Not for the Weak Constitution

I will try my best to describe the African bus experience, but I am afraid I can only fall short; African buses, you see, involve so many sights, sounds, and, most importantly, smells, that putting them into words in the form of a story is like “painting a desert sunset in black and white.” I have taken buses before in developing countries, but Africa, well, Africa takes the cake.

Let me preface my story by recounting another enjoyable bus trip, this one in hyper-Saharan Egypt. Our group was returning to Cairo back from relaxing in the sun of Sharm el Sheikh. I would also like to mention that it is nearly impossible for me to fall asleep in public transportation. Airplanes provide the best chance to get some rest, mostly because you can always order more booze. Buses, however, especially the ones in Muslim Egypt, usually do not offer such a service. This particular carrier was called Nile Delta and it is famous within inner circle Egypt for being the most ill-conducive to Western tastes and comforts. It may not surprise you to learn that, despite full knowledge of this little tidbit, I was a strong advocate for taking this particular bus line only because our group could save a combined two dollars on fare. Our side won support and so I found myself sitting at the back of my bus and next to my good friend Jeremy, who suffers from a similar inability to sleep. This particular bus was a red-eye, which, upon reflection, makes quite a bit of sense, because I don’t think that it would be able to pass a police checkpoint in daylight. Fortunately the speaker directly above us was broken and it synced nicely with all of the other broken speakers on the bus. Entertainment was provided, free of cost, and Jeremy and I settled down and tuned in to the featured film: Dennis Rodman’s Oscar-worthy crowning off-court achievement, Double Team, costarring Jean Claude Van Damme. As soon as the horror show ended I began what is the hilarious display that is Joel Hedges falling asleep. For anyone who has ever witnessed this, you will know what I am talking about. First, the eyes close and the mouth opens, as if they are connected by some cruel biological beam. Thus, I am unable to see the faces of the other people staring at the glistening pool of drool forming in the corners of my mouth. Then, still awake mind you, my head begins to search for the nearest comfortable hold, which often involves contortions that invoke jealousy even among the best Chinese gymnasts. After resting semi-comfortably for 9.7 seconds my body spasms into another semi-uncomfortable position (possibly knocking into the person next to me or the cup of tomato juice in front of me), only to repeat the process once over again. I was fortunate in that I did not have to provide the entertainment for the remaining eight hours of the seven hour bus ride. Our driver, obviously a pious man, had come into possession of a tape of Quranic chanting. No music, just chanting, which he played on loop until we arrived in the Cairo bus park. Even despite the broken speakers, I now consider myself in league with the best Muslim muezzins.

This brings me to African bus story number two. This route was from Mbale in the eastern part of Uganda, to Lira, in the north, a 200 kilometer journey that should have taken a little under four hours. Hah! Welcome to Africa! I consulted with our field director before leaving on appropriate bus preparations, and asked him how long the trip would take. “The first time I made the trip it took me 8 hours, the second time it took 6 hours, and the third time, a scant 4 hours.” I was optimistic, picturing myself in Lira 4 hours later, early afternoon, perhaps relaxing by a swimming pool to escape the oppressive North Ugandan heat.

We opted for the Gateway bus service. Africans generally fall on the leaner side of the size spectrum, and I believe their seats are designed the way they are because of this. Two seats lie on one side of the bus, and three ultra narrow ones lie on the other. Being three white dudes traveling together, Brad, Jordan and I decided we would cram into a row on the three-seat side. Now, our shoulders, especially the Atlas-ian ones belonging to yours truly, are a bit bigger, and we must have looked like a big white tree, with Brad’s torso sprouting out into the aisle and Jordan’s sprouting out of the window. The first leg of the trip, from Mbale to the midpoint city of Soroti (100km away) took about 2 hours, but was tolerable aside from the lack of space. The stopover in Soroti, however, was where things began to fall apart. Our bus driver, apparently a regular Ugandan don juan, thought he would break up the drive by visiting his girlfriend. For two hours we sat on the steaming bus in a dustbowl in the middle of nowhere among an astonishing collection of bodily odors. Finally the driver makes it back to the bus, and we depart once again for the second leg: the rough 100km stretch of road from Soroti to Lira. Ugandan buses have a unique characteristic not found on buses in other parts of the world. Their back suspension system actually magnifies road inconsistencies, instead of dampening them. And African roads are anything but flat. Hot, sweaty, and with a head bouncing around like a jack-in-the-box I spent the next two hours trying hard not to think about swimming pools. The bus trip became even more fun during the home stretch, when something happened that has never happened to me before. Jordan and I were sitting in a row in the back of the bus, discussing the different kinds of neck surgery one can undergo, when I heard the splash of water coming from the row of seats behind us. It couldn’t be. Then came another loud splash, this one accompanied by a soft gagging sound. There is no way. Then the sound came a third time, and I looked over to my right to Jordan, about to ask him if my theory about the source of the splashing noise was correct. I didn’t need to; Jordan was on the verge of tears from holding in his laughter. Sure enough, the girl behind us was throwing up on floor right behind us. Jordan, once sufficient composure was regained, was finally able to say, “I can see why you wore long pants, Joel, I have vomit sprinkles all over the back of my legs.” Luckily for my stomach and Jordan’s legs we were already nearing our destination, because the girls purges set off a chain reaction. The woman in front of us, displaying the manners of a true public transport traveler, leaned over and began vomiting out of her window. So, for the remaining two or three kilometers, Jordan was getting vomit splash from two directions, in the face and in the back of the legs. Long pants would not have helped him with the former.

We took a taxi home.