Helen's Commute

I was very worried about traveling to work.  The transport system seemed intimidating, unfathomable and is completely undocumented.

But armed with a short initiation, a map and all the confidence I can muster, I’m doing it – I’m commuting.

My journey starts just before 8am, stepping out of my building and waiting only ever a few minutes for the privately-run buses that passes by in front, conductors hanging almost fully out the door.  I signal and the bus bounces energetically onto the dirt pavement, narrowly missing me and slows down to a crawl. 

‘Belle Vue?’ I ask, wanting to get to the ‘stage’ (stop) that is named after the building whose name appears in fat red letters for all to see.  They don’t understand me the first time I say it, with all my French training, ‘Bell-voo?’, so I must use Kenyan English to get by.  ‘BELL-A-VOO??’ I yell and the guy nods this time, letting me onto the bus which never fully stops to let me board.  Wobbling to my seat, I notice that Kenyan ladies try to sit next to other women where they can. 

The conductor always remembers who has paid and who hasn’t and holds out a silent hand for the 10 shilling fare (about 7p).  Once a British colony, Kenyans still use the shorthand I associate with my grandparents, ‘10 bob’.  The bus stops and starts, the conductor hanging out for passengers, calling the destination name to the waiting commuters.  After a few minutes, we’ve reached Belle Vue stage, so I squeeze out and drop onto the road at a run: stopping for passengers to alight would waste valuable time it seems. I walk along the road/pavement/rubble until I reach the highway.  The Mombasa Road is a 6-lane motorway with no barriers, and my first matatu effectively leaves from the hard shoulder.

Matatus are 14-seater minibuses operated privately on straight routes all over town.  It seems if you need to change direction, you change matatu.  There are no timetables, they simply leave the stage when they’re full, and everyone sits and wait for it to fill up. They are everywhere, thousands across the city, each with a very bold driver and an even bolder conductor, yelling the destination name and practically dragging you onto his matatu.

I choose one that’s filling up, and one that looks like it’s on the outside edge of the pack, closest to the road.  The conductor is a salesman in the business of drumming up fares.  I catch only one word in the Swahili he repeats and repeats: ‘Rounda’ meaning my destination stage on a large roundabout near the airport.  I imagine him to be an auctioneer or a fairground owner, Roll-up roll-up people, we are leaving and we’re going to Rrrrroun-DA – get on now or miss it only 20 shillings get on get on…

I’m sitting and waiting for it to fill up, with working people like myself in suits and skirts, with laptop cases and handbags. The seats are tidy and squeezed together, and not all give you enough head space.  If only the back seats are left, you’re forced to stare at your lap for the entire journey.

And then we’re off.  Pulling out abruptly from the hard shoulder onto the motorway is just as scary as it sounds.  Beeps, shouts, and emergency stops are not uncommon, and we do this all the way along the highway, dropping passengers at fancy glass headquarters, dirt tracks, shops and even on the central reservation as we round the corner. I can see and feel the conductor banging the matatu in signal to the driver – the conductor is the real brains of the outfit, and he’s telling the driver when to stop and when to leave. 

At ‘RRRrrroun – DA’ (again Kenyan English is the way to go for me to be understood – roll those Rs) I change matatus for the final stretch.  The roundabout is construction-hell, with ditches and dust and half-buildings and concrete and a part-constructed mall.  China is building roads in Kenya, the political landscape of which we’ll have to explore another time.  But for now - look both ways, avoid the big holes, watch where you step.  

The last matatu takes me only 500 metres, but I wouldn’t want to walk.  The dust from the lorries rolling by and the lack of tarmac would make it a hazardous trek in my work clothes and shoes.  This one drops me at the end of the road they call ‘A-Vee-A-SHON’, as the Aviation School is at the end.  I walk up the road, past Kabansora mill and other industries and into the start of the slum – to the compound owned by Kenya Union of the Blind, home of KUB house.

The whole journey takes around 40 minutes.

My way home is much the same, except at Belle Vue I’m the wrong side of the highway.  It’s quite normal here to cross six lanes of traffic on foot - there are no official crossings, and no one slows down.  I tried being dropped further on, to cross at a flyover, but that involved scrambling up a slope I’d normally harness a rope to climb.  It's not what I'd label pedestrian friendly.  But somehow, it all works.

There are no photos in this post as it feels a little unsafe to flash my camera.  But as I get a bit more savvy, I plan to add some.  For now, I'm hoping this paints a little picture of this part of my day.  I imagine my CR-UK colleagues reading this with a smile (yes you, Lisa).  First Capital Connect - all is forgiven??

Special thanks go to: Tito for taking me to work on my first day, the lady on the matatu for guiding me home the first time I was by myself; Ken for knowing all the matatu stages and my fellow commuters for ignoring me when I thought I might be stared at.

Coming soon: Work; exploring our neighbourhood; and - we escape the city…