Metatu Metatu

Metatu Metatu

I am travelling to Kisii, and then to Asumbi to catch up with the boys and local community. This is my story from Kisumu, to Kisii, a distance of 110 km, in a metatu, known as “Yes we can”, a 14 seater Toyota van.
I catch a boda at 8.30AM to take my 2 parcels of medicines, weighing about 40kg from the 1.5 star DAL International hotel to Metatu central, a seething mass of sellers, passengers, touts, and metatus travelling in all directions from Kisumu. I have done the trip several times before, and consider myself at least a little experienced, but life and travel here is full of surprises, expectation, trepidation, and the unexpected.
After choosing the aptly named “Yes we can” for the journey, Obama being the “All Kenyan partly American hero” we eventually leave town at 10.30AM. I am introduced to the “seat warmer” phenomenon where young lads occupy seats to make the vehicle look “fuller” encouraging passengers to enter the metatu, only to progressively leave as the vehicle fills. This is truly frustrating!
I have travelled on the road 4 days earlier, and know the first part of the trip to Ahero (tr. love) was likely to be interesting given the parlous state of the road with massive frequent and poorly located potholes littering the road. This is the main drag to Nairobi also, and there are high traffic volumes, and steep shoulders just to fuel anxieties.
After leaving the central station we go 300 metres and abruptly turn into the petrol station to inflate 3 of the 4 tyres and for fuel. A macabre sense of roadworthiness ensues and we rattle off. The 35km trip to Ahero is a cat and mouse game with another metatu “City Guy” overtaking buses, trucks, and cars with gay abandon, interspersed with stops at police checkpoints. Seeing a Mzungu (white man) seat-belted in the front is generally sufficient to encourage rapid transit, but many places have been lost in the mobile caravan winding along the route. Undeterred, we re-engage in the chase, much like a hound on the scent of a beleaguered fox. It is marginally relieving that the road repair team has been over the road, in the interim, and now we only rumble and bound over the new bitumen mounds that were previously potholes.
At Ahero, I am not certain whether we won the race for the maiden or not, but we roar through the busy town faster than at any time in the previous 40 minutes, only slowing slightly to tear around the 90° bend and head south to Kisii.
The road is a lot quieter, but in poor condition, with 10-20cm drops onto the shoulders, which must be terrifying for the bicyclists to negotiate as vehicles boom on their horns for them to get off the road. Size is everything on Kenyan roads, but frequent rumble strips near towns reduce speed, and check the status of the springs and shockers.
Although this is classified as an express vehicle, this is only true between stops! We frequently stop to drop off passengers and pick up extras, accelerating to terminal velocity quickly again. We hit 100km/h and are blocked as a shepherd herds his cattle along and across the road, causing the obligatory screaming of brakes and shuddering to a halt, accompanied by vocal driver abuse. This is the cross-roads of Kenyan history meandering along, and the bustling clatter of the 21st century, although it is sometimes difficult to know into which grouping we fit.
Our latest passenger arrives with baggage and chook in hand; the tout grabs the started animal and throws it under the seat and it cackles intermittently as we power along, our destiny almost as uncertain the chooks!
We arrive in Sondhu, location of huge markets most days, with frequent rumble strips and the ever present police checkpoints on either side. This location is rarely traversed without paying a bribe to enable rapid transit, but I am left to ponder the brazen corruption, simply to augment a salary.
The passengers start to become agitated and jibes fly as we stop 4 times in a 2km stretch of road, but business is business, and these guys have skins as thick as rhinos. We are now dueling with another metatu “Tsvangurai” (named after Morgan, the Zimbabwean polly). We abort a daring overtaking move around a blind bend, after reaching their girth, and shortly after are passed by the aptly named “Jolly Smart” metatu charging in the opposite direction. Not to be diverted from the cause, we eventually pass the Zimbabwean express, only to leap frog each other repeatedly as one or other vehicle stops or impatience overwhelms the drivers. We catch up to another metatu named “Disciples” and race past, only to be passed in the opposite direction by the metatus “Vatican Express” closely followed by “Immortality”. I wonder whether going with the disciples or immortality is a safer option? I am welded to the seat, headed in the right direction and so continue relentlessly.
At Oyugis, a town similarly famous as West Wyalong for its winding main street and lawlessness, I see “Tsvanguai” disappear over the horizon ahead; I ponder how any forward progress could be outpaced by Zimbabwe? We come to a halt in the town, and are told that our ride in this metatu had finished and we must change vehicles. I gather my precious belongings, and get into another model “Ohoi”, a discretely elderly and musical individual, noises emanating from the motor, clutch, bearings, and chassis. After a push start, we shudder and lurch into action. Sadly, in a cloud of steam, a strong whiff of hot metal, a string of expletives, the vehicle dies, to the dismay of driver and tout, 20km up the road at Moshoko. Again we disembark, and miraculously, another metatu appears as if the “disciples” had a premonition of the imminent demise of our metatu and had sent help!
The last 30km of the trip had taken 90mins, and my plans for meeting the Asumbi boys in Kisii are in tatters. I gather my bags, and wander through the Kisii throng, having safely arrived. It seems another ritualistic challenge has been negotiated; it is difficult not to be an active passenger, driving would certainly be a nightmare.
Adieu for now!