East African boarders, overland. Tales of seedy characters, red-eyed border patrol, machine guns wasting in corners, dank corridors. Stories abound, we prepared for the worst, three borders in twenty hours, Tanzania, Kenya and Uganda. “You will be here, at the station, 2:30? we,” the voice breaks, unclear. I step from the loud bar, “But the ticket says it leaves at 4:00…” “Be here now at 2:00..” and the line goes silent. Guide books dissuade the overnight bus to Uganda, rutted roads, the midnight stop in Nairobi, banditry, precisely our reasoning to go along. The station feels cramped, sweaty bodies too close, touching, waiting. Bus stations become flea markets as old shoes, recycled shirts, magazines, and local food (roasted corn cob, samosas, chapatis) make the rounds, “sista, want to buy water?” a boy asks, wriggling through the
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