Travelling Hopefully - The Lunatic Express

Yep, this is the big one.  The actual reason for my trip to Africa, the opportunity to ride on the Lunatic Express - the train linking (somewhat tenuously) Mombasa and Nairobi.  I arrived at the railway station at three in the afternoon and rather nervously approached the tin shack which in defiance of probability announced itself to be the "Upper Class Booking Office - First & Second Class".  I handed over my booking form, it was examined, phonecalls were made and I was informed that my ticket was actually on the train.  When it arrived at four the ticket would be brought to the booking office and I could pick it up.  Yes, there was a place I could store my luggage, it was in a shack looked after by "the old man".  The shack's principal defences against theft were a door that stuck and the no doubt lionlike courage of the aforementioned old man who volunteered the information that he was seventy eight years old.  He also acted as a porter when the train arrived.  To this day I don't know if the old man was an employee of the railways or simply a guy who owned a shack and a trolley.

Returning from sightseeing in Mombasa I found the old man sitting on his trolley outside his shack, he moved along a little and we sat in companionable silence.  At least I thought it was companionable, he may have thought I was a standoffish prick.  Some evidence for the latter theory can be found in the fact that he eventually invited me to wander around, take photos and get myself a drink.

I wandered around, took photos and got myself a drink.  Oh yes and I almost got myself arrested.  I was taking a photo of a rather pretty little bird (it looked like a sparrow but was yellow) when a lazy shout drew my attention.  A large man in a red t-shirt standing in front of an adjacent, rather shabby building beckoned me over.  He motioned me to sit down and introduced another large man (his rank indicated by his button up check shirt) as the local chief of Mombasa railway police and asked me what I meant by taking photos of police buildings.  Wasn't I aware that this was a security issue and strictly forbidden?

To be fair there was a sign which I had noticed earlier indicating the building was a police station but I had completely forgotten it in my eagerness to photograph the little bird which was sitting directly outside it.  The two men quizzed me on my identity (or rather, t-shirt guy did.  Check shirt was too high rank to speak), examined my passport, asked my purpose in Kenya.  Check shirt examined my photos as I nervously attempted to explain how bird focused and non security threatening they really were.  I also accidentally showed him a photo of my mother.  Possibly it was the thought of that saintly, silver haired figure weeping over her son in a Kenyan prison that decided him but Check shirt returned the camera to me and gave a nod.  Taking the hint T-shirt read me a "don't do it again" lecture and sent me on my way.

Duly chastened I bumbled around Mombasa station taking photos of headless monkeys and signs saying "Mombasa".  The train rolled in bang on time, which is to say, an hour late.  I trotted off to get my ticket and then returned to the old man who examined my ticket and hauled my luggage to the appropriate first class carriage.  Excitement mounted within me.  I had arranged this part of the holiday all by myself and I fully expected it to go horribly wrong.  It seemed as though I would be crowned with success.  Little did I know that the sound I heard was the sun melting the wax on my wings.

The train was exactly what I expected, a tired collection of colonial era rolling stock hauled by a battered and (as it turned out) none too reliable diesel.  The train was due to depart at 7.30 and at about that time a steward approached me and informed me that I could board the train.  He showed me my first class sleeper compartment.  It was tired and rundown but the seat bed was surprisingly comfortable and there was a cool breeze blowing in through the broken window.  I settled back to enjoy my ride.

Four hours later I was still waiting.  The train sat and stubbornly refused to move as the hours ticked by.  I had had an excellent chicken dinner in the restaurant car looking out at the sight of Mombasa railway station pointblank refusing to slide by.  The only other people in the restaurant car were a group of policemen.  At least I assumed they were policemen as civilians normally don't bring semi automatic weapons into the first class dining car.

Finally when the clock was touching midnight the diesel gave an unearthly shriek and with a certain weary dignity the train shook, rattled and rolled out of Mombasa, destination; Nairobi.  I slept very well despite the fact that one of the seat rests refused to stay up and I had to lie under it all night.  I awoke the next day and looked out at the Kenyan scenery which was not moving past at all.  This didn't seem right and confirmation of this fact was provided when the train manager knocked on my cabin door and informed me that the train had broken down just past Voi (about a third of the way to Nairobi).  The train would be hauled back to Voi by a convenient engine but then we would have to wait for a repair crew to make their way from Mombasa.

How long would all this take? I asked.  About an hour for the repair crew to arrive, another hour to fix the train and then it would be twelve hours to Nairobi assuming nothing else went wrong.  It was eight o'clock in the morning, on that estimate the earliest I would get into Nairobi railway station would be 10pm and my flight left at 11.  There was no getting around it, the Lunatic Express had failed me.  I would have to find some other way of getting to Nairobi.