A Matatu Tale

As you may recall from my previous post, my lack of transportation options had left me reliant on the dreaded matatu. All week, my colleagues attempted to dissuade me from using it. “Four out of five accidents in Nairobi involve a matatu!” one cried. “Do you know how often they get held up by bandits?” asked another. “Be careful”, I was cautioned, “if you are speaking on your mobile while sitting by the window, people can reach inside and swipe it”.

I admit, the scare tactics nearly worked. Nearly. But the good people at ICRAF don’t know me like you do, dear readers. A taste for adventure, a fear of being hemmed in, and a bordering-on-obsessive tendency to google the hell out of a subject beforehand armed me with the courage to march out of my electric fence apartment Friday after work and conquer my fear. I can guarantee you, with absolute certainty, that no one has ever been more frightened or resolute in their determination to go to the mall.

It’s pretty simple to spot a matatu - roughly every fourth vehicle sports the government-mandated white siding with yellow stripe. While most matatus adhere to the colour regulations, they find a variety of other ways to trick out their ride. This would include adhering huge decals to the windshield with colourful phrases like PIMP JUICE, MONSTER, or COME LORD JESUS, blaring rap music, installing interior flashing lights, or exchanging their car horn for a much louder and deeper version. The colour may be boring, but trust me, they stand out.

My heart was racing as I approached the corner where the matatus stopped. I saw one coming but decided to let that one go by. No reason to rush things. Two more went by as I pretended to be waiting for something else. Finally, it was time. I raised my hand as the next one turned the corner, but it blew by me. No problem, three more were coming. I held out my hand and again was totally shut down. The rejection was painful. Was I standing in the wrong place? Was I hailing them incorrectly? Should I just call a cab?

As I contemplated this injustice, I was roused from my thoughts by flashing headlights. To my astonishment, a matatu slowed and the door slid open. The ‘conducta’ jumped out and ushered me inside. I made to jump in but stopped – there was nowhere to sit. He then pointed to a small sliver of bench about 3 inches wide. The three other passengers on the bench resignedly shuffled down, producing another inch. I barely had the chance to sit down before we sped off.

I’m sure we all have a hair-raising story about driving. But I’m pretty sure your stories do not include being crammed into a 14-seat minibus with 20 other people as the vehicle blasts Mariah Carey at near deafening levels while weaving in and out of oncoming traffic in order to pass a traffic jam. When we weren’t able to drive in the wrong lane, we sped along the raised median separating the two directions of traffic. When that ended, we used the sidewalk.

Right as I was starting to wonder if I would ever see my friends and family again, I found myself facing the mall entrance. Filled with a combination of pride and adrenaline, I desperately wanted to ask everyone if they saw me take the matatu and have they ever taken a matatu and it wasn’t even a big deal and I’ll probably do it all the time now?

The next night I drove by a matatu accident that had left several people injured. While my enthusiasm for the matatu was greatly diminished, I still feel imbued with a sense of accomplishment and the knowledge that freedom from the electric fence apartment is only one Mariah Carey song away.