The two-lane tarmac highway over the Nyandarua Highlands west of Nairobi boasted fine views of the Great Rift Valley: Mt. Longonot, a cratered volcano rising from the valley floor a thousand feet below, Lake Naivasha’s shallow waters glinting in the sun, the distant slopes of the Mau Escarpment . . . Nonetheless, on that day some thirty years ago, my eyes were fixed firmly on the road.
Several miles back I had seen my first dead man. Killed by a hit-and-run driver, he lay staring sightlessly at the sky, oblivious to the crowd gathering around him. Possibly he was drunk and stumbled onto the road at the wrong time, or he could have been struck by an erratically driven vehicle while walking at the edge of the road. Either way, his misfortune emphasized my need to stay alert, a decision that paid off when two small buses, or matatus, one trying to pass the other, swept around a blind curve and hurtled, side by side, downhill towards me, one squarely in my lane. Even then, I barely had time to pull off the highway before the matatus, neither of which even attempted to slow down, whooshed past, only a few feet away, rocking my car with displaced air. I spent the next few minutes turning the air blue with words, best forgotten, about matatu drivers.
Dating from the 1960’s, matatus are a major means of public transport in the cities and more populous rural areas of East Africa. The name derives from the Swahili word for three, tatu, and refers either to a vehicle fitted with three rows of benches or to the 1960’s fare of three cents (or perhaps both).
I first encountered matatus in 1964 when I and several other Peace Corps volunteers spent a few weeks at Tengeru Agricultural School in Tanganyika. In our free time, we took matatus to Arusha several miles away. (Peace Corps volunteers weren’t allowed to own cars, and couldn’t afford them, anyway.) Matatus with beeping horns patrolled the nearby highway, stopping wherever potential customers appeared, their conductors, always young men, hanging out the doors, waving and calling out their destination: “Arusha, Arusha!” Jumping down to take fares before their vehicles even stopped, they continued their spiel until the last person boarded. Then, banging on the side of the minibus and yelling “twendi–let’s go!” they sprinted beside the accelerating matatu to jump on at the last moment, reveling in their youthful vigor.
Crowded in among the African passengers and their baskets of produce, chickens, and bunches of bananas freshly cut from the tree, we spent the eight-mile drive into town speaking halting Swahili with the locals (who were rather surprised we didn’t have cars like other wazungu or Europeans) while also taking in what was passing by outside: British cars 2/3 the size of American Chevrolets and Fords, school children in green and pink (boys in shorts, girls in dresses), unhurried bicyclists (thinking back I can’t remember ever seeing a fast-moving bicycle) . . .
But then I moved to my official posting at Ngorongoro a hundred miles away and never used a matatu again, although in subsequent years I encountered them in and around Nairobi. During that time matatu crews became known for reckless driving (even by Nairobi standards where obeying stop signs could lead to being rear-ended), rude behavior, and sometimes outright criminality, including theft, physical abuse and sexual harassment. In my case, there always seemed to be a matatu, overloaded and blaring loud music, tailgating or cutting in front of me–when they weren’t forcing me off the road passing on blind curves. Naturally, such behavior generated matatu jokes and stories, one of which, courtesy of fellow PCV, George Cummins, and the Iowa Peace Corps Association, I share with you here:
A pastor and a matatu driver died and went to heaven where the former was allocated a humble cottage with few amenities and the latter a mansion on a gilded street. Incensed, the pastor complained to St. Peter. “How is it that I who have served the church my whole life is given a humble cottage while this matatu driver who never darkened the door of a church is living in such opulence?” “It’s very simple,” St. Peter replied. “While you were preaching, your congregants were sleeping. While the matatu driver was driving, his passengers were praying.”
The matatu industry remains widely unregulated to this day and matatu crews can still be rowdy, a situation enabled by the absence of any real competition, such as trains, trams, buses, or bicycles (the latter due to unsafe roads). On the other hand, things have improved somewhat since the government of Kenya introduced reforms in 2004. Also, Kenyans can be proud that the matatu industry is the only one in the nation that is almost entirely locally owned and controlled. More practically, it also provides employment for thousands of people, including artists (see below). Nairobi finds it hard to function without matatus.
And, here’s something else: Over the past two decades matatu owners have spent large sums of money to “pimp out” their vehicles, making them more eye-catching. Thus, next time you’re in a Nairobi traffic jam, and a matatu swerves off the road to pass around you with two of its wheels in a drainage ditch, you can at least admire its artwork.
Dennis,
Get in touch with Bill Mesner. I seem to remember him telling of a adventurous matatu ride at night to Nairobi. Something about a fully deck-out Masai warrior (spear, shield, panga and throwing stick. The driver tried to disarm the Moran, but he refused. Some where in the middle of night the warrior slammed the bus with one of his weapons and the driver stopped without hesitation. Bill tells it better. Give him a tingle.
Thanks, Mike. I’ll do that. How’s it going in Arizona?
Thank you for the highly engrossing story! The description of the dead body gave me chills and I didn’t know where the story was headed – happy for the funny joke and pimped matatus!
Glad you liked it.
Hey, enjoyed the Matutus blog on Kenya. We lived in Kenya for nine years so know it well. I had a boat at lake Naivasha. Climbed Mt. Longonot as well. Beautiful place indeed. !!!! Dennis
Dennis B. McCarthy PhD
International Development Consultant, Agriculture/Livestock
6442 Lily Dhu Lane
Falls Church, VA 22044
mccarthy_dennis@hotmail.com
phone; 202-255-8317
Glad you liked it.
Dennis,
I thoroughly enjoyed your descriptions of matatus. The West African equivalents were known as “Lorrys” or “Lorries”, and ranged from Bedford Trucks to vans to buses, many with colorful sayings (some untranslatable) written upon them. Also, some had Proverbs that were written in one of the local vernaculars – Twi, Fanti, Ewe, Ga, etc. When I was in the Peace Corps from 1963-1965, and for some additional years, Ghanaians drove on the wrong side of the road (left hand drive), like they still do in East Africa. However, as Ghana was surrounded by Francophone countries (Togo, Burkina Faso and Cote d’Ivoire) that drove on the right, in the late 1970s, Ghana’s government eventually changed the country to right-hand drive. When I worked for the Ghana Geological Survey from 1969 thru 1972, I drove a Peugeot saloon with its steering wheel on the left (right-hand drive), while the rest of the country still had their steering wheels on the right and were driving on the left side of the road. I was stationed in Sunyani in the Brong-Ahafo Region which was a heavily forested area that produced a variety of mahogany trees and other tropical hardwoods. Ghanaian drivers were known for “saving” their batteries by driving at night with their lights off. Several times each month, I would drive the 80 miles from Kumasi (in the Ashanti Region) back to Sunyani at night, and would commonly get stuck behind one or more timber lorries. They ran at night because, if the Police stopped them, the lorries could not meet local regulations in the light of day. The Kumasi-Sunyani highway was paved, but was somewhat hilly and quite curved. These timber lorries (which generally had either defective lighting or no lighting at all) each carried a gigantic section (8-10 ft in diameter) of a hardwood tree, chained on a trailer that was chained to and pulled by the lorry’s cab. The trailer, and its giant load, would sway back and forth across both sides of the highway. They commonly drove at 20-35 miles per hour, so unless I wanted to spend at least three hours on my drive, I would have to pass them. By the way, the drivers would stop for meals, which were always accompanied by large glasses of the local akpeteshie – a clear home-brewed alcohol that would range to ca. 100 proof. Very scary moments!!!
On Tue, Jul 14, 2020 at 12:17 PM Stories of East Africa by Dennis Herlocker wrote:
> Dennis Herlocker posted: “The two-lane tarmac highway over the Nyandarua > Highlands west of Nairobi boasted fine views of the Great Rift Valley: Mt. > Longonot, a cratered volcano rising from the valley floor a thousand feet > below, Lake Naivasha’s shallow waters glinting in the sun, ” >
Robert, You’ve sent me a good story. Maybe sometime in the future I can use it. Question: on satellite imagery of Ghana I noticed that the forest reserves (or at least the remaining dense forest) seem to be narrow and run roughly north-south. Any ideas as to why?
What a wonderful and fond description of matatus. I especially like the picture of the beautifully painted matatu. People in a matatu were fun to talk to – we were all in it together. Your encapsulation is great.
Thanks
The story above made me think of an experience of a graduate school friend when he was in Cairo for a summer internship with the Ford Foundation. He was taking Arabic and, of course, was anxious to try it out. He walked to where he was going but flagged a taxi for his return home. Before he finished negotiating the fare, the driver was off. He knew what he should be paying for the ride. Since it was night time, the fare was lower than a daytime (rush hour) ride. He told the Egyptian driver he wanted the night time rate and the only way he knew to say it was “lights off.” So the driver turned off his lights in the middle of a swarm of cars! Richard lived to tell the story. Harrowing driving!
That’s a good story. I’ll hang on to it an maybe use it some time . . . maybe.