On to Mombasa

After an early breakfast, I caught the only taxi on the corner (7 AM on a Saturday morning must be too early to expect fares.) He actually knew where the Raqib bus office was. Was thrilled that the fare would only be 15,000 TSH - about $11 - and that may have been the Mzungu (white person's) price. It's about 3 times as much to travel from Nairobi to Arusha.

It was a hot trip and the bus was nearly packed (Saturday is market day in Taveta, just across the border in Kenya). Major portions of the road were so dusty that we kept the windows closed for long periods. Making the trip "extra comfortable" were the frequent grouping of speed bumps, in an attempt, mostly unsuccessful, to slow down drivers. Every time there was a stop, the helpers would load the luggage, collect the fare, and then race to get back onto the already moving bus. Valentine's ads with talk of love played on the radio between songs.

The Holeli-Taveta border crossing is bare bones - not many buses ply that route. You get out, get your exit stamp, walk across the border (although I could have hopped on a motor bike), get your entry stamp, get back on the bus, drive a short distance, then get out, get your bag(s), and have them (cursorily) searched.

We stopped for a while outside a garage and watched two tire changes, then went on to Voi, a much larger town. The bus was surrounded by children and adults selling all manner of food and drinks - cakes,pop, water, crackers, chips,chunks of sugar cane. Some hawked their wares through the windows; others boarded the bus. I got another bottle of water for 30 KES, less than 40 cents. A small boy came on with a large bucket of hard-boiled eggs that he would crack for you.

There is so little rain in Kenya, and when it does rain, it's often brief but destructive. There was so much evidence of severe erosion - deep, deep gullies.

Between Voi and Mombasa, a passenger stood up and talked to the passengers. I thought at first he was a preacher, but he turned out to be singing the praises of a number of organic remedies for . . . well, whatever ails you. I was able to read some of the labels of passengers near me; one treatment claimed to be good for colon disorders, malaria and female problems. Many people bought several different treatments, but money exchanged hands so quickly, I couldn't tell how much they were paying.

Finally, arrival in Mombasa. An old, truck-sized tire had been made the trip on top of my suitcase, permeating the fabric with a thick layer of reddish brown dirt. I prayed that none had of the dirt had entered the interior of the suitcase.

Although I had not been successful in calling or texting Dorothy Mvoi, my contact in Mombasa, while en route, my phone magically worked once I arrived at the Raqid office. Shacklonton, an Occupational Therapist with the Mombasa Children's Therapy Center, was dispatched to pick me up at the the Raqid stop and deliver me to Dorothy's apartment, where I was warmly greeted. Bonding was instantaneous - we talked and laughed as though we had been friends for years. We ate snd talked, and I finally gave up trying to sort out the relationships among all the visitors who popped in and out.

Later, I was accompanied to the Mombasa Polytechnic University College ("the Poly"), where a room had been reserved for me. A room with a working fan and shower - absolutely blissful after the heat and grime of the day.
God apparently felt I needed practice doing laundry in small basins - at least half of my clothes had been "blessed" with a mix of dirt and rust from the traveling tire (white jeans included).