Hujambo!

I can’t think of any reason why a police officer in Kenya should get a free ride in a matatu. As far as I know there’s no law that says, “If you see a cop walking, give him a ride.” It happens all the time, though: some cop walking on the side of the road flags a matatu and the guy jumps in. For some reason every non Kenyan I complain to has the gut reaction to tell me that its because cops “serve the public.” Um, hello? Which Kenya do you live in?

Ugh. In the Kenya I live in cops don’t serve the public, they run death squads, beat matatu drivers for turning at the wrong place, and raid gay weddings. The Kenyan police have been consistently rated among the most corrupt institutions in Kenya and even the most corrupt institution in East Africa. I’ve even been hassled by cops a number of times for doing things like not carrying a receipt for my laptop, not wearing a seatbelt, and talking to a friend on the street corner next to my house after dark.
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Something is seriously wrong in Kenya. I rarely have problems with people over charging me or being abusive to me, but lately I’ve noticed that if I’m with black Kenyans those problems occur more often than when I’m by myself. A few examples…

There’s a great second-hand, open-air market just outside of Nairobi’s business district, Kikomba. You can get good shoes, shirts, bed sheets, pants, etc for really cheap in Gikosh! Remember the gay marriage hat I saw there one time? I spotted that when I was there with my Dutch friend Renske. I’ve been with all sorts of people, and the experience is always different:

• With white girl: People generally impressed by our Swahili; a man even told me, “Swahili yako imenibamba” (your Swahili made me happy, or “jazzed” him).
• With black girl: Someone yells, “Umeshika mzungu!” (you’ve “caught” a white guy) to my friend.
• With black guy: Someone asked him if he was my tour guide…

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No, not Jesus (but he is still coming), I’m talking about el niño! It’s all anyone’s talking about right now in Kenya. There is a drought in Kenya, and the meteorologists announced a few weeks ago that “el niño rains” will come to save the day. Well I think they’re here, because I just got home from Nairobi and I’m soaked. I went to town with a few colleagues after work to drink a cup of coffee, but on the way home I was caught in the storm. It’s Friday so there are a million people in town enjoying the beginning of the weekend, all trying to catch matatus home. That’s nice and all but it means there’s no room for me to stand under the cover of the nearby shops while waiting for my matatu. I figured it just meant I’d be first to hop in the matatu when it came, albeit sopping wet.
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I was in Nairobi for a few errands this weekend, one of which was to go shopping for some clothes. I realized recently that my wardrobe was in pretty bad shape. A few months ago my Che Guevara shirt was stolen from the laundry line and last week my bike accident destroyed my only pair of jeans and one of my nicer shirts. I decided it was time to invest in some clothes.

After spending about $30 on a pair of new jeans I walked over to Nairobi’s Ngara district, where a friend of mine had said there were lots of street vendors selling second-hand clothing. As I approached the line of hawkers they all panicked, picked up, and ran (in like ten seconds flat). I wasn’t sure what made them flee, but it didn’t matter because they were back after a few minutes. In the meantime I had stumbled into an Indian bulk retail store and picked up 100 grams of garam masala for real cheap. In walking back towards the hawkers my eyes started to water and I thought I had rubbed some spices in my eyes until…

Boom! And all the hawkers were running again. Down the street I saw some smoke but couldn’t make anything of it. As I kept walking a police officer ran past me with some canister and then boom! Tear gas! I briskly walked away from the action and saw a big truck full of police officers. I thought, “this is crazy” and, as I had already bought one shirt for about two dollars, headed back towards Nairobi’s town center.

Crazy Kenya.

I had a little run-in with the police the other day while riding a matatu (public transport minivan) to Nairobi. Police checkpoints are really common here, and it’s not unusual for a matatu to get stopped twice in the one hour ride from Tala to Nairobi. The routine is as follows: officers pull seemingly random matatus over and, while “checking” the driver’s license and various aspects of the vehicle, pocket the money folded into the license. They’re good at it and it’s no secret.

As one officer was chatting with the driver another one pointed at me in the front seat. He had seen that I wasn’t wearing my seat belt, a crime in Kenya. He began to scold me, “You need to wear your seat belt.” I know I shouldn’t have, but I pointed to the guy next to me and said, “Neither is he.” Ignoring my comment, the officer continued to patronize me, “You have already violated the law. It’s not for my safety, it’s for yours. I am just warning you.” As matter-of-fact and helpful as it sounds, he was actually giggling; I could see he thought I was a clueless tourist. So I buckled up and off he went, grinning ear to ear and laughing with his buddies.
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