On a short winding walk to work
on Colm in Kenya (Kenya), 19/Jan/2010 14:59, 34 days ago
On my walk to work, winding my way through Mnarani Village’s dusty brown paths between space grappling corrugated iron roofed brick and mud houses I am always greeted by young children playing, mothers doing their washing or selling breakfast and school children mysteriously wandering about in school uniform during school.The walk is pleasantly cool, the early sun hidden behind the cosy collection of shacks. Just outside my house, around the corner and before the school‘gate’ in the communal yard where clothes are relentlessly either being washed, hung up, dried or being taken down is where I buy my breakfast– samosas, hidden under brown paper on a big silver tray from a mama whose hygiene I have promised never to think about. I have the first one on my mouth as I snake my way around another corner past the school, now silent and expectant for the coming break, the sound of classes in full flow with teachers preaching to young ears. Past the noisy classes and through a tiny alley pressed against a pool table sized shaded shamba (garden to grow vegetables) and a front door revealing the guts of a kenyan family home and back into the sunshine out onto another communal yard where more infants sit with friends babbling the latestinfant news who show no interest in me.Down another small pathway and past a man who is always ironing shirts beside two more men who are roasting nuts. ‘Arsenally’ scream two young boys around the corner, pumping their fists with big smiles. I pump back which is greeted as usual with much laughter– I’m not sure anyone in Mnarani who doesn’t now me as Arsenally (i.e. Arsenal fan). They run away in jubilant excitement after our daily affirmation of support for the mighty reds.Having my second potato, onion and chili samosa, I continue around another corner, ducking under washing lines drying bed sheets, clothes, wraps– sometimes dripping wet and always need to be avoided.“Habari zano” (How are you all) I routinely announce to the mama’s (young and old women) sitting in the door way or of course, washing clothes.“Salama, Habari yako” (Good, how are you?)“Ye old dolls are always washing, like everyday, whats the fucking story. How many bloody clothes have ye got” is the response I’ve never quite managed the courage to ask back.The sanitation in these houses vary but now toward one small section where sanitation consists of a small uncovered tunnel that leads under the house’s wall and empties it contents in full view just outside the house. Turning the corner past the mama’s and away from the main thoroughfare, I always hold breath to avoid the worst of the smell, where with the raw sewage, children openly add their number twos. Luckily the plot of land where the tunnel leads is only used by unfussy goats and infant children, poking sticks into the sinister looking grey liquid with turgid shades of green. “Jambo” says the 2 year old, I guess, in his tiny voice and waving his tiny hand that reaches up from his tiny brown body sprouting out from under his tiny dirty clothes all of which seem to make is big brown eyes all the bigger and chubby cheeks all the chubbier. Playing in shit never looked so cute. But doesnt help the appetite. I'll wait a bit for my final samosa.After this, the path runs over a small bit of littered waste land which continues and disappears down between two more houses onto another open patch of land bordered by more houses where an old try has been felled. Young children interrupt their playing to chant “Jambo Jambo” at me til I answer back…tiresome or cute, depending on the day of the week. More washing and drying and finally on to the main Mnarani road and another 100m to the main tarmacked road.Before I get to the main road, there’s a turn off that’s a small short cut to the road, which I used to take when I walked to work but these days I no longer walk all the way to work, it’s just to hot even at 8:30 to walk in the sun. But everyday, at this short cut the boda boda owners (bicycles with cushioned seats at the back)ask me if I want a lift. I’ve never accepted, yet the always ask. That’s impressive strength of character I think.So I usually get a Matatu– 20 bob - or sometimes Piki Piki (motorbike which is faster)– usually 50 bob - to work. Before I get to the‘stage’ or matatu stop where as well as a matatu, local Piki Piki drivers sit under the tree to wait for potential customers, I make sure I have only 30 shillings in one pocket, removing all other money into the other pocket. So assuming there is no sign of the Kilifi Matatu it unfolds like this:“My friend, Kilifi?” says the first Piki Piki driver who spots me, rising to his feet.“No thanks, Matatu today I think, sina mpesa (no money{btw, I hope you’re impressed with my Swahili}) ”“How much you have Bwana (man)”“Oh not good I say, let me see” hand digs into my pocket and ooh I wonder how much I have “damn, only 30 bob, look” I show my pathetic findings a give him my best 'I'm just 30 bob away from poverty’ look.Now after this performance, it can go two ways. Either he looks at me with a look that says‘why don’t you just climb on my back and carry ya there ya tight fucking Mzungu’ and says “Ok come, I take you” with painful reluctance. Or he says shrugs his shoulders laughs and says“ah no, not for 30bob” and I have to wait for the matatu.Now the real fun begins when I’m waiting twenty minutes for a matatu that never seems to be coming and I return to the Piki Piki driver and produce 40 bob from my other pocket. He looks at my like I’m a fooking alchemist.“Ok” he laughs “let’s go” and I climb on to the back of the bike and whiz across the bridge toward Kilifi for work.