Even the groups of men sitting under their claimed shade, cast from a whittling papaya tree, wearing cloths that have been bleached by the sun then stained by the street, are incredibly friendly here in Kenya’s second largest city, Mombasa. Few things are as big as their African smiles – a full set of pearly whites, which gleam in contrast to their unbelievably smooth and darkened skin. Even when they stare and shout out at our small group as we walk down the crowded and (over 300 years worth of) partially developed streets, for the most part we know its simple curiosity, a mere friendly hello. Their East African accents have a warmth and a cadence that seem cool and rhythmic compared to the sun and the street traffic.
Our transportation is mainly a three-wheeled, three-passenger cart called a Tuktuk, named after the sound the small engine makes as it putters through the noisy streets. Each machine is painted to match the driver’s personality, embellished with phrases like “Dr Skill” or “Honkfusion” painted around the rows of decals. The skill of the drivers is unbelievable. Coming within millimeters of swirling traffic, each vehicle becomes an extension of their driver’s body. I had to film and take pictures of the experience despite everyone's recommendation to hide all electronics from desperate passerby’s. Wrapping the strap tightly around my wrist I decided to risk it. Somethings need to be shared with people at home.
Children who managed to find a way onto the roof of their four-story complex waved frantically for our attention as we walked through the maze of tightly wound allies in Old Mombasa. Even their presumed mothers aggressive calls could not get them down from their perch as they pursued us from above. Looking back at the group of us I recall how a tourist was stoned to death in this area several years ago for wearing “offensive” shorts. Following each step of our guide as he skipped past broken glass and small streams of water and/or sewage – none of us could tell for sure – our personalized tour took us deeper into the heart of the common way of life. I spoke with guide Mohammed, his head down to watch his feet, to learn that he grew up in this labyrinth. It was no wonder he knew each shortcut, the names of the children playing in the rubble, the rich history of the town and of Fort Jesus. Even the ally cats and the cock-fighting roosters seemed to know him as he whisked past, adjusting his oversized jeans and moderately clean red t-shirt, marked with some unknown to me sports team. He did not live there now. It was too expensive and there are no publicly funded schools nearby. He was trying to save money to bring his wife home, so she could be with him and his son again, now that she is nearing the end of her two-year English teaching contract in Asia. “Two years isn’t a long time” he said. “Not when you focus on the joy of seeing each other again and the joy when she sees our son all grown up.” It’s been only two days and I already miss my own son and my partner on this teaching assignment to Mombasa. Paul Simon’s “Boy in the Bubble” has been stuck in my head all day. If the internet works when I get back to the hotel I must listen to it again. “These are the days of miracles and wonders.”