I have to admit, the eight-hour bus trip to Iringa was the part of my journey I was dreading the most. Stan had described it as “brutal”—crowded, hot, bumpy and breakneck speeds. The bus station was pure chaos—people shouting, buses rushing in and out, dust, food and flies everywhere. I turned into a nervous wreck as we waited. What if I got on the wrong bus? What if I got car sick and threw up? What if I get left at one of the rest stops? (And as I am slowly learning, my Swahili is terrible, so that would be really bad.)
Thankfully Allen had planned to take to bus back to Iringa with me. He took good care of his charge, managing to distract me from the fact that we were speeding along a rather narrow and bumpy road, passing big trucks along hairpin curves. While I snapped photos out the window Allen read my copy of The New Yorker and listened to my i-pod. (He is now very “up” on American culture.)
The rest stops are hilarious. You pull up and all of a sudden there are young men shoving bags of cashews, bottled water and roasted corn in the window for you to purchase, hands furiously exchanging goods and money. (If none of those things strike your fancy you can also find oranges, pineapples or big bottles of bright orange Fanta. Or a few baskets. Total hodgepodge.) Stops are quick, maybe all of ten minutes, and then the driver impatiently honks his horn to climb back on board with no head count to see if anyone is missing. The bright spot was the bus driver’s little girl—she let me swoop her off the stairs during our stops with a big flourish.
As we edged closer to Iringa the topography changed to lush, green mountains dotted with cashew and banana trees. Every now and then you’d see a perfect little thatched roof hut peeking out of the foliage. As Stan had promised, we had sightings of giraffes, elephants and yes, baboons.
I was relieved and excited to arrive in Iringa and see Stan waiting for us at the bus stop. After months of talking about and planning for this trip, I had finally made it. And I didn’t get lost along the way, or more importantly, throw up.
Stan and I met up with our hostess Angelina over dinner (I had something called “chicken karma”—quite delicious) where we laughed about my journey and talked about schools, politics and the silly songs we sing during Rotary meetings. Lights out under a mosquito net in my cozy room in Angelina’s lovely flat. Tomorrow, another adventure!
Thankfully Allen had planned to take to bus back to Iringa with me. He took good care of his charge, managing to distract me from the fact that we were speeding along a rather narrow and bumpy road, passing big trucks along hairpin curves. While I snapped photos out the window Allen read my copy of The New Yorker and listened to my i-pod. (He is now very “up” on American culture.)
The rest stops are hilarious. You pull up and all of a sudden there are young men shoving bags of cashews, bottled water and roasted corn in the window for you to purchase, hands furiously exchanging goods and money. (If none of those things strike your fancy you can also find oranges, pineapples or big bottles of bright orange Fanta. Or a few baskets. Total hodgepodge.) Stops are quick, maybe all of ten minutes, and then the driver impatiently honks his horn to climb back on board with no head count to see if anyone is missing. The bright spot was the bus driver’s little girl—she let me swoop her off the stairs during our stops with a big flourish.
As we edged closer to Iringa the topography changed to lush, green mountains dotted with cashew and banana trees. Every now and then you’d see a perfect little thatched roof hut peeking out of the foliage. As Stan had promised, we had sightings of giraffes, elephants and yes, baboons.
I was relieved and excited to arrive in Iringa and see Stan waiting for us at the bus stop. After months of talking about and planning for this trip, I had finally made it. And I didn’t get lost along the way, or more importantly, throw up.
Stan and I met up with our hostess Angelina over dinner (I had something called “chicken karma”—quite delicious) where we laughed about my journey and talked about schools, politics and the silly songs we sing during Rotary meetings. Lights out under a mosquito net in my cozy room in Angelina’s lovely flat. Tomorrow, another adventure!
1 comment:
Dear Paula,
What an incredible blog. I tried to send a comment and could not get Google to accept my account info. So---I'm trying again.
I'll be reading your accounts as well as Stan's each day. Hello to Barbara!
Love, Ellen
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