1964-1972>Tanzania: Hitchhiking to Arusha
India | Malawi | Tanzania | Mexico by Bicycle | Mexico by Sailboat
: Hitchhiking to Arusha
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| As Peace Corps Volunteer |
The driver of the seriously overloaded Dar-es-Salaam-to-Nairobi bus only slowed down enough to yell out the open door something I didn't catch. Then he waved and sped away. The breeze from the passing bus flicked my skirt, disturbing the colony of flies that were tickling my legs. I watched in shock as that last bus of the day disappeared into its own cloud of dust, on its way to Arusha without me. The villagers who had waited at the side of the road grabbed cardboard suitcases and hoisted bundles on their heads and turned for home as if this was a daily occurrence, which it probably was. I was left under the mango tree, watching women in their colorful kitenge wraps follow the spider-web of trails that wound into the bush.
This was not part of my plan. I had a nice visit with my friend Cathy, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, and was going to take the Nairobi bus as far as Arusha, rest up a bit and catch the 6:30 a.m. bus to Mwanza. Once home, I would have time to do a few lesson plans and tidy up my science labs before the start of the new school term.
What to do?
Cathy had dropped me off at this unidentified bus stop and was long gone back to her clinic, deep in a sisal plantation. There were no buildings of any kind that I could see, so I considered following one of the paths, hoping there might be more of a village beyond the road. I could stay over night. There would be no public accommodation and I was a stranger to that area but there would be an offer of hospitality. That's the way it was in the bush. It would be awkward for them to take in an mzungu like me and I would feel uncomfortable but it was a possibility.
Or I could stay where I was and wait for the first bus the following day. I had no blanket and only snacks for food, and there was no reason to think that the next bus would have more room. And I would miss my connection.
I really had to get to Arusha by morning or I'd have two days until the next bus to Mwanza. Our new head mistress would have arrived and it would not make a good impression for me to miss our first staff meeting with her.
My anxiety increased. A lorry stopped down the road and picked up one of the stragglers. I didn't like hitchhiking. At home it was never a good idea. In Tanzania, however, it was a necessity and several volunteers I knew did it. Few people could afford vehicles, and as I had just witnessed, public transportation was unreliable. Reluctantly, I realized hitchhiking might be the only way to get to Arusha that day. I decided to bank on yet one more vehicle coming along before nightfall.
Eventually, my lorry did arrive, one like the majority of those that moved produce and products around the East Africa. It was an old but sturdy British Leyland, battered khaki with a rounded engine hood and short slat sides around the flat bed of the truck. Boxes, cases of beer, a new motor, sisal bags fat with some lumpy tuber and cotton bags of flour were stacked behind the cab. A bald spare tire lay on top of a greasy canvas tarp heaped near the tailgate.
I approached the driver, his dusty ebony elbow hanging out the open window.
"Hujambo, Baba. Habari gani?" I greeted him with my friendliest smile.
"Nzuri, Mama."
"Nakwenda Arusha?" I asked hopefully. I should have asked him about his family to be polite, but I was focused on my problem.
"Ndio, Mama," the driver said amiably. He turned and mumbled something to his passenger. The young fellow hopped out and helped me get my pack into the back and then stood back to let me climb into the cab first. I settled myself in the middle of the seat, tucked my skirt around my legs to give the gear shift free play, and found a place for my dusty feet.
The question I should have asked the driver was when he thought he would arrive in Arusha. The drive was only a few hours. I anticipated arriving late in the evening, still time for a brief rest before the morning bus. That's not quite the way it worked out.
The driver avoided the largest holes, but the washboards were a special trial of vibration and loud truck-body noises. Conversation was difficult but we managed some basics. After not too long, we pulled up in front of a simple sun-dried brick structure with a corrugated tin roof. Attached to the white painted wall with red trim was a colorful metal sign advertising Sportsman cigarettes and another for Bata Shoes. The signs identified this as a duka, one of the little stores that served travelers’ needs: cigarettes, plastic shoes, school supplies, greasy food and snacks. For the thirsty, there was warm Coke, orange Fanta or pombe, the local brew.
Without a word, the driver hopped down, slammed his door and went in, leaving the younger man and me in the cab. This fellow was one of many who seemed to accompany people of importance, like my driver. He was a kid, really, probably late teens. Not filled out yet but all smiles.
After an awkward pause, he asked, "Jina lako nani?"
We exchanged names, family structures and towns of origin. No, I wasn't married, nor did I have children. I was a teacher at Bwiru Girls School in Mwanza. His name was Mohammed and he was from Same. It didn't go much further. I was anxious to get moving and my Swahili was limited since teachers were encouraged to speak English with the students to improve their language skills.
I thought the stop might be a delivery or pit stop, but the driver was gone for quite a while. I debated trying to flag down another of the infrequent vehicles but thought my very generous, albeit absent, host might be offended, which could leave me without any ride. About twenty minutes later, he returned and we hit the road again.
Odd, I thought. Nothing had been added to the load nor had he taken anything into the store. Then I caught a whiff of pombe on his breath. Ever optimistic, I thought, OK, one (or two) for the road. Pombe can be rather weak. Not always, though. But we were on our way again.
I revised my arrival time.
I had a little snooze and when I awoke, we were stopping again. It was dark. The driver was gone even longer. At this rate, I was afraid we would not make Arusha by morning.
At the third stop, around midnight, the duka was really jumping, loud music, shouts from the well-lubricated patrons. One or two reeled out the door and into the dark.
Mohammed and I waited in the cab for over an hour. No other vehicles passed by. I thought the driver really had abandoned us this time. Maybe he was spending the night here. At a point when both of us had our eyes open, I asked Mohammed. "Dreva wapi?"
Mohammed knew where the driver was and showed me, his right forefinger poked into his left fist, grinning as he jerked his pelvis as well.
I made a face that I hoped conveyed annoyance, but what could I do? I was only a passenger. I couldn't very well be making demands, deny the man his pleasures.
But Mohammed did not stop there. He repeated the gesture and added some. He pointed to me and then to himself, raised his eyebrows and grinned, and punctuated all this with more finger and fist action. He persisted with this pantomime that only someone raised in a barrel could not understand. Failing success with my continually evolving grimace, I shook my head and said "Hapana," as if he'd just offered me a mango or Fanta.
Plan B was based on our relative sizes. I figured I could deck him if he got too eager. I didn’t have much experience along the lines he suggested, and this scenario had never occupied any of my fantasies. He did not persist. Apparently the offer was just an invitation to some fun, but it did have me worried. What about the driver?
Finally, the driver returned. His gait appeared steady or was it wishful thinking on my part? He was not alone. One of the tipsy patrons grabbed hold of the passenger door handle, and looked meaningfully at Mohammed. I couldn't very well say there was no room, but where was this guy going to sit? I was already as cozy with the driver as I wanted to be. Mohammed got out, and after some laughing and pointing at me, the new man got in next to me, and Mohammed climbed up onto his lap, his head cramped against the roof but he was still smiling.
I couldn't help but worry at the increasing odds should there be a change in attitude toward me. To that point, everyone had treated me respectfully. I ran through my head why I would be safe, trying to convince myself I was. I was mzungu. I was a teacher. My dress was discreet, not inviting advances. But I was, after all, a woman. Was I flattering myself to even think anyone might have designs on me? My danger signals still tingled, but this was not the US, where hitchhiking was considered unwise. This kind man was offering me a service, one I had requested. Not even a mention of a fee. How could I be ungrateful? But I couldn't expect him to put my needs above his own and his friend’s now could I?
However, any woman traveling alone anywhere needed to be alert. That's what I was. A woman. Alone. Alert. Identifying possibilities so there would be no surprises. Ours was the only vehicle at the duka and if Plan C was hopping out next to a jumping beer joint on a lonely road in the middle of the night, it did not seem the wisest choice. My best chance to get to Arusha lay with the lorry.
And then I chided myself. Was this my goodie-two-shoes side again? Do I really have to take this risk to get back to school? If a safer alternative arose which would get me to school a day or so late, would I take it? A welcoming hostel, a kind woman? I'd make that decision if the choice presented itself, which didn’t seem too eminent at that point.
The night was very long. I could only doze, lifting a sandy eyelid occasionally to look for anything that might indicate where we were. I hoped that whatever the driver did at the last stop included a nap and with luck a cup of coffee. He seemed able to stay on the road and only weaved to avoid potholes. There were no animals sleeping on the road for us to surprise or hit, something I’d heard was the greatest danger when driving at night. A few wild ungulate herds remained in the area, but they were elsewhere that night. Domestic animals were taken into the family enclosures after dark for protection from lions. So really, our only worries were potholes. And for me, time.
The sky finally began to lighten and with it, my spirits rose. Waving savanna grasses surrounded us and their calming rhythm soothed my nerves. We were making good time. I would make my bus. How silly of me to worry just because it had been dark.
Then, the truck rolled to a stop. I tensed. The motor seemed to be running fine. Maybe it was just a pee stop.
All of us got out. I watched warily as the driver opened the hood and stared at the motor. He stuck in his hand and pulled and poked at things I couldn't see. It was hard to tell if he knew what to do or not. Occasionally, the assistant went to the cab to rummage behind the seat for a tool. The other passenger took a leak behind the lorry and wandered over to watch the efforts of the driver. They seemed to be ignoring me. This was good.
Not a man made structure in sight. Not even any dusty paths to indicate people living nearby. From the clues I had gathered through sleepy eyes, a few signposts and village names, I thought we were at least fifty miles from Moshe, and further from Arusha. I squinted at my watch. 6 a.m. No hope for the bus to Mwanza that day. I'd just have to miss the staff meeting. I hated that thought, but things could be worse.
I hoped they wouldn't be.
The pink dawn was tinting a small rise in front of us. I turned to look back the way we had come, hoping for a cloud of dust that would signal my salvation. The base of Mount Kilimanjaro framed a stand of flat-topped acacia trees. The fresh sun leaked around the tiny cap of snow on its peak. Stunningly beautiful. But it didn’t raise my spirits.
The driver and his helpers prodded and fiddled and did not seem to like the results. And we weren’t moving. Why didn’t he want to get this load to its destination?
I wanted to scream in frustration. But I couldn't. I still needed the ride.
I gazed longingly back down the road, trying my best to manifest another vehicle, anything that would get me to Arusha safely. And lo! In a cloud of dust, there appeared - a silver Mercedes Benz. Not bad for an apparition. It seemed good, but was it? I considered my options. When I saw there was only one person in the car, I was instantly ready to abandon the accursed truck. The car pulled up behind us, and a dark and slender young man stepped out. First, he stretched and shook out his light cotton shirt and slacks. Then he asked, "Is there a problem, then? Can I be of any help?" He translated for himself into English for my benefit.
"Hapana. Nzuri." The lorry driver told him everything was fine.
Maybe things were fine for the driver, but I quickly asked if the Mercedes driver could take me on into Arusha.
"Certainly. I'd be delighted for the company. I've just come from Dar and it's been a very long drive. A little conversation would be very welcome."
He looked East Indian, a good assumption along with the car. Most of the merchants were Indians. I knew they were protective of their women, and he seemed charming. This was good. I climbed in with relief.
Then I learned that he was Greek. So much for first impressions. Did this make a difference? Maybe. But there was only one of him. Better than the odds in the lorry. Why was I making a big deal of this? I was in Tanzania. I was there to help. But cautions should not be totally ignored.
The frequency of roadside houses increased with the number of cultivated fields. We zipped through Moshe and were approaching Arusha. We chatted the best two night-drugged people can and then the he asked, "Would you like to come to my home and meet my mother and have something to eat? Perhaps a wash up and a nap. If you were up all night like me, I'm sure you are tired. It's just on the way into town."
Uh, oh. Did he have etchings to show me as well? I hesitated.
"Oh, I assure you, I'm truly asking you just to have some tea. I have some urgent business to do, and I can send you on into town with my driver when you are ready.”
I said yes. The bus for Mwanza had departed without me, so I had plenty of time. Maybe this would be an interesting experience. His mother. How threatening could that be? But he also sounded as if he really wanted to go to his home, and Arusha was further on. And he had a driver. Somewhere. That was reassuring, though I’m not certain why.
He did have a little old mother waiting for his return. She was rather short and bent and wore a simple cotton dress with a loose full skirt. Wisps of gray hair escaped her head shawl to frame her lined face. She was delighted to meet me and graciously served me some too-sweet fruit punch. Her son went off to take care of his business while we had a faltering conversation. She spoke very little English and I spoke no Greek. When I was sent off with car and driver, I assumed she was telling me to have a fine journey.
The driver took me first to the bus station, and the 6:30 a.m. bus to Mwanza had indeed left on time, a rare but possible occurance. I spent two days in Arusha and the Wednesday bus was delayed by three hours because of a truck stuck on a steep hill. We departed at 9:30 a.m. and I didn’t care when I might arrive. I slept for most of the trip and at 2 a.m., the bus pulled into Mwanza. I was exhausted but glad to be home in one piece.
At a late breakfast the next morning, my British housemate, Kay, greeted me with agitation. School was starting and we still did not have a headmistress.
It just didn't seem important to me.