Dodgy tro-tro rides and goat kebabs

Well, let's just say that all the fun of my relaxing Saturday afternoon (taking a cool shower, freshening up, painting my toenails pretty pink and relaxing with the lovely little children who love to come over and draw with the coloured chalk I brought) was swiped out completely after simply going to catch a bus.

I went for the tro at around 2. It turned up about an hour and fifteen minutes later, just about as I was getting to the end of my boredom and thinking I might just skip the trip and go back home instead. As the green monstrosity pulled in like Puff the Magic Dragon amidst a plume of smoke and a wail of crazy horn-type noises, the huge bundle of women, children, men, old ladies and guinea fowl, that were all sat under the precarious shade of a few umbrellas by the road side swarmed towards it like magnets, ramming themselves into the small gap in the side of the bus that I assume was meant to be the door. The bus was bigger than usual which I was excited about, little did I know this meant they would squeeze more on it that usual, and it would go far slower than usual.

It took no less than an hour and a half to load the bus, and by the time it was full I wasn't sure it would even be able to go anywhere after all, it was fuller than the tubes in London in rush hour. Being market day it was chock full of bags of all manner of things, some held second hand clothes, some an array of colourful underwear, others held masses of onions, big sticks of yam, and piles of garlic and ginger. Women wedged their children onto their laps, ready for breastfeeding at the slightest whimper, and farmers tucked their live guinea fowl under their seats. In amidst the noise of babbling ladies and the chugging engine (even though we had been parked still for an hour) I heard what sounded like a bunch of children crying and squealing at the tops of their lungs coming from the roof. I craned my neck to try and look up, and saw some flip flops dangling off the dry and cracked feet of a man who was clearly sitting above me on the roof, and then I saw the head of a goat flop over the side too, and realised there was a whole load of them up there. This being farming land I suppose I should have expected it, my only fear was that they were going to add a cow to the load and the whole thing would just collapse!

Once you're on the tro you're on, and there is no getting off! Everyone is packed in so tightly that whatever position you find yourself in, usually knees under chin, face in someone's armpit, bottom half on half off the seat, and feet awkwardly tucked between the squawking guinea fowl and a bunch of bean plants, being incessantly pecked at and tickled by feathers along the way, that's the way you will stay, even until after you emerge from the whole thing at the end. We set off and travelled a whole good five minutes, before stopping at the customs barrier for an inspection, where everything that has been carefully loaded like a piece of jenga artwork, was bit by bit unpacked from the bus and inspected before being re-loaded once again for the trip. And we're only going one hour to Bolga, patience is saving my blood pressure from exploding!

As we set off again and headed out of Zebilla, i was waiting for the stage at which the tro-tro's usually speed up and become super fast death trap vehicles, whizzing along at break-neck speeds, darting in and around the pot-holes as you go! But no, this was not going to happen with this bus. It stumbled and bumbled along, each pot-hole (and there are many) a chore to navigate, and each bump another dint in the tro's frame. This was going to take forever.

As it took so long, the sun began to set, and I realised there was no chance I would make my destination before dark, which was a bit of a worry seeing as we are not supposed to travel after dark due to hold ups that have been happening recently. Needless to say my nerves were slightly on edge as we crept forward in this rickety old bus, and watched as other tro-tro speeded on past and left us literally eating their dust, yuk. Then all of a sudden a huge row broke out between the man sitting next to me, and a very fiery lady at the back of the bus. As the row was in Kusaal I did not understand a word, but it was clear she was shouting some pretty serious obscenities at him, and son enough the whole thing came to blows. The man (no idea how he managed to move) clambered out of his seat towards the back, and the woman was shoving her baby at me whilst she went to flail her arms at him. How on earth can a sprawling brawl fit on this bus?!!! But it did. The bus stopped and next the whole bunch of passengers all engaged in some kind of mediation, which thankfully brought the fight from a fully blown boil to a simmer, and we continued on the journey, me still with baby in my lap, staring at me with what looked like a mixture of curiosity and fear.

This was the first stage of my journey over to the Upper West side, where we had been asked to travel to for a 3 hour meeting, I was starting to seriously wonder if this was going to be worth it. After what seemed like an age, I saw some lights blinking on the side of the road that indicated we were close to where I was to get off and meet my volunteer friends. I shouted 'BUS STOP!' in the usual way at the driver and as the bus lurched to a halt I carefully picked my way out of the sprawling mess and handed the baby back in through the window to the fiery lady at the back. I unfolded myself into a more normal upright position, and went to meet my friends. I never thought I would feel this way about goat kebabs, but I could smell them cooking nearby, and when one volunteer suggested it, I couldn't resist, they were scrumptious!! And, I think, well earned.

If this was only a one hour tro-ride, god only knows what I'll be persuaded to eat after our 10 hour bus journey to Wa tomorrow. Is that roast donkey I can smell...?

With love from a journey-bruised and tired Em

Xx