About last night

How hot is it in the hold under a Kenyan bus? Terrifyingly, it’s probably hotter than in the passenger area. It’s hot enough to melt a tub of shea butter, that’s for sure.

At some ungodly hour this morning, I boarded a bus direct from Mombasa to Dar Es Salaam. The hour was ungodly, I’m well known to be damned, but the bus, like most of the buses leaving Mombasa, was holy, the words ‘Gospel Runner’ being painted on the back window. The cushy foreigner friendly buses with airconditioning and legroom that I’d counted on catching don’t run from Mombasa to Dar. Instead of bussing back to Nairobi and then down to Dar, adding at least a day’s travel and a night in big bad Nairobi, I opted for the bone-rattling dust buggy and somehow, eleven hours later, I’ve made it to Dar. Thank the Lord.

Being occasionally prone to such fripperies, I’d purchased a tub of shea butter in Nairobi adulterated only by that truly splendid fragrance, ylang ylang oil. Shea butter is like the pawpaw ointment/tiger balm/echinaecea/snake oil of the Rift Valley – with messianic fervour, its adherents allege it a remedy for everything from mozzie bites and stretch marks to sunburn, old age, and unhappiness. It contains anti-oxidants. My thinking was that shea butter is soft and my elbows, heels and fly-pocked feet are hard. The ylang ylangified version was produced by some Sudanese wimmin’s collective. Bingo. How could a bleeding heart like me say no?

Anyway, the ride from Mombasa liquefied the once solid shea butter and, typical bloody shonky NGO production values, the tub leaked. I’ve now got the best smelling pack in East Africa, not to mention the most moist and supple. Most of my underwear is now dual purpose too: it will attract mosquitos thanks to the ylang ylang and cure any bites and stings thanks to the shea butter.

I’m staying in a hostel called Luther House near the port run by a the church and hymns are being sung nearby. Hallelujah. Outside my window, an American pastor is making loud and grandiose statements about Strategy. Closer by, on the floor next to my bed, a herd of raucous cockroaches are mucking about. There’s a mozzie net over my bed but I’m tossing up whether or not to eat my last mango and trick the roaches away from my soon-to-be sleeping self by means of the skins and pips. Everything smells of ylang ylang. It’s all looking pretty funny from this side of the screen.

In the morning, I’ll hit the port to arrange a ferry ride to Zanzibar. If all goes to plan, tomorrow night, I’ll be floating off to another set of fragrant dreams in the Spice Islands.