Crossing Tanzania, Part Four

Somehow the interminable trip from Kahama to Kibondo ended and we got off the bus promising each other that this was enough for today; even though it was still light out, we’d sleep in this dusty waystation and try our luck with a new vehicle tomorrow morning. But our friend, the woman with the baby, urged us to take the last daladala going south to Kasulu, where the guest houses were cleaner and our chances of getting to Kigoma better.

Another decision to make. As we stood at the door of the daladala trying to imagine how uncomfortable we’d be in those cramped seats, one of the car park hustlers behind us just wouldn’t stop shouting “mzungu.” He obviously wanted our attention, so I whirled around and in my fastest Swahili, said, “Look! Look! My skin is different than yours! How clever you are to notice the difference!” Not expecting to hear Swahili, the man was stunned, and the gang of hustlers around him burst into laughter and began making fun of him for having been told off by an mzungu.

At that point we decided to trust our “mama” and get on the daladala with her. Wanting to sit as comfortably as possible, we squished into the wide front seat next to the driver. This is I dicey strategy at best. Yes, you’re away from the revolving door of passengers standing over you with armpits in your face, but if the bus crashes, you’re the first to fly through the windshield. There was no seatbelt, but again, there was no other option so we took our chances.

A piece of metal was protruding through the seat so painfully that I grabbed a shirt out of my bag and stuffed it under my ass to relieve the pain. I was seated diagonally, backpack on my lap, trying to give Anette room so she wouldn’t interfere with the driver as he changed gears. We set off down the road wondering how long the trip would last and how long we’d be able to sit like this.

As the sun began to set behind the mountains marking the border with Burundi, we noticed that our driver had yet to turn his headlights on. I asked him once why he was waiting, and I didn’t fully understand his answer. Five minutes later, with darkness rapidly enveloping the road, I asked him again and this time I understood – the headlights were broken.

Great. Just what we needed after six hours stuffed in the back of Ally’s Express like cattle, guarded by civilians with AK-47s. Again our minds started racing through the possibilities, and again none of the outcomes were good. Amazingly, as complete darkness fell, our driver still managed to navigate every pothole in the road. A veteran of this route, he literally could have driven it in his sleep.

It was then we noticed that the farther into Tanzania we went, and the smaller and more dangerous the transport became, the stronger grew the camaraderie among the passengers. At the start of this particular journey we overheard our fellow travelers remarking on the oddity of seeing white people on a bus in this part of the country. One who had heard me tell off the hustler explained to the others that these wazungu could speak Swahili. Upon hearing this I turned around and replied, “Even Kihehe!” Kihehe is the tribal language of Iringa, and the whole bus burst into laughter when they heard me say this. From then on we were the objects of their affection as they traded banter with us and about us, exploding into fits of mirth as we rolled on into the night.

After two hours of driving in total darkness without headlights we reached our first village, only discernible by dim kerosene lamps lined up along the side of the road.
We should have known that no one in the village was going to fix our headlights, but we also should have known that the world’s economy has grown to such an extent that cheap goods from China somehow make their way to remote villages in western Tanzania.

The solution? Our driver bought two flashlights and rigged them to the underside of our bus with rope! Fragile though they seemed hanging from the beat-up bumper, they made a world of difference in the inky night. The flashlights stayed on despite all the bumps and potholes, and two hours later we arrived in Kasulu.

A final appreciation to our Tanzanian traveling companions: the mama who had taken us under her wing that morning had been forced to stand for six hours in the nightmarishly crowded aisle on Ally’s Express. When we arrived in Kasulu, her hometown, at 10pm, she lifted the most enormous suitcase onto her head as if it were nothing and walked down the road, baby wrapped tightly to her back, to show us the best guesthouse in town.