The Conducta

This is a story that I decided to write for one of the magazines on campus.  If I get the ten dollars for it that the sign promised, it's going to be the first money that I'll collect for the women that I worked with. It's also a more upbeat way for me to pretty much close out this blog for this chapter.  Enjoy- or not. 

Special thanks to my sister (that's you Snookums) for editing.

I was lost. In Nairobi, the sun starts to descend around six fifteen, and it was already seven o’clock.  Originally, I thought I could take the matatus (the ubiquitous Nissan vans of East Africa) to my friend’s house on the other side of town in plenty of time. The combination of traffic, rain, and an incorrect matatu had stranded me at an unfamiliar stage at dusk. Every matatu tout and conducta sent me in a circle.  “Unataka numba 30!”  “No! You want numba 14.”  Men hassled me to get onto their matatus.  It was getting dark; unsure of my next move, I turned away.
A man wearing the full red uniform of a conducta quietly offered to show me to the other matatu stage, just across the busy road and the block of tall buildings.  I was out of any other options.  The voice in the back of my head reminded me that it was dangerous in Nairobi at night, and that I should not trust strange men. At the same time I knew that if I stayed out of dark abandoned alleys I should be fine.  The stranger began to admonish another man harassing me and my decision was cemented: better to place my trust in a quiet stranger than to stay with the men that were pestering me.
I ran across the busy road with the man and began walking through the quiet, dimly lit streets of Westlands District.  He told me that his name was Luda, and that he was a conducta getting off of work.  A conducta is a hard job- he collects the money and passengers in matatu (a 14 passenger Nissan van that serves as public transportation).  The days are long; one driver that I spoke to told me that he had been driving the same route for over twelve hours.  The pay is low.  What little is made may have to be paid to gangs that rule certain routes.  If a certain quota of fares is not met, the driva and conducta might not be paid, or could lose their jobs.
Wealthier men and women own the matatus, not the people that work them.  If a foolish mazungu (white person) gets on board, extra money can be made from swindling. 
Luda led me to the correct matatu stage.  I thanked him and started to talk to the driva at the stop.  “There is no matatu that goes there,” he told me.  “But, if you want to pay 800 bob, I’ll drive you there myself.”
I recognized obvious extortion in the company of a sleazy smile.  As I started to argue, frustrated, Luda jumped in.  After a rapid discussion with the driver, he turned to me and told me that there was no hope- I should take a taxi.  As he led me to the taxi stand, we talked more.  He was looking for a job, any job.  He would bargain with the taxi driver to get me a fair price.  Life in Nairobi is hard right now.  Jobs are not available, even college graduates are working as matatu conductas.  He wants to continue in school, but does not have the money.  His story was laid out matter of factly; his voice held no hint of a sob, no cajoling.  Of all of the stories of unemployment, underemployment, and general difficulty that I heard in
Kenya, his was the most unassuming.  He asked if he could give me my number, and did not ask for mine.  This differentiation may seem slight, but it is very important and rare in the context of Kenya. After he got me a taxi, I gave him the shillings I had in my pocket, and programmed his brother’s number into my phone- as he explained, he had not yet saved enough for his own phone, but if I heard of a job opportunity I should call and ask for him.
I never heard of a job opportunity.  When I spoke to an American friend, she laughed at my suggestion.   It is unlikely that gentle, unassuming Luda will ever find a job, unlikely that I will ever see him again or be able to thank him properly for saving a lost foreigner half a world away from home.  He gave me a hand in a strange land and, in doing so, made my impression of his country- proving that human kindness is universal, despite any indications to the contrary.