The door of the 15-seater van nearly falls off as it scratches along its track. The Mate hangs out and yells,
“ADUM-adum-adum-adum,”
A mass of bodies push into the Tro-Tro: Men in business suits, women in brightly colored swaths of cloth, a mechanic with half a transmission, kids in school uniforms. Before I, too, am swept into the van, I notice the bright yellow decal on the back window, “Thank you Jesus!” The door slams shuts.