Matatu: a small van in disrepair to move people nearer to their destination
The door slides open and the "conductor" shuffles people out and more people in. Crammed into vehicles in such disrepair, an American in America would never climb aboard. Small vans rusted, cracked, broken, ripped, missing parts. Push start this one, bang on the side, move forward with a jolt. Conductor jumps in. Bangs on the roof. Slides the door closed. Bills folded in half, turned long ways and slid between his fingers, coins in his palm and a couple in his fingers to bang the door or click on the window. Every sound giving some message to the driver. Click on the window and the Matatu pulls to the side, off the pavement and into the dirt. Three people off, five people on. Radio blarring, the ripped seats rumble from the bass. Click, bang, jerk to a start. Weaving between traffic, passing on blind curves, honking to let you know it is coming around. People sliding into each other. A light tap on your shoulder with an outstretched hand and you know you need to pay. Wrong change likely given. The three person bench seat in which you sit is holding six people. Bodies piled onto each other, no concept of personal space, handing babies to strangers, the conductor loses his seat and bends over the entire front row and through some flexible feat, closes the door behind him and bangs the window, the van bolts to a start. music deafening, body oder, dust and exhaust fill your nostrils. Young, old, large and small crammed, stacked, pushed in, rolled out, and we move on. Kenyan local transport.
The door slides open and the "conductor" shuffles people out and more people in. Crammed into vehicles in such disrepair, an American in America would never climb aboard. Small vans rusted, cracked, broken, ripped, missing parts. Push start this one, bang on the side, move forward with a jolt. Conductor jumps in. Bangs on the roof. Slides the door closed. Bills folded in half, turned long ways and slid between his fingers, coins in his palm and a couple in his fingers to bang the door or click on the window. Every sound giving some message to the driver. Click on the window and the Matatu pulls to the side, off the pavement and into the dirt. Three people off, five people on. Radio blarring, the ripped seats rumble from the bass. Click, bang, jerk to a start. Weaving between traffic, passing on blind curves, honking to let you know it is coming around. People sliding into each other. A light tap on your shoulder with an outstretched hand and you know you need to pay. Wrong change likely given. The three person bench seat in which you sit is holding six people. Bodies piled onto each other, no concept of personal space, handing babies to strangers, the conductor loses his seat and bends over the entire front row and through some flexible feat, closes the door behind him and bangs the window, the van bolts to a start. music deafening, body oder, dust and exhaust fill your nostrils. Young, old, large and small crammed, stacked, pushed in, rolled out, and we move on. Kenyan local transport.
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