Ride Like a Kenyan (reprise . . . )

I’ve been to Kenya four times and for three of those times I’ve fallen into the role of a muzungu and played it, straight up. Private rides arranged to and from Kijabe, a house (or an apartment) on Kijabe station, enjoying the capital of being a doctor, enjoying the capital of being a muzungu in a post-colonial republic.

But not this time.

Well, okay. The truth is, you have to work really hard to escape the ‘special person’ label that is automatically assigned you, as a muzungu, when you enter the country. And even this time, entering without any special person arrangements, I know that special person status was, on some level, awarded me. It is impossible that one with white skin can ever entirely get away from being viewed as a muzungu, with all its assumptions—I have power (which I do not,) I have prejudices (which I like to think I do not,) I have education (which is true but in a limited, academic, sense,) I have money (which is entirely true, relatively and concretely,) I have something to offer (which I am beginning to believe is the biggest fallacy of all.)

This time around, I lived like a Kenyan and embraced it (my first minutes in Siyiapei, in 2010, resulted in shock. This time around, I was all in) I ate like a Kenyan and loved it (since I have not cooked a single meal this trip, I have eaten all Kenyan and learned to use my right hand as knife, fork and spoon—molding a pinch of ugali around sukuma wiki, sukuma wiki with beef bits, sukuma wiki with carrots, sukuma wiki with chili sauce, sukuma wiki with all of it, cabbage with carrots, cabbage with beef bits. Not to mention the delight of gatheri with chili sauce and plenty of good ole beans and rice with chili sauce.) I slept like a Kenyan, soundly and with barely a notice of the howling hyenas (ah, yes! Soundly, with a full stomach after having eaten dinner at 9:30 p.m., followed by one last cup of chai.)

And I rode like a Kenyan.


I never saw Graham and his piki-piki again, and after hearing horror stories of lorries and matatus driving pikis off the road, much to the detriment of the neurologic function of the victims, I decided to heed the warning of the ENT doc who, six years ago, diagnosed me with irreparable, 100% hearing loss in my left ear. The good doctor told me that a head injury posed the biggest risk to complete hearing loss and that—wait for it—riding a motorcycle was the worst possible thing I could do.


And so I took my chances with the automobiles that plied the road between Siyiapei and Narok. Every morning I did exactly what the Kenyans did: I waited at the foot of the dirt road until a Siyiapei citizen with a vehicle came down the road and offered me a ride ‘into town.’ Philip Sempele and his 1979 Toyota Harvester was my regular a.m. savior (and I hugely regret not getting a photo of him,) though I caught rides from plenty others: Josphat and Samuel and Kingston and, of course, Menasseh.

In the afternoon, I trudged into the heart of Narok and waited in the wilting heat at the curb until one of the little white Toyotas filled with enough passengers for the driver to consider the 10 km drive back to Siyiapei. Those little white Toyotas, regularly crammed with 10 plus people: 3 kids plus huge sacks of charcoal, bottles of cooking fat, boxes of milk, bags of bananas, in the ‘boot;’ 4 adults in the backseat; 3 adults in the front plus one kid on a lap. No seat belts. Lots of passing in no passing zones, heading straight on into tractors and donkey carts; into the grills of semi trucks and tour buses.


And then I did the most Kenyan thing of all—I rode the matatu into the city.


Ah, yes. The matatu.

Every muzungu in Kenya is led to believe that the matatu is the riskiest way to travel the road. I’m here—safe and sound in Nairobi—to tell you that any way you travel the road in Kenya is risky. And that riding the matatu is just a warm-up (details over dinner, at home.)


I am so thankful for this particular trip to Kenya. For the opportunity to work with World Concern and spend some time really listening to people, really seeing people, and then writing. For the tremendous and rare opportunity to immerse myself in the Maasai culture—with Everlyn and the kids in Siyiapei, with all the folks in the outlying areas I visited with World Concern, with the Moran and their families at the manyatta. For the experience of living, eating, sleeping and riding—like a Kenyan.

And, Kristin will be doing it for 2-1/2 more months. Lucky girl.

Sorry. This last one I just couldn't resist. Photo taken between Maai Mahui and Limuru.