Tranceport
Some of you may be wondering how Marta and I are getting ourselves from one point to another. In the Netherlands, the highly efficient train brought us back and forth from Zandvoort an Zee and Amsterdam, stopping through Haarlem. The timely Dutch service ill-prepared us for the bumpier experiences awaiting in Africa.
On the plane to Nairobi, I was seated next to the first of a seemingly endless queque of African-Christian soldiers in
tent on saving my soul. This particular evangelical minister instilled in me the dangers of cab drivers outside the Nairobi airport, thundering on high of the unlikelihood that we would ever reach our destination if we put ourselves in any but the hands of his enormous family. Now that we are a bit wiser and have arrived yet another time in the Nairobi airport in the middle of the night, I realize that he was more intent on securing our trapped attention for another half-hour. In any case, we arrived safely at the Hillcrest Hotel that first night, although I suppose my soul is yet bound for more dangerous territory.
I take the ICRAF bus to work-- too much time has passed now for me to ask without embarrassment what ICRAF stands for, all I know is that it takes me directly to the office.
There are Metro buses here, clean and well-maintained, and they sell only enough tickets as there are seats. The matatus, on the other hand, sell as many tickets as there is airspace. I cannot estimate how many people per square inch are packed in a matatu, but I was once one of five in the front seat. The burnt-out shells of mini-vans and the tilted road-side lamps testify to the excellent economic bargain of matatus: a ride costs about 5cents. (NB: "poli, poli" = "slowly! slowly!") Not only are the matatus death traps, they are also discos. At night, blue or green neon lights illuminate the interior, sometimes with flashing lights as well, and the music compells the passengers to keep the beat with a finger (assuming one can move such an appendage). The exteriors are painted in the best tradition of graffiti art, each indicating the number of the official Kenya bus route which the matatu is imitating, and, more informatively, the name of the vehicle: royal prince, slim shady, night nursy, wherever whenever.
Matatus weave amongst the official Kenyan buses, private cars, and student- drivers in vehicles proclaiming names such as the Good Luck Driving School.
The occasional taxi is taken, and the feet are getting a work out too. Sometimes, the dogs are really barking.
In Harare last week, our waiter from the hotel, Victor, took us to on a long bus ride to hi
s little town; then walking through the narrow streets winding through the houses, stopping to rattle the lock on his dad's gate in order to borrow the car. His dad was not around, however, so we set off across a large field. A walk, he said, which it was indeed: at one point, where we had come from disappeared in the distance... and how far we were going became confused with why we were going: "To see the witch doctor." Obviously, we were walking as far as getting to the witch doctor -- what would be the point of walking less or more?
As it happened (as it seems to frequently happen) the brother of the witch doctor over took us. He stung the hides of the beasts hitched to the
cart with a short switch and urged us to jump in. Running, the three of us hopped into the cart of manure to join Danforth, the barefoot, wordless boy. The brother of the witch doctor would occasionally have to jump off the cart and run alongside one of the trotting engines, shouting, "Operator!" or "Vinegar!" in order to encourage the lagging beast or to steer them away from running straight into a huge prickly bush.
He left us near the appropriate cluster of houses and our feet took us to the witch doctor... who indicated the boundary past which only our barefeet could take us. Dear Reader, here, closes the chapter of Trancesport and there begins a Spoonful of Sugar
July 2, 2002 • Nairobi, Kenya