Bus Stop Survival

So I’m at the bus stop. I’m finishing up one of those nice little Sundays...the completely unaccomplished kind, where all my efforts were deemed shamelessly fruitless. I walked for about 20 kilometers, not on purpose, stores were closed down, my art exhibit had moved three hours north, totally worthless intentions. Then, all of a sudden I find myself being paid for in the matatu by Prime Minister Raila Odinga’s (alleged) first cousin...big mistake. It went a little something like this:

MATATU MAN: My cousin lives in the States

This is the most common pick-up line since I’ve been here. Cousins, siblings, children [insert any relative] living in the States…and therefore they are just like you.

ME: Cool.
MATATU MAN: You know, all we have to do to make another Obama is have a Kenyan father (points to himself) and an American mother(points to me). Let’s go out next week!
ME: Um, my husband is meeting me here in five minutes.
MATATU MAN: OH (hands up in a nervous surrender) Okay nice day.

Bus stops can be a setting for great stories. I should just hang out there all day...or not. One day I was waiting, willing that the drizzle would not become a downpour, and then, from out of no where— it was an ambush. Let's take a moment, if you will, to reflect on cultural barriers, communication boundaries, a little thing I like to call: The Verbal Bitchslap of ’09: Kenya Edition

MATRONLY WOMAN AT BUS STOP: (Walks up to me) What bus are you waiting for?
ME: The 40.
MATRON: Oh yes, okay (she seems satisfied) it’s coming along this route.
ME: Yes... I know. (One thing I’ve learned here is to second guess all intentions)
MATRON: You know what you’ve done don’t you.

Oh god, here we go, brace yourself...

ME: Hmmm?
MATRON: You’ve taken all of our talent to Europe, you’ve robbed us of our children, you pay them so little and then you send your people here to take jobs from our own citizens!
ME: I’m actually American, and I’m volunteering.
MATRON: America too! You offer better education to lure our children to attend school there, then when we ask them to come home they don’t want to come back home! You are thieves!

I can’t help but think about how something is very wrong with this conversation.

ME: Okay, I’m sorry, I just don’t think it’s my fault that your children don’t want to come home.
MATRON: (Ignoring me) And Kenya pays you people more than its own citizens, because of your better education, and you take all of our jobs and leave us like pigs with our noses in the dirt! I live in Ngummo, do you know what that’s like?

What the hell is going on here…

ME: Yes, I also live in Ngummo.
MATRON: You get paid a salary!
ME: Actually I don’t get paid at all.
MATRON: (With a look of disgust) My niece has to work four jobs just to survive in America.
ME: I’ve had friends who worked three jobs just to pay to attend University full time.
MATRON: That’s the problem with you people, you’re thieves and you mistreat us!

I pause momentarily and surrender, I really can’t be bothered.

ME: My bus is here.


And I’m spent. The day was honestly too long to deal with that and I’m already getting gonga’d 40 bob for a bus ride to Ngummo...