For one quarter during undergrad, I would jump on the number 2 bus to downtown Columbus. Sometimes, I’d wait for the next bus transfer to Columbus State but most times, I’d walk from High Street because this seemed like A.) a long wait B.) a long ride. However, in retrospect, I now can say that was one of the speediest buses I’ve ever taken.
Last Sunday morning I tiptoed around the cabin, collecting my few belongings by light of my headlamp. Stopping by the camp kitchen for my food stash. A loaf of bread, guava juice, and a drinkable butterscotch flavored yoghurt. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’d been advised the day before to be at the station at 4:30 am… uh, no thank you. I wasn’t that eager to make the trip home to Chipata. Thus, I made the mile plus walk from the hostel at a lazy 6:15 am.
Bombarded by a flood of bus boys wanting me to board their coaches, I waved my pre-purchased ticket. And was, literally, shoved on to the furthest bus labeled ‘Malawi’. Fact is, when a bus is tagged for another country, it does nothing to wane the anticipation of a freaking long trip ahead. The bus was half full. The empty seats filled with random hand luggage to give the appearance of a full bus, thus nearly ready to depart as buses only do when FULLY loaded. I squeezed to the back past the merchants selling cooking pots, colorful fabrics, flashing hologram Barak Obama belt buckles, pastel suckers, Coca-cola and Fanta, fake Gucci purple crocodile wallets, sporting shoes and loafers.
Now start the math.
6:30 am
I plopped into a seat, rolling up a sarong against the dirt streaked window for a pillow. Sleep.
7:00
I woke up from pressure against my knees as someone pressed into the seat in front of me. What do tall people do, if my knees knock the seat? Still no movement. More sleep.
9:00
A woman asks if anyone is sitting beside me. No. She leaves her bag.
9:30
Woman returns, retrieves the bag and selects another seat
9:40
A man sits beside me. Sleep is still a good idea.
10:30
I’m sweating profusely. Still at the bus station. I spy two empty seats… remaining pessimistic I sleep.
11:10
We make movement.
Brushing up on my arithmetic, that’s just over 4 hours on the bus and the journey has yet to begin. Thankfully, I made two trips to the toilet at the hostel in the morning, squeezing every drop out of the bladder. Trust me, no one wants to be the one who makes the bus stop along the side of the road. Squatting in snake invested brush with no real cover for privacy while the other riders peep at your awkwardness. Or wait for the next toilet stop… which is 12 hours away.
8:30 pm
Arrive home in Chipata.
What had I done to deserve this trip? I was summonsed to Immigration in Lusaka to retrieve my work permit. That took 2 hours. I compensated myself with 4 days of laying poolside (albeit at a cheap-o hostel where I shared a cabin with 7 other poverty stricken travelers), drinking cold beer, eating ice cream, and going dancing. Life was good… then I boarded the bus back to reality.
****
I’m typing up flip charts this evening. Products of group work activities from a workshop I helped to facilitate earlier today… thought I’d share a bit of the farmers’ thoughts written in the local language, Nanja.
- Maindedwe opita kumsika akhala obvuta
- Kubyala mbeu zosayenelelana ndi nyengo
- Misika lzi khala pafupi ndi alimi
- Miseu ikhale yokonzedwa bwino
I have absolutely noooooo idea what that says. I’ve become accustomed to thunderous laughter at my meager attempts at pronunciation of foreign languages. Some people are linguistically gift. I am not. Indeed, life would be so much easier in English… but would it be as interesting?
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