The bus says “Jordan Flava” and has flames on the side.
Swag.
You best believe I only ride the party busses. For reals.
That is, if by party bus you mean the smallest seats yet, two deep on one side and three on the other. And if by party you mean the bus company (incidentally named “Air Jordan”), sold more tickets than there are seats. That means passengers and luggage fill the aisles. I can only assume, since this is the flava bus, that these people ordered aisle tickets so they can dance up and down the bus under the glow of the blue party lights. But nobody is partying, and nobody is happy, and complete strangers nuzzle against the laps of those who’ve ended up on the end seats. (I love you Cassie, sorry!)
If there is one thing you need to know about Tanzania, it’s that safety is valued above all else. As such the government of this land has placed speed bumps up and down the highway. We are warned about the main bumps by ripply rumbly mini bumps. That way I’m all tensed up and prepared for the big ones, and I can do a better job of keeping my organs in tact. Really these bumps serve multiple purposes. It’s like a spine adjustment each time!
I’ve forgotten what day it is. I guess that’s what happens when you leave Kenya a day late because elections are making things difficult. And I guess that’s what happens when the bus tickets you thought were going to be there aren’t there at all, so you have to spend an extra day at the hostel. (Although the hostel was pretty amazing). And I guess that’s what happens when travel to a location takes four days, three of those spent on busses.
The Flava bus is not nearly as cool as it hopes to be, especially when it breaks down a couple hours into our ride. We sit in the parking lot, munching on bananas and mangos while the transmission sits on the ground underneath the bus. It takes three and a half hours, but eventually we are back in business. Our bus ride becomes so long that later I forget this even happened.
We make a supper stop at some point. I don’t want to make the effort to order food, but I take a bite of Ginelove’s rice and beans.
“Crunch.” I cringe.
“Jen, what’s wrong?” Cassie says.
“Oh, I don’t know. You know how sometimes you eat a rock?” I say.
Somewhere around 15 hours after we first climbed in the bus we arrive in Mawanza, where my team is spending the night. It’s dark, and I’m hungry and exhausted. We pile in a van with our stuff and drive to where we’re sleeping. Except we don’t. Once we’re out of the van it’s a long walk on a stony path between houses in the dark up a large hill. Thankfully there are people helping us with our bags. By the grace of God, I make it to the top, sweaty and out of breath. There are beans and rice and pineapple waiting on the table. A meal has never tasted so good.
By the time I crawl into the bunk bed it’s past 11pm. There’s a knock at the door saying we have to be ready to go by 6:45am. I want to cry, but that would take too much work, so I go to sleep instead.
In the morning I get my stuff together and sit in the living room. The news is on TV, but it’s just someone reading the newspaper to the viewers, while the camera zooms in on the articles. We make the trek down the path again. It’s easier in the daylight, and I’m not quite sure how I made it at night. We pile in the van again. When we get to the bus station the real fun starts. A swarm of Tanzanian men flock around the van shouting and pointing. I’m trying to not laugh, because it’s all so absurd. Absurd is a word I have used a lot this month.
This bus stops too much. And when it stops, it turns into a sauna. I should get up and stretch, but I don’t have it in me to deal with outside. I barely have it in me to deal with inside. Every time the bus pulls into a stop people run up to the windows: women with large bowls or baskets of bananas or nuts on their heads, men with boxes of drinks or crackers or cookies. They make little “wisp wisp wisp” noises, and love to stand near our windows yelling “muzungu!” I think I have hit my limit with that word. It means westerner or white person, and nearly every time we leave the house someone yells it at some point. One man holds up a piece of paper for Cassie to write her number on. I wonder if he thinks that’s actually going to work.
The bus we’re riding on says A.M. bus, but it’s definitely not morning when we arrive. It’s taken us eight hours.
Supper, meeting our contacts, trying to figure out how to best use the toilet…I don’t want to bore you with the rest of the details. Just know that getting to Tebora, Tanzania, well if you ever wanted to test yourself to see how far you can go before you lose your sanity, it’s a good trip to take.
