I didn't expect that smell. In Dar es Salaam, ocean breeze mutates to stagnant smog before even hitting land. But here in Mombasa, it's as though the wind has been showering since it left India and it'll be damned if it's going to let a few hundred metres' worth of kite surfers and holiday resorts mess up its hair.
The freshnest doesn't penetrate far inland, of course. Piles of melted plastic bags and black ashes send veins of burnt-plastic scent into the air which are, along with car fumes, pumped through the heart of the city. And though these tourist resort streets have few passersby, the odd cigarette plays its polluting part—there aren't many cigarettes, but there are more here than in Dar es Salaam.
My favourite scent came in my first matatu (Kenyan minibus) ride. I rode to the downtown market and spotted a vendor who may have been responsible. I don't know how many times I've wished for this godsend, but I had always assumed there's no nostril god to pray to with this particular issue, however unbelievable one's need may be in the heat of a sweaty, traffic-prolonged crisis.
Clearly a nostril god exists: the conductor was wearing cologne.