(No) independence day
[Note: today is Madaraka Day, commemorating the day Kenya attained internal self-rule before full independence from Great Britain in 1963.]
A friend asked me before I left Denver what I would miss most about home once I got settled in Nairobi. My first answer? My independence.
I knew coming back here would mean having to negotiate with others to do things I am used to managing on my own: getting to work and to the grocery store, going to a cafe, leaving the city for a walk or a change of scene. It is not only that the places I need to go and the things I want to do are far apart here-it's that they are enveloped in a bizarre geography of racial and socioeconomic divisions so entrenched that they have generated different economies, with different norms and patterns for each resident group. Sure, people cross over the lines all the time, but those who do so have the means to gain acceptance into multiple societies: language skills, money, and a certain comfort with chaos.
Now, I revel in the unfamiliar, for sure, and I am not averse to walking long distances or flagging down a matatu (minivan public transport) when that makes sense, but I am also someone who likes to get where she is going in a reasonable amount of time without undue trouble, and without worrying too much about what she is carrying in her shoulder bag. So, in this divided city, I succumb to the “wazungu” (white foreigners) economy and call a taxi driver when I need to go just about anywhere. Since arriving two weeks ago, I have spent nearly 10,000 Kenyan shillings (about $130) on taxi rides, and that’s only to get around within the wealthy western boroughs of the city. Before I move into a house within walking distance of work in two more weeks, I will have spent at least another 10,000 shillings to get where I need to go-likely more.
It’s no wonder most people who live here for any extended length of time buy cars. Although they’re involved in all kinds of conservation, earth-saving and recycling campaigns, most of those who work on the UN campus are not into carpooling with their SUVs, so they become part of the reason that getting around in this city can be such a scary and unpleasant experience. The black clouds of diesel exhaust, crumbling roads, terrifyingly aggressive Kenyan driving style, incessantly clogged traffic, and labyrinthine street patterns collide in a chaotic mix of inadequate infrastructure and individual priorities. It’s every person for herself here, street lights, stop signs, and pedestrians be damned.
Embittered by the absurdity of the taxi trap and frustrated by my lack of independence, I set out on foot yesterday toward the shopping center nearest the area in which I am staying. As I slogged through the red mud by the side of Thigiri Ridge, I felt distinctly unsafe and conspicuous; the shoulder was narrow and uneven, and I couldn’t avoid the attention of almost everyone I passed on my way to my destination.
Muttering to myself about the stupidity of walking so far in such an environment, I thought about the ease and anonymity I am used to-the simple ability to get where I am going with a minimal output of cash and very little stress. In Minneapolis for the APA conference last month, I walked for miles late at night with no fear; I could catch a bus or the light rail for $1.25 ($2.75 during peak hours) if I needed to, no questions asked, and the clean, safe transit ran on a reliable schedule. Even in Izmir, Turkey, where I lived in 2002, getting from one side of the city to the other was easy on foot, or by ferry, dolmuş (Turkish version of the matatu), bus or light rail, all of which I could (and did) catch at almost any time of day or night. With the help of friends, I was able to decipher the system there and use it to my advantage. Here in Nairobi, matatus are the only real alternative to taxis for me, at least during the day, but I have yet to figure out any of their routes except for the straight shot downtown from Limuru Road by the UN. That’s something I’ll have to learn again, along with the Kiswahili numbers and acceptable phrases for “stop here!”
I see Nairobi through a planner’s eyes now-much more than I did three years ago when I wrote with a kind of romantic haze about the shape of the city and its indecipherability. This time, it’s clear to me that there’s nothing romantic about being trapped inside a walled and guarded compound, like the Lady of Shallot, only to be rescued by a taxi driver charging exorbitant fees. Nairobi’s planning problems are deep and complicated, predicated upon a dearth of regulation, road maintenance, public transit investment, and law enforcement. A major problem is a lack of connectivity. Many areas have sidewalks, but only along part of the road; matatus go downtown, but not around and through the various boroughs in predictable patterns. The larger issue, however, is safety. As long as wazungu and other residents fear for their safety when walking or riding public transit, the taxi drivers will continue to make a killing and people will continue to buy private cars to avoid those fees.
I met a Kenyan planner at the APA conference. I think it’s time I sat down with him to hear his perspective on the growing issues with Nairobi’s decaying roads and terrible traffic. But what is a planner to do in a place with so few enforceable regulations and such divided populations? Maybe the Chinese are offering some incentives for positive change … they recently built a new road from the airport through the main part of the city, which has significantly improved the efficiency of that trip. In the meantime, however, I’ll continue to call my taxi driver to ferry me around this circuitous city, until I figure out how to regain my lost independence.