We take a "matatu" to the Nairobi slum called Soweto. A "matatu" is a small van, commonly a Nissan Caravan, decked out with seats to hold 14 passengers plus a driver and a conductor. Matatus are the primary form of public transportation around Nairobi. The ride is usually cheap, 10/= to 40 /= per trip (/= is the symbol for the ksh or Kenyan Shilling, commonly known as a "bob"). Riding on a matatu is an experience not soon forgotten. If you are familiar with Harry Potter, my wife compares riding in a "matatu" to that of a "muggle Night Bus."
Soon after exiting the matatu, we've left the land of sidewalks and paved streets behind. A few steps ago, the pavement beneath my feet ended and I am walking on a packed dirt vehicle track, two parallel trails about half a meter across with a third grass covered track between, across a grass covered field. The grass is a little more than a meter tall and there is only one smallish tree off to the left of the track. There is not a hint of breeze to wave the grass nor rustle the leaves.
About 100 meters to my right, the field ends in a line of buildings. These single story structures back up to the field, showing us their concrete block, mud brick and sheet tin backs. There are many children playing in the intervening space from 50 meters nearly to the buildings. It appears that they are playing some ball game, perhaps it is football or some sort of kicking dodgeball. The children see us about the same time as we see them. Their game forgotten for the moment, they begin to move at an angle and as a group to intercept. Keep walking, chatting all the time, until the inevitable meeting takes place.
Amazed with the suddenness of it all, surrounded by 40 or so children from age 8 to teenage. Each asks the same question, "How are you?" The last word drawn out, like it has 3 o's. Once the chant starts, it is at once comforting to hear words you understand, overwhelming by the sheer number of those asking and their earnest interest in an answer and also a bit freaky. The phrase "How are yooou?" and the manner it is delivered sets up some strange vibration in the ears. The question stays in thought like the tune to "It's a small world" stays with you for hours and weeks after you exit the ride. After shaking the hand of every child, some several times, answering their question with, "Fine, thank you. How are you?" or "vzuri sana, habari yako?" and getting their responses of "Good" or "mzuri," the children begin trailing back to their games and my feet carry on forward.
A turn to the right and there are several smaller children playing in another group, age 5 to 8 or so. Again the questions and answers and shaking of hands, but this time the number of children is smaller and the mob effect less, so my feet continue to move. This time is different in that my hands are soon filled with small hands, clasping, holding. Now I walk with a child holding each hand as we make the way up the side street. Careful stepping on stones across a small stream and another 50 meters pass before my hands are released and the children race back to their games with stories of having walked with "mzungu" or "white person."
The street can only be called a street because it was roughly straight with a row of houses on either side and wide enough for 4 or more people to stand side-by-side. The houses are more of the mud brick, block, and sheet tin walls seen before while crossing the field. In nearly every doorway, stands or sits a mother and a few small children. These children are more shy, or "hiya," than their comrades nearer to the field. This time there are no handshakes, but the how-are-you's are exchanged, along with amazed looks by some of the children who may not have seen "mzungu" before. Another difference in this street and the track across the field, is the ditch running along and sometimes across the packed earth path on which my feet tread gently uphill. The liquid flowing in the ditch can be called water, but any resemblance to tap or bottled water ends with the way it flows. The ditch has a trickle of brown liquid flowing through it - partly mud, partly waste, completely disgusting - particularly because this ditch may be the only source of water some of these people have without having to walk a long distance to a tap somewhere in the slum. As the end of the street nears, a garbage pile sits on the left. Picking through whatever is left there are a few sheep and a couple of chickens.
The meeting concluded, my feet are headed out a different way than how they came in. My guide says this is shorter, but without guidance, I should not try to find this way alone. The streets are narrower here, but the same characteristics exist. The ditch containing brown, smelly water slowly flowing, litter on and in the packed earth of the street as well as in the ditch water.
Passing out this way, presents an important landmark - the local clinic, chemist, laboratory - Soweto Medical Centre. This building is wedged between houses and is of sturdier construction than the others surrounding it - concrete block, wooden supports, plaster covering on the walls. After passing the clinic, most of the houses have stoops or small porches on them where small stands are set up. These stands offer the locals the ability to make a little money by selling everything from vegetables and fruits, to toilet paper, cigarettes, and candy. Still other shops are more specialized into butchers or selling cooked foods - grilled corn-on-the-cob, goat, fish, etc.
Almost to the matatu stop, the street becomes more of an alley. I look down as I cross an intersection because the ground feels strange under my sneakers. Immediately, I regret my curiosity. This intersection is "carpeted" with the disposed hooves of sheep and goats, probably chopped up by the local butcher, grilled in one of the nearby stands, and the useless hooves tossed out into the street where I can walk upon them. Averting my eyes to my left, I am presented with a rack of three shelves covered by blackened fish. I thought they were blackened fish until my passing stirs the flies covering the fish and they move. Wrenching my eyes to my right, I am greeted by the sightless staring of many fish-heads beside a grill. Reaffirming my dedication to my vegetarian diet, I press forward into the alley.
This alley is very narrow, less than 2 meters across. There is a small but ever present ditch winding through it. The "ceiling" is nothing more than some tin or tarpolin connecting the roofs or stands across the alley. Obviously unaccustomed to tall people, the "ceiling" is low enough that I have to duck and in some places double-over to get through. All the while, slipping sideways by other people moving along the alley or making selections from the stands. A stop at one such stand provides some small potatoes and a couple of onions for dinner. At last, the end is in sight. A couple more zig-zags between stalls and the sky is visible once again and the ability to stand upright.
After standing on the concrete corner of this paved street for 10 minutes, enjoying the looks and how-are-you's from the passing children, a matatu stops on its way back to town. Climbing on board and taking my seat, I am sure that my trip to Soweto will not be soon forgotten.
