Olivier and Me

It's 4:42 AM, and I'm wide awake, trying to carefully plot out my strategy for the next 36 hours in New York.

So far, my time here has been absolutely amazing. As I've told several people, after spending 3 months living in Nairobi, for the first time in my life I could see myself living in Manhattan. The barely controlled chaos in Kenya's capital makes New York seem incredibly manageable. In Nairobi, climbing into a taxi requires making peace with your Lord and Savior as a prerequisite. You have to accept, even embrace the possibility that this will probably be the last thing you ever do on Earth.

There appear to be no traffic rules in Nairobi, and even if there were, there are too many cars on the poorly designed roads to make them effective. There are more traffic circles on Nairobi roadways than any major city I've ever visited, but nary a drop of the milk of human kindness flowing near any of them, because you could lose your will to live waiting for any of the cars flying past to let you enter the flow of traffic.

And the Matatus. THE MATATUS!! As you may know from earlier postings, these large passenger vans that have been retro-fitted to transport more people than the QE2 are the menace of all African highways. I call them the rolling convection ovens of death, because at least a couple of times a month, a rogue matatu will try to pass on a blind curve and smash head on into another vehicle, engulfing at least a dozen people in an oily fireball of excruciating agony. They weave in and out of traffic like crazed weasels, cutting cars off, intimidating other vehicles that aren't moving fast enough for their psychotic operators' tastes. During the myriad traffic jams that occur daily, if a matatu driver decides he's done with waiting, he'll just jerk the wheel, lean on the horn to scatter the throngs of people actually trying to obey the law, and then hurtle along the sidewalk till the traffic starts moving again.

So after 3 months of this harrowing daily travel routine, being in New York traffic has felt like a trip to the spa. The wide, unformly smooth roadways seem dream-like, the working traffic lights otherworldly, the lack of noxious diesel fumes medicinal, the absence of matatus a heavenly dispensation. That's why last night, after my Foundation Board dinner ended and I couldn't find taxi near Grand Central Station, I gladly hitched a ride with a young man named Olivier, who was furiously pedaling in my direction.

Even though it's downright chilly in New York, hopping onto the back of Olivier's open air pedicar seemed a sensible thing to do. A pedicar is like a large tricycle with a hooded passenger seat, and you really gotta give props to these young men who hump their way through the streets ferrying tourists from place to place. Olivier is a 25 year old immigrant from Burkina Faso who's been in the US two years now, and he's been driving a pedicar for half of that time.

I tell you, the 20 bucks I paid him seems like slave wages for the effort this kid exerted, weaving in and out of New York traffic while dragging me and that pedicar behind him. Still, having spent about a year living in Africa between the Uganda and Kenya stints, I know what hard work for little or no pay really is. I suspect that Olivier is absolutely thrilled to be a pedicab driver in Manhattan, as opposed to, say, desperately poor and unemployed in Burkina Faso.

In fact, over the past few days, it seems everything is encouraging me to keep a proper perspective on life, and making me think hard and long about my priorities...as a woman, as a a journalist, and as an American living abroad in a developing country. I've been eating like food is going out of style, so grateful to be back home among familiar tastes and textures. And I've found myself whining about how hard it is to find good flour, or cheddar cheese that isn't rank, or decent wine in Kenya. It's actually kind of embarassing how much I've obsessed over my lack of access to these things while I've been away, and why I've managed to give Manhattan's economy a badly-needed shot in the arm while shopping for things I "NEED" back in Nairobi.

Next, during my meetings with the Board of Directors at the Foundation (Remember? That's actually why I'm here, as opposed to simply eating and shopping), I was forced to confront the realities of having to start writing the next chapter of my life, and whether I'll spend it somewhere in Africa doing the same kind of work, or whether I'll return to the States and focus on making money and creating a comfortable life for myself.....and maybe for this mythical child I've been threatening to adopt for the past 7 years. I mean, when the fellowship ends next Summer, what goal am I working toward? What will it wind up meaning that I spent nearly 2 years training African journalists how to be better reporters? Will it improve coverage of critical issues........or just provide me with a nice downpayment on a condo?

Do NOT get me started, puh-LEEEEZE......

Anyway, the pedicar ride was one of the highlights of the trip so far. And the only thing more invigorating than riding in a pedicar along Park Avenue on a brisk October night would have been riding in a pedicar on a brisk October night necking furiously with a hot guy. But that's another discussion for another time. I'm actually finishing up this posting while riding the Bolt Bus from New York to DC. I'll spend three frantic days trying to take care of business before heading back to Nairobi, and I'll also try to get caught up on some postings.

I think the next one will be about condoms in Times Square. But it's NOT what you're thinking, trust me.