Zambian Transport: A Comparative Study, Pt. 1

PART ONE: The Minibus

A passing glance at one of these vehicles can leave an image of quaintness, almost cuteness, to the unseasoned passenger--painted in bright splashes of blue and white and often with an official number painted (or riveted) onto the body, they carry a beguiling aire of authenticity. Perhaps safety would be the next reasonable expectation?! Not a chance; these things crash all over the place, and most have the dents to prove that it's really only a matter of time before they crunch up like tin foil. But, ahem, let's move on:

Most buses carry the blue/white colorscheme, but what really sets them apart are their words of wisdom decals affixed to the back window. "Patience is a Fruit, Not a Gift" is one. "Shakira" is another. "Mr. Shaft in Africa," another memorable one. They impart a level of wisdom (though sometimes misspelled) that touches the heart. Which one supposes is the least that should be offered, for putting ones life at risk. The dashboard usually has a throw of some sort of shaglike-fur which fails in its intent--whether that be for fashion or for dust management--to serve some purpose that could override it's ugliness. The windscreen--often decorated with plastic flowers strung around the border, and sometimes a painting of the messiah, or a biblical verse taped up nearby--tends to bear at least one unsightly spiderweb of fractured glass (which, one worries, might dislodge itself at any moment mid-travel, decapitating the driver and sending the bus careening into oncoming traffic or some other, more frightening end). But the flowers do tend to suppress that fear. A bit.

The seats are uncomfortable and much resemble a rundown version of that which probably existed on your childhood school bus (usually sans grafitti and lighter burns). The difference here is that many, many more people are scrunched onto each seat. Those without seats get a thin cushion (if lucky) atop the wheel hub or engine well. Really there's no limit; as many as the conductor desires. A vehicle the size of a small western-family minivan (but without any of the finer accoutrements) can fit 20, even 30 people.

And that level of compaction brings a host of other issues. Breathing really isn't all that important, as is evidenced by the lack of openable windows, so the cab fills up with a sordid potpouri of stink that can only be experienced to be fully appreciated. We're talking dried fish, cassava, human sweat and general funk, not to mention the occasional baby doo-doo. If you're lucky you get to sit in the seat with the live chicken underneath that pecks at your feet, or beside the mother with the child who screams like he's being boiled alive (which may not be that far off, given the lack of ventilation) for the duration of the haul.

The trip, one hopes, would be short. But the conductors are relentless in their search for the one extra passenger, and you are doomed to sit in uncomfortable silence--though sometimes one may be treated to the occasional blast of the radio--until they meet a satisfactory quota to move ahead. The bus will constantly honk its horn to attract passengers, conductors will fight with each other over these potential clients, even trying to 'trick' them by revving their engines and lurching forward to give the impression of just taking off (when in reality they have no intent of leaving until they are packed to the gills.)

They are cheap, these minibuses (though prices vary, annoyingly, depending on whatever the bus wants to charge; there is no 'standard fare'), and this may be the one thing they have going for them.

(stay tuned for Part Two: The Luxury Coach)