On the overnight train from Nairobi to Mombasa, we felt as if we’d stepped back to the days of British colonialism—black waiters in pristine white uniforms serving three-course meals to a car full of European travelers, while hundreds of Africans fought for elbow room on the crowded benches of third class. Supposedly the train once even featured a seat in the front from which men in khaki safari suits could shoot at passing game. But this time around, perhaps in a small belated act of retribution, the resources being plundered were our own: one of Randy’s bags was stolen out of our bunk while we were at breakfast. There was nothing of terrible importance—calculator, headlamp, rain poncho, among a dozen other practical things—and maybe the new owners will put them to better use. The coast of
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