what I can gather, it’s a rare sight.
At last the first stage is behind us, and by midday we’re in Nyahururu. We go for tea, or ‘ chai ’, and a lump of bread. The next bus to Nairobi’s in just half an hour, and we’ll get there by nightfall. I suggest to Lketinga that we spend the night there and get the bus to Mombasa in the morning. He doesn’t want to stay in Nairobi because the boarding houses charge too much. Given that I’m paying for everything, I find that touching and reassure him, but he still reckons Nairobi is dangerous and there are too many police. Despite the fact that we’ve been on a bus since seven this morning, he wants to do the longest stretch of the journey all at once. And when I notice how unsure of himself he seems in Nairobi, I agree.
We get something to eat and drink quickly, and I’m happy that at least he’s eating with me, even if he pulls the kanga across his face so that no one will recognize him. The bus station isn’t far, and we walk the few hundred yards. Here in Nairobi even the natives give Lketinga strange looks: some laughing, some respectful. He doesn’t fit into this hectic modern city. When I realize that, I’m glad the passport didn’t work out.
Eventually we get ourselves onto one of the sought-after night buses and wait for it to set off. Lketinga gets more miraa out and starts chewing again. I try to relax but my whole body hurts. Only my heart is at peace.After four hours, during which I’ve dozed on and off, the bus stops in Voi. Most people, including me, climb out to answer the call of nature. But when I see the fouled state of the hole in the ground that serves as a toilet, I decide to hold on for another four hours. I get back on the bus with two bottles of Coke. Half an hour later we set off again. Now I can’t get back to sleep at all. We hurtle through the night on dead straight roads. Every now and then we pass a bus going the opposite way. There are almost no cars.
Twice we go through police checkpoints. The bus has to stop because they have laid wooden planks with long nails across the road. Then a policeman, armed with an automatic weapon, walks along each side of the bus and shines his torch in every face. After five minutes we’re allowed to continue again. I’m still trying to get comfortable when I see a sign that says ‘157 miles to Mombasa’. Thank God, not too far now to home. Lketinga still hasn’t slept a wink. This miraa obviously really does keep you awake. The only thing is that his eyes stare more than normal, and he doesn’t seem to want to talk. It disquiets me a bit. But then there’s the smell of salt in the air, and the temperature starts to rise. Nairobi’s cold and damp are just a memory.
Back to Mombasa
W e finally arrive in Mombasa just after five a.m. A few people get out at the bus station. I go to get off too, but Lketinga holds me back, saying that there are no buses along the coast before six, and it’s less dangerous to wait on the bus. We’ve arrived at last, but we still can’t get off the bus. I’m bursting. I try to tell Lketinga this, and he says: ‘Come!’ and gets up. We get out, and between two empty buses, with no one to be seen save a few roaming cats and dogs, I finally empty my bladder. Lketinga laughs as he watches my ‘river’.
The air on the coast is wonderful, and I ask him if we can’t just go to the nearest matatu rank. He grabs my bag, and we set out in the pale dawn light. A night watchman brewing chai on a charcoal brazier outside a shop even offers us our breakfast cuppa. In return, Lketinga gives him some miraa . From time to time huddled figures pass by: some babbling to themselves, others silent. Here and there people are sleeping on newspapers or cardboard boxes on the ground. This time, before the shops open, is given over to ghosts. But with my warrior at my side I feel totally safe.
The first matatus start hooting just before six, and within ten minutes or so the
At last the first stage is behind us, and by midday we’re in Nyahururu. We go for tea, or ‘ chai ’, and a lump of bread. The next bus to Nairobi’s in just half an hour, and we’ll get there by nightfall. I suggest to Lketinga that we spend the night there and get the bus to Mombasa in the morning. He doesn’t want to stay in Nairobi because the boarding houses charge too much. Given that I’m paying for everything, I find that touching and reassure him, but he still reckons Nairobi is dangerous and there are too many police. Despite the fact that we’ve been on a bus since seven this morning, he wants to do the longest stretch of the journey all at once. And when I notice how unsure of himself he seems in Nairobi, I agree.
We get something to eat and drink quickly, and I’m happy that at least he’s eating with me, even if he pulls the kanga across his face so that no one will recognize him. The bus station isn’t far, and we walk the few hundred yards. Here in Nairobi even the natives give Lketinga strange looks: some laughing, some respectful. He doesn’t fit into this hectic modern city. When I realize that, I’m glad the passport didn’t work out.
Eventually we get ourselves onto one of the sought-after night buses and wait for it to set off. Lketinga gets more miraa out and starts chewing again. I try to relax but my whole body hurts. Only my heart is at peace.After four hours, during which I’ve dozed on and off, the bus stops in Voi. Most people, including me, climb out to answer the call of nature. But when I see the fouled state of the hole in the ground that serves as a toilet, I decide to hold on for another four hours. I get back on the bus with two bottles of Coke. Half an hour later we set off again. Now I can’t get back to sleep at all. We hurtle through the night on dead straight roads. Every now and then we pass a bus going the opposite way. There are almost no cars.
Twice we go through police checkpoints. The bus has to stop because they have laid wooden planks with long nails across the road. Then a policeman, armed with an automatic weapon, walks along each side of the bus and shines his torch in every face. After five minutes we’re allowed to continue again. I’m still trying to get comfortable when I see a sign that says ‘157 miles to Mombasa’. Thank God, not too far now to home. Lketinga still hasn’t slept a wink. This miraa obviously really does keep you awake. The only thing is that his eyes stare more than normal, and he doesn’t seem to want to talk. It disquiets me a bit. But then there’s the smell of salt in the air, and the temperature starts to rise. Nairobi’s cold and damp are just a memory.
Back to Mombasa
W e finally arrive in Mombasa just after five a.m. A few people get out at the bus station. I go to get off too, but Lketinga holds me back, saying that there are no buses along the coast before six, and it’s less dangerous to wait on the bus. We’ve arrived at last, but we still can’t get off the bus. I’m bursting. I try to tell Lketinga this, and he says: ‘Come!’ and gets up. We get out, and between two empty buses, with no one to be seen save a few roaming cats and dogs, I finally empty my bladder. Lketinga laughs as he watches my ‘river’.
The air on the coast is wonderful, and I ask him if we can’t just go to the nearest matatu rank. He grabs my bag, and we set out in the pale dawn light. A night watchman brewing chai on a charcoal brazier outside a shop even offers us our breakfast cuppa. In return, Lketinga gives him some miraa . From time to time huddled figures pass by: some babbling to themselves, others silent. Here and there people are sleeping on newspapers or cardboard boxes on the ground. This time, before the shops open, is given over to ghosts. But with my warrior at my side I feel totally safe.
The first matatus start hooting just before six, and within ten minutes or so the
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