Matatus

Matatus are important enough part of life in Nairobi, that it feels appropriate to spend a little more time talking about them here. For your reference, you can just see the backs of two matatus toward the left side of the road in the accompanying picture. One is purple, and just to its left is a white matatu with a yellow stripe.

For the unfamiliar, a matatu is a shared taxi that travels along the same routes as the public bus routes or other well traveled paths. The matatu itself is a van – not a large van by American standards, and yet most matatus, or at least the regulated ones, have a yellow stripe on the outside of the van and list how many passengers the car can hold. Usually it is fourteen.

To clarify, fourteen is the legal capacity – or, the number of seats and seatbelts in the vehicle. This includes two people in front (including the driver) and four rows of three seats. I’ll remind you, this is not a large van. There is just barely enough room for my knees when I sit, all five feet two inches of me, and what passes for an aisle towards the back is a small gap between the second and third seat in the row. Narrow enough that I have to turn sideways to fit.

I make the distinction on legal capacity because more often than not, the matatus exceed their legal capacity. Frequently, two or three people sit in front, in addition to the driver and similar cramming happens in the back rows. Often people are told to sit in the “aisle,” or rather, park the outer edges of each butt cheek on the edges of the second and third seat. Or, as has often happened to me, the matatu door-man will give up his seat and sit on the lap of the patron who takes it, or instruct another passenger to sit on the lap of someone near the door.

The door-man has a critical role. He leans out the open door of the matatu shouting the fare, the route, or the number of seats available while waving a cardboard card with the route number handwritten on it. He also controls when the matatu starts and stops by banging on the roof when a passenger wants to get off, or when he confirms passengers want to get on.

Although, stopping is a relative term. Frequently, the matatu actually stops, but this is more a result of traffic than a decision by either the driver or the door-man. The matatu only slows when it picks up and drops off passengers. And if it isn’t crowded, or if there aren’t many people getting on or off, the van often won’t stop at all, trusting that you’ll break into a jog as you jump out of the (slowly?) moving van.

You can barely see out the sides of the van, as the windows are small and usually partially obstructed by colorful curtains, which generally match the décor of the matatu. Décor is serious. Whether for age or for added height, whatever once lined the ceiling has been removed and replaced by what appears to be something between oil cloth and particularly sturdy contact paper. It’s like living inside the book covers I made for my textbooks in junior high with stickers and quotes and color schemes that clearly reflect the personal tastes of the owners.

I have yet to figure out if the names of the matatus are linked with their décor. I suspect not. The matatu’s name is plastered on the front windshield, and sometimes repeated on the back, in those letters I would often see on back windshields in LA, spelling Jesucristo es mi Señor. Names vary widely and include Condoleeza, Makaveli, Brooklyn, Ferrari, and Secret.

But for all this craziness, matatus are wonderful.

The music is always blaring, and usually pretty amazing. From Tanzanian gospel to hip hop, the bass is pumped up and the beats are captivating. As you surge and stop through Nairobi traffic squashed between your fellow passengers, warm and slightly stifled with a limited range of vision, you're lulled into a peaceful daydream ... at least until it's time to climb over everyone else to jump out.