Since being in Zambia I have found a new love and appreciation for New York City’s subway and bus system. Even with its increasing metro fares every year, trash infested tunnels, and many unplanned delays there was a level of comfortability and familiarity that came along with it. Now that I am in Lusaka where an official city-wide public transportation is nonexistent, taking the minibus has become an integral part of the Zambian experience. Therefore, it no surprise one of my most memorable experience took place on a minibus.
Erica and I were returning home from hanging out at The Deli after orientation at UTH. Since The Deli was past town we had to travel to through town to get back home in Kabwata village, St. Patrick’s. At this time, we had only passed through town once and this would be our second. The first-time Aunty Martha enlisted the help of a trustworthy and committed stranger who helped us navigate the crowded streets and busy bus stations with ease. To our surprise, he even waited until our bus left the station before he walked away. This spoke testaments to how truly friendly many Zambians can be. However, this time Erica and I were on our own.
The First struggle:
After boarding the first bus within in 10 to 15 minutes we arrived approximately 5 blocks away from Kalema Tower. Since the streets were filled with traffic this is where the minibus stopped. Caught in the middle of an intersection the bus was completely unable to move, every passenger became so impatient and decided to walk the rest of the way. Usually, I don’t follow crowds but as soon as people hopped off I was right there with them. Luckily Karl was also with me and Erica because he was confident and comfortable navigating the streets. With Karl in front, we bobbed and weaved through traffic. Hesitant and nervous, Erica and I were lagging, cautiously walking to avoid holes in the street, reckless drivers reversing without checking for pedestrians and the multiple people who were all rushing to arrive at this same hectic terminal. Luckily we made it to the bus terminal but unfortunately, that is where our second struggle began as Karl parted ways with us.
The Second Struggle:
“Do you know where I can find Chelinge buses?” I asked. The man pointed down the terminals and said: “Down there, on that side.” I replied “Oh okay” like I knew exactly where “down there “meant. Walking in a very general direction Erica and I crossed the dark lanes of the terminal determined to get to the other side. Weaving through vendors trying to sell cookies to passengers on the bus, men conducting buses to park in the lanes, and random people moving in out of the streets with such an ease that I could only admire. Finally arriving at the Chelinge terminal I had to stop walking to take a moment to breathe with relief and then sigh with contempt as I observed the chaotic scene of 20 buses navigating through this tiny parking lot. The lost in look our eyes were plain to see as conductors came to us shouting their bus routes to us. “No I need to go to Chelinge. Chelinge Market!”. “Oh okay, follow me I will get you on the bus” one of the men replied. Looking back every so often making sure Erica was close by we followed him. Unfortunately, the bus he took us to was full. So I started the routine over, asking conductors their bus routes, moving out the way for buses to pass as one bus was so close to running over my foot. Finally finding the right bus Erica and I boarded and sunk into the seats as we thought we could finally relax. However yet again the struggle wasn’t over.
The Third Struggle.
Chit-chatting with Erica, I saw the conductor starting asking people for their fare. Usually I look at how much people are paying and how much change people were getting back but navigating town drained my energy so I was just concerned with our own fare. It was our turn to pay and I watched Erica hand him 10 Kwacha bill and stated “for two” as she pointed to me. I looked at him, nodded and turned away. Suddenly a felt tap and the conductor said “Aye you. Three Kwacha”. This nervousness began to swell up in me but I dare let it showed in my voice “She just gave you 10 Kwacha, five and five” I said with an assertion. He kept repeating “No. Three more Kwacha” he repeated with even more conviction. Then I bluntly asked, “how much is fair?” Instead of answering the whole bus began to talk in an uproar of Nyanja. Imagine a whole bus of people knowingly talking about but you can’t understand a word. The embarrassment, awkwardness, an uncomfortability that I haven’t felt in a while. But all I could do was repeat my original statement “How much is fair?” A passenger finally came to the rescue and told us 6.50. I exclaimed, “6.50 since when!” The conductor replied “Since when? Since now.with a serious laugh. After a very challenging day, I coughed up the change reluctantly. Ten cents short I gave him all the change I had. He scoffed and I continued to look at the window. On the ride home I just thought to myself, “were we being overcharged, should I have not paid, was it even worth it being that this fare was literally less than a dollar, was the passenger telling the truth? This inner monolog within myself continued until we were dropped off which was only about a 10-minute ride which really did make me think we overpaid.
From this experience, I have learned to avoid town at all cost. Just kidding but right now it is now my favorite place at the moment. Put into a tough situation it did force me to deal with confrontation which I hate doing. In all honesty, a situation like this could happen anywhere whether back home or Lusaka but being a new country does make it harder to deal with. Not completely sure of the rules and the customs you constantly second guessing your actions, thinking about the what to say and how to say it, wanting to stand your ground but not wanting to draw more attention to yourself. I don’t feel like this all the time but when I do it always put things back into perspective that I am still a visitor here. It has only been two weeks which is to be expected but hopefully, by the end of the summer, these reminders of my foreign origin will soon become insignificant.
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