Biharamulo

It is only about 150Km as the crow flies from Mwanza to Biharamulo but the exhausting trip takes about 7 hours if everything goes smoothly, which is never something to be counted on. The trip begins just after sunrise at the shore of Lake Victoria, for the first leg of the journey is a 30 minute ferry ride that saves a 3 hour jaunt around a narrow inlet of the lake that extends south for a significant distance. On a clear, calm morning the ride across the lake is absolutely serene...but the serenity is short lived because if you fail to find your seat in one of the buses packed onto the ferry before the vessel reaches its destination on the eastern shore you are sure to have no option but to take the return trip on the ferry. As the boat approaches the bus engines are already running and almost before the ferry even stops each bus driver has his foot heavy on the accelerator and the steel monsters speed off down the uneven, unpaved, pedestrian-filled road eventually splitting to head off towards their individual destinations. The bus is already full, but the two conductors hang half-way out the open door looking for passengers that may be waiting alongside the road for the Zuberi bus, hoping that it did not break down or miss the ferry because if it did their plans to reach their destination will be canceled and they will have to try again tomorrow. As more passengers are picked up the remaining seats are filled and then the open space in the isle is utilized. Some passengers are in for the long haul all the way to Biharamulo. Some just catch the bus for several kilometers. Most have a small suitcase or duffel in their possession. Some have sacks of cassava they are taking to some town's market. One may have some chickens or a mirror or wheel of a bicycle.

At times the ride is relatively smooth. In fact there is even a several kilometer stretch of paved road at one point. I don't know why that particular stretch is paved, but it is very welcome. Most of the ride is over a washboard road and you will think your retinas may detach if there is no relief soon. The driver does his best to pick out the least traumatic line on the road, and since his vehicle is the largest on the road it does not matter if that line is on the right or the left or in the middle of the highway, everything and everyone else must make way for the king of the road. If you are not used to travel in East Africa you had better receive cardiac clearance from your doctor before taking the trip because even a healthy heart will threaten to stop beating a handful of times as the bus comes frighteningly close to colliding with oncoming vehicles or bicyclists that fail to yield right-of-way (which usually means careening headlong into the tall reeds at the edge of the road because the bus driver usually wants to drive with one set of wheels actually on the smooth "shoulder" which is usually on the "wrong" side of the road). At least a time or two along the way you will pass a broken-down vehicle with three sets of legs protruding from under the engine block and at least five people looking on. Occasionally the most talented drivers may display their superior skills of trail blazing and then take a lunch break while many gather to admire his handiwork.


But for the most part the road is remarkably devoid of other vehicles. There is no in-flight movie but neither the talents of Brad Pitt nor Angelina Jolie have the captivating power of the scenes playing across the dusty windows on either side of the vehicle. The rainy season has turned the countryside into fifty shades of green. Birds ornamented with long flowing tail feathers or bright red breasts bounce between the acacia trees. Further down the road groves of banana trees provide shade for small circles of mud huts with a few children playing on an old termite mound in back. All along the way men pushing large banana stalks on bicycles or women carrying buckets of water on their heads or young men herding their cattle with a bamboo rod fill the road and part like the Red Sea at the sound of the oncoming behemoth.



Twice during the trip the bus stops in fairly large towns. Immediately people selling bananas and sodas and roasted goat strips and pineapples encircle the bus and lift their goods up the the windows to advertise for the passengers. There is just enough time to run out and use the toilet...unless you are a Muzungu and you neither know where the toilet is nor how to understand their directions when you ask, "Where is the toilet?" in Swahili. So you hold it or you somehow find the toilet and return to find the conductor, who fortunately noticed that the only white person on the bus was missing, yelling out to you, "This...express bus!"

By mid-afternoon the bus finally pulls into the town of Biharamulo. You step out and stretch your legs and push past all of the people trying to carry your bags for you as you tell them, "No thank you, I can walk..." and make your way to the hospital where you will spend the next few weeks.