Chapter Twenty-Six
On My Own—Again
I walked to the main road that runs along the coastline, where I hailed a matatu. This one was a battered VW bus with canvas stretched over the rusted-out holes in its roof. All I said was “Airport, please,” which was sufficient to get me to Ukunda Airstrip on Diani Beach. As Kennedy predicted, the interior of the vehicle was already jammed-full with passengers, and I rode standing on the rear bumper as I hugged the spare tire tighter with every bump in the road. Hopping off, I handed the driver a five-euro bill, which he promptly pocketed, giving me a huge grin and no change. From the raucous general laughter that ensued, I concluded I must have grossly overpaid. I later learned that the fare for locals is considerably less than a buck.
The credit car
