Matatu Troubles, Big and Small

I chose the title for this blog and possibly a book based on two matatu rides I took with George Amateshe.

We agreed to meet at the post office for our Saturday trip to Kisumu. I was a bit early so I sat on a bench in the shade of a giant tree, the spot where some of the vendors usually set up during the week. Three old ladies walked around peering down at the packed earth and occasionally leaning over from the waist and digging at something, then freeing and pocketing it. They were collecting bottle caps. I asked what they did with them. We saved ours for the LIFA centres to be used as math counters. One old lady spoke very loudly and very slowly, hoping I would understand if she were careful enough but of course I didn't speak enough Kiswahili. Then, as if by magic, I caught the words watoto and shule … children and school … they were taking them to the local school.

We caught the matatu across the road and travelled without incident to Kisumu, chatting about this and that as we rode along at a reasonable pace. Just before we arrived in Kisumu there was a small eruption which occasioned much talk in the matatu. Afterwards George explained that a man at the back, in trying to leave, stood on a woman's foot. The woman called out and another woman gave her hell for creating a fuss. She asked what she was expected to do, sit there quietly while a large man rested on her foot. The man got off and the matatu passengers smiled at one another. "Matatu matata," smiled a woman. I raised an eyebrow. "Matatu troubles," George said quietly.

The Crazy Matatu Trip Home
(more serious matatu matata)

In Kisumu we climbed aboard a matatu with a broken windshield. Not out … just crazed. It had obviously been in an accident.

And then we sat in the sweltering heat. Kisumu is much closer to sea level than Kakamega and so it is hotter and more humid there. While we sat there, we were approached by every possible type of vendor. They sold audiotapes, radios, batteries, cookies, home made snacks, peanuts, bananas, cold sodas and water … even mothballs … I had to explain to George what mothballs were. Who in Kisumu would ever need to protect their woollens?

A street boy stood quietly by the window expecting money. He said, "Please, I'm hungry," and just stood there patiently. I dug through my purse and found all the one-shilling pieces and gave them to him. "God bless you," he said. Down by the fish shacks where we had bought our whole fish and had it cooked, they feed the street boys the leftovers. Street children pose a bigger problem in Kisumu than it is in Kakamega. Bigger place – bigger problem, I guess.

Finally the matatu began to inch its way out of the car park … then stopped while a fight erupted. One vendor selling leather belts with metal buckles had been robbed by another vendor in rags selling metal hangers. The wronged man whipped the belts from around his neck and slashed at the thief's face. He put his hangers up as a defence and made threatening motions towards the other. Several men separated the two and talked the situation out. We moved out onto the road.

As soon as we hit the road … still in town … the ride from hell began. The driver drove at 100 km/hr through town, roaring past other vehicles and slamming to a stop to gather more passengers for the already overcrowded van. Then when we got onto the highway (a potholed, speed bumped, winding, narrow, hilly road with steep shoulders), he upped his speed to 120. He continued the speeding up and braking suddenly pattern, but now we had to contend with his passing of vehicles travelling over the speed limit themselves. Several times I was certain we would hit either a pedestrian or another vehicle because his brakes were not responding as quickly as they should have.

At one place, the people were lined up on both sides of the road and he drove straight through them to stop on the shoulder to disgorge passengers and take on others.

"Why are all these people here?" I asked George.

"The lorry up ahead killed someone walking along the road," he replied.

The body was in a truck. Police were everywhere. The truck driver was sitting in the police car.

"The guy who was killed was drunk," George continued. "The truck just lifted him and he flew, his brains spilling out."

I shuddered, and then thought perhaps our own driver might drive more carefully after seeing how easily life can be snuffed out. No chance. As soon as we lumbered out through the people onto the road, the wild ride continued.

The only time I have come as close to demanding that a vehicle stop so that I could get out was when I was hitching in the back of a speeding truck in Eleuthera. The driver had forgotten we were in the back bouncing around. Then, as now, I decided to leave my destiny to Fate.

We arrived without serious incident in Kakamega where insult was added to injury. The fare from Kisumu to Kakamega is 80 shillings, but the tout refused to give me my change insisting that the fare was 100.

I argued and George said quietly, "This tout nearly punched another passenger when he argued, Barbara. Leave it." I left the intimidating tout and accosted the driver who backed the tout.

I vowed never again to board the matatu with the cracked and crazed windshield.