Adventures on Public Transportation Volume IV. "The Cheater"

Every evening I take a bus and a dala dala to get home from work and this day was no different. After work I followed the winding dirt road to my bus stop and waited for the bus that I already knew would be full. When the bus pulls up I shove my way as far in as possible but still end up with half my body hanging out of the open doorway. I notice the conductor staring at me and see the glint of recognition is his eyes. Something about my appearance has tipped him off that I am a foreigner. The driver pulls off and I squint my eyes against the smoggy breeze and watch the city roll by. A few stops later enough people have gotten off for me find an empty seat. I plant my feet and wiggle my buttocks into the narrow space between the wide hips of two Mamas. The conductor informs us that it’s time to pay up, by way of his usual method of making kissy noises and jingling change at the passengers and we begin to dig in purses and shirt pockets looking for busfare. The conductor shakes his handful of change at each passenger one at a time. I watch as each person pays their 250 Tshs and get change if necessary. When he gets to me I hand him a 500 Tshs note because I haven’t got anything smaller. He hands me back a single coin worth 200 Tshs. I wait patiently for my other 50 Tshs.

The conductor continues to collect the fare from the other passengers and I watch his hand, counting at least five 50 Tshs pieces. Wondering why I haven’t received all the change due to me I get the conductor's attention and tell him, “Bado hamsini.” (You still owe me 50 shillings.) He turns and goes back to collecting change from the other passengers. When I repeat myself loudly he pretends not to hear.

I put two and two together and realize I am being cheated. The conductors thinks that he can take advantage of me because I am foreign. I don’t know if he thinks I don’t know the cost of a bus ride, or that I won’t recognize I’ve been shorted on my change but anger bubbles up my back and steams out of my collar. I’ve had a long day at work and it’s already been an exercise in patience to try to keep my mood even while cramming myself into an overcrowded bus that offers the scent of body odor instead of air conditioning. I am not in the mood for bull shit. My mind races as I try to decide what to do and I vow to myself to get the rest of my change. The coin is only worth about three American cents but I will not be taken advantage of. I know the other people won’t understand why I’m making a fuss over 50 shillings, so I decide to wait until we pull into the station at the end of the line and everyone clears out, then I’ll confront the guy. When we reach the station my legs wobble with anger when I stand up to crawl out of the bus. When the other passengers have cleared I decide on complete aggression, set my jaw and approach the conductor demanding,“Nipe hamsini yangu.” (Give my my 50 shillings)

“Sina” he lies. (I don’t have it.)

“Mwongo!” I accuse (liar!)

He reaches into his pocket and shows me a handful of coins in an attempt to “prove” his lie, but I spot a 50 shilling piece and plunge my hand into the pile of coins. I snatch the coin from him and shove it in his face.

“Asante” I say sarcastically. (Thank you). He is rude enough to laugh at my anger.

I am taller than him and I stand there for a second staring him dead in the eye. I let him feel the anger radiating off my form and hope that he has the decency to be ashamed. I look him over from head to toe and shake my head at the sight of him before I walk away. I am still angry as I blow past the men trying to sell me second hand clothing and look for my connecting bus, but I am proud of myself for speaking up. I sigh. It's going to be a long year.

HUUUUGE update! Part III

III. Dodoma

On Monday I showed up at my office ready to begin my first workweek. Within half an hour of my arrival I was told that I would be accompanying a program manager and a finance manager on a trip to the field. They were checking up on some projects and they thought it would be a good idea for me to tag along and witness the actual impact of all that bureaucracy and grant writing. I admit that I was worried when I realized we were headed to a rural area, but I figured that even if the trip was terrible it would be better than being alone with my thoughts (especially when those thoughts were becoming increasingly negative.)

On Tuesday I showed up to work at 8 a.m. with my big black duffel packed full of comfortable clothing and hand sanitizer and sat patiently at my desk waiting for our 9 a.m. take off time to roll around. Of course, since I’m in Africa, 9 o’clock came and went w/out so much as a mention of the trip. After my third cup of chai maziwa (tea w/milk) I decided to venture out of my “office” to find out what was going on. I ran into the program manager and he explained that the company car we were taking was having some trouble and had been taken to the garage by the driver. The program director directed me to the finance office where I was told to sign on the dotted line and handed 340,000 Tshs (Tanzanian Shillings) for accommodations and sundries. By 1 o’clock I was strapped into the front seat of the company’s Land Cruiser next to Jamaal, our driver. Because the steering wheel is on the right, I’m sitting on the left and I can’t get used to it.

Vignettes from the field

Day 1- Driving to Dodoma

As we get farther and farther away from the familiar parts of the city, my mind begins to race. I imagine every what-if scenario possible. I ask my co-workers to describe Dodoma. It’s between 6-8 hours away they tell me and since it’s a desert its very cold there. To my American mind this makes no since. Cold in a desert? “Just wait. You’ll see,” they say. I wonder if the clothing I packed will be warm enough. I close my eyes and sit back in the seat. I pray that we won’t stay in some unrefined bush hotel with no electricity or water. The program manager takes a break from chattering in Swahili to address me in English and it’s like he read my mind when he says, “You look worried. Don’t worry. We’re not going to sleep under a tree.”

When we get out of the congested heart of the city Jamaal takes us up to 140 km/h (87 mph) and the car falls into a comfortable silence. We begin to brake when we come up on a tractor trailer moving so slowly that it seems to be sleepwalking. Jamaal eases the car to the right, closer to the double yellow lines separating us from oncoming traffic. Then driving on the wrong side of the road we pass the truck. No one else in the car seems surprised and I realize that this is normal TZ driving. Passing on the wrong side of the road. Ok, cool. I get used to it and it’s a good thing too, b/c we do a lot of it in the days to come.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Have you eaten lunch?” the program manager asks me from the backseat.

“No”, I answer. I hadn’t eaten anything that day except for the three cups of tea I had in the office.

“Would you like us to stop for food?” he follows up.

“No”, I repeat.

“Are you sure? It’s not a problem.”

“I’m okay. I’m just not hungry,” I say.

I look at the driver for help, but he just stares straight ahead, driving on the wrong side of the road. The program manager gives up and sits back in his seat. The air conditioner in the car is not working, and between the moist heat building up and the men’s steady stream of Swahili I begin to nod off. I’m sleeping lightly with my novel dangling from my hand when the program manager frantically shakes me awake shoving a package of cookies into the front seat.

“You must be so hungry. We can’t have you fainting on us. Here eat this biscuit. I’m a medical doctor. You must eat.”

I start to explain that I was only sleeping but I think better of it and stuff a cookie into my mouth. When we stop at a roadside market thirty minutes later he buys me a Coke with Arabic writing on the can.

“Drink this. It’ll bring your blood sugar up.”

My blood sugar is just fine, but I comply.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When I look up again I find that the sights of the city have given way to the wonderous pinks and oranges of an African sunset. The roadside vendors have been replaced with women carrying babies tied to their backs with colorful kangas and kitenges. The women are weighted to the ground with buckets piled three high, bundles of firewood, and tubs full of fresh fruits and vegetables for sale. Dusty old men wheel bicycles topped with oranges, or mountains of foam padding, or muslim women riding side saddle with their hijabs blowing in the wind. Beyond the foot traffic at the edge of road, blurred fields of wild sunflowers, tobacco crops and baobab trees roll by. I remember that they told me Dodoma is cold and I glance at the thermometer on the dashboard. The outside temperature has dropped from 35degrees Celsius (95 degrees Fahrenheit) in the city to 25 (77 Fahrenheit) and I wonder how much further it will go. The program manager pipes up again.

“Have you ever been to Tanzania before,” he asks.

“Yeah. I spent two months is Dar last summer,” I reply.

“Do you speak Swahili?”

“ A little. I studied it for five semesters. I can get around the city by myself.” I tell him.

“Do you understand what we’re saying in the car?”

“Parts of it,” I say. “You guys are speaking really fast.”

“Have you traveled around Tanzania a lot?”

“I’ve only been to Dar, Morogoro, and Zanzibar,” I answer.

“That’s not a lot. You must have a really hard time not knowing anything about the country,” he tells me.

He pauses then adds, “I don’t envy you.”

His comment reeks of complacency. If you don’t envy me, brother, you’re cracked. This is the biggest adventure of my life. I’m living independently in a country I really love—a place with such a rich culture and a deep history. Every day is a mystery and the novelty never wears off. I might be feeling my way around in the dark but I’m hardly afraid, and the light that does seep in is beautiful.

Doesn't he ever get that restless feeling that sneaks up on me? Doesn't he ever feel like he's in a cage that's a little too small?

“Have you ever been to the U.S.,” I ask.

“No.”

“Aren’t you curious about the rest of the world?,” I try again.

“No.”

No, then. I suppose he doesn't.

TO BE CONTINUED..

HUUUUGE update! Part II

II. Adventures on public transportation:

Volume I. “The Crotch”

On Sunday I took the bus from my house in Msasani to visit the family I’ll be staying with over by the University of Dar. A male co-worker went with me. It started off innocently enough. Since I live at the end of the bus line the bus was empty when my friend and I got on, but after a few stops it became sardine-can full. My friend was sitting with the window on his right and me on his left side. I had my friend on my right side and the aisle on my left. As the bus became more crowded people began to stand in the aisle and hold on the bars overhead. The bus stops at Namanga and even more people get on. A man standing in the aisle shifts closer to me to make room for the other passengers, effectively positioning his waist/ crotch area about a foot away from my head. I tell myself that he can’t help it b/c the bus is crowded, but still I turn my head and look across my friend and out the window so that I won’t have to stare at this guys crotch for the whole ride. Then it happens. Even though no one else gets on the bus the guy shifts so that his hip is touching my shoulder, then—no lie—he takes a step to his left and pushes his pelvis forward so that his penis is in FULL CONTACT with my arm. No bullshit.

So I’m squirming and shifting in my seat trying to get away from this man, but since the bus is already like safety hazard full there’s not really anywhere for me to go. My friend asks what’s wrong but English is not his first language so whispering discreetly is out of the question and I’m not about to inform the whole bus that this man has his junk on my arm. After about 3 min of trying unsuccessfully to maneuver myself into a less offensive position, I start to realize that this is no unfortunate result of overcrowding. This man is purposely rubbing his penis on my arm. Great, just great. So I turn to face the guy’s crotch then look up and try to make eye contact.

“Samahani, Bwana,” I say quietly, “Unaweza kusogea kidogo?” (Excuse me, Sir. Can you move a little bit?)

He looks down at me, and then right back out the window without answering. I’m trying to think of the Swahili word for “penis” so that I can ask my male friend to intervene when the bus stops and “penis guy” shimmies out and walks off into the dust cloud surrounding the bus. I am left sitting there, next to my clueless friend, fuming at the audacity of this man.

Volume II. “The Baby”

On the same day, on the same bus, a few stops later, more people get on. (What’s new, right?) The door closes, and a guy in his mid twenties, with a toddler loosely slung over his right hip runs along side the bus, which by this time has begun to pull away from the stop. The conductor opens the door and several sets of African socialist hands grab onto the man’s clothing and hoist him and the baby into the bus. The man is able to wiggle himself into a space large enough for him to place at least one foot on the floor of the bus and with one hand holding on to the overhead bar and one arm supporting the shy toddler, the man looks around the bus. His gaze falls on me and he says, “Eti, dada. Chukua mtoto, eh?” (Say, sister. Would you mind holding my baby?) I take so long to reply that my friend thinks I’ve failed to understand this man’s Swahili.

“He say he need you to hold baby”, he translates for me. Looking at the man standing on the tippy toes of one foot and struggling not to spill the toddler, my sympathy mechanism kicks in and I shift my own things to my friends lap and reply, “Haina shida. Unimpe.” (No problem. Give him to me). He swings the toddler down by one arm and I catch him in the ample skirt of my dress. His curly hair tickles my nose and even though-- judging by his size-- he must be old enough to walk and talk by now, he stills smells of delicate baby. I can’t help but cradle the child to my chest. At first his abs tighten in resistance, but then he nestles into my embrace and lazily slips a pudgy little arm around my waist. He locks his big brown eyes on mine. My heart bubbles up and spills over like a shaken soda. I feel my feminist motherhood-is-a-patriarchal-ploy-to-keep-women-subordinate ideologies breaking down, and just as I’m thinking that maybe I will have babies of my own (somewhere is the very distant future), the kid burst out crying.

“Baba? Baba?” (Dad? Dad?)

He turns the brown eyes to his dad and stretches both of his fleshy little arms upwards. Although the dad is wobbling around the bus like gelatin, his eyes go all soft and sympathetic and he swoops the kid out of my lap onto his bony hip and just like that my wrinkly, slightly sweaty lap is empty. As if I don’t feel guilty enough for sneaking cuddles off someone else’s kid the toddler creases his brow and stuffs his thumb in his mouth, locking his eyes on me in an accusatory glare. As punishment for the non-consensual snuggle I must endure the kid’s stare all the way to the Mwenge bus station. I guess “no” really does mean “no”, —even if he acts like he wants it.

Volume III. “Walking”

Today I walked home from work. I walked until I felt pain the size of oranges glowing in my joints, and then I walked some more. Enough coins to pay bus fare five times tinkled in my pocket but I didn’t flag down any of the buses speeding by. It was a slow wandering gait. I took me nearly an hour to get home. The secret to walking along the bumpy, sandy, dirt roads of Africa is in the hips. After stumbling several times I look around me and begin to imitate the lazy but graceful walk of TZ ladies. You have to not need your knees so much. Pull the weight from your ankles up to your waist and let the gentle rocking of your hips swing your long legs out in front of you. Swish yourself right over the pitiful road.

“I’m sorry,” the road says if you listen closely. “I’m sorry for the sand and pebbles in your shoes and my broken places where you stumble. I’m sorry, Sister, to add to your load.”

I feel sorry for the road. It serves as a path, bed, table, waste receptacle, and seat to every passerby. No wonder it is worn and crumbling.

When the men start to call after me I know it is time to shake the clouds out of my hair and quicken my pace. I don’t exactly know the way but I just keep looking for the buses coming from Msasani and sure enough I reach the corner with the big sign for the Irish Pub.

I unlock the door to my room, sit on the bed and fold my feet under me on the white sheet. I look down at my feet swathed in thick dust and sigh. At least I’ll sleep well tonight.