A Daladala is never full..

On Saturday, Gertrude, Happy & I meet in town to go shopping. Happy says she knows of one place that’s very cheap, but it’s a little ways out of town, so we’ll have to take the bus. We walk, stroll really, at an amazingly slow pace, I walk as slow as I possibly can, but having such long legs, I have to keep stopping so that I can walk with my friends. We stroll in the direction of the bus stop, an extremely busy parking lot jammed with daladalas, taxis and full size coach buses headed on their usual route, wherever you would like to go, or to Nairobi or Dar es Salaam. Daladalas are everywhere, running people all over town, they are color coded, but I haven’t figured out what any color actually indicates. As we approach the bus stop, straggler vehicles that didn’t make it into the congested lot are waiting for passengers to pick up. Men stand outside the open slider door, yelling, calling out the route name and stops, hustling people into their vehicles. These “conductors” are not passive. We try to walk by a daladala with a green band painted down it and 2 men step in our path, arms extended as if they are herding the 3 of us into their van, calling out the stops and I don’t know what else in Swahili. Happy pushes one aside and shoves through, Gertrude and I follow as we make our way to a van with a yellow band and step inside. Daladalas are no bigger than a VW bus, but they are gutted to the metal and outfitted with tightly packed vinyl seats. The 3 of us squeeze in the 2nd to last row. After picking up a few more passengers, the conductor slams on the roof a few times to signal the driver and the bus tears out of its spot. Arusha is crowded and the daladala zooms through town around people walking, men pushing or pulling large wooden carts full of produce, shoes or other goods for sale, taxis and cars that just aren’t moving fast enough. There aren’t really any driving rules in Tanzania, or at least that I can tell. You can pass people at any time, on either side and motorcycles just fly down the middle of the road, dodging cars and Land Rovers on both sides. The daladala stops almost every 5 minutes to swap passengers, every time swerving suddenly off the side of the road when the conductor spots someone looking like they want a ride. I can’t tell if they pull off for people that look like they might have money, white tourists or if they are just hollering at girls along the way. Every time we approach a “bus stop”, the conductor, who is already hanging halfway out the window, swings the slider door open before we even come close to stopping and stands on the step, hanging out the side of the vehicle, holding onto the inside of the roof with his fingertips. He bangs on the roof repeatedly and yells more things I don’t understand, people get on and off; he collects their shillings. If a guy is getting on, sometimes the bus doesn’t stop at all, the door opens, the driver slows down and the guy runs and jumps onto the daladala like he’s jumping a train. When I think I cannot possibly squish over anymore, we pull over and pick up 3 more people. I am crammed in next to Gertrude and poor Happy is pressed up against the window. My knees are digging into the metal seat frame in front of me so hard, I know I will have bruises. People stand along side what you may call an isle, bent over the people seated in front of them, their cheeks practically resting on the seated passenger’s head. I count 22 people. Personal space is truly an American standard. We race along the road to the market, packed like sardines. Actually, among the black plastic bags and wrapped bundles, someone is definitely carrying fish and the daladala is filled with the smell of seafood that was probably sitting in the hot sun. I take note of the irony. Between the pungent smell of dried fish and the diesel exhaust that is coming out of the truck we are seriously tailgating, I try to hold my breath. It’s around 85 degrees and I can feel the sweat and coco butter starting to get slimy under my knees. I am wearing a tank top and billowy skirt. The man behind me is wearing long pants and a pullover fleece. The girl in the front is wearing a long sleeved, ribbed sweater. My Massachusetts winter blood cannot thin out fast enough, I’m sweating profusely. The large woman in the polyester business suit practically on my lap isn’t helping. After about half an hour we arrive at the market and the daladala bursts with passengers. I cannot get out fast enough. I dig into the pocket in my purse to pay the conductor. The entire trip is 1000 Tsh, the equivalent to 75 cents.