A beach trip

On the days that we decide a trip the beach is called for we throw water, apples and chocolate into the cooler, scramble together our swimsuits, sunscreen and books and fling the lot in the back of the car. I then grab the camera, we make sure the dogs have water and off we go.

A short 15 minutes later we join the queue for the car ferry to get across the short stretch of water separating the city from to what are called the south beaches. There is talk of a bridge being built but it would need to be so high to allow all the container ships into the port that the cost is exorbitant. And so we sit in the car and crawl slowly forward as the ferries plough back and forth on the short 5 minute trip.

Around us the action never stops. Men try to hawk everything from sunglasses to weighing scales. Impromptu shoe shops are set up on the path, made up of random collections of old looking shoes. The fish market off to the left only adds to the colour with the glinting fish scales and rivers of blood and guts. Public mini buses squeeze through the smallest openings in the traffic, beeping their horns and hardly slowing for the people jumping on and off.

As we reach the ticket office and pay I have to get out and join the foot passengers. I walk to what can only be described as the holding shed and move as far towards the exit gates as possible. The cars are allowed on first and as soon as I see that James has got on to this one I get ready to move with the crowd.

The gates sweep open and all I hear is the sound of hundreds of flip-flops shuffling forward on concrete ground. It is deafening in its own way. Around me brightly coloured kangas, traditional dresses, modern tops and t-shirts all pour out the gates and rush for the ferry, keen to be the first off on the other side in order to get onto the buses and taxis in the first wave. I weave my way between them, admiring the way many are carrying large loads on their head and cooing at the small children and make my way back to the car. One day an enterprising young boy “guided” me back to it and in exchange I felt that I had to give him some money. Well done him. Car reached I hop back in to the blessed air condition and we wait for the short journey to commence. It’s the oddest sensation to be sitting in car that is not moving, on a moving ferry.

Once on the far side the hazardous business of disembarking begins with foot passengers dashing between the cars and cars vying to be first off. However, when that obstacle course is safely negotiated it’s open road to the beach with only the odd bike, bus and camel to watch out for.

Ah the beach – even getting there is adventure enough for one day.