traffic

I’ve often been cautioned against cycling in Nairobi, usually taking the form of the question “Are you a complete mentalist?” when I say I use my bike to get around. Despite these concerns, I’ve never found it to be as dangerous as people say and never had a collision – until today.

I was merrily cycling along a quiet back road in Kilimani when a nutbag in a 4×4 zipped past and slapped his wing mirror into my tricep. I heard the sound of his wing mirror smash as I veered into the gutter and fell off.

He clearly knew he had hit me, and accelerated off. Once I’d checked my arm wasn’t broken (it’s fine), I vowed revenge in a manly fashion to a startled gaggle of young white girls nearby and chased him with the intention of remonstrating vigorously (i.e. punching him in the coupon). Over the brow of the hill, I saw his car at the next junction, where it had collided with another vehicle. In his attempt to flee, he had gone onto the wrong side of the road then tried to force his way back in when confronted by an oncoming vehicle.

In true Kenyan fashion, a mob of outraged bystanders had formed, and were giving the guy pelters for hitting me then the other car. He brazenly tried to say he hadn’t seen me, despite all the evidence to the contrary, and then offered to pay for the damage. Considering the damage to my arm was zero, and the damage to his car was a broken wing mirror and a dented front right fender, I felt justice had been done, and cycled off leaving him to the growing crowd of wananchi wanting to have their say.

The offence wasn’t serious enough for a lynching, so I think he is probably ok. He’ll know never to mess with a Scotsman’s tricep again, though.

You are stuck at a junction in Nairobi – an all too-common occurrence in a city where everybody drives as though they have metal spikes bristling from their wheel rims and a turbo-boost button hidden under the dashboard.

Maybe it has been raining, and a matatu (commuter minibus) that tried to undertake on the muddy verge has overturned and is blocking half the road. Perhaps there has been a prang and the car owners are leaning on their bonnets, patiently waiting for the police to arrive. More likely, eight drivers have simultaneously decided they have right of way and are now snuggled up tightly in the middle of the junction, all staring at each other.

There isn’t a cop in sight, you have a meeting in 15 minutes and you’re wondering if it would be quicker to abandon your car and walk to your destination, all the while cursing the city.

Then, out of nowhere, a citizen traffic cop appears. The self-appointed traffic director beckons and waves, prods and slaps at bonnets, brandishes a newspaper, has a screaming match with a driver, stops to pick his or her nose (unless that too is a signal). Slowly, the traffic begins to move, and you are free. At least until the next junction.

Behind you, the traffic cop blends back into the crowd, seeking no reward. Nobody really knows who this person is: a matatu tout, a security guard, a garage attendant, a cleaner, a teacher. But it is irrelevant.

All that matters is that they are out there. And they are ready.

Cyclist’s Tricep 1, Nob End Motorist 0

Things I love about Kenya 1 – Everyone is a traffic cop