As the train pulls into the station, the platform slowly comes to life. A scattering of people make their way to the luggage store while porters bustle around competing for custom. Half way down the platform the Kwaheri Bar is full of westerners. The clientele here has definitely changed in the last hundred years. These are not recent immigrants in Edwardian dress with a servant or two in tow, but young backpackers living out of a single bag, making their own exploration of the country. My husband and I have sat here for the last two hours sheltering from the intense heat of Kenya's coast. Slowly we finish our drinks, reluctant to leave the coolness of the bar's canopy, and head off to find our allocated compartment.
As the guard assists me onto the train, his frayed white suit shimmering in the sunlight, I try to imagine what it must have been like for the early settlers making this journey. The lands that the train passed through would have been relatively untouched by western influence; innumerable animals roamed the Tsavo National Park, rather than the scattering of protected species that remain today, and the city of Nairobi was no more than a supply depot on the route to Uganda.
Our compartment is like a furnace, roasting us to a tender pink. The décor is grey, tan, and beige, but the seating is comfortable and spacious. There is a small wooden closet that the guard advises us to use, even though our bags don't fit. Behind the mirror is a secret drinking water tap - it is empty. And the outer window, as our guard so patiently explains, not only doesn't lock, but also can be opened from the outside. "You must bolt the mosquito window, otherwise thieves will come in the night," he says. A pleasant thought, not exactly boosted by the realization that our compartment will not be locked while we eat. The only bolt is on the inside. "Take your valuables with you," says the guard, "But I will check everything else is safe".
At last the train starts up, and with it the fan and lights chug into action. Slowly the air cools, and the sweat on my back starts to dry. At seven o'clock on the dot, the train jolts forward, easing its way out of the station, while the Kenyan National Anthem crackles through several loud speakers on the platform. I watch from the window as Mombasa slowly disappears behind us, taking with it the last of the day's sun. Darkness falls, and I make my way to the next carriage for dinner.
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