Destination: Mombasa, Nyali to be precise
Occasion: Friend’s Aunt’s birthday or something or the other. Look, when someone tells you to just pack your bags; you do exactly that, details later. (You can see I never bothered)
It’s around Easter, not an ideal time to travel, anywhere. The whole nuclear families are on the road dying to spend this time with relatives, and young hedonists are looking to pass out and fornicate in a different environment.
Where are we? On Accra road, trying to book a bus, last minute, of course, because there’s no other way to do it.
So here we were, drooling at the Modern Coast we wanted to board so bad but couldn’t, while booking the Chania we hated but had to live with for the next 8 hours. There aren’t enough words or expressions to describe the hate I have for chania buses. Doesn’t help that we were too hangovered because we felt it would be a good idea to involve the whole of Westlands in our pre-journey celebrations.
The rust bucket we were so rudely lead into did not at ALL match the pretty little shy bus that was striking a pose in the poorly Ms-Paint made poster. That should have been our first clue, but no, we were in that Mombasa state of mind.
The buses around purred in fluent authentic Swahili while ours couldn’t even manage broken mother tongue. The interior made me think of that smelly, talkative uncouth lab partner that you are stuck with because you came into class too late and all you friends were taken. Seats so closely packed and cramped, all up in each other’s personal space I could’ve sworn I heard them blush.
My throbbing headache led me to one of the better looking ones as my girls and I frantically looked for a comfortable spot to sleep off the previous nights shenanigans.
Again, I HATE Chania buses. From the schizophrenic woman at the reception whose attitude seemed to be controlled by the amount of money in our pockets, to the driver with a death wish, who got us reciting the Hail Mary all the way.
When that big metal thingy that my limited motor knowledge tells me was holding up the chassis fell for the second time, in a remote area, some 200kms away, after what seemed to be like 3 days, it was time to light up (for the sake of our sanity) away from the unbothered humans so content with the state of affairs, and the horribly sick woman who I swore must have been suffering from some airborne disease.
In case you’re still wondering about my feelings towards Chania buses, do not worry… I got you. I HATE THEM!
Surely something had to give. We continued with our lives hanging by a thread, because we didn’t get the memo that we would be participating in Need for Speed San Mtito Andei.
I had half a mind to give the driver a good talking but I had just aligned my chakras, there was no room for negativity in my soul.
The worst thing you can hear at 1am somewhere 100km from Mombasa is “You have to sleep in the bus”, never mind the sound we were hearing were definitely rattle snakes and probably the lochness monster.
Armed with a Sony phone full of delicious airtime , a can-do attitude and profanity –filled vocabulary we managed to save ourselves from that situation, not letting whatever message the universe tried to send us destroy our party mood. And we made it to Mombasa.
The weekend rocked though.
PS: For the ladies, go to pirates beach and put on your best damsel-in-distress face on, a dashing lifeguard will hold your hand the rest of the time, making you want to recreate “How Stella got Her Groove Back” with a Tyler Perry twist, because what is life without the unnecessary drama?
By Pauline Ayuko