Riding the Bus

It seems like a good portion of my life has been spent on a bus recently, but even as I write that, I realize that it started way before “recently.” Not elementary school-recently. I mean, I totally missed that “yellow school bus” experience. I don’t think I’ve ever ridden in one, but I associate that with typical American suburban life of TV, movies, and books I read.  However, when I reached high school and was allowed to go off to boarding school, we rode the night bus back and forth from home on holidays long enough to make it worth while. I did not really enjoy that experience. For one, we were almost always the last to leave and for two, I don’t like traveling at night because I can never sleep. Although, once I may have fallen asleep because my squishy green CD case full of American CDs was stolen while I was either sleeping or not paying attention. Another time when our holiday coincided with a big national holiday, it took us 24 hours to drive what usually took only 12 hours (the distance from Nashville to Memphis approximately, which takes 3-4 hours depending on your driving speed for those not familiar with TN geography, which is somewhat similar to Java geography). I’m pretty sure all of us foreign kids made that trip way worse for everyone else on the bus, as we were in high holiday spirits and slightly delirious from lack of sleep and the stash of candy that was our only food. I definitely remember one of the boys from my sister’s class putting a packet of hot chocolate mix, the kind with the dehydrated marshmallows, into a water bottle to see how it would taste. I will say, the marshmallows did not do so well.

Baby Coach-the bus I took to Uganda. Don't think of it as "Little Baby Coach," think of it as "Hey Good Looking Baby Coach." It was more of that kind of vibe

Pile of water bottles on the border of SSudan

Then there was the time I decided to backpack through Southeast Asia by myself. I mostly rode buses the whole way because it was cheapest. I spent less than $500 for the whole trip (4 countries), including visas, transportation, hotels, food, souvenirs. Looking back on that, agreeing to ride to the border of China in a van with two Chinese guys I met in Laos was not my most brilliant idea. I see now that my guardian angels must have been working overtime keeping me safe in the remote border town where we stopped at 3am to sleep until daylight when the border would open again. Then I got on a bus in Kunming, China, which broke down 9 times (several of those times we had to catch a ride with a different bus), finally getting me back to my home in Shenzhen 3 days later. I had run out of money after buying the ticket and I had no food or water for about 48 of those hours. I was invited to eat dinner with the bus driver, being the novel Chinese-speaking foreigner freak-show. I ate well that time, asking only about the strange bone-filled meat, which turned out to be the back of frogs caught in the nearby rice fields.

Mundri Express

So riding buses in Africa hasn’t been too bad. I take the lovely Mundri Express from Mundri to Juba, which lasts anywhere from 6 to 9 hours. I decided that I should stop counting only the hours I spend on the bus and count from when I’m told to arrive at the bus station. For Mundri Express, I’m supposed to be there at 8:30am and my conscientious colleagues always make sure I’m there on time. Then we wait for 2 hours for everyone else to show up.  The most exciting part of the trip is wondering if there will be any bathroom breaks. I’ve learned that every time we stop for whatever reason, military checkpoints or to pick up new passengers, people jump off the bus and run to the bushes to relieve themselves.  Sometimes a passenger will pull himself up to the front of the bus and sheepishly tap the driver on the shoulder, while crossing his legs and bouncing up and down, to ask for a moment.  It’s kind of funny if the bus starts to take off before people are finished, because they chase after it, pulling up their pants and banging on the sides of the bus to make it stop. It also kind of makes me nervous when I’m one of those who jumped off and ran into the bushes because I really don’t want to get left behind in the middle of the jungle. But usually, I’m the only khawaja so I tend to be hard to miss, and I doubt they would leave me. That’s what I tell myself anyway. It is so hard to pee when you can’t relax…

Recently, I took an impromptu trip to Uganda by bus, which adds in that other exciting element of travel—land border crossings. They are much different from showing up in an airport at passport control, though the same procedure is being done. In an airport there are generally signs that are somewhat easy to follow. If all else fails, you can follow the crowd, and if you go to the wrong place there are always helpful security guards to yell at you and point you back in the right direction.

Walking the border back to SSudan

The Ugandan/South Sudan border is not quite so easy to figure out. For one, I’m pretty sure I could escape the bus and run into whichever country I feel like visiting and back. There are also no signs for where you should go. I nearly missed the South Sudan exit stamp because the South Sudanese people on the bus were not getting out to get the stamp. I picked a girl in brightly colored clothing who got off the bus and followed her as she ignored the building with the sign marked “Entrance” and went around to the police sitting in the back behind a barred window. She handed her passport, got the stamp and raced back to the bus. I did the same. I found that if you are not fast there, you have to walk the 2km/1mi (see how I did that? You’re welcome, Americans) across the border to Uganda. Usually I like walking, and I relish the chance to stretch my legs, but the day I was there, the river had flooded and the water was up to the waist of many of the people that we observed walking the border. I was glad I’d made it back on to my bus. On the Uganda side, though, I had to cross the flooded street to get to the immigration building. Many helpful motorcycle entrepreneurs offered their services, but I spurned them, thinking that I would get wetter riding with them than I would holding up my skirt and carefully wading through, trying not to fall in concealed pot-holes. I was successful—the water was only up to my knees on the path I chose. While getting my passport stamped, I joked with the immigration officer, asking if he’d come to work in a boat. He took it seriously and said that he lived in the area, so he hadn’t. But he was very nice and friendly, even though I don’t speak Swahili or any of the Ugandan languages (speaking the language has typically been the only way I’ve gotten immigration officers to be friendly). The rest of the trip was mostly uneventful, except when I arrived at my destination, which was not the primary destination of the bus. I had to climb over everyone’s luggage in the aisle and stumble down the stairs out to the street, while friendly hands kept me from falling on my face, as the bus slowed down a bit to let me jump out.

The market didn't get much business that day

Took this photo from the bus--that's the road I walked over

Those houses in the back were totally collapsed--mud isn't really waterproof

I thought once that we would end up
like this when we fell into a pothole
 and tipped over at a 45 degree angle
 with the ground, but we made it!

I knew that my return trip would be more interesting, as most buses originate in Kampala, not Gulu, where I was. The people at the bus stop who sold me my ticket said to call them at 5am for details on the bus’s location. They said the bus usually arrived between 5:30 and 6:00.  At 3:00am, I was awakened at my Guest House by the very loud doorbell. I figured that didn’t bode well for me, even if it wasn’t my ride to the station, I was missing precious minutes of sleep.  Turns out it was my ride. The bus company had called them, saying the bus was there waiting for me, and to come now. Actually, that was a little white lie on their part, but it worked. I threw on the clothes I had been wearing the day before because they were still laying out, stuffed everything into my bag and ran to the car, which whisked me off right away to the bus stop. We were about 20 minutes early, but it allowed me to repack a bit and get a drink of water.

I made no friend on the Friendship bus
 back from Uganda

The first half of the trip I was sitting next to a man who smelt like a bar and would not open the window. He kept rubbing my arm and telling me I was cold. I said, “No, I need AIR.” He said, “There’s air coming in from the front of the bus.” He never caught on that it was fresh air to carry away the smell of booze and cigarettes and body odor that I needed. I kept trying to trick him into giving me the window seat, by moving there whenever he was out of the bus (he jumped off every time it stopped). He always insisted on having his seat back. I finally found a better seat while we were waiting at the border for everyone to get back on the bus. I felt a little bit bad about playing the spoiled foreign girl, but then I remembered how creepy he was, and I felt justified in my brattiness. I decided to keep my Arabic ability to myself for the trip, to ward off unnecessary attention, and it worked. I ignored the rude comments in English too, and I made it back to Juba by 2pm.

Then I hopped back on the Mundri Express the next day…and I’ll be back on the Mundri Express 3 more times in the next two weeks, thanks to mean old MAF not having any room on their flights for me, even though I asked several weeks in advance. Thanks a lot, MAF.

Here is an example of part of the trip from Mundri to Juba:

Observe the broken bridge on the right that we can't cross

So we go over the river:

                                     
                                   

This is what it looks like from my car window

Oh and now that we've been having more consistent rain, it looks way worse than this...If I don't make it, blame MAF.