Slum Survivors: The Documentary that put KGSA on the Map

IRIN - Slum Survivors
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Abdul started Kibera Girls Soccer Academy in 2006 when he realized the girls on his soccer team were without school fees, putting them at risk for early marriage, prostitution, and getting stuck in the poverty of Kibera. So with his own money, he started an informal free school. Luckily, these documentary makers found out what Abdul was doing and made this video. It starts off rather grimly telling the stories of women who struggle to feed children and battle AIDS and men who are tempted into crime or forced to work rather undesirable jobs to provide for their families. But then the video ends on a positive note, telling the story of Abdul and KGSA. (If you're interested, this is also available on YouTube in 5 parts and the fifth part gives the story of the school.)

Abdul now refers to this video as the beginning of our international attention. Since this documentary, international NGOs have made relationships with the school and generous donors have helped us build the facilities we work in today. Many students like me have come to work at the school, bringing grant money and ideas for how to give these girls a better future. Hopefully our international attention continues to grow to help us complete our facility, pay our teachers, improve the quality of the education we offer and give girls opportunities after graduation.

News Flash! Pop Industry Full of Devil Worshippers

So I’ve officially moved in with my new host family in Kibera. I remember Abdul excitedly telling me about how he’d found a young, wonderful family near Olympic (a part of Kibera) that would be willing to host me during my project. I remember being thankful but hesitant. I know people can make a decent living here in Kibera, and not all the structures here are shanties of mud and metal. But last time I was in Kenya, I wasn’t even comfortable enough to drink the water offered me here and every time I ate here I wondered if I would get sick and I was terrified every person I passed would rob me. I’ve come a long way, but am I ready to live here?


Well, Abdul was insistent and took me to visit the house of Abeyd and Asia on one of our first outings together. Asia wasn’t there for my first visit but sounded great. She is a young social worker who conducts civic education workshops around Nairobi. Abeyd was kind and business-like and seemingly quite well off. Driving his car to pick us, he pointed out the house of his other wife on the way. This was intriguing to me, but to others I’m sure a tad too different from the norm to be comfortable. Mariam, a twelve year old in Class 6, was home sick from school and politely served us soda while I visited. Her little brother, Abdulrahman (GD for short) is 8 years old in Class 3 but was not there for my visit. Upon meeting Asia another day, we instantly connected. She is energetic, charismatic and seemingly liberal and modern for being one of two wives.

And as for my concerns about living in Kibera, I decided to be abrupt with my questions. Running water? Reliable electricity? Non-squat toilets? My own room? Safety in the neighborhood? The ‘me’ of last time in Kenya would have been too shy or guilty to ask for these American niceties. But hey, I’m going to live here and I’m undeniably American, so the ‘me’ of today decided that it was better unashamedly ask for these luxuries rather than tough it out to be polite. I was even up-front about paying. Of course I can’t expect to stay for free, but Kenyans are too polite to pull out the business talk on first meeting, so I decided to be the abrupt one. But everything went fine and all their answers sounded good. So I decided to move. I was distraught to leave the comfort and love of my family, Monica and Chippa. But after all, I’m here for a project, so my location can’t hamper how much I can do at the school and Kariakor is too far.

So here I am, moving in midday on a Wednesday. The kids are at school; Abeyd and Asia at work; so I meet Solemi, the house help (maid) from Uganda. Most house helpers don’t know English so I’m ecstatic to become best friends and improve my Kiswahili. But simultaneously Solemi is ecstatic to meet me to improve her English. So as she ironed clothes I kept her company continually chatting in Kiswahili with her agitatedly trying to direct the conversation to English. So we bantered back and forth continually trying to change the language until eventually, we’d both be unable to express ourselves or understand the other on the current topic, at which point conversation would chug to an awkward halt. I’d pretend to be preoccupied looking out the window and she would intensely concentrate on ironing until one of us decided to try out a new topic. I can tell we’re going to be best friends.

Then I end up passing out for an unexpected nap while reading my book. I hear a doorbell in my sleep and later am shocked awake by Mariam poking her head into the room, eyes wide to see this crazy msungu addition to her family. So I go downstairs to spend time watching cartoons with the kids and am interested to see Where in the World is Carmen San Diego on the TV. I used to watch that!

I realize all too quickly that the silent, polite Mariam of last time was the Mariam-around-adults personality. Here at her mercy with only Solemi and little GD, I got a much more uncensored variety of Mariam. Our conversation went a little like this…

“What type of music do you just love, Anne?”

“Oh I don’t know, I like almost anything. Here in Kenya I like the Tanzanian music and those guys from Nigeria—“

“Well for me, I like crrrrunk.”

“Oh… what type of music is crunk, exactly?”

“Oh you know, like Kiss FM and this other channel, Hits 105”

“Um… you mean hip hop?”

“Not hip hop! Crunk is more like, you know, the rappers are so constantly rapping.” This is sounding like hip hop to me, but Mariam excitedly changes the channel to show me some music videos of this crunk she loves. She settles on the station playing some Brandy.

“This is crunk?”

Mariam says incredulously, “This is not crunk!! This is R&B, crunk is different. But for me, you know I want to be a musician.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, like my favorite artist, my most, most favorite artist is this Justin Beiber. You know he’s only 16? So amazing. I don’t know how he goes to school and sings so nicely and is so famous all at the same time,” Mariam waves her hands for emphasis.

“You know, I bet he doesn’t go to school.”

-gasp- “What? How terrible. For me, education is so important, I would never do that. He should go to school.”

Taking a chance to try to be a good influence I start, “Yea education really is imp—”

But I’m totally cut off by Mariam excitedly diving into a new topic, “You know, so many artists are devil worshippers,” she says with so much distaste she’s almost spitting, “like Beyonce, you know she is the worst devil worshipper...”

“Whaaa? Where did you hear th— ”

“And Rhianna and Jay-Z and… You know that song ‘Run this Town’? What they really mean is that they will rule the town with the devil,” again Mariam is getting physically affected by the intensity of what she’s talking about.

“Really, wow, well we really don’t think that back in the US, maybe that’s just one interpreta— ”

Never allowed to finish a thought she continues my music re-education. “Yes and all these artists confess they are in fact devil worshippers, and they all say it’s because of Jay-Z, you know he converted them.” Taking the hit to Jay-Z a little bit too personally I’m getting a bit agitated now, but she continues, “You know he gave this concert and everyone was bowing. They were saying he was Jehovah!” She looks agast.

Not knowing where she’s getting these facts, I decide to start taking a stand. “Where are you hearing this? I’ve never heard of anything else like this, I would know because I’m from Amer—” Yes, writing this now I guess I’m disgusted with myself for pulling the America card, and for a kid, nonetheless, but I’m starting to get really uncomfortable here.

“Well its all over Facebook!”

“You know you can’t believe everything on Facebook.”

“I know there are rumors! I’ve heard rumors about Obama being a devil worshipper too!—” she pauses for us to share in our shock, “yes, but I said, no, no, no, this can’t be true because if he were really a devil worshipper, Michelle would have left him, of course.”

“How do you know she’s not a devil worshipper too?”

“Well she’s not.”

Infallible logic. What was I thinking, of course she’s not.

She continues, “Well like Rhianna, she was a devil worshipper so Chris Brown beat her. I mean I would too” again she’s getting physically into what she’s saying, motioning out beating someone with an angry expression on her face.

So my jaw is dropped and now I just can’t take it anymore. I should be a cultural observer and not intervene, but this girl is justifying a man beating his girlfriend?! “I’m sorry Mariam, I don’t care what Rhianna was doing with the devil, there is no way he should beat her—” she tries to interrupt but I’m not having it, I’m raising my voice to a little kid now, repeating myself like a broken record, I feel like such a fool.

Now she’s agreeing with me, like kids who agree with people they’re trying to impress. Agreeing as if we had never disagreed, she continues on about Jay-Z.

“I like Jay-Z, he’s my favorite,” I interrupt, getting petty now.

She just changes pop icons, “And Lady Gaga” she hisses. “She sings this song about Alejandro—”

“Oh yea, my favorite song?” I pretend as if I don’t know where this is going. And she continues as if I hadn’t said anything. “That Lady Gaga, the things she wears, she is so naked. And she wears black and white, you know that means she’s a devil worshipper.”

Honestly not knowing this, I decide to dangerously bring me, an atheist with an intense distaste for any type of religious evangelism, into the picture. I mean, if she’s going to kick me out, or beat me as it seems she is fond of, I might as well get that over with sooner rather than later. “So I like black and white, does that make me a devil worshipper?”

“Oh no, no, no, you are good.” —phew, so she won’t be killing me in my sleep. As we continue to watch ‘crunk’ music on the TV, full of scantily clad ladies dancing and men touching women sexually, she doesn’t seem phased by this, and returns to her rant on Lady Gaga’s attire, “You know Lady Gaga isn’t the only one, ladies now days, they wear tights and a top and they go out! In public! Have they no shame?!” I think to myself of how tights and tops are in my suitcase right now and how I had intended to wear something like that out next Friday. I mentally cross that event off my calendar and forget about wearing my soffe shorts and camis for pajamas.

Then I learn that she will be sharing a room with me. After gritting my teeth holding in the explosion of emotions for a good few minutes, I patiently inquire about this. “I do believe your father said you’d be staying in the room with your mother, that I’d be staying in this room alone,” I say trying to be clear but polite.

“Oh no, you can never stay alone.”

“Actually I think I can.”

“Don’t you get scared?”

“Actually, I get scared when I am sleeping with someone else,” I blatantly lie.

“No, no, I’ll stay here.”

Again I patiently wait for the fury to dissipate before continuing, “I think, Mariam, you may be right, I may be wrong. But I think we all agreed I’d stay here alone. And its not that I don’t like you, we’ll still spend a lot of time together but you know…” I continue babbling excuses but she stays focused on the TV to try to hide her obvious disagreement.

I’m immediately regretting my relocation and wanting to hug Chippa and never let him go the next time I see him. Maybe we’ll sing to Lady Gaga and watch some Jerry Springer together, rejoicing in our non-judgmental sibling relationship, celebrating our similarities.

Throughout my dialogue with this feisty sixth grader, I learn about the entire family’s love for Michael Jackson. Even Solemi and GD are dancing along to ‘Bad’ while Mariam describes that she would murder, yes murder, anyone who called him a devil worshiper. I’m getting confused about the criteria for a devil worshipper as MJ grabs his junk and does intense pelvic thrusts that Mariam classifies as “amazing dancing”. Then Keri Hilson comes on afterwards literally wearing nothing but a U-shaped cloth that barely covers her and Mariam talks about how Michael Jackson must have taught her how to dance because they’re both so good. During this confusing and assaulting conversation I managed to defiantly throw in some daring contradictory philosophies, “I think people should be allowed to believe what they wish” and “Maybe not everything on the internet is true” and “Perhaps we shouldn’t murder people”… but she just keeps going.


Hours later, the firing squad of one is finished with this conversation. I escape up to what I thought was my room and pull out my computer to write down as much of this ridiculousness as possible so that I don’t forget it. Ten minutes later, in pops Mariam. I pretend I’m playing solitaire. Mariam says she’s bad at the game, but is instructing me, pointing viscously at my screen and I wince every time. Pretty soon I decide my computer will be less harmed if I just let her at the controls. I relax as she’s preoccupied, and cute, little, quiet GD is adorably watching over her shoulder and humming Michael Jackson.

Then its dinner time. Asia and Abeyd are both hard workers and get home late, so I get ready to take dinner with the kids. Solemi brings out a tray with three covered plates on it, one bigger than the other two. I think to myself, how cute one for me and two little ones for the two little kids. Nope, they’re all for me, the kids will eat later.

After dinner I’m saved by Abeyd. Asia won’t be home for a while so she suggested I go with Abeyd to the grocery store. I’m confused by the invitation a bit seeing as it’s after dark and unsafe outside, but I’m just ecstatic to escape Mariam’s clutches. He says he’ll point out the places that are safe or unsafe along the way so that I’ll know where not to be after certain hours. Here is where the gangs hang out, there is where they are known to be able to afford guns, here is a houserobbery section… shoot, where was the safe part again? This tour is just really uncomfortable. Then we turn a direction that I know is not to Nakumatt Prestige, the grocery store. Then we get out of the car and start walking down an alley, “We’re visiting Asia’s cousin, we do this charity work and I need to look at some documents.”

Charity work, my ass, you’re walking me down an alley on an unexpected stop in an area you said was notorious for gangs and I don’t even know you and all these students have been raped by host brothers and fathers before and I’ve heard the stories and my heart is thumping and I should have brought a key or something sharp and why am I still following him again?? But then we see this lady and her kid outside the house and they welcome us in so I’m feeling better. The whole family is inside and after I stop hyperventilating, I realize he really is here to discuss some documents about their charity work. Also surprising, this family is the first Kenyan family I’ve ever seen to have a pet cat. And they keep it indoors. So I preoccupy myself trying to befriend the cat without getting rabies while the members of the family look at me like I'm crazy and eventually we leave.

Poor Abeyd, shopping with him was like taking a ride on the struggle bus. He’s shopping for two households, keeping the items separate in the cart. He’s constantly getting a little disoriented as to which isle he’s going to and continually consulting little lists he’d received through SMS on his phone. He needs a certain type of tea leaf for Asia because she’s allergic, Adija likes her bread slightly burnt, Asia prefers this brand brand of soap, Adija needs milk, GD likes peanuts, Adijas son likes potato crisps… I mean… jeez he’s got a lot to keep track of. Eventually we make it out and arrive home.

There is Asia exhausted on the couch from a long days work. She is absolutely beautiful, as a side note, not wearing her shawl/veil, and the kids seem to have gone to bed. I’ve never been so happy to see someone as I am now. We all sit together and sip tea and discuss Sudanese politics and watch the news and talk about New Mexico and joke. I am loving every moment of my company and conversation, wishing they hadn’t had kids. I happen to delicately address my assault earlier on.

I mention the devil worshipping—“Jeez sometimes, you just can’t raise kids. They get this crazy stuff from other kids at school,” Abeyd assures me.

I question the sleeping arrangement and they laugh—“No that is not what we’re doing, maybe wishful thinking on her part but no, she’ll be sleeping with me,” says Asia.

I sigh in relief and we head up to bed. Kids are crazy. I bet Mariam thought she would impress me with her strict conviction, her moral fervor. But wow, was she overdid that one. I’ll stick this out for now; I think she’ll cool down when I’m not so new and exciting. I have my doubts, but one thing is for sure. In the future, that time between the end of school and dinner time will be spent out of the house.

Why I Care About Kenya

I think I officially arrived in Kenya today. I’ve been here for weeks; I’ve been waking up and doing my thing every day, but I didn’t really realize where I was until today.

When you’re meeting a new friend here in Kenya, they often ask you “How do you find Kenya?” or “What do you like about Kenya?” and those are both awkward and confusing questions to answer. If it weren’t already hard enough to justify why you like a place, now you have a different predicament. Probably every other Kenyan that asks you this question will also say something like, “Someday I’ll make it to your country” as if they’re saying “Someday I’ll make it to heaven”. So since usually you leave the less developed place for a more developed place, and they seem to equate your home with a glowing land of opportunity, it’s hard to say “I like the fish” or “I like the matatus” and have that be a sufficient answer to their question.

Thinking about that awkward question, I realize, I come here for the learning. I want to understand how things came to be the way they are here. I want to learn what makes these people tick. I want to know how things are changing, for the better and for the worse. What parts are the sob stories we see on TV and in the documentaries, and what parts are just life. I know people have skewed ideas about Africa at home. I know I had everything wrong before I came. And even after something like 7 months here and tons of books and classes, I am still only scratching the surface in my understanding of this place.

I have had trouble writing this week because I’ve been settling into this groove, and realizing how much I love Kenya, and how much I still want to learn. Then I sit down to write home and I realize I’m in no place to explain to you “how things are here”. There is still too much I don’t know about what it is to be Kenyan. So I realize that I have exhausted all the topics that are easy for me to write about, the topics I feel I understand somewhat completely. But I have nowhere near exhausted the topics I am curious about, the ones I do not completely understand.

Everyday, I wake up and have a series of unexpected experiences that are sometimes exciting, sometimes eye-opening, sometimes ridiculously frustrating but all either help me understand old curiosities or introduce new ones. Everyday I mingle with strangers and get to know friends, and through these interactions I begin to understand what it is to be Kenyan. And then somewhere in all of this, I’m doing a project and teaching girls about math and solar panels too. But the things that I can’t stop thinking about, the things I need to explain and put down in writing are what I learn from these unavoidable, unexpected interactions. I want to share what I’m thinking, what I’m learning, and what I want to continue learning. I can not write about Kenya like I know it all. But what I can write is more of a dialogue, a work in progress, a musing.

So why am I having this dialogue? Why do I care to understand Kenya? Well in the short term, this understanding is essential to ensure the work I’m doing here is actually helpful. So many NGOs see the surface of the African situation, and then march in to “develop it” and “make it better”. But is making their life more like ours really that much better? So I need an understanding of the context of my work to make sure the “help” I’m bringing is actually desired. I need to understand the Kenyan mindset in order to be in touch with how my work is affecting the girls’ lives in their eyes, not mine.

Another reason for my dialogue is more selfish. Confronting myself with difference and coming to understand it helps me learn about myself and live a more dynamic and self-aware life. I chose to study abroad in Kenya in part because of “Africa-time”. Because my perfectionistic, overachieverish life surrounded by to-do lists, spreadsheets, and an obsessive Google-calendar was starting to eat away at me. By distancing myself from the fast-paced American-ness I was able to discover that there is more to time than productivity. The closer I got to Kenya, the more I realized the value of patience, the value of family, the value of a day without anything planned, the value of spontaneous, unexpected, sometimes unwanted events added to your day. But of course, when I talked about this during my Google interview, it didn’t get me the job… even though I mentioned my Google calendar.

But there has to be something besides my project and something besides my personal benefit that comes from this understanding. Let’s say I stay here for a year more, and keep absorbing my surroundings until I have a near-complete idea of the life of a Kenyan… so what? What’s the point? What do I do with that information? I write a little blog and who knows, maybe not even express myself well enough for people really to share in my understanding. Or even if you do, then what do you do with this?

And that right there is something I don’t have an answer for, but instead just a musing. I guess you could happily live your life with blinders on and never wonder or worry about people that live their lives in a different way. But to me, living your life without a sense for the outside world is ignorant, and becoming increasingly impossible in our international world. I have a belief that we need international dialogue and understanding to take down the walls between different types of people. After understanding comes empathy, after empathy comes care, and care brings peace. So that’s what I’m doing here, a “project for peace”, right? I’m not going to pretend that my being here in Kenya is stopping wars or violence, but I’m going to hope that creating that tiny little connection between here and there, that tiny little space of mutual understanding and benefit, is a tiny little step in building the foundation for peace and global understanding.

A Weekend of Soccer

So on Saturday, the girls had a soccer match. After all it is the Kibera Girls Soccer Academy, and I was excited to see the girls play. The girls were in the quarter finals of some on-going tournament of all the Nairobi schools. KGSA is the only private school in the tournament, and doing really well. We killed the other team four-nil. Some of the girls on the other team were clearly frustrated, two getting yellow cards for deliberate fouls and unsportsmanlike conduct. But despite their bad sportsmanship, I felt pretty bad for the other team. They just looked out of control and helpless, and our girls clearly had some technical skill. I’m not surprised knowing how seriously our coaching staff takes the game, the school and the girls. Head coach Moha showed up in a bright white suit and tie, spot-able from anywhere on the fields.

They traveled all the way from Kibera to some fields just down the street from my home in Kariakor. The fields were part of Starehe Boys’ School, one of the best public schools for boys in Nairobi. It was so silly and cute to see all these boys in their flashy suits with Starehe emblems watching girls play futbol and even flirting with them awkwardly after the game. It was a subtle reminder that these girls are in high school. Seeing them only in class and with all the differences between their education and mine, I forget they are going through some of the same cute innocent high school drama and excitement that I did.

KGSA even made a point to bring all of Class 1 and 2 (freshman and sophomores) to cheer on the team, on a Saturday when girls could have been doing other things. Principal Teca was telling me as he was distributing snacks and watching the girls socialize with students from other schools, “They don’t get out much like this, outings like these are really special.” True, that. School here is more than a full time job and relaxing doesn’t seem to be part of the job description. While technically school is only M-F 8am-4pm, and technically school closes for holidays from time to time, you’ll find these girls here at 6:30am, on Saturdays, even Sundays and often during holidays. And I’m not talking about just a few crazy over-achievers, I’m talking about all of them. These girls practically live in their uniforms. I was happy to just relax with them on the sideline and see some of the girls I used to teach math to rip up the soccer field. They were incredibly impressive.

But of course, some other teams played soccer this weekend and that damn octopus got it right again. I was rooting for the Netherlands but not too disappointed when Spain won. I thought about getting out and going to a club to watch the craziness of Nairobi sports fans, but decided against it. I was in a club for half of the Argentina/Germany game and it was loud but a little less than exciting. Maybe I just chose the wrong bar… During Ghana’s last game, an altercation broke out in a Nairobi club. After “taking it outside” one of the two men taunted the other, no kidding, chasing him around blowing a vuvuzela (the South African noisemakers they have at the game) in his face. Then the taunted one stabbed the vuvuzela man, who died on the way to the hospital. The other man was then followed to his home and lynched by other men from the bar. Morbidly disgusting, huh?

So I wasn’t too disappointed to stay at home and watch it with the biggest world cup fan I know, my dearest host mom, Monica. She has watched at least a half of every game and keeps track of the score results and some statistics on this little bracket sheet she has. I made some guacamole and bought Pringles (the closest thing I could find to tortilla chips) to make an event out of it. Chippa slept through the whole game claiming he knew Spain would win, and Mom at least pretended to like the guacamole and was a great game-watching partner. So I wouldn’t have imagined it any other way.

Making it with the Kenyan Ladies

At home when we say someone is smart, we typically mean they are academically inclined, or bright, maybe clever. We could also mean they are a smart aleck. Like, “Don’t be smart with me, young man!” or something to that effect. But here in Kenya a whole new meaning exists. Here when someone is smart, it means they are dressed well or smartly put together. Calling someone “smart” of this third variety is an incredibly gratifying compliment to give. And often it’s even more gratifying if the complimenter prefaces it with the Kenyan little sounds of approval or surprise: “Tsk, Guh guh guh, you are smart!”

Kenyan ladies are classy, sassy and always “smart”. While Kenyan men are usually creepily interested in conversing with msungu (white) ladies, Kenyan ladies are more distant and unapproachable. Perhaps they’re bitter about these sloppily dressed msungus that dance like fools in their clubs and steal their men. Or maybe they treat men in the same with-holding, tempting way. Kenyan ladies play hard to get professionally, I knew one woman who had different wigs and parts of town for the multiple men she was dating, not impressed with any of them enough to commit. I feel this same rejection in my attempt to make some Kenyan girl friends. But… a break through in my quest came when I realized just how important it was to be “smart”. Dressing well is step one if you’re ever going to be accepted in to the secret world of Kenyan ladies.

It seems intuitive when coming to a place with dust everywhere, rough sidewalks, dirty vehicle exhaust and hot but unpredictable weather that you would dress for that. When visiting me while abroad, my dad packed sensibly for what he expected and he nearly showed up head to toe in safari gear: cargo pants, hiking shoes and the token wide brimmed safari hat, all of this beige. When coming to Kenya the first time we were told “don’t bring anything you don’t mind getting destroyed” and to wear conservative clothes and sturdy shoes. Whoever told us that was throwing our social life under the bus. Kenyan ladies wear heels…everywhere. A staple top is a tight, low cut button up business shirt, accessorized with sweaters and vests and suit jackets and accompanied by business skirts and dress pants. So plodding around in tevas or tennis shoes with a bright colored but plain tshirt and jeans, I was just destined for exclusion.

This time, I’m trying to keep up. I found that dressing too smartly just made me look like a poser, so I’m certainly not going for heels and I’m not giving up colors or occasional t-shirt. But days like today when I got a “smart” pass from the girls at the school and even two of the teachers, I just feel a little more like I belong here. I even got myself a free matatu fare on the way home, at first tempted to be haughty and American and refuse this slimy unattractive man’s little offer and keep my pride. But instead I pimped myself out for the thirty shillings, smiled and acted impressed with this guy. To my surprise, I got a little wink of approval from the older lady sitting next to me. And that little moment was really better than the free ride.

Where Oh Where Have the Matatus Gone?

Imagine your morning commute. Now imagine you don’t have to drive, it costs less than a dollar, you don’t have to plan your route around a bus-schedule, and you get to ride in a party bus/minivan that doesn’t obey traffic laws and is covered in decals, “artwork” and slogans and is bumping loud dance music with big screens showing the music video… now which commute would you choose? At least you’ve got to admit the second style of commute, the matutu, is at least more eventful and exciting.

I love matatus. I looked forward to coming back to Kenya, in huge part, because of the matatus. When I left Kenya the first time, I was convinced that matatus were what the United States needed to solve the lack of ridership on public transportation. After a little reverse assimilation back into American life, I started realizing that this was maybe an underanalysis of the transportation crisis and maybe my hopes and dreams to buy a bus, decal it up, and start my own business were probably not a good alternative to finishing college at K. But regardless, my blog about Kenya would not be complete if I didn’t give some credit to my favorite industry here.

The word matatu comes from the fact that these “disco buses” as they are sometimes called (I personally detest both that name and the music of the 70s) used to only cost three shillings and tatu means three in Kiswahili. Matatus can be two different sizes: either they are 14 passenger minivans like the one called “Crunky” in the picture, or they can be more like a 25 passenger bus that in the US we would see transporting people from a senior home or a private school. But these passenger numbers that I just used to describe the vans of course don’t describe how many people actually fit in these things. I think the first hint I had about why these wouldn’t be a hit in the states is the abrupt lack of personal space. You’re squished in there like sardines, your neighbor partially sitting on you, your head sometimes bumping the roof, with no leg room for anyone over 5 feet tall.

The decorations and entertainment are the way these matatu guys develop brand loyalty, it seems. My Kenyan friends Luke and Ben would stand at the matatu stage (bus stop) for sometimes 20 minutes, letting matatu after matatu pass by until a suitably “pimped-out ride” would come by. We used to joke that if the matatu equivalent of my family’s ’95 Volvo were in Kenya, they would definitely let that one pass by. The part I don’t understand is why different routes around Nairobi seem to have different “levels” of matatu. All the matatus that go to Kibera are the minivan type and seem to be older than I am, only partially decorated, and generally pretty terrible except that maybe one out of every three is decorated with Barack Obama paraphernalia. But man, if you are going to Westlands, you will be riding in a masterpiece. The van will have hydraulics, a big screen, really great bass and speakers, airbrushed everywhere inside and out with pop culture figures and rap slogans. In short, if you’re going to Westlands, you could very well be out-dressed by the vehicle taking you there. Then the bigger, 25-pass matatus tend to go to places like Buru-Buru and Kariakor—my home sweet home.

I used to be proud of our number 9’s that took me home. When I told people where I lived, sometimes they’d comment on how cool our matatus were. I remember some of my favorites still. The “Godzilla” matatu was decaled like a monster and the matatu conductor recognized me and once gave me a free fare. The “X-ibit” matatu with not one but five screens and a sound-track to die for—I once ran down the street to catch this one when I saw it caught in traffic. And the “This is the good life” matatu which I always thought was funny because it references a Kanye West song, but has T-Pain decaled on the side. I wondered if this was a mistake, or if it was just an attempt to get as many rap artists represented on the vehicle as possible.

But, I am sad to admit that a catastrophe has occurred. There was evidently some government push to make transportation in Nairobi safer… and they cracked down on matatus and buses. I have not seen ANY of my favorite matatus thus far. I have not seen any on the street that have even turned my head. I haven’t even been on more than one matatu with a screen inside it at all. I have a sneaking suspicion my host mom might have had something to do with this matatu crackdown—she never was a fan of the especially cool matatus and always warned me against them.

I’m all about commuting safely and all, I guess… I mean, I was once in a matatu that pegged a pedestrian who miraculously walked away without any major injuries. I was also in one that got in a collision with another, but again no one was hurt. But then I’ve heard of not so lucky situations where everyone in the matatu have died, especially long distance matatus that travel to rural areas and get up to higher speeds. And technically… the US State Department’s stance on matatus is that they take “unnecessary risks” and are “extremely unsafe” and advise all American visitors to avoid them.

Not only are matatus unsafe in the way they drive, but they are mwizi magnets (thief magnets). They are almost designed for theft. The decals over the windows make it really dark inside, and you’re packed in there so tight its hard to really know when someone is bumping you by accident or to steal from you, and getting on and off is so tight and awkward its almost impossible to keep conscious of your purse, your pockets, and your balance all at once. Gangs of thugs notoriously ride matatus pretending to be passengers to steal things and get off before their victims realize. Conductors hike prices unpredictably or pretend they don’t have correct change so they can overcharge you. So don’t get me wrong, not everything about matatus is something I’m a fan of. But did they have to go this far?? Couldn’t they have managed to boot the thieves and the driving on the wrong side of the street without bringing an end to the decals, big-screens and soundtracks?

From what I understand, there’s hope yet. The cool matatus evidently still come out at after dark when the younger population is out going to clubs etc. So maybe I’ll have to convince my host brother to take me gallivanting around Nairobi in miscellaneous cool matatus after dark—but I can hear my mother cringing now. Either way, I would like to say that I am devastated by and in approval of the crackdown all at once. I guess safety is more important than rappers after all.

Mafuta Mbaya

So I woke up this morning feeling all peachy keen, ready to go to the school and see if there was anything I could do to help while we wait to hear from Sande about the materials. Everything was as usual, Kenyan breakfasts are comforting in their predictability: toast and Blue Band margarine. My host family is pretty wild adding some jam into the mix, but in any middle class Kenyan household, I would bet my life on finding some toast and Blue Band in the kitchen. So there we sat, sipping tea, eating toast and watching the news.

But then I go to get dressed, and I’m standing by my bed and suddenly feel sick as a dog. I couldn’t stand up straight, my insides were wrenching, I thought I might throw up. After writhing like this for some 20 minutes, I tell my host mom what’s going on and she’s ready to take me to the hospital. She’s standing there interrogating me about what I could have eaten that threw me off. Having let my Kenyan girlfriends Leah and Brenda cook for me in the U of Nairobi dorms the other night, that’s what my mom was most skeptical. But they cooked me the typical R&B—rice and beans. Hard to screw that up.

I immediately blame the juice. That over-concentrated passion fruit juice that everyone dilutes because it’s so insanely sweet. I’ve never liked it, but to join someone in the company of their house (or dorm) and not be offered the juice would be despicable Kenyan manners. Neither time in Kenya have I been too careful about the water. I remember Sophie catching me ordering iced coffee my first week in Kenya, I had never even dreamed that might get me sick. I rarely get sick, giving me this silly idea that I have an invincible immune system. And nothing bad became of that iced coffee or any of my other bad habits the first time around in Kenya… with only one exception. I got sicker than I knew was possible and had to go the Nairobi Hospital last time, but I will argue it to my last day that I didn’t drink or eat anything questionable that time. But that incident nonetheless proves I’m not invincible.


So if not the R&B or the juice, I next think of the chips (French fries) I ate yesterday while waiting to meet Leah and Brenda. I missed lunch and bought some fries at some Chicken-n-Chips joint like this Kenchic Inn on Moi Avenue. People are always surprised to know that Mickey D’s and the other American wonders haven’t yet made it to Kenya. I know they’ve tackled Europe and China, my friend Lauren even talked about them in Ecuador. But no way, in Kenya, we prefer our chicken. Kenyan fast food is basically a shortened menu of Boston Market: baked chicken and insanely delicious French fries that everyone over-salts and enjoys with really liquidy ketchup or hot sauce.

Those chips were actually one of the best parts of that day. Not even because of the salty-greasy deliciousness, but because of the company I had for that meal. I brought my chips up to the University campus and sat on a bench on the road to the women’s hostels. Pretty soon, I was joined by the cutest little kid ever, named Junior, a little class two student just released from class at Nairobi Primary School. Junior was more than happy to share my chips with me, and I was more than happy to have company so people didn’t stare at me quite so intensely. I love little kids here because a) they are better behaved than almost any American kids I’ve ever met and b) you can carry on a conversation in Kiswahili without them laughing at your accent, talking too fast, or using big vocabulary just to screw you up. But, unfortunately, my host mom Monica was pretty convinced this was the event that made this morning such a sickish nightmare.

Monica told me about how one time she’d had some food cooked in mafuta mbaya (bad oil) that made her sick the next day. She made this clenching of her fist motion to explain how her stomach had felt. That was the perfect description of how I felt at that moment. She asked me again if I wanted to go to the hospital, but knowing the source of my ailment and having Monica there with me was almost curing enough. So I told her no and she left me. I thought it was kind of funny that she didn’t ask me if I was going to “throw up” but if “I felt like throwing”, so I tried to keep my thoughts concentrated on that and other funny Kiswahili-English translations until I felt calm enough to fall asleep. After a two hour nap, I felt like it had all been a dream. I still feel a little squeamish, so I took another day to stay at home and write, read, plan and relax. But all in all, I was sick for no more than 45 minutes. Weird.

Despite my self-declared invincibility, I tend to be quite the hypochondriac when I do get sick. So even though during the worst of those 45 minutes I was panicing that I had and amoeba or a bacterial infection or malaria or something similarly devastating and I’d have to come home without doing anything worthwhile…I am fine. And should probably not eat things like I’m invincible anymore.