Matatu buses…Hakuna Matata? I think not.
Considering the terrorism of Nairobi matatu bus drivers by Mungki gang members, we were not tempted to take the cheapest and most common form of Kenyan transportation. On many occasions as we walked to the girls’ home or through Nakuru, a matatu would whizz by us at hair-grazing distance. Our uncomfortably close encounters with matatus and their notoriously bad driving made them seem all the more dangerous. When our friend Mary asked us to visit her HIV positive friend who lived in a small village outside of Nakuru, we decided that an opportunity to meet such an amazing woman should not be overshadowed by our reluctance to travel via matatu.
The trick is firstly, getting on the right matatu and secondly, not getting conned into paying any more than the locals. As we stood waiting at Egerton’s gate, matatu drivers leaned out of their moving vehicles, beckoning us with shrill whistles and loud banging on the metal doors. Mary guided us onto a small twelve passenger van that had cracked blue leather seats and an interior that was just as dusty as its exterior. Although Kenyan law prohibits matatus from overloading, the most profitable drivers have a knack for cramming in more passengers than double the carrying capacity. After twenty minutes spent looking for more riders, we finally headed out on the long road to Nakuru where we would then connect to Kabazi.
Both thrilling and frightening, we bounced along narrow, “paved” roads at neck breaking speed playing chicken with every vehicle we encountered. Taking my gaze from the window, I suddenly noticed other passengers scrambling to fasten their seat belts. Thoroughly alarmed, I craned my neck only to see a huge truck headed towards us. Previously unaware I even had a seatbelt, my fingers urgently dug along the dirty seat searching for the seatbelt strap and clasp. After I fastened my seatbelt, I was aghast to find that it could have easily accommodated an additional person sitting on my lap. Just as a four lettered word crossed my mind, the matatu suddenly jerked off the side of the road and stopped next to two policemen. Much to my embarrassing relief, the hasty seatbelt clicking was apparently due to an approaching routine seatbelt check. Of course, this safety regulatory check was a bit of a joke since most drivers can bribe the officers to pass. Immediately preceding the check, the seatbelts were unfastened nearly as quickly as they were put on.
The rest of our matatu trip proved less traumatic. At Nakuru, hawkers swarmed the matatus with their unusual wares (candy, handkerchiefs, socks, batteries, sausages, flashlights). The countryside near Kabazi was breathtakingly green and mountainous, interrupted by patches of dirt shacks, tidy businesses, and farmland. The matatu ride had given us an adventurous taste of Kenyan life, a cheap tour of beautiful countryside, and a rollercoaster experience to be always remembered. And most gratefully, the matatu delivered us home in one piece.