Adventures in Public Transportation

"Where does this mean world cast its cold eye
Who's left to suffer long about you
Does your soul cast about like an old paper bag
Past empty lots and early graves
Those like you who lost their way
Murdered on the interstate
While the red bells rang like thunder"

I realized recently that my current plan involves me being in 5 countries within the month of September. It is true that plans are only vague outlines of what might possibly happen when in Africa, but it is getting late in September and I am actually in the fourth of five countries. The plan might just happen. For once.

Obviously moving through five countries requires a lot of, well, moving, so I'm dedicating a whole post to my adventures in public transportation.

I have been more than lucky to have stayed safe on the road in the last 7 months and I hope that streak continues. There have certainly been some close calls, most notably side-swiping the cow in South Africa, but nothing too tragic. The drivers in most countries I have traveled in all drive within some degree of a completely and utterly terrifying manner. They regularly pass on blind corners with on-coming traffic and drive at speeds much too fast for the road conditions. Today, I bought a newspaper in Kabale, where I stopped upon crossing into Uganda. I wanted to read about the recent flooding to update myself on whether my travel plans needed to change. While sitting in the minibus, waiting for it to leave from Kabale to Mbarara, I read an article that stated 2 people had died and 7 had been injured yesterday when a minibus had rolled on the Kabale-Mbarara road. Not a good way to start my journey this afternoon.

Generally, I have become rather accustomed to public transport in East Africa. It is much the same throughout different countries. At first I was surprised by how many vans, rather than buses, I was riding in and how incredibly crowded they were. That taxi ride in Peru at 5 am where my friend Jo and I were joined by 3 men and 2 women who were moving and therefore brought all their earthly possessions would be nothing to me now! I think my current "transportation zone" could qualify as a new type of meditation; however, occasionally things have happened that even I still find noteworthy.

While heading north in Malawi, back to Tanzania just to cross the entire country and get into Rwanda, I was riding in the typical minibus in the first bench behind the driver. The minibus stopped for some mechanical problem that I was not too concerned about. Even if this particular minibus couldn't continue, we could easily flag down another on the busy road. I was mildly surprised to see the driver fold the front passenger seats forward to expose part of the engine, but I was not concerned. Then, without warning, hot water began spraying from something he was working on -- presumably the radiator. For a second I was still not concerned, as the water was not burning hot and the seat folded backward, partially shielding us from the spray. Despite all this, the woman sitting next to me decided that quick evacuation was necessary. Unbelievably, considering her age and size, she sprang from the bench next to me and jumped behind me, out the door, kicking me in the back of the head on the way out. Seeing as no one else was sitting to my right, threatening to climb over me and considering the offending radiator cap had already been removed, I still stayed where I was, my meditative state only slightly perturbed. One man, upon reentering the minibus, said to me, "Be careful mzungu, this is Malawi." My head hurt far more than my slightly damp arms for the rest of the ride.

Once I entered Tanzania, I was in a hurry to make it across the country to Rwanda, as I was traveling on a transit visa. The immigration officer had asked how long I needed. I told him 4 days. He asked where I was going. I told him Rwanda. He told his co-worker to give me 10 days. She gave me 14. It was then that I figured out Lonely Planet might not be exaggerating when the author highly advised against traveling by road in the northwest of Tanzania.

The next day, I left the boarder town of Mbeya for the capital, Dodoma, in a large bus. The first 4 hours of the trip were fine and I judged by the map that we were about half way there. Four hours later, we enter a large-ish town that was not Dodoma. It was then that I realized, by consulting my guide book, that we had taken a road northeast rather than straight north and were almost all the way back to Dar Es Salaam! Another 3 or 4 hours later, after turning straight west, we made it to Dodoma. I was irritated that we didn't take the direct route, but figured that since the bus was full of locals the whole way from Mbeya, there must have been a reason for the road choice.

I figured out the reason the next day. Lonely Planet states that the roads north and south of Dodoma are appalling. We skipped the south road the day before, but were stuck taking the north road to my next overnight stop, Mwanza. Within 5 minutes of leaving the bus station on a bus that left 3 hours late (still "on time" by East African standards) the man sitting behind me attempted to slide his window back to shut it. He only succeeded in causing the window to shatter all over me. I spent the next 11 hours sitting in broken glass on the roughest road I have ever ridden on in my whole life. It was worse than the dirt road down to the salt flats in Bolivia. What made it especially bad was that our driver insisted on driving at no less than 80 km/h. When we hit a pot hole in the dirt (which happened roughly ever 30 seconds) we all flew from our seats. I had to put my hands up to avoid hitting the ceiling of the bus. Then I would come crashing down into my seat, which was embedded with glass. Further, I was wearing my sandals, so the glass on the floor would inevitably be thrown inside my sandals. We eventually had to stop in a town south of Mwanza because we were not allowed to travel past 10. I had to be back at the station at 4 am the next morning. Mercifully, we reached pavement for the rest of the ride that morning.

Once I reached the Mwanza bus station, I immediately inquired about another bus to the boarder. I was prepared to get on another bus that morning if it hadn't left yet. Unfortunately, I was informed that there was no bus that day, nor was there a bus for the next day. I got stuck in Mwanza for two days, but luckily it was a decent town to be stuck in. I was beginning to figure out why the immigration officer kind of chuckled at me when I told him I was going to get to Rwanda in 4 days.

In a lucky turn of fortune, my last bus actually took less time to reach its destination than I had been led to believe. Even managing to catch the bus was a bit of a miracle, for several reasons. First, there are multiple bus stations in Mwanza and I had to be sure I knew which one my bus would leave from. Turned out, the correct bus station was 12km out of town, so I also had to arrange a taxi to pick me up from my hotel and take me to the bus station at 3:45 in the morning. Also, many Tanzanians operate on a Swahili clock, which I believe begins with 1 am when the sun rises, so 7 am on my clock; however, I get easily confused by this because I never know which clock a particular person is using. All these problems were confounded by the fact that almost no one in Mwanza speaks English, so clarification is nearly impossible. One characteristic the East Africans have that is both endearing and maddening is their tendency to answer any and all questions with "yes". Does the bus leave at 4:30am western time?" "Yes." "Or does it leave at 4:30am Swahili time?" "Yes." It is very difficult to actually get anything figured out in this type of conversation.

Rwanda proved to be much easier to travel in, as it is a very small country. Even bad roads can't take too long when the distance is short. Uganda is not too bad either. I am trying to go to a national park tomorrow -- Lonely Planet says it should take 8 hours, but the hotel staff said it should take 1 hour. As I write this, I realize it will sound ridiculous to you to not be able to to determine, between a map, a guide book and local advice, whether a drive will take 8 hours or 1 hour, but somehow it makes complete sense to me. I'll let you know when I get there.