A bus trip in Africa

how we live — By Bob Riel on August 27, 2007 at 3:58 pm

Traveling by bus in developing countries is often a challenge and always an interesting experience, as Henry Homeyer discovered recently when he endured a 19-hour trip from Nairobi, Kenya to Mwanza, Tanzania, which he wrote about for the Christian Science Monitor. An excerpt:

The bus left 3-1/2 hours late, at 12:30 a.m. Like many others, I worried that if I were inside the station, I might miss the bus. So I paced the sidewalk and rested against sacks of grain stacked on it…

I had expected to travel on something like a Greyhound bus. “Very modern, very comfortable,” I had been told by Emma’s parents. The bus was modern looking, but basic. The seats didn’t adjust and there was no air conditioning, although my window did open. Unlike American coaches, this one had no chemical toilet in the back. It came with seat belts, and given the roads and the skills of our driver, most of us wore them.

We began by traveling on main roads that were paved, or had once been. Large potholes caused the bus to thump, bump, and sway. By morning, we had traveled less than 100 miles. This was not going to be a fast trip. There were numerous checkpoints run by guys with AK-47s. And, of course, we stopped to pick up and drop off passengers.

The other passengers were kind to me. They pointed out, or even lead me to, toilets at rest stops. They warned me when the bus was ready to leave. They lent me their cellphones when it became obvious that we would be arriving late – and then later – so that I could call Emma’s parents…

Food was available at every stop: bananas (4 cents a bunch), roast peanuts (a penny for a small bag), and flat breads called chapattis, hot off roadside griddles. When we stopped for a lunch break in Bunda, Tanzania, I bought roast meat and fried potatoes for the equivalent of 80 cents, and felt well fed…

I finally got to Mwanza 19 hours after arriving at the Nairobi bus station, dusty and tired, but elated to see Emma’s parents there, waiting for me. And when we reached their home there was a sign on the front door: “Karibu, Henry.” Welcome, it said in Swahili, and they meant it.