There is nothing as wonderful as finding adventure and amusement in the mundane, in this case, my daily commute to work.
Every morning I walk down to the main road and stand in a shady spot next to the Sunbird Hotel. The morning traffic whizzes by, interspersed with the occasional cyclist often accompanied by a passenger, a towering load of goods, or an attached Nyamba (meat) cart. Once I spot the minibus, I throw an unenthusiastic arm at a 30 degree angle from my body and pat the air as is the customary fashion to hail a minibus.
It is my opinion that minibuses are the Mary Poppins’ bag of Africa and somehow they always manage to fit one more person, suitcase, bag of grains, chicken, tire, or plank of lumber… So when I’m not trying to best my personal record of 23 people crammed into what is ultimately a van meant for 15, I collect different kinds of minibus experiences:
Name that minibus!
Dragon’s Breath: This bus would hiss and sigh with any acceleration, at which point exhaust fumes would seep into the cabin giving you the impression from the sounds and toxic smells that you were inside a dragon’s mouth. Take that Gisapi!
A la Flintstones: There were so many holes in the bottom of this bus that I figured we would be forced to drop our feet down and run. It’s the truest from of renewable energy for those moments when the engine gives out.
Escaping Alcatraz: This bus had a door that would get stuck at every stop where 3 men with much consternation would wrestle it open. Some passengers who grew frustrated with the wait decided to crawl/climb/grapple out via the back window.
The Narcoleptic: Half the time we were “moving” the bus wasn’t even on. Fortunately, we had hills in our favor because the engine required a rolling start to run. Wake up honey!
The Ejector: A bus where the passengers all got kicked off because the driver decided he wanted to turn around and not take us to our final destination…
Armored vehicle: Ahhhh, to open the door and have a large military rifle staring you in the face. This was followed by a delicate dance around a loaded gun to find a spot. Please let him have been an astute student during the gun safety session!
The Bruiser: At least once a week I get stuck on the edge of the bench closest to the door opening and when the conductor slams the door, he successfully smashes my thigh. In combination with the random metal rods that stick out and catch you as you exit or enter, none of my pants are left unscathed.
The Yoga Master: The bus where you get stuck at the very back and nobody wants to leave their seat to make room for you to get out, so you roll out your best combination of tucks, back bends, and leap frogs to finish off in a Gumby limbo slide out of the door. Oh no I forgot my 10 bags of groceries!
The Negotiator: When 2 minibuses arrive at the same time, and then the conductors argue fervently with you in the middle over which one of their rides is sweeter.
I was chatting with a Malawian friend the other day who had lived his entire life in country, yet never ridden a minibus, and for the briefest moment I was jealous. The thought of not looking like a crazy, disheveled woman every time I exit the bus before work sounded too good to be true. I soon realized however, that I was glad to have this time where my day synced up perfectly with a majority of the people in the country. It’s those small moments out of your comfort zone where you make a connection with a single person or a group over the little bumps in the road. On the minibus, this azungo gets to experience the joy of making faces at a baby to elicit laughter or unadulterated fear followed by prolonged crying to everyone’s amusement, the short English/Chichewa lessons in passing, and the meeting of a pastor to discuss the challenges of addressing homosexuality in Malawi. I never know what my daily commute will bring me, but good or bad; these are glimpses into the real Malawian life.