The twists and turns of the road from the city to the coast, the loud yelling of the bus driver and his obvious addiction to an herb pulled obsessively from a wrapper of old newspaper had left us skittish and raw. The other passengers did not seem to notice the careening into darkness, the hypnotic beat of imported hip-hop pumping through the threadbare seats, the angry outbursts of passing motorists. Miriam and I tried to let our bodies sway with each lean and brake, tried not to conjure images of mangled bodies and buses overturned by the side of the road, but found we could not help ourselves. We sat the whole sixteen hours clutching metal bars crudely nailed into the sides of our seats, rivers of sweat streaming from our armpits. We glanced meekly from time to time at our fellow passengers, men and women who awoke from naps refreshed and took pity on us, offering cigarettes and bottles of hot cola as we quaked. To finally climb aboard the ferry that took us away from the mainland of Kenya was to step into a dream.
