Then the gloom of the customs shed swallowed us, and there was a new earth and, for the present, no more sea.
The island of Mombasa is so close to the cocoanut-fringed mainland that a railway bridge connects them.

Like Zanzibar, it is a place of strange delights, and bridled lawlessness controlled by the veriest handful of Englishmen.

There are strange hotels--strange dwellings--streets--stores--tongues and faces.

The great grim fort that brave da Gama built, and held against all comers, dominates the sea front and the lower town.

The brass-lunged boys who pounce on baggage, fight for it, and tout for the grandly named hotels are of as many tribes as sizes, as many tongues as tribes.
Everything is different--everything strange--everything, except the heat, delightful.