Matatu perspective

I do not usually love sitting in a matatu waiting for it to fill. Lately, however, I have been soaking these moments up. If I sit in a place where I am just a little hidden, it provides an opportunity for serious people watching. There are too many interactions occurring simultaneously to take it all in: touts calling to potential customers and trying to not-so-gently nudge them into their matatu; mamas holding bananas up to more potential customers in matatus; young men selling biscuits, lollipops, sodas, and gum; wazee hobbling with canes, umbrellas, or sticks for support; old mamas carrying bags heavier than they on their backs permanently bent over from carrying such bags through a lifetime; Somali-descendant mamas selling perfumes; street boys with old rum bottles filled with glue stuck to their lips, getting high while bouncing around to ask for food and money; touts wrestling in their joking manner; secondary students, with their uniforms in various forms of disarray, coming from or going to school. It is all too easy to walk through the stage an ignore all of these, but waiting in a matatu forces me to slow down a little and take it in.

I do usually love the children in Kenya, but on a bad day when the 'mzungu mzungu mzungu' is ringing through my head it can be frustrating. The secondary school shares grounds with a primary school of about 150 students. They LOVE to say 'mzungu' and LOVE to do what I think is their impressions of us speaking. It isn't English, Kiswahili, or Kimeru. It is a made up language that sounds something like what they do when they imitate kung-fu movies. I have been meaning to go to the primary to greet them and introduce myself during their assembly. I also planned to tell them that I really hate being called 'mzungu' and it is bad manners to shout their made up language at me., especially while I am teaching. After being here for 3 months it was far overdue. The words I wanted to say had been spinning through my head during every morning run. At their assembly I sat through all of the normal procedures (hymns, prayer, and words from the teacher on duty) before it was my turn. It struck me that all of the teachers spoke to the students in English. The younger students don't know English! When it was my turn I started with a 'hamjambo'. They looked at me with those wide eyes, like I was a recently landed alien. Regardless, I continued in the best kiswahili I could muster. When it came to asking them not to imitate me, I was stuck. I am not sure how to explain the made up language in English, much less kiswahili, and my efforts did not prove successful. It came down to some instant serious thought of 'am I going to imitate them mimicking me'. What choice did I have? At least I made them laugh so early in the morning. My success was tested the next day when I walked passed the primary students coming to school on my way to the staff room. Would they 'mzungu' me? Would they do the weird language? Low and behold, they did neither! They ran past me yelling 'teacher Rose, teacher Rose' with big smiles on their faces and hands waving franticly. Kenya has made me realize again and again that you cannot always expect people to know what bothers you. If no one has ever told these children that 'mzungu' isn't really appropriate, but it is all that they know, how can I expect them to act any differently?