My Maasai Life. Robin Wiszowaty
The matatus don’t depart until the operators had maximized their profit by squeezing in as many passengers and as much cargo as they can, so along with a driver each has a type of scout, working to get bodies in seats as quickly as possible. With pleading shouts the scouts yank urgently at the elbows of potential passengers, coaxing them inside. Once the cars are full, they surge along the four-lane Uhuru highway to their destination at the city centre, then refill all over again. The more trips the matatu operators make, the more money they earn. Each fare is ten shillings, about twelve American cents.
As I wait for the matatu for route 115 to arrive, I hear calls from vendors nearby.
“Kumi kumi kumi!” Come, come, come!
A small kiosk is set up next to the matatu stage, where a clever business woman sells cut-up papaya, pineapple, mango and passion fruit to those waiting. “Thirty shillings, fruit salad!” she calls. “Thirty shillings only!” Even though I’ve been told we’re on the brink of the area’s rainy season, the heat is still exhausting, and at the equivalent of about forty cents this fresh fruit is a welcome treat.
“Beba beba beba!” Carry, carry, carry!
With its engine revving and honks blasting like bullhorns, the route 115 minibus pulls up, trailing dirty exhaust. Men and women in business suits shove past me, cutting in line to board. I’m pretty sure this is my route, but amid the chaos I can’t know for sure.
“Moja mwengine! Moja mwengine!” One more!
The noise is overpowering. Several more matatus pull up, each fighting to cut off the other, blasting music to attract potential passengers. Neon lights and graffiti drawings of American rappers colour the matatus, along with slogans ranging from Jesus Saves All to Baby Got Back. Lost in this disorienting scene, I allow myself to be hauled by the bicep into a matatu emblazoned with the slogan We Be Jammin. My feet are barely inside before the matatu pulls away.
The bus is jammed beyond capacity—as with all matatus, what would be typically a nine-seat vehicle has been refitted with benches for eighteen, though often more bodies spill from open doors and windows. I hold my breath against the thick scent of body odour as I climb toward the back, toppling into people as the matatu jerks, switching gears and hurtling off. My apologies go unacknowledged, and people simply give way the best they can. The experience is a far cry from Chicago’s Pace suburban bus service or the shuttle buses at college, where every other seat would be free.
I squeeze into the back row, squished among three adults and two children. A stranger hands a bag to hold on my lap, though I can’t tell to whom it belongs.
Conversations fly in all directions as we barrel down Uhuru Highway, voices raised over the blaring music. I have no idea what anyone around me is saying, so all I can do is concentrate on breathing through my mouth to avoid swallowing the clouds of black exhaust seeping from passing cars. Despite my best attempts to brace myself, hunched among these bodies and bags, my head slams over and over against the unpadded roof as we weave in and out of lanes. Holding my breath, I work up the courage to inhale, yet find it nearly impossible in the stagnant, pungent air. To my amazement, no one seems the least bit inclined to open a window.
Even with bodies pressing against me on all sides, I feel alone. Everyone is a stranger. These streets are unfamiliar. I am far from my friends, my bed, the familiar neighbourhood I could navigate with my eyes closed, everything I’d ever known. And yet, with total chaos surrounding me, pounding music playing so loud the entire matatu vibrates with pumping bass, a small girl absentmindedly clutching my leg for balance—here I am truly alive. This is what I wanted! This is what I came for!
The matatu hits a pothole and all of us are bounced from our seats, once again smacking our heads against the roof. The girl clutching my leg and I exchange smiles and she takes my hand. I inhale deeply, breathing in the smell of burning garbage, diesel fumes . . . and freedom.
Nairobi: the sprawling metropolis often called “The Green City in the Sun.” (Photo courtesy Kim Plewes.)
The University of Minnesota had placed me for two months with a temporary host family in Westlands, a relatively affluent suburb outside of Nairobi. The family fed and housed me, but our relationship was generally icy. When I tried to make conversation or share stories, they were uninterested. I came to see that they were hosting a Western student for the money not to embrace a visitor from another culture.
Truthfully, that was fine with me, since my priorities lay elsewhere. Soon I would be matched with a new family in a rural area, where I would be immersed in the local culture and observe the conditions there first-hand. I didn’t really know what to expect, but I knew for sure, once I got there, my real education would begin.
Before that, however, I had to go through eight weeks of classes and meetings across town with other American students like me, studying in a range of different fields and disciplines. My class was led by Dr. Mohamud Jama, associate professor at the Institute for Development Studies, University of Nairobi, and adjunct professor at the University of Minnesota. His encouragement had me excited about the months to come.
There was only a slight catch: unlike most of my classmates, I had no formal training in the field of international development and, to complete the course and receive full credit, I was expected to write extensively about the topic and eventually produce an eighty-page paper. The idea was daunting, to say the least. I hoped my time in this rural community would help me learn more about successful international development practices.
One afternoon I was walking through downtown Nairobi when I encountered someone who stopped me in my tracks.
A tall, thin man was headed down the sidewalk toward me, his colourful appearance standing in stark contrast against the grey backdrop of surrounding glass skyscrapers. Two long cotton scarves were draped across his bare chest, cascading all the way to his knees, held together at his waist by a beaded belt. To my shock, he was laden with weapons: a long knife encased in a red-dyed cow hide and a wooden club hung from his belt, with a bow and quiver of arrows slung across his back. He held a thin staff in one hand and a metal spear in the other. His pierced and stretched earlobes dangled almost halfway to his shoulders.
As he looked right and left, shrinking from avoid oncoming traffic, I wondered who this spectacular man might be and what had brought him to Nairobi. What does he think of the wide streets, the big crowds of people, the running water or tall sky-scrapers?
As we passed, the push of the busy crowd propelled me forward, yet I could smell from him a strong odour like raw milk and a smoky scent, like a campfire. The man seemed entirely out of place—almost as much as me.
I knew that in Kenya I’d be experiencing a culture and way of life unlike anything I’d seen. Leading up to leaving North America I’d been so focused on orchestrating my escape I hadn’t anticipated the cultural differences—or how deeply submerged in poverty Nairobi truly was. The kiosk workers with whom I spoke every day didn’t work to buy designer clothes; they sold bananas in the morning to put food in their children’s mouths at night. Often they even lived in their kiosks with their children. Many bathed in an above-ground sewer system—the same one into which I often saw people urinating. They washed their clothes by hand, lived amid litter in the streets and breathed air so polluted you had to remove black build-up from your nostrils after a day on the streets.
Everywhere people pleaded for me to purchase their wares. Children followed me constantly with hands outstretched, begging in broken English: “Sister, sister, please. My tummy is hungry. Five shillings, ten shillings. Please, sister.” Chatting with the guy who worked at the matatu stage in the mornings, I was surprised to learn he lived in a poverty-ravaged slum, just minutes from the comfortable home where I was living.
Walking Nairobi’s streets, I manoeuvred around people sprawled on the trash-smeared concrete, their leprosy-wracked and underfed bodies, some missing limbs, sleeping in the middle of crowded streets—mistreated, neglected bodies that held