Mombassa to Nairobi by Train
The Nationalist October 2010
As I sat in the bar I couldn't help wondering if my aunt had sat in the very same place, many years previously, sipping a pre-departure gin and tonic. The picture behind the counter would have changed of course; instead of President Kibaki it would have been that of Queen Elizabeth or Jomo Kenyatta. It was a different place then. The big wooden fan, whose blades silent and caked in a fine red dust, would have been spinning in an attempt to relieve the equatorial heat which hangs over Mombassa like a constant threat. The lights in the bar flickered and went dark.
"I'm sorry sir," the white-shirted barman said, "the lights will come back soon... perhaps." He light a candle, making the eyes of a dark-skinned child, who was staring intently at me, sparkle like precious black gemstones. On the station's platform prospective passengers were busy re-bundling their belongings into large bales. Clothes, medicines, cooking utensils, electrical goods and a thousand other commodities which would fetch a good price in the markets of Nairobi.
It was seven-thirty in the evening and the overnight train to the city was already an hour late. I remembered the words from my guide book; 'arrive early as the train does occasionally depart on time...' – not today I thought and ordered another beer. "When will the train leave?" I asked Jonas the barman. He looked out over the counter and down along the lines of people sitting patiently on the platform beside the empty train. "Soon Bwana, very soon."
As a child my aunt had told me of her excursions to Nairobi onboard this legendary train. Making the long haul across the Kenyan plains to catch up on old friends over afternoon tea in the Stanley Hotel, or purchase products unavailable on the coast, or just, simply, to escape the swelteringly oppressive climate of the tropical lowlands. She was a Westerner, an ex-pat, a white, a mzungu and a product of colonialism. She followed her husband to where his work as an engineer had taken him: half way round the world, to here, a malaria-ridden backwater of British East Africa. But that was a long time ago.
It was the candle-light flickering on his shiny shoes that made me look up. His trousers were dark and neatly pressed. His shirt was lilac and hung loosely on his thin frame and a battered guitar – held together with sticking tapes of many colours – hung carefully around his neck. "Jambo Bwana," he greeted me in Swahili, "habari za leo?" My day was just fine I assured him. "Would you like a song? I am a very famous troubadour here in Mombassa. Everybody knows me." As if to emphasise the point he shook the barman's hand vigourously.
Dragging the plectrum across the strings of the instrument he opened his mouth to sing. "Jambo, Jambo Bwana, habari, habari gani?" It was the stock-in-trade anthem of all Kenyan minstrels when confronted by the prospective audience of a tourist or foreigner carrying an imagined surfeit of cash in their bulging pockets. His voice was lyrical and carried easily across the high-ceilinged station platform. "Welcome, Welcome Bwana," he changed to English, "how are you, how are things?" The song was simple but soon had me tapping my feet to its infectious rhythm. Before the last chord had died away he whirled his arm in a circle and broke into what I guessed was a Kenyan version of Johnny Be Good. "Down in Weeseeanna, down in North Orlanes..." at least his notes were perfect.
Between songs he told me his name was Pious and he was a school teacher. "But now I have no work and a family to feed," he added. For a moment his face flashed a trace of sadness. "You like the Beatles?" he asked. Before I could answer he had already launched into the chorus of 'Love me do'. His playing had begun to attract a crowd or perhaps it was my reaction the onlookers wished to witness. Children peered from between the legs of parents, their wide eyes soaking up the moment. Adults giggled behind cupped hands as Pious matched his musical talents with a series of Michael Jackson'esque dance moves. The crowds cheered, Pious was in his element.
"The train to Nairobi is now boarding" a voice announced over the crackling tannoy. The crowd dispersed, bundles were thrown upwards to the train's roof where an army of lean men began lashing them in place. In the third class carriages the windows were glassless and seating was limited to long wooden benches. Second class wasn't much of an improvement but afforded its passengers a smaller degree of comfort and the luxury of glass windows. Inside the carriages people jostled for position in an attempt to find just enough space to while away the long journey ahead.
A porter lifted my bags from beside me, "it is time to depart Bwana," he said. Pious walked by my side down the long platform singing a Kenyan love ballad. "Malaika, nakupenda Malaika..." Faces strained from the windows as we passed, children sniggered then hurriedly hid their small faces in the darkness. At the entrance to first class Pious finished his song. "May God bless your safari," he said. I fumbled in my pocket and handed him its meagre contents. He counted the money silently. "Thank you bwana, asante sana," he gushed. "I will buy a sack of meal for my small girl. Thanks to you she will eat well today."
Pious waited outside my window for the whole twenty minutes it took the train to clunk into life on its slow journey towards Nairobi. "Kwa heri, Bwana. Goodbye" he called up to where I stood watching the platform slowly fade. He turned towards the empty platform and raised his guitar. "Jambo, jambo bwana, habari, habari gani?..."
To be continued...