ngong means 'knuckles'

Okay: Ngong. I love this crazy town, but it is virtually indescribable.

We’ll start at my apartment. Lock the door behind you and double check the padlock. Cross the courtyard and say hi to the guard and the construction workers who stand on dubious scaffolding with their arms elbow deep in wet cement. When you reach the road, look right first, then left. Wait patiently by the side of the road until a matatu comes.

Ngong is a ten minute drive from our apartment: 20 shillings. The noise in the matatu ranges from crying babies to reggae music to loud young men to chattering Kikuyu women. Ignore them; read your book.

When you reach Ngong you will find almost anything imaginable. First and foremost, pedestrians. Seemingly thousands, and yet it’s still difficult to cross the street- avoid trucks, matatus, cars, cows and motorbikes.

Here are the street vendors: every day is like an enormous garage sale; Wednesday and Saturdays are market days.

First you approach a table stacked high with mangoes and tomatoes. Next to that is a small barbeque where a man fans a newspaper over some ears of corn. You can buy half an ear and add lemon juice and chili pepper for an inexpensive snack. Behind this man is a small kiosk where you can buy bottled water, chewing gum, chocolate bars, donuts and batteries. Next to him is a man who will polish your shoes.

Pass the woman selling key chains and the man selling boiled eggs and sausages. As you walk further down into town- stay to the side of the tarmac; walk in the dusty path- you will be greeted by nearly everyone. Some actually know you, most recognize you and all want to say hi to the visitor. Pass the taxi park and say hi to Mburu and Njane, if they are there. Politely refuse the offer for a ride home. Some older Maasai women sit to the side, next to the café, bent over their beadwork. Greet them, but don’t buy anything, not yet.

You can wait here, at the café, or pop in and order fries, or talk to the street boys who hover outside, or visit your friend Christine, whose shop is next door. You can go to the bank or you can check your email. You can stop to buy a paper, and from the same kiosk, a pirated DVD. Behind the newspaper stand is the shop where we buy fresh cow’s milk when we forget to stop home and get some from Mama Susan.

In the market square you can buy fabric, or shoes, or used clothing, or towels, or beans, or tea, or rice or papaya. The butcher is here, and the supermarket. You can fix your cell phone or your car or your bike. You can order furniture or buy an umbrella. This is the center of town, where you can choose between a variety of buses or matatus which will take you home, or to town. Or anywhere, really. Ignore the shouting and the pressure to get on the nearest bus. Choose the one that has a seat by the window, and will likely fill soon.

Make your purchases, greet anyone who recognizes you but don’t give out any information. Walk further into the market if you want something like cilantro or masala. Buy a grocery bag from a street boy. Catch a bus home.

Watch for goats and donkeys.