How business gets done (or, going for a drive in 'Nairobbery')

Easements, schmeasements.

TUESDAY, JUNE 28
It's probably common for a metropolis in a third-world country to have roadside vendors everywhere. Bars in tin sheds, fruit sold under rickety lean-tos, dozens of shoes carefully laid out on the blankets so drivers can stop if they suddenly need new footwear on the way home. Oh, and cell phones. Everyone was selling cell phones.

On our first drive through Nairobi I had two favorites: the roadside nurseries, and auto mechanics.

The nurseries lined the major road once it left downtown Nairobi and got into to the more prosperous areas west and north of the city. We stayed in a neighborhood called Runda, which is bordered by foreign embassies and a large forest preserve. So it was a nice, leafy drive once you get away from the congestion.

What I learned are that there are two understandings of "public" use in Nairobi. One is what Americans would understand, like the forest preserve, where land is protected for the benefit of the community. The other is the nursery owners' understanding, that the 10 to 30 feet between the forest preserve and the road is open for anyone to put to use. Not only were small nurseries just set up wherever the proprietor desired, some of them even were cultivating the land. Even empty lots are fair game, and until you start building your house anyone with a hoe and maize seed can consider that ground his new shamba (farm).

It was pretty, actually. Then you turned on to a road connecting to downtown that I called "Mechanics Row." (I gave it a name because, you guessed it, there weren't many street signs in Kenya.)

Mechanics Row used the same principle as the nurseries, but rather than plants they line the public space with spare parts and broken-down matatus (basically, VW vans that teem the country as crowded taxis). Not quite as aesthetically pleasant as a row of azaleas waiting to be pick up on the way home. Mechanics Row was also lined with mechanics, dozens of men in greasy coveralls just sitting there waiting for you to limp in so they can pull your car onto the shoulder and get to work.

It wasn't pretty, but it was one of those things that almost makes complete logic. Your car is in need of repair, you pull up and there's 100 percent certainty of someone being ready to work. This was important, we realized maybe 4 minutes later, when at the end of Mechanics Row we hit Nairobi's morning traffic. (Actually, I should just call it "traffic." It just happened to be morning the first time we hit it. Once you were within a few blocks of downtown the jams were consistent and brutal.)

Like Swahili reggae praise music? Doesn't matter, that's all Dishen is playing.

The particular intersection, which our driver Dishen seemed to think was the best route by the number of times we were stuck there, was the "climax of the jam." (Dishen's own words.) Three arterials came together with maybe 10 lanes (there's no "lane," of course, it varies depending on how close we squeeze) merging to one, and the whole roundabout is dirt and mud because it's simultaneously being rebuilt with an overpass. Feeling a little better about your commute yet? There's little doubt that the stretch of road, and several others like it in the city, provide an endless source of dented fenders, broken headlights, burned clutches and brake pads worn to a nub — and thus fantastic business for Mechanics Row.

Dishen would visit the mechanics later that day, which is the story I'll tell you now.

We finally arrived in the bustling city center, miraculously found a parking stall, and bought bus tickets so we could get to Kisumu the next morning. We had a few other errands to run so we stayed downtown. On Kenyatta Avenue, Dishen, in his quest to save six seconds whenever possible, tried to nudge around a car waiting at a stoplight, on the right with maybe four feet to do so. He called it his "mistake."

Despite the cars lined up behind us, the other driver hopped out and started a shouting match in the middle of the road. The police showed up, and, as we learned is the practice, decided to let the drivers figure it out between themselves rather than file a report (or ask for a bribe, I suppose).

Dishen seemed fine with that arrangement, and pulled onto a side street to negotiate. The other driver walked behind us. Unhappy with Dishen's offer, he threw the $1,200 shillings in our man's face (he wanted $2,000, a different of less than $10 U.S.) and tried to grab the keys from the ignition.

So Dishen and this guy start wrestling over the keys. After a furious few seconds (Timm and I sitting there in shock), the guy pulls his hands away, throws the keychain back in the car and turns and runs. He had snapped the key off in the ignition. Of course, Dishen's reaction is to chase after him.

Timm and I look at each other dumbfounded. We're on our first day in Nairobi, which some of the guides I read generously coined "Nairobbery" to put us at ease before arriving, and now sitting alone in a car that won't run on a side street packed with people (people who don't look anything like us, incidentally) and wondering if our driver is 1.) going to return, 2.) in a fistfight with a taxi driver or 3.) getting arrested. Only one of those was really acceptable, and we'd still be stuck with no key to the ignition. Not the best omen to start our first day.

Of course, since you're reading my writing now, it all worked out. Dishen came back maybe 10 minutes later, having negotiated the fender bender settlement back down to $1,200 shillings. And rather than being upset or worried about how we were going to get going again (he jammed half a key in the ignition and somehow it worked), he was laughing at the other driver. The guy would never be able to repaint with only $1,200 shillings! He loses money on the deal! What a waste of his time! Ha! Nevermind this is the guy who almost stranded us downtown, spooked a few tourists, reshuffled our afternoon plans, and forces Dishen to go buy a new key. Nah, he's the fool.

But he could relax because in the end, there is a Mechanics Row, the car could start to get Dishen there, and we could say "Sawa."

Loosely translated, "sawa" means ok, everything is all right, fine, we're good. You hear it all the time there, and I suppose that's how an important part of getting through life in a developing country. We weren't dead, or in jail, or stranded on Mechanics Row, or paying that $1,200 to a crooked Kenyan cop. And the mzungus even kicked in a little on the tip to help offest Dishen's losses.

So maybe he was right, the first day was sawa.