Sunday, August 26, 2007

The last leg to work

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As far as I can figure, bus routes 2, 3 or 4 will get me down Ngong Road to the AWC office. I�m the only mzungu waiting at the matatu stop outside Nakumatt Junction. And when the first number 2 bus comes along, I make myself more conspicuous by interrupting the crushing flow of commuters to ask the conductor if his bus will take me to Nairobi Hospital. That�s the only landmark close to the AWC office that I know the name of. He shakes his head and I walk back to the sidewalk.



Matatus wheel into the stop with their ticket-sellers hanging out the open door. They flash the route number on their fingers and call out ��two, two� or ��five, five?� as the minivans pull in. A cacophony of crank, reggae and gospel music pours out of the open windows. Only a few passengers smile at me, more just stare.



I decide to get on the next bus that comes by. I�ll see what happens. So when a big green City Hoppa with 4 in its front window stops, I climb up the stairs and take my seat in front of the stairs. I�m pressed against another young woman, glad somehow that my first seatmate isn�t a man. People get on and off and I can�t quite figure out how the system is working. The bus stops at some waiting spots and blows by others. At least, from where I�m sitting, I can�t see the chaos the driver is navigating (and contributing to) as we make our way into town.



�Hey, pay me!� At the next stop, the conductor yells out as a tall man starts heading for the stairs. The tall man says he has no money. The wiry little conductor is blocking the way to the stairs and now he reaches out and slams the door closed in protest. The tall man says something in Swahili. The only words I understand are �Hey, fuck you.� The tall man is right beside me. As he talks with his hands, they waive about six inches from my face. My mind goes to thoughts of mungiki, the gangsters cum religious sect cum political agitators cum petty criminals that �protect� matatu drivers and slum-dwellers.



The men yell at each other for another minute as I try to figure out what I�m going to do if the fight gets physical. Finally the conductor says, �eh, just get off my bus, you�re slowing us down.� A few more �hey, fuck yous� and we�re back on the road.



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I�m keeping one eye out the window, in case the bus turns onto some unfamiliar street. The other eye is on the conductor. He is taking money from people in the front of the bus. When he squeezes down the narrow aisle to collect fares from those of us in the back, I ask him if we�re heading toward Nairobi Hospital. He knits his brow. He looks to the back of the bus and shakes his head, �no, no.�



But we�re still heading down Ngong Road, so I figure I�m doing alright. The conductor�s back is pressed against me as he collects from the three people in the neighboring seats. They, in turn are pressed up against each other, with the last hard-shouldering the smudged window.



The woman beside me gets off the bus and we whiz by the next stop, just outside the Baptist Center that neighbors the AWC office. I�m trying to figure out how to get off the bus when the conductor plunks down in the seat beside me and says �You want to go to Nairobi Hospital?�



�No. I just want to get off here.�



The conductor stands and hits a small red button in the ceiling of the bus. So that�s how you get off. I say, �I have to pay you. Thirty, nah?� I drop two coins in his palm and that confused look crosses his face again. But before we can figure out if I�ve over-paid, the bus is pulling in to a stop one round-about past AWC. �OK. OK,� he says and I climb off the bus and back-track back to work.



I keep threatening to buy a bicycle and join the small percentage of Kenyans who get around by bike. Hey, if I can cycle commute down Montreal�s Rue Sherbrooke in the middle of a February snowstorm, surely I can hack Nairobi traffic? Then again, at 15 cents a ride, matatus may be the ticket.



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