Common Humanity is Far Too Uncommon

Lake Victoria, Mwanza, Tanzania

In the early morning hours, I was looking for the bus that would take me from Dar es Salaam to Mwanza, Tanzania – another 15-hour bus trip that would take me all the way from the extreme right to the extreme left side of the country and from the shores of the Indian Ocean to the banks of Lake Victoria.

The station itself has the typical level of chaos to which I have become accustomed, although in this case it was hard to find the right bus in the massive, dark and poorly lit station.  When I arrived at the bus, it was difficult to push through the throngs of people who were jostling to get their baggage loaded underneath, especially since there were two equally large buses on either side of mine, also with passengers struggling to stow their belongings and board their respective transport.  You learn quickly that in many places you have be prepared to sacrifice your body, much less the two-foot personal space bubble we are so attached to in the west, and fight your way to get where you need to go.

Backpack secured in the compartment, I board the bus and realize that, to my surprise, the seat next to mine is empty.   Finally wising up, I decide to purchase the seat in order to give myself a little more elbowroom.  The additional expense is more than worth it as buses cram extra seats in wherever they can and the seat in front of me, unreclined, is typically resting firmly against my knees.



We pull out of Dar es Salaam’s station and before long I am asleep. We reach Morogoro, about four hours due west from Dar, and I wake up as we stop in order to drop off and take on passengers.

One of the new passengers is a very old man, who laboriously hobbles up the stairs to the second story of the bus.  He slowly shuffles from the front and makes his way towards the back with difficulty as he drags his lame right leg, aided by a wooden cane that looks like a worn walking stick he most likely fashioned himself some time ago.

Carrying nothing, the old man navigates his way past the other passengers and baggage in order to make his way to sit on one of the bags of rice laying in the middle of the narrow aisle near the back row of seats.  As he gets closer and closer, I know that my guilt will not allow me to let him pass without offering him the empty seat next to mine.

He eagerly sits and nods to me in acknowledgment.  The man’s clothes are muted and drab, threadbare and stained.  I am thankful he’s slight as it allows me a bit more room, but I soon realize that being over-sized is not as bad as being unhygienic and smelling like rotten vegetables.  I crack the window a bit more and settle in for the remainder of the trip – only 10 or so more hours to go.



As the bus rolls on, we do not talk to each other.  I am engrossed in my book and he dozes, but it wouldn’t have been possible anyway as he did not speak English.  A few hours later, we come to a weigh station and as is typical, vendors rush to the bus side to sell food, drinks, and other goods.   The old man reaches across me with a handful of coins and shouts down to get the attention of one of the vendors outside.  The odor hits me like a sack of old socks.

Snacks

His voice is soft, like a whisper, but not only because it’s weak but almost as though he’s used up all of the few words he has left.  Strained and weary and using only the bare minimum necessary to complete the transaction.

The man is frail, using much of his strength to lean far enough out the window, so I motion for to give me the coins so I can give them to the saleswoman.  Our eyes meet and I notice the whites of his eyes are nearly as brown as their center, mixed with blood red bursts of capillaries like a the traces of his long life.  Tired and dimmed like the fading light from a flashlight whose batteries are nearly exhausted.

I shout down to the woman and hand over the coins.  The man says something to her in Kiswahili and she hands back two small packages of groundnuts – they look like miniature peanuts.  I give them to the man as he sits back into his seat.

A moment later, the bus’ engine roars and we lurch back onto the main road.  I feel a tapping on my arm and look over.  The man has outstretched his deeply wrinkled and rough hand.  He opens his thin fingers to show me the small bag of nuts and taps me again and nods for me to take them.  “Oh no, thank you”, I say earnestly as I put up my hands to accentuate my point.  He taps me again, harder this time, and nods again towards the nuts in his hand more forcefully.   “That’s okay.  I’m fine,” I say to him.  He says something I can’t understand in his low whisper as he takes my hand and gently places the bag in my palm.

I take the groundnuts and look up at him.  He gives me a slight smile and a quick nod as he turns back towards the front.  We sit in silence enjoying the snack he has provided for us.



Any kind of road travel throughout Africa is dangerous.  Bus and van drivers speed, make risky overtakings of others, and the vehicles are not well maintained.  In 2007, in the 46 African countries comprising the World Health Organisation's African region, more than 234,700 people were estimated to have died on roads. This constituted one-fifth of the world's road deaths that year, yet the region has only 2% of the world's vehicles.

We came across a very bad accident along the way.  A packed mini-van was hit by a large truck carrying cases of soda.  In addition to the scattered glass, there were thousands of small fish strewn along the path the van had taken after it was hit.  People in the crowd said that many passengers on the van had been killed.

Crash

Fish

Van and Truck Crash

Salvaging the fish off the road

Well into the night and several hours later, the bus drifts to a slow stop on the side of the road adjacent to a ubiquitous snatch of rickety roadside stalls.  The driver of the bus hops out and disappears off into the dark.  Thanks to Google maps and a functional connection, I see that we are about 10 kilometers from our final destination and, for me, a much needed shower and a bed.

Ten minutes pass and the driver has not returned.  The driver’s door is still wide open and the bus idling in place.  After a full twenty minutes have gone by, the engine sputters to a halt after a last shudder.  Still no driver.

My fellow passengers spontaneously begin to rise from their seats, gather up their belongings and exit the bus.  I decide to follow suit.

I step down to the hard pavement of the road and almost land in the three-foot deep concrete culvert, impossible to see in the moonless midnight sky.  It’s cold and wet following a rain shower.  Save for the smattering of stalls nearby, there is nothing but empty road in either direction.

After I gather my backpack from under the bus and contemplate my next move, I hear a loud thud behind me.  I turn and see the old man face down at the bottom of the culvert.   Another nearby passenger and I jump down to help him.  He is conscious but slightly woozy and he has blood streaming down his forehead.

The cut isn’t bad and with a few napkins we get it to stop.  After a few moments, he seems dazed but okay.  A dallah-dallah (mini van) pulls up.  All the passengers milling about make a bum rush for van and quickly piles in.  Not having acted fast enough, the jam-packed van pulls off leaving me the last man standing on the side of the road.

Brief bus stop

For a few moments I just stare after the van watching it’s one working tail light get smaller and smaller in the distance until it disappears.  It is eerily quiet with the only light coming from the quickly fading headlights of the dead and pilotless bus behind me.  As I try to calculate the walk into town, I hear the putter of a small engine coming up the road and turn to see a small motorcycle crest the hill.

The driver pulls over and says “get on.”  The bike is a tiny 150 cc motor and the guy is half the size of my big backpack.  With no other option, despite hearing the loudly disapproving voice of my mother in my head, I sit behind him but on the luggage rack since my small backpack is slung in front of me.

Wasting no time, the driver lurches forward toward the road and I nearly topple off the back.  Gripping the seat with everything I’ve got, we speed down the wet tarmac, guided only be the tiny headlamp.  I shout over the motor that I’m not in a hurry and that he can go slow, but since he’s wearing the sole helmet, I don’t think he hears me or just chooses to ignore my pleas.

Racing down the road toward Mwanza at midnight on the slick road, passing over speed bumps without regard, a giant backpack and no helmet, I begin to imagine my the headline announcing my death:  “Idiot dies in obviously stupid accident”.

As we approach Mwanza, the lights in the valley below on the shores of Lake Victoria rise to meet us.  We ease into the silent and empty streets at the center of town and I tap the driver to let me off, feeling as though I have pushed my luck far enough for one day.

In celebration of my surviving another long journey, I splurge on a room at the best hotel in town.  The $80 a night room is about four times my usual budget, but I am thankful for the hot shower and crisp sheets.

As I drift off, I can’t help but wonder about the old man and where he’s sleeping that night or if he realizes how much of am impression he left on me with his simple act of common humanity that is far too uncommon.   Sometimes inspiration finds us in unexpected places.


P.S. – the groundnuts tasted like shit.

UP NEXT:  Bribed Passage on a Cargo Ship from Mwanza to Entebbe, Uganda