I seem to only write when things are midding. I am not inspired when things are going badly (February and March), and when things are going well (April) I don’t want to sit in front of the computer. My e-absence lately was also because I’ve been away quite a bit. I’ll have tales of awe and woe from my travels at some point in the future. But for now, since I’ve been back and forth so much in recent weeks, I’m going to take you on my matatu ride from Nairobi to Kianyaga.
After fighting my way through the crowds of people and vehicles on Accra Road, I arrive at Tea Room, my matatu stage. The buses leaving from this stage go upcountry and are grouped geographically: Past the electronics shop on the corner, I turn toward the public toilet and the shoe shine guys, and see the many matatus leaving for Nyeri, Nanyuki, Karatina, Mwea, Kerugoya, and Embu. Almost at the end of the stage, there’s one with a sign on top that says Kutus, Kianyaga, Kerugoya. That’s me. Depending on the time of day, I either grab the last available seat and hope my pack fits somewhere, or else I put my bag in the back, buy a newspaper, pick my favorite seat (third row, left-hand window) and prepare to fend off the hawkers selling handkerchiefs, biscuits, and sunglasses while I wait until the matatu fills.
When we pull out of Tea Room we go up the hill past Fig Tree market and its many shops with floral dresses hanging in front. It is loud and usually hot, and the conductor shouts and signals to other vehicles in order to merge. (In Nairobi, navigating the roads requires both a driver and a conductor, who sits two rows back on the passenger side and is responsible for opening the sliding door, collecting as many passengers as will fit in the matatu, taking the fare, communicating with other vehicles, paying bribes to the police officers, and chewing a lot of miraa.) A few roundabouts later I know we’re almost out of the city because Githurai, a sprawling market area, overwhelms my senses. It is busy, colorful, packed with people, vehicles, formal and ad-hoc market stalls, piles and piles of rotting garbage, hawkers laden with tomatoes and sugarcane, and a massive open sewer. If you’re going to get stuck in a jam and sit still for 45 minutes, it will happen here. If you don’t, you’re soon out of the chaos and passing Ruiru, which looks just like American ex-urbia, but with goats and cows.
Traffic at Githurai
Del Monte advertisements alert me that we’re now approaching Thika, a town near the biggest pineapple plantation you can imagine. It stretches as far as the eye can see. Often the matatu will stop on the overpass so people can buy from the vendors by the roadside who sell their pineapples, surely “borrowed” from Del Monte, whole or conveniently peeled, quartered, and wrapped in plastic bags. The latter always causes stickiness for the rest of the matatu ride, but is well worth it.
For the next hour or so, the matatu speeds by increasingly green fields and shambas, careening around curves and passing other vehicles at break-neck speed, slipping back into the left lane just as a massive lorry bears down in the oncoming lane. I cannot figure out why Kenyans, who seem content to sit and wait for three hours for a wedding or a meeting to start, will risk their lives (and mine!) to pass every other car on the road in order to arrive ten minutes earlier, so that they can wait an hour for the matatu to fill up for the return trip.
Soon we are in Mwea, which I recognize because of all the rice paddies and donkeys, and the fact that my back is starting to feel stiff. There’s usually a stop to let two people off and collect three more. Mwea always amuses me: As you pass the town, there is a row of forty or so small shops selling the exact same bags of rice. They all have signs proclaiming “Mwea pishori rice!” “Best pishori rice!” and in front of each shop is the same wooden table, stacked tall with 2kg and 5kg bags of the same rice. It’s like having a Starbucks kitty corner to another Starbucks, times twenty. We leave Mwea and continue past fields of sugarcane and maize and brightly-painted shops. There are a few more stops in a few more towns, more sugarcane, banana palms, maize, cabbages, french beans, and the ubiquitous cows and goats grazing by the side of the road. Finally, we pull up next to the petrol station in Kutus, and I’m almost home. We do another drop-off and pick-up, pull back onto the road, and then turn at the junction.
This is tea and coffee country now: Unassuming coffee trees and bright, verdant tea fields bordered by banana palms change the visual landscape and the air smells of eucalyptus. Past the hospital, past the secondary school, we finally arrive in Kianyaga town. Just as the shops appear, the road gets very bumpy, and I spend the last few minutes of the journey trying to avoid whiplash or a bump on the head. We tumble through town, passing Nyaga’s shop, Home Pride supermarket, the petrol station, and pull into the stage.
I exit the matatu (usually not very gracefully because I’ve got my pack in one hand and my Nakumatt purchases in the other) and I’m greeted by the stage boys. They swarm around me, yelling all my different names and asking me a million questions in Kikuyu, English, and Kiswahili. I have little patience for them now, after nine months, when they ask “Welcome mzungu, where are you going?” as if they don’t know that I live here, as if they don’t see me every day. I brush them off and turn down the road we’ve just come in on, back past the petrol station, Mama Bryon’s shop, the building under construction, and I take a right. If school is not in session, I’m greeted by a chorus of high-pitched yells, “Njeri! Njeri! Mzungu!”, as the kids run up to say hi. I greet them (they’re so much nicer and more charming than that stage boys…) and ask about the news since I’ve been gone. They just say “mzuri” (it’s good) and giggle. I continue down the dirt road, avoiding the drainage ditches, wave hello to my old lady neighbor, and turn in at my gate. Across the plot (careful of all the stones and cow dung), up the stairs, I drop my stuff on the porch and take a seat on our outside couch.
The view from here is of neighboring houses to the right and fields and farmland to the left. You can still smell eucalyptus, but it’s mostly masked by Mama Mwangi’s beans and maize cooking over an open fire just downstairs, trash fires burning nearby, overtones of the latrine on occasion, and (since it’s the rainy season) the smell of damp earth. I often return on Sunday afternoons, and before I unpack and look at my to-do list, I like to sit out on the porch and fix the sights, sounds, and smells in my mind. As evening comes the air gains a hint of mountain chill, and I run inside for my fleece. I sit with my tea and my book, filled with a combination of relief, pre-emptive nostalgia, and gratitude. This place finally feels like home.
