Mombasa to Nairobi - 1992
We’re running late—again. He says.
Our train won’t make it from Mombasa to Nairobi in time to greet some important visitor at the airport. How could a guy who’s lived in Africa for five years keep getting this wrong?
What does he do? Come to my compartment before light and tell me we need to get off. I slide out of the dark upper bunk, hoping I won’t disturb the other passengers.
Get off where? Where are we? Not sure? Just need to get off? Oh, walking to Nairobi will be faster? Hush, hush. You’ll wake the sleepers.
He’s spoken to the conductor. There’s a village coming up. They’ll stop the train so we can get off.
He grabs my bags. I follow down the narrow corridor, stumbling side to side through broken fluorescent light. What else to do?
We drop into a sleepy village, earth and huts amber in the rising sun. People stare. They’re drawing water, washing, building fires for breakfast. An Asian guy and a white girl with packs are traipsing through their world at dawn.
We reach the main road. Dead straight and empty—both directions. Just scrub, asphalt, and sky. In the middle of Kenya. But we’re late. So, I guess walking makes sense.
When the eastern horizon becomes a large, dark sedan, he sticks out his thumb.
We climb in. Two men. I’m thinking—we’ll never be heard from again.
Turns out, they are headed for Uganda. Returning home from a business trip. Will be going right through Nairobi.
We make it to the airport on time.
Maybe our train would have too.
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