This is a post I never expected to write. In all the traveling I have done on these missions, two trips to remote Pakistan and now two to Africa, all the complicated transportation plans have been remarkably hassle free. Yesterday was payback time. Anticipating an uneventful trip to Dar I had already begun composing my philosophical review of my time here. You’ll get that later but first the nightmare.
I did get a private ride from Sumbawanga to Mbeya – sort of. The hospital supplied a Land cruiser and driver assigned to pick up supplies and seven other unidentified people. We were packed in so tightly that the bus would have seemed comfortable by comparison. No one spoke any English and the driver played very loud African music through the entire 4 ½ hour trip. Its only a hundred miles or so but the dirt road, even in good dry season condition, equals a class 2-3 off road trail in Arizona. OK, it was uncomfortable but not so bad. After buying a best class bus ticket to Dar es Salaam for the morning I checked into my usual Spartan, clean and safe hotel.
The Mbeya bus station is a scary place any time but in the cold pre-dawn hour it comes to life like throbbing organism intent on enveloping the throngs of people pouring in. A massive place, perhaps three or four acres of concrete rubble, it is surrounded like a bull ring with dozens of dilapidated buildings housing ticket offices, run down shops and what passes for food stands. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of young men scurry about grabbing peoples’ luggage and, for a fee of course, showing them where their particular bus is likely to show up. The traveler unfamiliar with the system is at their mercy. In the four times I’ve been through the place my “guide” has never failed to get me and my luggage on the right bus. Tucked away in my seat with my carry on with me and my big suitcase in the luggage boot under the bus I settle in as we pulled out heading east into the just rising sun for the 500 mile trip. I’ve got my Ipod, noise canceling headphones and even some leg room. The road is paved all the way and this is going to be a pleasant 10 or 11 hours. The bus had TV soda and bottled water on board and even a bathroom for limited use. (We still take pee breaks by the side of the road.) What the vehicle did not have was a fuel pump that was going to last the trip.
I was seated in the front row next to Omari, who looked a lot like a taller, bigger version of Richard Pryor. His English was good so we exchanged pleasantries and then hunkered down for the ride. About four hours later we noticed the bus slowing down and the driver muttering to himself in Arabic. As we wheezed into the parking area of a roadside stop called the Aljezeera restaurant and bus stop it was obvious that we were going no further without some mechanical attention. The scene and terrain were so much like the movie “Babel” it was freaky except no one got shot. During the next three hours I finished a book, ate 6 skewers of roasted beef cubes, downed a Coke and 3 bottles of water and became increasingly agitated about not getting to Dar that night. The mechanic had been sent for but still had not arrived. After the 4th hour he finally showed up and confirmed what everyone already knew, the bus needed a fuel pump or at least a filter. In true African style he had not brought parts and declared that they would send to Aringa, 50 miles back and have one sent out. I calculated the time and figured if everything went on schedule, and why should it, we would be in Dar some time around 4 am. Enter Omari. It turned out that he is a big time business guy and president of the largest labor union in the country. He had made a call hours before and someone drove out from Dar to pick him up. He offered a ride to me and a couple whom he knew. We would be 3 people literally squashed into the back seat of a very small car. There was no room for all of our luggage. We found out that the luggage was inaccessible anyway because for safety reasons the luggage boots on the bus cannot be opened if the motor is not running and this motor was definitely not. It was time for a tough decision. Do I leave my large suitcase in the hands of the baggage gods or wait it out with the 50 or so souls camped out at the Aljezeera? I asked myself is there anything in that suitcase that justifies my sleeping on the cold hard floor of that place rather than in the bed of the deluxe room I reserved for myself at one of my three of four favorite hotels in the world. I’m outta there!
We piled into this little cracker box, my carry on with my computer and cameras safely stowed behind me and my knees pressed into the seat in front. The young woman in the middle was pressed against me so that lateral shifting was impossible. It was like being trussed up so that all I could move was my elbows. The next problem was that the car had an exhaust leak so that no matter how we adjusted the windows fumes came into the back seat producing a headache that increased with each breath. Next of course was the music. Africans cannot stand quiet. They must have every nearby TV or radio turned up to full volume. If conversation is necessary it is shouted rather than turn down the music. Such was the ambiance of the trip. Last, I noticed that my seat mate did not say anything. I found out why when she answered her cell phone with a croak that could only mean severe laryngitis. Her subsequent cough confirmed the diagnosis. I was trapped in this position for 5 ½ hours and could have not designed a more perfect version of hell. The floor of the Aljezeera began to look sort of cozy.
Pulling into Dar around 1 am we dropped off the plague ridden couple. Omari got off at his office and another guy got in to drive the car. I was feeling a little uneasy as we set out for my hotel. The driver made an illegal u-turn and we were stopped by two uniformed people carrying assault rifles. One came over to inspect me in the back seat and told me to keep quiet and everything would be all right. They proceeded to verbally work this guy over for a full 30 minutes. All the time I was thinking: Am I going to be one of those people who get in the middle of some African vendetta and get shot in a car? No, they let us go and around 1:30 I was finally safe in my hotel room enjoying a hot bath and a room service club sandwich while turning on my computer, getting on the internet and watching the Diamondbacks blow a 3 run lead in the ninth.
Oh, the suitcase? I had written it off and it’s amazing how situations work out if you become detached from them. Early this morning I had the concierge call the bus company (I’d have done it myself but my Swahili still leaves a lot to be desired) and we were informed that the bus in question, now get this, was not expected at the garage until 3pm today. That means all those people were 21 hours overdue! Stuff like that just happens here. I had planned to go to the Kariakoo market today and the National Museum. I did both and they were great. I’ll talk about them in the final post. At 3pm I took a cab to the bus station and there it was, the big black ugly suitcase I had said goodbye to 24 hours earlier. Sometimes you just have to wonder. And by the way, there are no refunds if the bus breaks down.
There’s lots more to talk about before I leave here but I’ll save it for after happy hour and dinner.
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