Riding the 33 matatu from downtown Nairobi out to the Mukuru slum, a 15km trip, costs about 40 shillings ($0.50). Last Friday, I squeezed into one such 33.  With the customary two coin taps on the glass window from the conductor, the driver pulled out with routinely reckless abandon into the traffic of Nairobi. A few minutes in, the conductor gave his customary finger tap, which is the signal to pay. I handed him the usual fare and went back to reading my book. He gave me the money back and grunted that it cost 70 shillings. 

Now, obviously, the difference of a quarter is not going to break my back, but I always get principled on the bus. The instant certainty that I am getting scammed because I am a foreigner is aggravating in an all-consuming kind of way. It's the perfect storm of the frustrations of living in the developing world: a crappy vehicle, aggressive hawkers, hot and polluted air, me becoming a shiny object of attention, and nobody to talk to despite being surrounded by so many people.

 “Look. It’s never 70 bob,” I said.  He glared, determined to intimidate. The Kenyan woman in front of me laughed and then dropped her eyes to the ground.  I went back to my book, and he tapped me again. I’m not falling for your tricks, I thought. He started cursing under his breath and then just glared more. He eventually took my original fare with a heap of disdain.

I got off the bus, as did the woman in front of me. I asked her how much she had paid, and she said, “70 shillings” and started howling with laughter. “Those guys – they want the world. You were good to stand up to him.” I suppose I was, especially because I have paid the foreigner’s tax plenty of times before, but some part of me also felt foolish for assuming that the conductor had cheated me.

Nothing’s constant and therefore nothing’s certain in Nairobi.

***

Indeed, I’ve come to expect that there is no real process to anything in Nairobi. From government procedures to traffic laws to “scheduled” power outages, there is fickleness everywhere. The country cannot even decide which day to schedule a general election.

And so it was that I took a yoga class this week. The Africa Yoga Project was set up to train people from the slums to give yoga sessions to citizens in the slums. To make it viable, the instructors give private lessons, which the Sanergy team took to unkink ourselves from those cramped matatus. Part of me, I have to admit, was driven by a game we used to play in China called, “What’s the most hipster-like activity a foreigner can do?” Listening to NPR podcasts on your iPod while taking the Transiberian Railway was one favorite answer. I think that yoga in the slums of Nairobi gave it a good run for its money though.

The most amazing thing about it all was how strikingly normal it was. Catherine, our instructor from the Eastleigh slum who had been trained as an acrobat, showed up on time equipped with yoga mats and an assistant. She directed us through a series of stretches and poses with clarity and with discipline. We did Warrior Ones, Twos and Threes. She used reassuring Sanskrit phrases that I only know to mean wherever I am in the world as “You are doing yoga.” We had a strong flow going on to the point that I even knew what the next steps would be. When my body cheated into a pose, the assistant dutifully came over and righted the offending wrong. Why can’t everything be like this in Nairobi?

But OK, it wasn’t all straight forward. There was one moment where Catherine led us into the triangle pose - standing, legs spread out straight, you bend your head to touch your knee – and Catherine implored us, “Kiss your knee! Come on, give it a big, French kiss. Not a cheap little peck. Kiss it!”

Safe to say, it’s hard to kiss your knee when you’re laughing – which no matter what situation I am in here is what I need most to be able to do.