Mombasa

My hotel room in Mombasa is in the middle of town on the second floor of a building (turn right at the landing to go to reception, not left into the Evangelical ministry). Outside are dozens of wooden tables selling literally thousands of pairs of pants. My room is infested with ants and my bathroom is infested with moths (so much so that when I took a shower I didn't squash any because I felt like I was on their turf). Across the street is a mosque that reads from the Koran into the night. On the plus side, the mosquito net over my bed is pretty big.
Mombasa is an island city (like Manhattan), but doesn't feel like it (like Manhattan). In the past 500 years it has been ruled by Portugese, Arabs, Germans, British and now Keyans. There are also a fair amount of Indian expats and some Chinese (in my experience there are "some Chinese" in every African city these days). As a result, Mombasa is a bit of cultural mix and has some great resturants and a vibrant nightlife.
Traffic is pretty bad, but getting around can be fun. The minbuses are brightly colored, play a loud constant African beat and the interiors are lit by black lights. Also, like Dar Es Salaam there are numerous three wheeled tuk-tuks driving around. Used as transport they can be quite exciting: you feel like you could die at any moment as they weave through the streets.
Tanzanians have a stereotype of Kenyans being haugty. I don't find them rude (I've met some very generous ones) but they do come across as less friendly and interested in new people. That said, I don't get hassled on the street here and this is the first African city I've been to where no one has offered me weed.
In my pictures below, the smiling man is Mr. Wycliff. He gave me some coins from the British colonial period. In exchange I need to mail a copy of that picture and a couple of bucks for the coins. Someone, please remind me to do this.
There are a fair amount of children begging on the street. From my hotel window yesterday, I watched a mother leave her five year old daughter and toddler son to beg for change from passing cars. This lasted about 5 minutes once the mother was out of sight. Soon, her children were joining other kids doing cartwheels in the median.
Last night, returning from a bar, I decided that I didn't like the cookies that I had bought for myself and would give them to some children on the street. I walked up to group of little boys and handed them to the nearest child who promptly snatched them from my hands. A few minutes later I found him sitting under a tree licking the frosting off and then devouring the rest of the cookie. When another child from his group approached he bolted away. As he ran toward me I blocked his path a bit and yelled.
He stopped and looked back at me. In a combination of English and Swahili I scolded him: "Hapana! Share biscuts with Rafiki" This was accompanied by some tipsy hand grestures on my part.
I guess the point came across because he sulked back to the other children and divided up the remaining cookies.