A Bus Odyssey (Mozambique)

A classic African right of passage is the bus ride. In fact, I think you could distinctly separate the world into those who have experienced a bus ride in a developing country and those who haven't and the difference would be quite apparent. For some it's a masochistic pleasure while others simply lose the will to live.
I've done my fair share of such aforementioned bus rides and their chaos has ceased to be an abnormality in my life which is probably unfortunate. But a bus ride is a great foray into the road less traveled and I will take you n my most recent one through Mozambique as an example.
It's still dark when you arrive at the bus station (station meaning muddy lot outside of town with a lot of buses) but the action has been gaining momentum for hours. People yell out where their bus is going, each name competing in volume with the next over the horns that are constantly honking. People grab your arm and pull you towards their bus. Sometimes you can shake them away, sometimes you have to dig your feet into the ground or just plop down on your butt to prevent being shoved into a bus you don't want.
After enough wandering, yelling and grabbing you find your bus, tough you can never really be sure because everyone lies to get you on the bus anyways. It's always a bit of a gamble as to where it is actually going. Never make the fatal mistake of allowing anyone to touch your bag. Insist you put it on top of the bus or into the bus and don't let it out of your sight until it is at least too buried in boxes, bicycles, chickens, grains and bags for someone to easily snatch it.
Once you get on the bus the games begin. You will inevitably be charged at least 5 times the actual price. When they tell you the price the first two times don't' even acknowledge them., The third time is when you show shock and amazement. The fourth try you fix a steely glare and only then to you begin to bargain. The fifth time is usually when you fight to get out of your seat and off the bus until the conductor blocks your way. At the sixth price yawn and look out the window. Finally it all ends with a laugh. The conductor is happy because he overcharged you and gets to pocket the excess and you are because at least you gave it your best shot and T.I.A.
Don't drink water because you won't have a chance to pee all day. You'll sit there a couple more hours waiting for the bus to fill up. Mobs of hawkers descend on the bus selling bread, drinks, eggs, bags, watches, sunglasses, muffins and anything else you could imagine. If they don't have what you want, they'll find it.
The isles slowly fill up with people, cargo, goats and chickens. eventually the bus eeks off over the potholed road. The heat of the day begins to leak in. Your sweat sticks your legs to the seat which is quite handy for going over such a bumpy road. Your leg becomes sealed to the person's next to you.
A bus ride in a developing country is a journey of false hope. The bus starts to pick up speed and you begin to believe, against your better judgement, that you might actually gain some ground. But then it stops again for more people to clamber on and off. Each time it stops hoards of people rush up to it with more goods bobbing up on sticks to reach up to the windows. Hair comb anyone? Fruit? Samosas, dumplings, meat on a stick or a mirror perhaps? A tie? Can you be tempted by a doll, steering wheel or string of fresh fruit? Maybe a bag of nuts?
Now it seems improbably and I used to wonder how anything was sold but, while driving to my hotel in Egypt my taxi driver once bought socks. Another time while stuck in traffic outside the Nairobi airport a man in my shared taxi bought a vegetable peeler. You have to wonder if they ever sell steering wheels though. But hey, if yours falls of in traffic in Africa, you'll probably be sorted right away.
Back on the bus, the air smells of sweat, puke, corn and hay. Babies cry, chickens cluck, people talk loudly in languages you don't understand. You share food and smiles but not words. Usually though, your obvious lack of comprehension, fails to deter the person next to you from long-winded monologues, believing if they talk long enough and loud enough to you they will instill some sort of an understanding.
There is no such thing as comfortable on a bus trip here so resign yourself to the lack of personal space, odors and rough jostling. Eventually you make it to the final destination, and sure enough, the conductor lied to get you on the bus and it is not where you meant to wind up. But never mind, no matter where you are in Africa a mini bus will appear. These are even more common to ride that the regular buses and much more scary. The one you get on now is a typical example.
Once again, you wait for it to fill up. Eventually you set out, techno music blaring. You cruise around the parking lot a few times honking for good measure. The honking is as essential as the loud music. The driver is sure to do it every few seconds through out the trip. You drive a little then slow down. People pile in while the van is still moving. The object is to fit as many people in as possible. There is always room for one more in Africa. At one time there are 28 people, their luggage and a goat in a van made for 11. You are a tangle of limbs, torsos and heads, not sure where you begin and the others end. If you have an itch forget about it. Your body contorts in ways you never knew were possible.
The vans are usually in poor condition. They defy logic by missing bits you are sure are essential for motion. They like to make you think they will fall apart any minute and shudder when another minibus speeds by on the road and shakes you at such speed. It makes it more exciting. In between short stops the driver tries to make up time by going as fast a s possible. You usually close your eyes and pray, looking it far too scary, especially because the driver is usually swigging sips of local whiskey as he goes. Still, locals manage to doze of on the ride.
Every time you stop, the conductor has to throw himself at the door to get it to slide open. Then, he puts it back on its hinges while running along side of it. You are driving down the road when the door falls off completely. Out goes your backpack, some bag and the goat. They cram it all back in and continue on. Just another day on public transport.