it. Just call us when you get there.”
Saying my last goodbyes, I picked up my bag and headed for the security gate. But before I’d made it through, I froze. I turned and ran back. For the first time in years, I shed tears in front of my parents. At that moment I felt such a sudden, powerful outburst of emotion. Yet despite my tears, I did my best to reassure them I was okay. They said they understood, and we held each other, sobbing together.
Then I headed off, this time for real. But as I was leaving, I realized I wasn’t sure if I had my passport. Do I need that? I wondered. You need a passport to go to another country, don’t you? I honestly couldn’t remember if I’d checked it with my baggage or still had it on me. There, in the middle of O’Hare airport and in sight of my puzzled parents, I dropped to my knees and tore through my overstuffed carry-on bag.
Luckily, my passport was there. I waved it to my parents on the other side of the gate and called out to them: “It’s okay, ’bye!”
Then I stuffed the passport in my pocket and hurried to catch my flight.
2
Culture Shock in Nairobi Life
Everyone is s taring at me. A crowd of bodies surrounds at all angles, a collision of voices whisper and laugh at what I assume must be me. Wildly self-conscious, I shove my hands deep into my pockets, feeling my face grow hot, wishing I knew how to sink into the crowd, invisible.
It’s like the first day of school all over again, only this September it’s my first time taking Nairobi’s public transit on my own. Up till now my host family has accompanied me, but from here forward I refuse to have my hand held as I find my way around the city—even though I’m not entirely sure which bus to take. I chalk up my uneasiness to an overactive imagination and compel myself to stand taller, trying to look as if I know what I’m doing.
Every morning at seven o’clock I embark on a two-hour commute across Nairobi, hopping a Nissan minibus—called a matatu—through town to the Nazarene Church on Ngong Road. There I meet with other University of Minnesota students for Swahili lessons, classes on Kenyan culture and sessions where we share ideas for our individual research projects. From my host family’s home in a suburb on the west side, it takes about fifteen minutes by foot to reach the first matatu stop, called a “stage.” There I join the crowd at the curbside and find shade from the sun—already blinding despite the early hour—beneath a signboard advertising a cellular phone company.
Calls and shouts from the matatus ring on all sides. Everyone is a potential passenger, the prey of aggressive matatu operators.
“Beba beba beba beba!” Be carried here!
The matatus don’t depart until the operators had maximized their profit by squeezing in as many passengers and as much cargo as they can, so along with a driver each has a type of scout, working to get bodies in seats as quickly as possible. With pleading shouts the scouts yank urgently at the elbows of potential passengers, coaxing them inside. Once the cars are full, they surge along the four-lane Uhuru highway to their destination at the city centre, then refill all over again. The more trips the matatu operators make, the more money they earn. Each fare is ten shillings, about twelve American cents.
As I wait for the matatu for route 115 to arrive, I hear calls from vendors nearby.
“Kumi kumi kumi!” Come, come, come!
A small kiosk is set up next to the matatu stage, where a clever business woman sells cut-up papaya, pineapple, mango and passion fruit to those waiting. “Thirty shillings, fruit salad!” she calls. “Thirty shillings only!” Even though I’ve been told we’re on the brink of the area’s rainy season, the heat is still exhausting, and at the equivalent of about forty cents this fresh fruit is a welcome treat.
“Beba beba beba!” Carry, carry, carry!
With its engine revving and honks blasting like bullhorns, the route 115 minibus pulls up, trailing dirty exhaust. Men and women in business suits shove past me, cutting in line to board. I’m pretty sure this is my route, but amid the chaos I can’t know for sure.
“Moja mwengine! Moja mwengine!” One more!
The noise is overpowering. Several more matatus pull up, each fighting to cut off the other, blasting music to attract potential passengers. Neon lights and graffiti drawings of American rappers colour the matatus, along with slogans ranging from Jesus Saves All to Baby Got Back. Lost in this disorienting scene, I allow myself to be hauled by the bicep into a matatu emblazoned with the slogan We Be Jammin. My feet are barely inside before the matatu pulls away.
The bus is jammed beyond capacity—as with all matatus, what would be typically a nine-seat vehicle has been refitted with benches for eighteen, though often more bodies spill from open doors and windows. I hold my breath against the thick scent of body odour as I climb toward the back, toppling into people as the matatu jerks, switching gears and hurtling off. My apologies go unacknowledged, and people simply give way the best they can. The experience is a far cry from Chicago’s Pace suburban bus service or the shuttle buses at college, where every other seat would be free.
I squeeze into the back row, squished among three adults and two children. A stranger hands a bag to hold on my lap, though I can’t tell to whom it belongs.
Conversations fly in all directions as we barrel down Uhuru Highway, voices raised over the blaring music. I have no idea what anyone around me is saying, so all I can do is concentrate on breathing through my mouth to avoid swallowing the clouds of black exhaust seeping from passing cars. Despite my best attempts to brace myself, hunched among these bodies and bags, my head slams over and over against the unpadded roof as we weave in and out of lanes. Holding my breath, I work up the courage to inhale, yet find it nearly impossible in the stagnant, pungent air. To my amazement, no one seems the least bit inclined to open a window.
Even with bodies pressing against me on all sides, I feel alone. Everyone is a stranger. These streets are unfamiliar. I am far from my friends, my bed, the familiar neighbourhood I could navigate with my eyes closed, everything I’d ever known. And yet, with total chaos surrounding me, pounding music playing so loud the entire matatu vibrates with pumping bass, a small girl absentmindedly clutching my leg for balance—here I am truly alive. This is what I wanted! This is what I came for!
The matatu hits a pothole and all of us are bounced from our seats, once again smacking our heads against the roof. The girl clutching my leg and I exchange smiles and she takes my hand. I inhale deeply, breathing in the smell of burning garbage, diesel fumes . . . and freedom.
Nairobi: the sprawling metropolis often called “The Green City in the Sun.” (Photo courtesy Kim Plewes.)
The University of Minnesota had placed me for two months with a temporary host family in Westlands, a relatively affluent suburb outside of Nairobi. The family fed and housed me, but our relationship was generally icy. When I tried to make conversation or share stories, they were uninterested. I came to see that they were hosting a Western student for the money not to embrace a visitor from another culture.
Truthfully, that was fine with me, since my priorities lay elsewhere. Soon I would be matched with a new family in a rural area, where I would be immersed in the local culture and observe the conditions there first-hand. I didn’t
