I think to date I've only tangentially mentioned matatus, which is a serious oversight on my part considering the large share of my time given over to waiting for them, riding them and recovering from riding them. Swahili, I think, for "death by suffocation", matatus for the backbone of Kenyan public transport. The vast majority are white Nissan vans with 14 seats packed together very, very tightly. They sit at a town's matatu stage waiting to fill up with 17 or 18 people, then race off. Matatus also serve as the main mode of local shipping, and because most goods sold in Dol Dol have to be brought in from Nanyuki, I usually find myself crammed among Maasai warriors, bundles of qat, vats of cooking oil and tanks of paraffin. Because the vans are in a bad condition, the roads in a worse one, and the drivers in a worse one still, matatus have a horrendous safety record. In fact, if you ranked all the means of transport on their mortality rates, matatu travel would fall right between hydrogen-filled zeppelin and riding on the back of a hungry tiger.
A few years ago, the government actually tried to reform the matatu sector. It introduced laws requiring that every passenger have his or her own seat and seatbelt, enforceable at the police checkpoints along each road, and mandated the installation of speed governors in the matatus to cap their speed at 80 km/hour. Very quickly, however, the matatu drivers discovered that the practiced use of a cigarette lighter could disable the speed governors and the practiced use of a bribe could disable the police. And so the madness continues. This weekend, I had my worst matatu experiences, which is saying something because the best you hope for when you board a matatu is that you'll survive and that you'll regain feeling in your legs within 72 hours.
Even without the speed governors, most drivers on the Dol Dol-Nanyuki route are kept under 80 km/hour by the road conditions. Because blown tires come out of the dirvers' pay (and even at low speeds, a tire punctures a quarter of the time), drivers fight their qat-addled inclination and go slow out of self-interest. Not so our driver on Friday. The brother of the MP and local a Big Man, he not only has a spare tire, he has a whole spare matatu. So, throwing caution into the wind and rain that enveloped us, he whipped the matatu around the rutted and muddy roads of Laikipia, ignoring the chorus of "Pole pole! ("Slow down!") and snapping vertebrae. The Somali woman in front of me got sick and vomited. The two people sharing my seat kept themselves busy: the momentarily pious Vivien crossed herself and mumbled Our Fathers while Joseph read aloud the Ken Saro-Wiwa story "Africa Kills Her Sun", which I thoughtfully suggested be retitled "Africa Kills Her Public Transport Passengers."
As it turned out, we did not crash and die. This was a mixed blessing, because while I cherish my time on this earth, it meant I had to take the matatu home to Dol Dol on Sunday. I was one of the 25 passengers on the 14-seater van, with a 5 year old boy and and 50 year old man sharing my lap, but even this overloaded matatu did not meet demand. When we stopped to let someone off at Jua Kali, there was a rush of prospective passengers, and the conductor had to kick and punch people to keep them off the van. At the next stop, a full-fledged melee broke out. On one side, a group of drunks attacked the driver, and someone swung a rungu, the traditional Maasai club, at his head. Just as the driver safely shut the door, another groups of drunks attacked the conductor. They tried to slam the sliding door on his face- luckily, the door on this matatu did not close, and we sped off before anyone was lynched. People have told me that the end of the month, when everyone gets paid and (consequently) very drunk, is the worst time for matatu travel, and I think there's some truth to that.
Anyway, I'm off to Nakuru for a few days. It's a big town in the middle of the Rift Valley, and part of my plan to see Kenya's four largest cities (watch out Kisumu, you're up next). It has a lot of things Nanyuki doesn't, like flamingos, movie theaters and Indian restaurants, so I'm pretty excited. And how, you ask, am I getting there? By matatu, of course.
Here's wishing you all a happy 4th of July, and a grudging happy (belated) Canada Day.
