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.