairobi. Now I'm a fast learner, but I've not figured out why I paid the fares I paid for my taxi rides in Nairobi... from airport to house - FREE! (driver messed up & didn't collect. hah!); airport to wrong office - 600 shillings; wrong office to right office - 200sh; office to city - 600sh; house to airport - 1000 sh; figuring out that ride to airport was longer than all the other rides put together ... priceless!
Saturday, April 28th
The UNHCR regional office in Nairobi is in a building called Lion Place. Everyone knows where it is. Just ask. But that doesn't mean you'll necessarily get the right directions to get there. The two are totally different things - or maybe it was just my second day in Nairobi. Anyhow, launching from a partially-slowed-down matatu blaring messages from Jesus, i landed on the other side of the highway from where lion place was. Then in the most composed manner that anyone could, I scurried across the highway, and throught the ditch in the divider to the other side. Don't ask me, I'm Bangladeshi - I never use an overpass if there is an opening at road-level!
I had two things to do - get my Nairobi-Juba flight ticket and the sacred Sudan travel permit (essentially a cordless visa - a blue form unattached to my passport, where my photo is just stapled).
I'd been warned that the 1.5 hour flight would cost $360. (YES, I did a double-take over that price also, but accepted that the demand and supply curves cross at the $360 point in a way that the equilibrium has remained unchanged for over a year!) But I hadn't been warned that the permit also cost mula ...
Anyhow, the pleasant, ever-smiling Sarah the UNHCR in-house travel agent informed me that I could leave tomorrow for $371, or day after for $345. Now I've had a few difficult decisions to make in this lifetime, and I didn't exactly put this one in that category. But not to sound too unprofessional, I ventured "well I should really get there tomorrow, but I can check with Juba ...". (I'm so good.)
Then she proceeded to add that the cheaper airline might allow me to take extra luggage for a fee. All the lightbulbs in my head went off. Allow me to explain.
I traveled from Boston to Nairobi with two suitcases, fully expecting to leave one there, and traveling onwards with only one. I was going to pick up the other on my next visit to Nairobi (which was a remote possibility at $700 roundtrip). But this meant that I could take both suitcases this time ... oh joy & celebration! This is divine intervention ... it was because I listed to the sermon in the matatu so attentively ... or something ... who cares?
How much was it? - $3.5/kg ... means about $55 ... so the leaves in the decision-tree were - $700 and $55! ... shouldn't have bought that many things at heathrow, but whatever! wheeee ... I'm taking ALL MY LUGGAGE with me! I left the agency with an air of utter achievement. In another hour the permit was ready - detachable photo and all - and after pre-paying for the taxi to the airport I set off into vast Nairobi. Now I'm a fast learner, but I've not figured out why I paid the fares I paid for my taxi rides in Nairobi... from airport to house - FREE! (driver messed up & didn't collect. hah!); airport to wrong office - 600 shillings; wrong office to right office - 200sh; office to city - 600sh; house to airport - 1000 sh; figuring out that ride to airport was longer than all the other rides put together ... priceless!
Nairobi close-up
Part 2. More Matatus …
Much as I liked my two taxi-drivers from the previous day (Jason and Wambogo, who insisted that I keep their numbers and call them as soon as I needed to set foot in any direction …) it was a bright clear day, and I opted for public transportation on my way to the office … decision-tree had only two leaves: 800 shillings, vs. 40 shillings.
I had been instructed to take the #46, and then the “#1 oohhh 5” (#1 OR 5? – gotta love the smooth Kenyan accent). With a skip in my step, left home for the Yaya shipping center intersection where the #46 stopped.
The first #46 just zipped by me. I looked at it – ohmigod, it’s a matatu! *gulp*
Not one to lose her bearing, I flagged down the next one with a calm shake of the head. Hah!
My 20 shillings was tightly clenched in my fist, ready to hand over, sans contact with wallet. I was already a natural. Except I wasn’t ready for the hair-straighteningly (word?) blaring 80’s punk rock playing inside (outside too!) the matatu!!! Madonna, Boy George and who knows who else … it never stopped. It turns any sane person into a compliant, resonating bobble-head. And I am a sane person.
Overlooking the hearing discomfort I decided to enjoy the matatu experience. It has a system of its own – the driver sits in front, with at least two passengers by his side, the conductor alternately hangs out the sliding door on the side, or sits on an empty seat next to it. The conductor is quick, deft and misses nothing – an ambling mama half a mile down a cross street may be successfully identified as a potential passenger! At one point, he convinced three nonchalantly-gossiping-men at a bus-stop to come on board! He carries his cash in thin folded strips woven thru the fingers of the hand that he’s not using to swing out, and the coins are in some kind of pile in the same fist. He naturally wears a shirt that flies in the wind as he swings out. The passengers also played their part – they play musical chairs in the three back rows depending on how far they have left to go – so every time someone steps into the matatu, there’s frantic interior shuffling as the vehicle swerves back onto the road, to allow the next person getting off, access to the door. It is a silent, efficient system directed by the conductor … silent because nothing can be heard above the … Venga Boys!The matatu is white on the outside, and painted with an assortment of spray-paints on the inside. The seats are patchwork old-n-new rexin, and as I’ve discovered, the inside is small but navigable! The top half of the seats were covered with white rexin seat-covers – it was so very Bangladeshi that it made me smile. Smiling (and also gripping the sides of my seat) I looked around this party machine, and voila, there even was glow stick!! Along the top edge of the inside, were lines of blue glow sticks that were somehow even visible during the day … they’ve outsmarted fluorescent technology! Sweet! I bobbed my head to Madonna … was it me, or was the music a little lower now?? It was me – my ear-drums had succumbed. As I was about to accept the comfort of relative deafness, I noticed a man ahead, waving for the #46. We were already too close to the man, going too fast, on a two-lane windy-highway-high-on-a-hill, with no-shoulders-but-a-dirt-sidewalk, and cars behind us. I wanted to close my eyes, but the loud music forced them back open, and then one big swerve, heave–ho and thump-dunk-plop – we had left the road and come to a standstill, perched on the dirt sidewalk. It was all I could do to not look down the hill at that point, and it wasn’t hard because in less than 4.5 seconds we had picked-passenger-internally-shuffled-paid-fare-rested-shoppingbags and turned up the music another notch to continue with our journey. As I sat down on my new seat, I looked to my left to find the man there, fast asleep.
The rest of the journey to my railway station stop was uneventful except for a vendor’s whirring-flying-toy-object momentarily flying in the window, to be immediately grabbed by an external pair of hands and fished out. That sequence didn’t ruffle me at all, as I bounced along to some English rock favourites.
As I alighted at railway, the conductor turned to me and with his index finger raised, asked for 1. Confused, I thought he wanted one more 10sh coin. I said no no, they said 20sh, furious that these locals think I’m a sore foreigner who they can hoodwink! … but I smiled outwardly and patiently said, I’ve already paid my fare … then he pointed at his ears, and said 1 … then I pointed at my ears and said 1??? … then he nodded and said you give me one of those … and I thought this guy will never make a good mugger if he only cares for one silver earring … and he said I keep 1; will you be my friend? … and I flashed back to all my previous experiences of traveling alone, smiled, and said I need both earrings … he said give me your number … and I said, no give me yours … and he happily complied and said – don’t cheat me, you’ll call? … to which I replied when I get my mobile, I’ll call. Then, storing Mwaera’s number along with Jason and Wambogo’s, I projected smoothly out of the matatu on to mud.
As the blaring matatu flew back onto the road, I noticed the name painted on it – Def Jam.
Figures.
Much as I liked my two taxi-drivers from the previous day (Jason and Wambogo, who insisted that I keep their numbers and call them as soon as I needed to set foot in any direction …) it was a bright clear day, and I opted for public transportation on my way to the office … decision-tree had only two leaves: 800 shillings, vs. 40 shillings.
I had been instructed to take the #46, and then the “#1 oohhh 5” (#1 OR 5? – gotta love the smooth Kenyan accent). With a skip in my step, left home for the Yaya shipping center intersection where the #46 stopped.
The first #46 just zipped by me. I looked at it – ohmigod, it’s a matatu! *gulp*
Not one to lose her bearing, I flagged down the next one with a calm shake of the head. Hah!
My 20 shillings was tightly clenched in my fist, ready to hand over, sans contact with wallet. I was already a natural. Except I wasn’t ready for the hair-straighteningly (word?) blaring 80’s punk rock playing inside (outside too!) the matatu!!! Madonna, Boy George and who knows who else … it never stopped. It turns any sane person into a compliant, resonating bobble-head. And I am a sane person.
Overlooking the hearing discomfort I decided to enjoy the matatu experience. It has a system of its own – the driver sits in front, with at least two passengers by his side, the conductor alternately hangs out the sliding door on the side, or sits on an empty seat next to it. The conductor is quick, deft and misses nothing – an ambling mama half a mile down a cross street may be successfully identified as a potential passenger! At one point, he convinced three nonchalantly-gossiping-men at a bus-stop to come on board! He carries his cash in thin folded strips woven thru the fingers of the hand that he’s not using to swing out, and the coins are in some kind of pile in the same fist. He naturally wears a shirt that flies in the wind as he swings out. The passengers also played their part – they play musical chairs in the three back rows depending on how far they have left to go – so every time someone steps into the matatu, there’s frantic interior shuffling as the vehicle swerves back onto the road, to allow the next person getting off, access to the door. It is a silent, efficient system directed by the conductor … silent because nothing can be heard above the … Venga Boys!The matatu is white on the outside, and painted with an assortment of spray-paints on the inside. The seats are patchwork old-n-new rexin, and as I’ve discovered, the inside is small but navigable! The top half of the seats were covered with white rexin seat-covers – it was so very Bangladeshi that it made me smile. Smiling (and also gripping the sides of my seat) I looked around this party machine, and voila, there even was glow stick!! Along the top edge of the inside, were lines of blue glow sticks that were somehow even visible during the day … they’ve outsmarted fluorescent technology! Sweet! I bobbed my head to Madonna … was it me, or was the music a little lower now?? It was me – my ear-drums had succumbed. As I was about to accept the comfort of relative deafness, I noticed a man ahead, waving for the #46. We were already too close to the man, going too fast, on a two-lane windy-highway-high-on-a-hill, with no-shoulders-but-a-dirt-sidewalk, and cars behind us. I wanted to close my eyes, but the loud music forced them back open, and then one big swerve, heave–ho and thump-dunk-plop – we had left the road and come to a standstill, perched on the dirt sidewalk. It was all I could do to not look down the hill at that point, and it wasn’t hard because in less than 4.5 seconds we had picked-passenger-internally-shuffled-paid-fare-rested-shoppingbags and turned up the music another notch to continue with our journey. As I sat down on my new seat, I looked to my left to find the man there, fast asleep.
The rest of the journey to my railway station stop was uneventful except for a vendor’s whirring-flying-toy-object momentarily flying in the window, to be immediately grabbed by an external pair of hands and fished out. That sequence didn’t ruffle me at all, as I bounced along to some English rock favourites.
As I alighted at railway, the conductor turned to me and with his index finger raised, asked for 1. Confused, I thought he wanted one more 10sh coin. I said no no, they said 20sh, furious that these locals think I’m a sore foreigner who they can hoodwink! … but I smiled outwardly and patiently said, I’ve already paid my fare … then he pointed at his ears, and said 1 … then I pointed at my ears and said 1??? … then he nodded and said you give me one of those … and I thought this guy will never make a good mugger if he only cares for one silver earring … and he said I keep 1; will you be my friend? … and I flashed back to all my previous experiences of traveling alone, smiled, and said I need both earrings … he said give me your number … and I said, no give me yours … and he happily complied and said – don’t cheat me, you’ll call? … to which I replied when I get my mobile, I’ll call. Then, storing Mwaera’s number along with Jason and Wambogo’s, I projected smoothly out of the matatu on to mud.
As the blaring matatu flew back onto the road, I noticed the name painted on it – Def Jam.
Figures.
Jambo Nairobi!!
Part 1. Matatus …
Matatus are small microbuses that go pretty much everywhere, and do everything that you might want to do on the road, and I am not joking. If you’ve ever been in a third world country – and I speak from my experience of being in Bangladesh, India and now Kenya – you’ll know that small, white, Toyota Hiace/Liteace microbuses are the saviours of the masses! There is always space for one more inside … it can cut off any other vehicle thanks to its relative size … and it can navigate speed-bumps and potholes without changing speed! Once you’ve gone matatu, there’s no going back!
My first matatu ride was unintentional – as I stepped outside the gates of UNHCR Nairobi on Wednesday and asked a guard about eateries, she pointed me down the highway towards “Westlands Mall”. I asked about public transport (I must preface this with the fact that just a couple of hours ago I’d arrived at this office after two taxi rides, costing me a total of 800 Kenyan shillings/$13). Calmly nodding, she said “you khyan thayke thaa matta-too” and pointed to the street corner where an overstuffed microbus was oozing out passengers. We ran towards it, she indicated to me to keep my money ready in the palm of my hands, she yelled to the conductor “Westlands!!”, and before I knew it, I had hopped on (after hitting head on doorway), plopped down on a cracked rexin seat and was immediately lurching ahead like the Harry Potter nightbus, shaking to Shaggy’s ‘It Wasn’t Me!’. I was so much in shock that I handed over my fare without ado, and when Westlands came around, I gracefully projected out of the moving matatu onto the mud that had appeared after two rainy days.
I walked back to the office after lunch unsure of whether to flag down these zipping devils.
Matatus are small microbuses that go pretty much everywhere, and do everything that you might want to do on the road, and I am not joking. If you’ve ever been in a third world country – and I speak from my experience of being in Bangladesh, India and now Kenya – you’ll know that small, white, Toyota Hiace/Liteace microbuses are the saviours of the masses! There is always space for one more inside … it can cut off any other vehicle thanks to its relative size … and it can navigate speed-bumps and potholes without changing speed! Once you’ve gone matatu, there’s no going back!
My first matatu ride was unintentional – as I stepped outside the gates of UNHCR Nairobi on Wednesday and asked a guard about eateries, she pointed me down the highway towards “Westlands Mall”. I asked about public transport (I must preface this with the fact that just a couple of hours ago I’d arrived at this office after two taxi rides, costing me a total of 800 Kenyan shillings/$13). Calmly nodding, she said “you khyan thayke thaa matta-too” and pointed to the street corner where an overstuffed microbus was oozing out passengers. We ran towards it, she indicated to me to keep my money ready in the palm of my hands, she yelled to the conductor “Westlands!!”, and before I knew it, I had hopped on (after hitting head on doorway), plopped down on a cracked rexin seat and was immediately lurching ahead like the Harry Potter nightbus, shaking to Shaggy’s ‘It Wasn’t Me!’. I was so much in shock that I handed over my fare without ado, and when Westlands came around, I gracefully projected out of the moving matatu onto the mud that had appeared after two rainy days.
I walked back to the office after lunch unsure of whether to flag down these zipping devils.
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