Let's Get Physical, Physical

However much I enjoyed the sights, I was starting to wonder when being in Kenya was not going to be about driving in private taxis for endless journeys. The next morning, I was awakened with that same familiar cry from my phone and a text from John who was early. I threw on clothes and filled my mouth with bottled water as I brushed my teeth and raced out the door. Somehow, though our drive was barely more than ten minutes this time, he managed to a) counsel me on love, notifying me that I was too pretty to not be married, b) recant and tell me to wait for the right moment and person because Love is not something you know what it is, a feeling, an emotion that is right, and c) promise me to set me up with maybe his son (who I thought was married with a kid) or possibly one of his taxi drivers (who might be as old as my father)—all things he guaranteed would make sense in due time. This took longer than the allotted 30 second drop off window inside the car park of the shopping center so the guard instructed John to drive back around or leave. We circled once more and he deposited me in front of a coffee house where I was meeting up with Whitney, a friend from college.

Together with one of her new summer roommates, we later marched from her apartment armed with exact change (10 shilling coins) and stood at the bus stand to wait for the jam-packed matatus to pack. On my first day, John had joked (or was he serious? No idea, even in English some things are lost in translation), saying the matatus were named after matata (Lion King anyone?) because they caused so much trouble on the road. I patted myself down again—I was bagless—making sure I had nothing easy to steal. Whitney had reminded us all of the cardinal traveling rule for ladies anywhere- big up top, little down below. As in, taking full advantage of our God-given pockets up north, and risking smaller bills in pants pockets for easy payment on the street or quick handing over in time of a struggle. Maybe some of the bigger bills came out warm when it was time to hand them over, but hey, at least you still had them and no one is going to refuse cash.

We climbed in the first available van that sounded like it was going our direction and rode what turned out to be an embarrassing four blocks to the rugby stadium. We picked our way through the throngs of young guys waiting to enter and gleefully grabbed our ticket stubs as we entered the field. Less than two hours later, we were shouting, clapping, booing with the crowd and brandishing over-sized cans of Tusker beer like it was our job. A young woman with gorgeous locs sat down next to me and we started to chat. I mentioned how few women I noticed with natural curly hair or locs around (most having opted for chemically relaxed, pressed, and braided styles). She explained that there was a growing number but for too long, locs had been associated with deviant behavior, criminal activity, and to some degree Rastafarianism so many Kenyans had strayed from risking their jobs for having them.  It sounded pretty familiar.

After we had our fill of cracking skulls and thumping bodies on the green, as well as heckled mzungu girls trying to find seats in the tides of the crowd, we made our way out just as the caravans of rowdy fans arrived, blowing noisemakers and chanting as the game continued into the final match of the season. After a few hours’ to chillax in Whitney’s apartment, we hopped another matatu to meet Jess, a mutual college friend for dinner and drinks. After dinner, we paid a guard a few hundred shillings to walk us the block and a half to the bar, a familiar custom at night. 

As we sat around the bar with our White Caps (another favorite local brew), Whitney and I marveling at the near-perfect weather that Nairobi seemed to be blessed with—something like 60-70 and always mild—we couldn’t help but shake our heads at what sounded like James Bond intro music replaying on loop for the better part of an hour. Laughing, I ventured to the washroom (or loo, after the British) to find no water to wash with or flush for that matter, a fact Jess waved away as usual given the sheer number of frequent water and power cuts in the city. Much like DC, Nairobi had become a burgeoning metropolis far faster than city planners imagined (or to some degree, cared to address.) Kenya Power was about as synonymous with mustachioed villain as Pepco.

After we downed the last of our White Caps, we hopped yet another taxi to a party with some of Jess’s local friends, mostly expats, working around the city. I used the talk first, answer puzzled questions later tactic to mingle with the group of forty or so, a few people initially taken aback by my impeccable English. (Really? Really now? Ah.) Around midnight, pretty much everyone dialed the same two go-to taxi guys (apparently this was a ‘thing’ I was learning; everyone had their go-to taxi guys), so about an hour and a half later our crew finally piled into a car to head home. Last to arrive back, I spent some time haggling with the driver—no, it’s supposed to only be this much; Jess told me already!—and slowly dragged myself into bed. It was 2:30am, 7:30pm on the East Coast and suddenly I was hungry for dinner.