There are no bad days in Africa, but the nights are another story. The bus ride from Nairobi to Kampala had me sitting in the very back, the only seat wedged between two other passengers. It left at 8pm and would not arrive in Kampala, Uganda until 8am the next morning.
I laid my fleece over my lap to avoid pickpockets. I dozed occasionally to be waken midair when a bump in the terrible Kenyan roads launched me six inches from my seat. The bus blasted at full volume US country music and early 90s R&B. At 4am we had to get off the bus for the border crossing, then hopped back on for more miserable riding. I sat quietly and prayed steadfastly for the sweet release of death.
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