Escape from the Jungle (Part Two)
We arrive at the town with the strange name. I get off the bicycle and am accosted by a hoard of young lads, all wanting to know where I am heading next.
"Kisumu...Nairobi...taxi, taxi...bus, I get you ticket...I take your bags, I take your bags."
I cling hold of the bags and explain that I want a matatu to Kisumu.
"No problem, no problem," they all say in unison, getting very enthusiastic. My cyclist says something to them in Swahili, possibly mentioning the husband in tow, and they all calm down a bit. Several drift off. I am no longer as exciting, it seems. Steve arrives a few minutes later, slightly red-faced, behind a soaking wet, panting body.
"You said you were too heavy," says the body. "You were right, you were right."
We don't like to say, "I told you so", and instead feel guilty enough to slip him a bonus for his efforts, before climbing onto the awaiting matatu. We cram ourselves, and our rucksacks, into the back corner. Gradually, over the next few kilometres, the minibus fills up.
An old newspaper headline comes to mind. "37 people die as matatu crashes," said the newspaper, and I'd wondered to myself how you got 37 people into a minibus. As they cram people in our bus, and the total passes the mid-twenties, I can vaguely see how it might be possible. I suggest to Steve that the earlier crash was probably caused by the matatu driver passing out from lack of oxygen. He fails to see the funny side, but assures me he will later.
More people get on. A baby in front is held in the air to stop it from being squashed, and the lady next to Steve vomits under the seat. I see nothing. I know I should be experiencing amazing views over Lake Victoria any moment, but all I see is a very close up view of my backpack strap.
The potholes and the dirt tracks have disappeared, and from what I can tell, we have hit on the only decent, fast, well-tended road in the area. If I wasn't wedged into place by bags and people, I would be thrown around the bus, as we swerve through traffic and screech around bends. I am glad I can see nothing. Steve gets the occasional glimpse of the road ahead from his position, and his face turns white. It is a relief
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