When in Rome...

You know the old adage, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do”?  Well, I’m all for that – but there’s a limit to how far you go, right?  I mean, how “Roman” does a non-Roman truly want to be?

Take for instance, my last public transportation exploit.  I’m in Tanzania, so I do as the Tanzanians do and take the dala-dalas. Mostly because I don’t have my own car yet and on that particular day, Mom had an important meeting she couldn’t miss in order to come and pick me up at the airport. No worries. I’ve done this before. I’ve got it down.  I found a taxi from the airport to town – and as is usually the case with me and taxis, I spent the entire drive trying to convince the guy I was happy being single and that no, I really didn’t want to marry him. Seriously, what is it with taxi drivers? I did the few things in town that I needed to do, and then hitched a ride to the dala-dala stand to catch a bus home to Mom’s. 

Dala-dalas from Mwanza out towards Mom’s place are a dime a dozen, so finding one was not an issue. I paid my fare, decided to take my chance in a seat next to a large mama (I figured she wasn’t going to be proposing…) and settled down to wait in the heat and dust until Mr. Driver deemed it time to pull out.  Not long after, off we went and so began your typical dala-dala ride. Six people squashed into a row that was supposed to seat five. Stopping every 10 minutes to pick up more passengers even though there wasn’t any more room. People dozing. People talking. People yelling at the conductor.  People rearranging seats as some got off and others got on. No thought whatsoever of personal space.  Music blaring. People singing along. More rearrangement.  I thought to myself, “Ha! Look at me – I’ve had a normal dala-dala ride.”

I spoke too soon. Five short minutes before my stop – not even five – Mr. Old Guy in the seat in front of me woke up from his dozing and asked the lady next to him to hold his briefcase for him for a bit. I didn’t pay any attention – what had it to do with me?  She told him ok, but she was getting off at the next stop.  Mr. Old Guy gave Nice Lady his briefcase, then proceeded to pull out an old soda bottle. You know, the plastic kind?  A little rearranging of his sitting position and voila, he was having a bathroom break. Yup. Right there. On the bus. Nice Lady’s eyes got real big and that’s when I started to take notice of what was going on. “Wait,” thought I, “is he…? He totally IS! What the fat?!?”  And there went my normal dala-dala ride.  We then pulled into the next stop, which was mine and Nice Lady. Nice Lady couldn’t get off the bus fast enough, so she just kind of dumped Mr. Old Guy’s briefcase on him and got out of there as fast as she could. I don’t blame her. I was right behind her.

So the question remains…how far does one go “when in Rome?”

And just because this is a public transportation story – let me tell you about my trip last Christmas. Once again, I was on a bus. This time, due to Christmas traffic, I was in the way back – as it was the only ticket I had been able to procure.  Sometime in the middle of the day, we stopped. Not anything new. That particular bus stopped more than usual and I didn’t think anything of it. Until a guy in handcuffs got on the bus. Wha-a-a…???  The poor grandma sitting next to me reached down and grabbed her purse and wouldn’t even think of letting go. I told her it was ok – seeing as the guy was already handcuffed. But seriously? A guy in handcuffs? What’s that about?  About an hour or two later, we stopped again and the guy in handcuffs got off. I caught a glimpse of him through the window being led away by a policeman, so the best I can figure is that we were acting as prisoner transport. Who knows, maybe the driver owed a policeman a favor.  But the best part of the whole scenario was the guy in handcuffs shirt. In bold letters right across the front it said, “Desperate.”  Classic.  When he turned around, I could see from the back that it was a “desperate housewives” t-shirt, but still. It was a classic, never-to-be-repeated moment.

So then the next question: how come these weird and random public transport experiences only happen to me?