Mombasa. The coast of Kenya. An abundance of mosquitoes. I thought I knew what I was getting myself into.
With my luck I got the middle seat in the last row of the bus – no recliner, no window, no space to scratch my nose without hitting someone. I sat next to a man who claims he was running from his village because no one wanted him there and the mafia was after him. Throughout the entire 8 hour scorching hot bus ride he proceeded to fidget, take out his damp smelly clothes from his bag, put them on the floor and then replace them in the bag. At one point, he took a piece of paper from the floor, tore it into a million pieces and then threw them over himself like snow. He took two of the large pieces and rolled them up like q-tips and shoved them in his ears. I’m not so sure of the insulation. Then to make matters worse another fellow volunteer asked me to go up to the bus driver and ask him to stop the bus. I knew we were close to our pit stop but she insisted. By the time I squeezed through the Kenyan travelers and returned to my seat to let my friend know that the stop was five minutes away, she responded with “it’s too late”. I sat down with a confused look. Then I got a strong whiff and realized what happened.
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