As you're sitting holed up in the library at 1:00 a.m., looking out the window and wishing you could teleport back to your dorm room instead of trudging through the snow in the cold, I am walking to work in a T-shirt. It's eight hours later in Nairobi, Kenya and it's summertime.
At first I was slightly alarmed by things like the Kenyan form of public transportation (vans or minibuses filled to 200 percent of their capacity) and how I would always have to fight to pay the "real" price for a matatu ride into town rather than the "white" price drivers would ask for that is several times higher. I was a little unnerved when the matatu started to drive into the dirt to avoid potholes on the road, and when I saw another matatu hurdling toward us on the wrong side of the road to pass a car, causing my driver to slam on his brakes. I was equally unnerved when a violent riot broke out in the city center, diverting traffic to the extreme ends of the city and killing five people.
But after a while I'm realizing that it's best to just close my eyes and say "hakuna matata." Other people here have much more pressing things to worry about and they still seem to have smiles on their faces most of the time. As one of my Kenyan friends explained to me, "Here in Nairobi things get really bad in a minute and then they get really good in a minute."
Driving between districts in Nairobi is like traveling between two different worlds. In one world, dust and pollution choke you and burn your eyes. Houses are tiny and built almost on top of one another. In the other world, the air is fresh and clear, and there are lots of trees and flowers. The houses look like castles and are surrounded by big stone fences with iron gates and security guards.
Gigiri, where I live and work, is one of these districts. Walking home from my office at the World Agroforestry Center, I pass the UN complex, the US Embassy and the High Commissions of Botswana, Colombia and Pakistan. Scattered between these buildings are well-guarded mansions. Down the road from my house is a shopping center with a movie theater, bowling alley, water slide and stores that sell American brand clothes at inflated prices. Gigiri is the only place where I don't hear "Mzungu!" (white person!) when I'm walking around, because there are plenty of other pale people to stare at.
In the compound where I live, "Slum Gardens," I share a prefabricated house (the kind you see strapped to trucks on the freeway) with four UN interns. The place is simple, but we have a kitchen, electricity, showers and 24-hour security. By Gigiri standards, I guess it is a slum. But it's hardly a slum by real standards.
Most business here is conducted informally. "Jua Kali" (literally "hot sun") is the phrase that describes Nairobi's roadside economy. In addition to secondhand clothes from Europe and the U.S., Jua Kali vendors sell pretty much anything you can think of. Rugs, suitcases, fruit, grain, snack food, live chickens, pots, pans, couches and beds are all common purchases. Nairobi's booming population vastly exceeds its capacity for formal employment, and in a city where 60 percent of the population lives in slums, Jua Kali is perhaps the best solution to keeping poverty at bay.
The slums here lack proper water and drainage systems, and houses are often situated just yards away from giant garbage heaps. The litter collects in ditches by the road, and people sometimes root through it to find something to eat. Still, slum children smile, run around and play games with their friends just like children anywhere in the world. People chat, laugh and talk on their cell phones. Young women and men leave their huts in stylish clothing on their way to university or to work.
Kenyans are also the ultimate thrifters. There is a thrift store on nearly every street corner. Secondhand shoes, belts, shirts, purses, jeans and even parkas are sold everywhere. Many of the parkas here have a retro-80's vibe and come in colors such as hot pink, highlighter yellow and bright teal. Sometimes the goods are sold out of tin shacks. Other times vendors just plop down on the ground somewhere and spread the clothes in front of them. Or they carry them around and tap on your car window hoping to make a sale.
