Reflection on Walking... no, Hiking in Nairobi

Our signpost points west. It points toward the part of the map that is empty.  To the north  is higher elevation, green expanses of agriculture, forests, roads, tea plantations.  To the west there is only a small dot marking Mt. Suswa, no roads, and expanses of aridity and low drab colored bush. That’s where we’re headed tomorrow.  A wilderness of sorts. A place where the stars shine unhindered by light pollution and the moon shines full enough to read outside after dark. A place where goats (nkineji) and cows (nkishu) and their pastoralist roam the wilderness (olpurkel) and the occasional collection of zebras, giraffes, and Thompson’s gazelle meander.

We wrap up the past two months of learning the language called Maa in the city. Our calculation was 30 times of walking on our route to and from the language school. The path took us out the black iron gate of the Mennonite Guest House, usually decked out in hats, sunglasses and sunscreen, our white-skinned expat uniform.  We turned left and picked our way along the side of Church road. We turned left to Rhapta road and made our way along some of the best roadside walking in the city- wide dirt path, under shade, with a 10-15 foot buffer from the traffic.  We passed the shop where we often stopped to buy bread and yogurt for lunch and “top-up” for our wireless minutes. 

 Further along is the taxi row where a line of 8-10 cars and their drivers hang out waiting for customers. After a week of watching us pass, they figured out that we weren’t potential customers and one called out with a grin, “Welcome to the walking country!” We smiled and nodded. 

Next there’s the MCC office inside a gate next to a huge avocado tree that occasionally yields her fruit onto the ground for these passer-byes.  There’s the young guard named Erich who’s sweet grin was a gift despite the fact that he didn’t seem to understand any language that we tried.  We rounded the corner and turned down into the “dip” of the first river, maneuvering the construction zone where the Chinese are directing the building of a road and bridge.  Here the smell of fires wafted as entepreneaurs bent in the dust or mud over steaming blackened pots of sukuma wiki (cooked greens), ugali (maiz mash), and other staples serving the hungry young men that a construction scene attracts.  Our shoes padded over the rocks and the red dirt, across the temporary walking bridge with an up close look at the construction as well as, the murky trash filled river.  

We walked alongside the masses. Here in Kenya, there are hundreds of people walking, everywhere. Where are they going at all hours of the day? Some days there were more and others, less at the same time of day. What makes the difference? I’ve never in my life seen so many young men between the ages of 20 and 40 out filling the streets, walking.

Crossing Riverside road, we headed down into the next “dip” to cross the another river where there is a completely different set of construction plans.  We passed the guy who sells the newspapers in the middle of the street.  We crossed the bridge and see the flower vender’s buckets lined up in colorful contrast to the construction zone going on around him. Why did he stay day after day, though the huge machinery literally move the dirt around him? If he left, would he lose business or his spot? 

This river, too, ran its odorous, trash and sewer-filled self along beneath lovely green trees.  It ran past an aboretum, a specially preserved green space next to the University of Nairobi.  

This was a shady stretch, with relief from the direct equatorial light. The cement block walls rose on one side and the green wall of the arboretum on the other.  Here we talked more without having to pay as much attention to where we placed our feet over rocks, pot holes, uneven dirt, or trash. Most of our daily commute these weeks was more like a hike over class 2 terrain than a walk in the city as you might imagine it. We covered 7.8 miles in a to and from day of walking.  

Next we passed another newspaper seller that we always greeted in Swahili, just to see his smile.  Turning left we entered the University area and soon turned onto Mamlaka road. Here we felt freer to walk hand in hand, since we were suddenly walking through scores of university students who seemed just as eager to sneak a little hand holding enroute to their classes.  

Then it was down the hill past the huge YWCA hostel/guest house and into a business district with extravagant hotels, a park, 30 storie office buildings and the massive All Saints Cathedral.  Despite the upscale buildings and well dressed walkers, our path still took hiking routes through glades of fragrant eucaliptus  where the sidewalk had dissappeared.  I marvel at the women and men walking in their dress shoes over the rocky dusty trails right in the middle of the city. It reminds me that this is a newly metropolitanized place.  Many of these, dressed in their suits, ties and dress shoes, both tailered and ill-fitting, have close connection to their families who live close to the earth in basic mud, wood, or corrogated metal homes outside the city limits.

Crossing Kenyatta Road was the big trick.  Sometimes the police were directing the traffic in the 12 lanes that all wanted to enter and sometimes it was some other mysterious force (didn’t appear to be the traffic lights).  We linked arms and learned to communicate so we both knew when the other intended to dart across.

Up around the hill we passed hybiscus bushes with their showy red lace, balancing across the 1 ft wide section of sidewalk with a 4 by 6 by 5 foot hole to the drain water on the right and the rushing buses 3 ft away to our left. Then we’re swept along with the thickening flow of walkers into Bishop road, past the busy shoe shiners, the temporary  tables where men’s dress pants and dress shirts were laid out for sale and prisoners in their striped suits swept the street under their guard’s close watch.  

After an hour and 10 minutes of hiking, we ducked into the gate of the Anglican Church of Kenya language school’s gate, smiled and greeted the 3-4 guards that hang out there and headed into our class.

A handful of times we made our trip to class on the public bus and matatu system and another handful we rode olpikipik (the motorbike in Maa) which gave us yet another experience with the culture of Nairobi.  Our hike to and from class was our favorite method of commute.