Sokon I

My internal alarm clock was as reliable as ever, waking me at 4 a.m. to catch a tuk-tuk at 5. I sat for 45 minutes watching the rain and wondering whether the pre-booked driver was reliable and would get me to the bus station on time. He was: to the minute.

Now Johni and Bahati, my room mates, had both lectured me sternly about the dangers of being out during the dark and the prevalence of thieves and other miscreants infesting the bus station. They insisted that they would get up when I left and give the driver explicit instructions with dire threats about seeing me and my luggage on to the bus itself. They were sleeping peacefully as I crept out.

In the event we arrived immediately in front of the Arusha Express bus as it reversed into its allotted parking space, so as soon as the door was opened I could leap aboard with my stuff. One or two tried to get my bag - to put it underneath or on the roof or who knows where, but the tuk-tuk driver Mroso Bajaji successfully fended them off.

My choice of seat was behind the driver, but the bus layout plan had not shown the engine air intake and filter between us. It proved to be the same height as my bag on the floor, so after admiring the steam-punk instrument panel, I settled down comfortably to doze with ample legroom to stretch out. Alas, ample African buttocks had compressed the ancient foam cushion, eventually reminding me of the route my sciatic nerve takes from around my knee to just above my coccyx.

The driver was obviously experienced and confident, throwing the 60 seater bus, (we cannot call it a coach, for they are reserve for the Dar es Salaam trip, "Royal class",) with verve and aplomb. Inferior motor bikes and tuk-tuks displayed their reverence for the king of the highway by moving onto the verge so that the bus could overtake without slowing down. All this I saw through the swirling rain and road spray, wiped into streaks by the tired wiper blades.

Along the way we stopped at seemingly random places to collect country folk, people squeezing inside and bags of beans / maize on top, momentum being so grudgingly lost that the bus was away again whilst the conductor was still on the ground. It reminded me of jumping onto the back of one of the pre-occupational health and safety, quintessential, red, London, double-decker buses.

The free flow of traffic on Tanzanian highways is impeded by two peculiarities: sleeping policemen and sleeping policemen.

The first type are found buried across the road on the access to built-up areas, like mini town walls, or straddling vulnerable infrastructure like bridges. Initially this meant slowing down to 30 kph or so to negotiate the obstacle and then blowing a substantial diesel smoke trail as the bus commander gunned the engine. After a few hours the strategy changed in order to lose the minimum amount of velocity. This maneuver required driving on the on-coming side of the road and veering diagonally across the bump before flicking the charabanc inline. Particularly useful when passing trucks and cars, but I was glad not to be at the back of the bus.

The second type are found comfortably waiting under trees on camp chairs with picnic items around them. They are to road users what fishermen are to fish, although in this case there is no alternative but to take the bait. It was sufficient to collect an autograph on the bus log and I guess the driver with the most signatures at the end of the month got a prize.

Another delay though less frequent, (only 4 or 5 in 1000 km,) was caused by driving over single axle weigh bridges. 7,200 kgs front and 9,800 kgs rear if you are interested.

Vehicles of character and a certain age frequently vociferate and this one had two squawks signifying disapproval. A loud banshee wail fading to an asthmatic wheeze as a speaker collapsed was caused I presume by an 80 kph bus speed limit. I wondered at first whether it was some sort of dead-man warning but since it provoked no reaction, I assumed that it wasn't. Or maybe it was and he was.

Once on the undulating road in the hills South of Arusha, a second cry of protest could be heard on the descent when the engine braking system was electronically activated. It might have been the sound of a thousand horses blowing foam after a good gallop, or it might have been the engine breaking apart, but the driver kept it going until the very bottom of the trough whereupon he needed to grind down a gear to negotiate the upward slope. Who needs inertia?

The schedule was so tight that rest stops were infrequent. We stopped once in a bus station where hawkers plied their wares through the windows of the bus; mainly peanuts, bananas and lolly water. I did notice the occasional fried something wrapped in the Guardian (Tanzanian version) but was not tempted. I brought some things with me to eat but never felt hungry.

Once we stopped in the middle of nowhere for the passengers to relieve themselves in the bushes. The driver nipped out quick and was back almost before the people had alighted: I wasted no time and returned to the sound of the engine being revved up. Oh what fun to see folk flushed out of the foliage like pheasants frightened by a gun dog.

The road down into Mbeya narrowed and the edges became ragged but we were due to arrive at 2300 hours and by golly we would. And we did.

By this time I was happy to get out and even happier to be met by Brother Michael, from the Benedictine monastery which will be my next workaway. He did not waste any time but whisked me away to a diocesan hostel where I could spend the night for about 10 euros, including 3 meals.Read more