At home,
transportation is relatively straightforward. You walk. You drive a car. You
ride a bike. You take the subway. Maybe for the envied few, you hop on a
scooter or motorcycle. Bing, bang, boom—you arrive. In just about every other
country I have traveled in outside of Europe, this has rarely, if ever been the
case. The straightforwardness that is. Rather, in Morocco, squished beyond
reason with five others in the back seat or two more in the front, you brave
the hairpin turns of the white Mercedes grand taxis, racing to beat some
imaginary clock ticking in the next town, counting down the number of
passengers a driver can acquire in a day if they don’t fly to the finish line.
In Vietnam, you brace yourself for the sea of motorbikes as you weave in and
out of traffic in search of something resembling a sidewalk, also often teeming
with pedestrians and the more than stray motorbike. Thailand sports red truck songtaews with makeshift benches installed
beneath canopied roofs that serve as covered transportation devices. And if you
are not a fan of shared transport, hop a tuk
tuk and voila! Arrivederci sidewalk, hello open road.
Yet despite the relative ease of getting around once you’ve identified a mode of movement, the lead
up to departure is nothing short of harrowing for the average unwitting
vacationer. A conversation might go something like this one I had on more than
one occasion with rickshaw drivers in India:
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| Indian Rickshaw and driver (online image) |
Blank stare.
“Good
morning!”
Blank stare.
Wad of betelnut and saliva splatters pavement inches away.
“I would like
to go to the market.”
Head bobbles
side to side, a barely perceptible nod somewhere in there.
“How much?”
“[INSERT
INSANELY EXORBITANT PRICE].”
“Yesterday it
was [INSERT HIGH, BUT REASONABLE PRICE FOR A FOREIGNER.]”
Head bobbles
again, this time more aggressively. No nod.
“Okay,
[INSERT LOWERED PRICE STILL HIGHER THAN YESTERDAY]. It’s a very good price, Jii.”
Accent elevated on the very. My head bobbles, a barely perceptible nod complete
with smile as I begin to enter rickshaw. There is a pause, a grunt, and the
suffocating blast of exhaust fumes as he relents, bobbling his head from side
to side in what might be satisfaction or dismay. Uncertain. (Note: Shaking
of the head does not always mean no
in India, more frequently it is a sign of thinking!)
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| Fully loaded piki piki/ boda boda |
In Tanzania,
much like Kenya, there are a few recognized modes of public transport. This
includes the private taxi, usually a white Toyota sedan or other make of some
sort displaying the driver’s ID and registration in the window if it’s legit.
Taxis run at reasonable to sky high rates depending on location of pick up,
savvy of passenger, and the mood of the driver, distance notwithstanding.
Meters? Don’t joke. A similar set of
bargaining gymnastics ensue whenever one is approached, including “friend”
drivers who are go-to’s after a ring on the mobile in a pinch. If distances are
short or the wallet is thin, then a boda
boda or piki piki is the man of
choice (I’ve yet to see a single female and doubt there would be any for
safety, culture, etc.). These would-be racecar drivers are in fact moto-taxis
that zip around from point to point, weaving in and out of traffic when taxis
are grounded. Grueling work, especially when many rent their motos for the day,
sometimes at a rate 75% of their average daily earnings (remember that the next
time you haggle viciously over 500 shillings (approx. 33 cents)). (In Arusha,
we’ve no tuk tuks, or bajajis as they are more locally known
elsewhere in the country.) Definitely did a victory dance the day I managed to explain to a piki piki driver that I needed pick up in thirty minutes followed by a trip to an airline office, but first can we stop at the bank and then can you wait 15 minutes and drop me near this one hotel near by that club- do you know it?- and can we please please set a good price- in Swahili no less!
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| Taking life pole pole |
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| Official White Taxi (online image) |
And then. The
mother transport of them all, the famed dalla
dalla. This exquisite beast is very much the same as a Kenyan matatu, albeit with slightly lowered
incident of overt crime and much more reach to rural areas. Resembling a
Peruvian microleta, jam-packed with
as many people as can stand, sit, squeeze, and squish inside, it is by far the
most economical way to get around. For the more adventurous vacationers, it’s a
novelty. For locals, it’s a necessity. But passenger, beware. Walking past a
group of dalla dallas is a bit like
wandering into a den of ravenous wolves, each shouting destinations and snarling
in turn for your business. What do you mean
you don’t need to go 4km outside of town? Surely you must be mistaken about
your destination. I will convince you otherwise. If you’re really in for an
authentic treat, you might climb inside a van only to be promptly ripped from
your seat and out of the vehicle by a rival collector screaming that this van
stole his business. Then you might be grabbed by six pairs of hands wrenching
at your arms, backpack, and bits of your jacket, all yanking in different
directions with you trying not to scream, but all the while struggling against
them, until a knight in shining cargo shorts comes to force them from your
limbs, urging a panic-stricken you to run on. That might happen. Maybe.
My first
actual trip onboard, I prayed no one would talk to me. So long as I kept my
mouth shut and my scarf draped about my shoulders like the local women, I was
incog-Negro. Every time a pair of eyes wandered my way, I averted my sight,
careful to look absorbed in an errant piece of thread on my backpack— out, out
rogue thread! Before I knew it, we were off, mostly comfortably seated. Within
two or three curbside stops, however, we suddenly had about thirty crammed into
the twelve person passenger vehicle. Many sat on floors, crouched near the
sliding door, or like the door cash collector, just hung out the side. My head
squashed beneath the armpit of the collector (who collects the coins and bills
for service from each passenger), locked in an intimate embrace (or
unintentional headlock), I discovered what I have come to recognize as the
stages of…natural scents. And boy there are stages.
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| Dalla Dalla (online image) |
There is the
early morning “Ooh! I forgot to grab my deo stick! Ah, no worries, it’s a short
day” and the “Wow, it’s hotter than I thought today. Hmmm, this might not work
out so well” and even the “At least I washed this shirt last week sometime.
That should probably do for now.” My personal favorite (or least favorite,
depending) is the “Well, the work day is pretty much done. I’m going home now.
Who cares anyway?” Now, naïve though it may be to envision such mental
exchanges, I like to think that something
of the sort crosses minds throughout the day, though honestly I doubt it.
Most days it’s little bother with fresh air rushing in through the windows and
the cool, brisk mountain air of Arusha swooshing down from Mt. Meru and
Kilimanjaro. And then other days…
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| Chartered a dalla dalla all our own! |
Back in the
dalla dalla, I am minding my own business, content with myself for having
navigated all on my own for the first time, cozying up with the door collector
in our intimate embrace, having a cheerful day aaaaand a woman is flying out
the side door. Yes. Hmmm. Well, she’s out now. Okay she’s landed on the ground.
Not quite on her feet, but no broken bones. Suddenly there is shouting. Was
that not her stop? Ah, perhaps she did not
intend to eject herself so roughly. I guess I should I leave? No, play it
cool, distant, aloof like everyone else. Stare a little, but don’t look too
concerned. Be nosy, but don’t prompt questions. Blend in. Glance casually at
her, no looks of alarm. People fly out of minivans every day. Every day.
That’s one way to get
around Tanzania. I think I'll stick to staying in dalla dallas.
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