Strong Stomach, Weak Heart

Matatus are 11-passenger vans with precious little room and almost no cargo space. They are definitely not meant to be driven off-road, and they usually do not have working seat belts. They are the staple means for public transportation in Kenya.

Matatus are driven off-road. The rides are usually comparable to the kind of amusement park attraction at Universal Studios where the entire auditorium shakes vigorously as you watch something exhilarating on a movie screen (except in a matatu, the 18-wheeler that you are playing “chicken” with as you are passing another 18-wheeler on the other side of the road is very much real, and not as much “exhilarating” but more “frightening”). Matatus are not, and never ever will be, kind to people who are suffering from diarrhea. Luckily, I have a strong stomach and I have not yet had diarrhea in my three months so far in Africa (I actually struggle with the opposite: mild cases of constipation). Still, I have a pretty strong stomach in general, and I think these very normal brushes with danger by way of matatu are pretty fun.

Including the driver, matatus legally seat 12 people. It is actually one of the most frequently broken Kenyan laws of all time. Once, I've seen 7 people (2 small children among the 7) smashed into 3 seats, and two of those people were hanging on to the side of the van, essentially standing on the outside. So far, the record number of people in a matatu that I have been in was 25 (3 were babies, 4 were small children).

Matatus have absolutely no personal space. On my first matatu ride, the old man sitting next to me kept reaching into his suit coat pocket, his groping fingers tickling my ribs. On the other side of me, a sleeping passenger laid his head on my peace corps friend and let out a nice big drool on his arm.

After 6 weeks and countless matatu rides, today was the first time I was pushed past my comfort level. I had just finished a day of work at my site, had a bag full of produce from the market, and 11 kilometers of walking in my legs. Yet I was crammed into the very back of a 22-person-filled matatu. My legs were smashed together and I was cradling my precious produce on my lap, highly uncomfortable in the hot, smelly matatu. Halfway to my 10 km destination, the matatu driver pulled over, looking to add to his already-full cargo and maximize his profits. A lady wanted the driver to transport her three goats, and since it was getting dark she was willing to pay more. The matatu driver proceeded to grab the goats like they were luggage (they essentially were luggage) and throw them into the very back of the matatu, directly behind me & under my seat. The goats struggled for awhile, and so the matatu driver flipped them on their backs and began tying their legs together, all the while the goats bleating loudly as if screaming for help and for mercy.

Whether it was the sweaty stench of the collective passengers, the fact that my legs were squeezed so tight together my two testicles felt like they disappeared, or the fear that a frightened goat underneath my chair would suddenly buck its head and spear my leg with its horn, I couldn't stand to be in that matatu any longer. Before throwing the last goat into the van, I grabbed the back seat and hoisted myself out of the matatu. I paid the full fare and said I'd prefer to walk the 5 km to my house.

There's something that made me ache when hearing the bleating goat and watching it get thrown into the back of a van recklessly. I know these things happen, and worse treatment of animals (and humans) happens everywhere, but witnessing such a thing firsthand definitely made it more real. It reminded me of the first time I watched a chicken get its head cut off, and the desperate cry it made before the knife made it all the way through its neck.

I must be getting softer with age. If things like this make me weak at the knees, I'm definitely in trouble for some of the things I have yet to see.