Kenya is coming alive. The morning sun with its rays was caressing the Jacaranda Trees.  I smelled their blossoms as I ventured toward Ngong Road.  It was relatively peaceful, serene as I walked down the red clay lane freshly washed by some night rain.  A few people were up walking like me headed toward their place of work or just off to get some bread at the corner kiosk
 
My car was in the repair shop and I had to go to a meeting near the Barclay Bank building downtown and today was going to be my first experience on a Matatu (a mini-bus) and that feeling of serenity and inner bliss, well that would be shaken up too.
 
This was going to be my day where I entered into the belly of one of the colorful ones (Mayengas), the main mode of transport in Nairobi for thousands.  Not just a mode of transportation but an experience that no country fair or amusement park rides in the USA could match.  New York may have its Yellow Cabs, London its red Buses, Germany its Mercedes Taxis, but Kenya is unique in a class all of its own with its colorful Matatus.
 
I arrived at the Matatu stop and with about 50 other people stood there waiting for one of the mini-buses to arrive for my trip to downtown Nairobi.  Before you ever see one, you can hear it, horns blaring, the speakers thumping away ready to blow at any moment, playing the latest hip-hop music, African reggae or some central African beat that will herald the coming of the colorful ones.  When you do see them, they will be brightly painted with pictures and sayings all over them.  Ever so often they change the design, and there are even contests for best Matatu art sponsored by General Motors, Kenya.  In the past there were pictures of Monica Lewinsky on some, the Chicago Bulls with Michael Jordan, Princess Diane, Tupac Shakur and more, all done in bright, garish colors.  There are over 6000 of them in Nairobi, 24,000 in Kenya (not as colorful in the countryside where they can be small trucks and the like) with names like “Uprising and Da Art of Music”.”  They have a poor safety record, at least 1,500 people die each year in Matatu accidents, a ride in one of them is a lifetime experience but for Kenyans it becomes a way of life.
 
As I stood there, not one but three approached at the same time, it became a race for the finish, side by side, hogging the road…. the noise-level was incredible, the black exhaust fumes would even make Christy Todd-Whitman cringe (Environmental Protection Agency Secretary, USA).  There seemed to be no rules of the road, only get to the paying customers  first, the conductors with their baggy pants and hats hung out the side door, banging on the roofs and sides of the vehicles, the colors glistened brightly in the morning sun and I was about to get my first ride in a Matatu. 
 
The conductors dove into the crowd trying to usher as many passengers as they could, forget the physical limits of the bus (18 to 24 passengers), They are somehow able to squeeze up to 50 passengers into a 24-seater minibus. How they do it, nobody knows.
A story is told of how a police officer stopped a minibus and, when he realized it was overloaded, ordered all the passengers to get off so that he could ascertain how many excess passengers there were. The policeman stood, mouth agape, as more and more passengers left the bus. After a while he decided to go around the vehicle to ensure none of the passengers were re-entering through another door.

 “Mzungu, Papa come here, we are fast, and we will get you downtown quick, American style.”  I was shoved inside. It was standing room only, those sitting seemed like they were glued into their seats, there was no room, and I stood with nothing to hold on.  As we took off and approached mach 2 speed my body was simply pressed into the throng of people who stood around me.  Now I know what a Sardine must feel like pressed into a tin-can, hopefully I would not have to wait until the tin was peeled back by an opener but be able to exit through the door.  In order to collect as many fares from passengers, as a rule, overweight people are not allowed, or if they are, they have to pay double the rate.
 
After a few minutes in a Matatu the senses are numbed, the jostling about, the revving up of the engine, the squealing of the brakes, the sound of hip-hop music, the shouts of the conductor and driver mixed in with protests from the passengers all make one feel you are on an acid trip gone too far, but thankfully somehow you usually arrive.
 
The driver, was constantly shouting, gesturing, doing everything but driving or so it seemed and I wondered if I should have gone to a church for my last rites prior to this ride.  Nairobi's Matatu crews are legendary for their dangerous driving. Intense competition for passengers and hours behind the wheel without sleep takes its toll on drivers.  The government has tried to step in with laws (limiting color-speed-extra license fees and insurance and mechanical devices that would record the actions of the drivers, at times even wanting to take over this lucrative multi-million dollar business but still the Mayengas, the colorful ones ride the sea of Nairobi traffic like speed boats in the canals of Venice (except there are police with radar on the canals of Venice ).  In Nairobi, the police stand on the side of road and have no way of chasing the errant Matatu driver except to write down the license number and if they do stop them, there is always the exchange of a bit of cash to avoid judgment.
 
Depending on your age, the Matatu ride can be pure hell or a journey that should not end. The minibuses boast the most powerful hi-fi systems. The music systems, some costing up to $2 000, can easily burst your eardrums.
But the youth seem to enjoy the noise. Some pay for round trips just to sample the latest music from the US and some have been known to play hooky from school just to listen to the hottest hits. The older passengers can only grumble.
 
The ride was a breath taking experience, at times our driver even went onto the sidewalk, across some open spaces to another road, over a round-about island to avoid traffic slow-downs, all the while the conductor was hollering and screaming at people on the side of the road to get on aboard.  Ever so often the Matatu would come to a screeching halt, thank God the brakes worked on this one and disgorge some of the passengers which meant a whole new arrangement for the rest of us and me being pressed into someone else. At one time I had an actual seat only to have my face pressed into someone’s backside. I was hoping that the ride would soon be over and I could escape this claustrophobic nightmare and enjoy the wide-open space of Kenyatta Avenue…
 
One of my fellow sufferers shouted at me “You must be a poor mzungu to ride a Matatu?”  I smiled at him and said “I wanted to feel what a near-death experience would be like.” 
 
The trip helped me to see Nairobi in a new light, I had experienced sounds, sights, smells, senses I never knew existed and as I slowly walked out the Matatu the conductor smiled at me and said “Papa, see you next time.”  I smiled and thought that I would gladly take a taxi home instead of another joy ride over sidewalks, off-road paths, curbs and roundabout islands...jon

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