Extreme public transport.

Matatu
A 15 person metal coffin otherwise referred to as a vehicular mode of public transport in Kenya. Operated by a driver who may or may not be clinically insane; and a conductor, who is a adept salesperson, banker, and trapeze artist rolled into one.

Let me begin with a joke told by a Kenyan colleague.
A priest died and was standing at the pearly gates of heaven expecting a warm welcome. Unfortunately, he was informed that he would be going to hell. Behind him was a matatu driver, who sailed through the pearly gates.
Stupefied, the priest exclaimed, “But God, I have dedicated my whole life to you, and always obeyed you! Why am I not going to heaven, and that matatu driver is?”
God answered, “My son, whenever you preached, everyone slept. When the matatu driver drove, everyone prayed.”

Forget extreme sports like mountain biking, heli-boarding, or kite surfing. Taking public transport in Nairobi should be an X-games sport for the fearless. My on-going experiences with public transport are leading me to consider wearing a helmet and full body armour to navigate the streets here. Let me describe for you, with no exaggeration, my recent matatu experience…

I waited on the side of Waiyaki Way for a “City Hoppa” bus to return to downtown Nairobi. No bus was in sight, and since there is no such thing as a schedule, I decided the #23 Matatu that screeched to a stop at my feet might be a more efficient way to return to town. The conductor swung from the side of the van, sliding door open, yelling unintelligible destinations before the van even slowed to less than 50 km/hour. There were empty seats on board, so the conductor heckled incessantly (or rather promoted the virtues of the matatu) to every person on the road until they entered the matatu, whether or not it was going in their desired direction. Although not overweight, I struggled to wedge my hips between the seats before settling in against the window. As I surveyed the insides, I could see that the driver took pride in his ride. The ceiling was decorated in gold and red vinyl, punctuated by matching covered buttons. Each seat had robin blue and daffodil yellow plastic covers over the headrests. The windows were mysteriously free of mud or the layers of black exhaust that seemingly blanket everything in the city. Small speakers were mounted along the length of the van, blaring Swahili hip-hop at a tolerable decibel. The driver looked as though he believed he was driving a low rider car with hydraulics on the streets of Chicago. I had a good feeling about this matatu, but then he started driving.

Driving is done on the left side of the road here, except if you are a matatu driver. We were suddenly lurching across 3 lanes of traffic, weaving in and out of any possible inch of space on the road. Waiting in a queue is not an option here, curbs are meant to mount, and red lights are optional. The driver sped into the far right lane only to have a passenger indicate his desired stop by rapping on the window with a 20 shilling coin. No sooner had the passenger rapped twice on the window, the driver was suddenly on the left side of the road, hitting the curb, nearly taking out several pedestrians, and the conductor was hanging off the side of the van, swinging like a monkey, and shouting for new riders before we had even lurched to a stop. We didn’t leave again until the vacated seat was filled with a new victim. I said a little prayer and decide to relax a bit and started envisioning heaven. The Swahili hip-hop seemed pretty decent and I ever so slightly bop my head to the beat, trying to blend in, like I have always lived in Kenya. Suddenly the only English phrase of the song blares above my head; “Black Supremacy!!!” before returning to the Swahili lyrics. My head bopping stops. I smile awkwardly to no one. We are almost downtown. We arrive at the main hub, near the Hilton, and we hop off, one by one, before the matatu stops moving. A group of European tourists stand and stare as though they are on some sort of human-sighting safari before they board their roomy air-conditioned bus. The conductor is already jumping on the sidewalk, recruiting people for the ride, possibly reassuring future customers that all the passengers arrived alive. Our prayers were answered for another day, another ride.