When I first landed in Australia, I was ready for a new chapter, armed with my Kenyan resilience and a can-do attitude. But nothing could have prepared me for the culture shock that hit me when I hopped on my first metro bus.

You see, back home in Kenya, we have matatus, which come in all shapes and sizes — buses, minivans, minibuses. If you can fit people inside and strap something to the roof, it’s a matatu! There’s no official structure to it. Forget about timetables or bus routes — matatus flow with the chaos of Nairobi traffic, weaving through like they have a secret deal with the city roads.

In Kenya, when you get into a matatu, you’re greeted by the conductor. He’s the unofficial lord of the ride, and you never know what mood he’s in. One minute he’s your best friend, giving you a nod that says “you got this” when you pay, but the next minute, he vanishes after you hand over your fare. You ask yourself, “Will I see my change? Or has it gone to that magical conductor black hole?”

So, there you are, clutching your chest and rehearsing a few stern Kiswahili phrases in your head, ready for that moment when you might need to ask, “Buda, wapi change yangu?” (Where’s my change?). If you’re lucky, you’ll get it. Or, if your tribesmen have conspired for you to get late for work, you will be force to walk around town with a fellow passenger, after you have been shikanishwad as you look for change so that each one of you can have their change and head to where they were headed. If not, well, add it to the list of life’s great mysteries.

Then, there’s the matter of getting off the matatu. Let me tell you — this is a sport. You don’t just wait for a bus stop; oh no! The phrase of the day is “Shukisha hapo mbele!” loosely translated to “drop me off just ahead.” You can say this at any point, and the driver will pull over…well, sort of. He may stop a little early, or worse, a little too late. If you wanted to get off at the supermarket, brace yourself to walk back from the petrol station two blocks down.

No stress though, this is Kenya. You go with the flow!

Enter Australia. I stepped onto a metro bus, confidently swiping my prepaid card like a local. Smooth, right? Except the bus didn’t have a conductor. No one’s calling me “buda” and asking for fare. You pay when you get on. You don’t hand money to anyone. It’s all automatic, cashless, calm. Even the driver? Silent. He’s too busy following the rules of the road. I miss the chaos of Nairobi already!

As I took my seat, I realized this bus had designated stops. Actual stops. There’s no “Shukisha hapo mbele” situation here. Oh no, you press a button, and the bus only stops at the next official bus stop. Imagine my surprise when I tried to walk up to the driver and say, “Can you stop right here?” only to be met with confused stares from the other passengers.

This is where it hit me — in Australia, everything works like a well-oiled machine. You press a button, the bus stops. Simple, boring, efficient. Where’s the fun in that?

As much as I love the order and predictability of Australian metro buses, there’s a part of me that misses the wild ride that is the Kenyan matatu. Sure, you might lose your change, and yes, your stop might be half a kilometer from where you intended, but that’s all part of the adventure. Public transport in Kenya is an art form — and in Australia, it’s just…well, public transport.

So, here I am, navigating life between two worlds, and I’ve come to realize that both have their charms. Matatus, with their chaos, are pure poetry in motion. The metro bus? It’s a peaceful lullaby. And somehow, I’m learning to love both.