Jolts

It comes in jolts, the realization that I am across the globe. Nairobi lacks obvious/cliché signifiers of the exotic- monkeys do not roam the streets, the climate is merely that of Michigan in June (albeit it stays this way all year), and most signs are in English. The differences are instead those of details, which is part of the immense charm of the city. The most inescapable reminder is the dirt, which I am rapidly falling in love with. The dirt here is notable for both its rusty hue and propensity to dye my hands said hue after a long day in the city.

Much like home, I take public transportation quite often here. However, the most popular form here is not the bus nor train, but the matatu. To picture a matatu, imagine an old VW bus knockoff, stuffed with seats (capacity is 14, but I am unsure if that counts the literal hanger-ons), blaring rap or reggae, often rocking a 24 inch TV screen. Also, imagine this beast covered in a strange mixture of religious homilies, American urban catchphrases, and bizarelly out of place logos. Needless to say, I love Matatus, as they make any trip involving transit quite exciting.

Also, it in Nairobi is important to get used to the animals, especially on the outskirts. Don’t be surprised if you see a large, unsupervised flock of ducks wade through a crowded market, the ducks and the marketers equally unfazed. Also, goats happen to  be more common than dogs, as goats are a reliable source of meat for festive occasions, and happen to also double as lawnmowers.

The amazing friendliness of people here is further notable, but must be qualified. First, if you are obviously mzungu (white person/tourist), you will only get fake kindness. Secondly, even if people don’t judge you as a tourist, their kindness may still be a cover story for some scam. Needless to say, I get most of my practice in Kiswahili through clumsy attempts to communicate the fact that I will in fact, not give them 500 shillings. Still, folks here are simply nice.

Anyhow, I’ve been here about a week, and it’s profoundly great. The pace of life is enjoyably lax, with half hour tea breaks bleeding into 45 minutes, and lunch often going for hours, and nobody bats an eye. Every evening my host father an I exchange newspapers (he buys the Nation, I the Standard) over a pot of chai (tea), as I slowly make sense of this country and its politics and culture. Needless to say, it’s been a good week.