We have spent the past number of days nestled in the comfortable 'suburbs' of Westlands, Nairobi, in a quiet sanctuary of sprawling grass and shade trees. While this has been a wonderful place to call 'home' it would not accurately tell the story of the sprawling urban giant of Nairobi. No, to experience this you must go to where the people are.... and what better way to get there than how people get there.
This morning Dad, Noah, Anna, Mollie and I braved crossing one of the many completely chaotic traffic circles, where drivers prefer their horns, gas pedals & front bumpers to the completely unheeded traffic lights that seem to serve no purpose whatsoever. Our destination? We adventurers in this urban jungle were setting out for the Massai market in the heart of downtown, bustling with vibrancy and life... though not a description I would put to the infrastructure.
We began our journey by looking for 'public transportation'... more accurately we found the public transportation to be looking for us. A 'tout', one of a two man team, beckons to us, amidst a chorus of other such 'public servants', to choose their vessel of transport, affectionately know to hundreds of thousands of commuters as the 'matatu'.
The matatu is a Toyota or Mitsubishi minivan, generally festooned with painted pictures and slogans apparently intended to entice you to that particular vehicle... "Jesus is my Rock", "Gangsta" or "Long live Cuba" are coupled with corresponding images, and most often accompanied by music with lyrics drowned out by metallic static. All of this, along with the driver tooting his horn while the 'tout' calling to you, standing in the open sliding door, as the vehicle careens towards the curb you happen to be standing on, make it hard to resist the invitation. Inside, you will find no less then 14 seats, in various stages of disrepair... none of which boast a working seat belt.
So it is into one of these confidence inspiring vans we alight, having negotiated our price with the tout before setting foot inside. The matatu begins to roll away, our kids barely having time to look for the non existent seat belts (not likely necessary with how tightly we are pack in), when the tout tries to double our fare. Not wanting to be the travelling muzungus we so obviously are, Dad & I resist, calling our now somewhat disoriented kids to disentangle themselves from the other passengers and hit the sidewalk again, seeking a more trustworthy crew.
Fortunately, the next van is waiting, kissing its front bumper with that of the van we had just stumbled out of. So, before the kids could finish their plea to 'just walk downtown', we were spirited away...all 15 or 16 of us.
Downtown is a cacophony of color, sound and movement. The kids cling to my shirttail, hand or pant leg, wide eyed and obviously less then comfortable. Tripping over the kids, shuffling along, I am determined to forge ahead, not so much to a destination, but to an experience that will add balance to our rural and suburb exposure to Kenya. Amidst a chorus of 'can we just go home' Dad navigates through the busy streets until we arrive at the market.
While the kids have come prepared to 'just not look at anything', hoping that their feigned disinterest will keep them from the vendors seeking to ply their wares on folks just like our bedraggled group. However, we soon find the market to cause less claustrophobia then we had anticipated and we lose ourselves to the maze of people and product, with smiles, curiosities and calls of 'karibu' (welcome). After an hour of wandering, admiring, bartering and purchasing the kids have noticeably relaxed each holding their luke warm soda and souvenir.
We retrace our steps, feeling more like seasoned Kenyans, back to the familiar suburbs and our temporary home. While the reality of our obvious inexperience is apparent to all, we are grateful for the many strangers whose smiles, counsel or greeting have set us at ease and given us yet another adventure for our collective memory.
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