We had a meeting last week in Tegeta, which is a ‘subdivision’ of Dar es Salaam, about an hour and a half in traffic from Gonzaga, the school where I teach. The new academic dean and I were to attend a meeting with academic deans from other local mission schools (schools with some religious affiliation) to discuss the most recent mock examinations administered by this group. These were taken following a first round of mock exams in May in preparation for the upcoming national mock examinations, all of which are done in preparation for the national examinations. A lot of testing; in fact, I think Tanzania has managed to outdo NCLB’s prolific assessment scheme, which is no small feat. Enough with the Tanzanian assessment system, however; this is supposed to be about the country’s transportation system, which is equally deserving of its own entry.
Tegeta, though the travel time may be misleading, is only 18 kilometres from school. The travel time, however, is about at standard for most major cities. However, I can’t say Boston offers the same adventure commuting in from Riverside. At 7:40 a.m., Emmanuel and I set out, first having to scramble across four lanes of traffic on a road where the pedestrian walks at his own risk to the boarding area. We waited roadside, watching the morning commuters pass us by in their respective daladalas (the local word for minibus). We waited as one full daladala after another headed to Mwenge, our transfer point, pulled into our waiting area. Slowing just enough so passengers could board and exit without injuring themselves, the conductor would holler out, “Ubungo, mia mbili, Mwenge.” After a half hour curbside, we reluctantly made the decision that we would board the following dala’ to Mwenge, regardless of how little space there appeared to be.
Our bus pulled in, we hesitated, it left. Another arrived and we forced ourselves into what was already an overloaded minibus. Standard daladalas are slightly smaller than a Volkswagen Westfalia. They are in fact Toyotas, and I believe the model in use was discontinued in Canada sometime in the mid-90’s because the vehicle failed to improve on its safety standards from the 1980’s. These buses are gutted upon arrival in Tanzania and are outfitted for maximum capacity: a back seat for four is installed (this usually is forced to hold five), along the right-side are three sets of two-seaters, and opposite them, on the left, save for the front row, are one-seaters, leaving an aisle the size of one seat, which in the last row is converted to a seat when the fold-down chair is dropped into place. Behind the front bench, a tire is cut width-wise and unfurled to create some cushioning for another bench above the vehicle’s engine (The tire is an added feature.). Crammed into the front, to the driver’s left, are two passengers, normally a couple of old men with whom no one seeks to quarrel. So in toll, there are seats for 18 people. Of course, we cram one more into the back seat and normally there are a couple of children resting on the laps of the fortunate few with seats to their name.
Then, we have standing room; if one is lucky, the owner has splurged and extended the ceiling upwards an extra foot. People will be crammed in so tight, as was the case last Wednesday morning, one barely needs to hold on to the bus’s edges, for one can rely on being supported by the persons in front and in back of you who are wedged up against the wall. The human body contorts in entirely different ways aboard a dala’: Feet can be planted aside the front row and yet somehow your chest will be pressing against the man whose rear end is two inches from the face of the unlucky person seated in the fold-down aisle seat. There is really no physical explanation, other than some distorted version of Parkinson’s Law. Instead of linking a certain act with an allotted period of time, the law might read that a minibus will fit as many people as need to board.
We were on board, we’d made it, we seemed to be last possible scragglers. And then, without anyone de-boarding, another two people climbed on at the next stop, and then a few more after them. We sat in morning traffic with arms wrapped around strangers, pressed against one another, but we finally arrived in Mwenge. We boarded another dala’, which was far less crowded now that we were headed outbound, and arrived at Tegeta at 9:20 a.m. with plenty of time to spare for our ten o’clock meeting…
The meeting was cancelled. Why weren’t we notified? Tanzanian custom holds that only confirmation warrants a phone call, cancellation is otherwise to be expected. Again, I am proven to be but a leaf on a river. Emmanuel, though he did not state this at Gonzaga, felt we should have called to confirm. Lesson learned. Emmanuel and I stopped to have tea and chapatti before beginning the harrowing journey back to Gonzaga and then we ventured back toward the city, although this time we were on the pleasant side of the morning commute.
