Nairobi to Mombasa Train. Departure time: 08:00. Arrival time: 14:00. Distance: Approximately 280 miles. Ticket price: 1,500 shillings (£9.00).
Monday 19th January 2026. Swiss-Belinn Hotel, Nairobi.
There are many ways to start a travel day. Calmly. Organised. Confident.
This was not one of them.
My alarm went off at 04:30, which already felt unnecessarily aggressive. Breakfast followed at 06:00, checkout at 06:30, and by then I was feeling quietly smug. I had plenty of time to catch my train. All under control.
Except… it wasn’t.
I tried to summon an Uber on my phone. No nearby train station appeared on the app. Mild panic.
Thankfully, the hotel receptionist — calm, competent, and clearly used to tourists unraveling — came to the rescue and helped me locate the correct station.
Thanks to an error entirely of my own making, I had confidently identified and noted the wrong Nairobi train station. The one I’d selected was the old train station — a mere 10 minutes and 3.5 miles away. Unfortunately, the actual SGR station was a full 12 miles away, or as Nairobi traffic prefers to call it: a lifetime.
Twenty minutes in non-rush-hour traffic, they say. This, however, was rush hour.
My best hope of getting to the station on time was to use a motorbike taxi – a Boda Boda as they call it here in Kenya.
The first Boda Boda was ‘frozen’ on the Uber map on my phone. It moved slightly, hesitated, dithered, and generally behaved like someone who had second thoughts about life. I cancelled.
The second Boda Boda – a hero – he arrived at the hotel in a flash.
“I need to be at the Nairobi to Mombasa train station in half an hour.” I told him.
He took one look at the time and launched us into Nairobi traffic like it was a competitive sport. Swerving, accelerating, threading gaps that definitely didn’t exist five seconds earlier. Meanwhile, hanging onto for dear life, my mind was doing laps.
You should have left earlier. You’re never going to make this train. What exactly is Plan B going to look like?
Miraculously, we arrived at the station at 07:20. I tipped him handsomely, partly out of gratitude and partly because I suspected he’d just shaved years off his life expectancy.
Then came security. And more security. And… even more security.
First: bags through an X-ray machine.
Second: bags placed on a low metal platform with about 20 other hopeful passengers while two sniffer dogs inspected the lineup like very serious professionals.
Third: another X-ray machine — I guess as a precaution!!
Fourth: ticket counter, where a lovely lady took my phone number and reservation reference and printed off my ticket.
Good news: a window seat.
Then:
Passport check. Ticket check. Another X-ray machine (at this point I was wondering if I’d accidentally booked a flight).
Finally, through the ticket stile, down the tunnel, turn left, Carriage 9, Seat 10.
I had made it. I let out a huge sigh of relief.
The gentleman sat opposite me — an Indian chap — immediately began a phone call at full conversational volume, clearly unconcerned by concepts such as “inside voice”. This continued, intermittently, for the whole of the journey.
To complete the scene, the windows were dirty, the sun was on our side, and my cinematic coastal train views were… optimistic at best.
Still.
I was on the train.
I had not missed it.
And Mombasa was calling.
Sometimes travel isn’t about smooth planning and perfect execution. Sometimes it’s about sprinting through security, trusting a stranger with your fate in traffic, and laughing afterwards — preferably while the train is already moving.
Mombasa, here we come.
