Almost without fail, the moments when I've been the
unhappiest in Ethiopia have occurred while I've been on a public bus.
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| Standard public bus |
I often feel guilty
for how surly I end up being toward my fellow bus-mates, even though it’s
either provoked or a direct result of how vulnerable I feel in that moment. My
latest bus ride started out in just this way. I was on the final leg of a 3-bus
journey from Addis to my town, Fincha, and when I climbed on the bus, the only
row of available seats was the very back. Knowing this condemned me to flying
airborne out of my seat with each rut in the dirt road we would hit, I settled
myself in the back corner of the bus. About five minutes later, a 20-something
young man squeezed himself in next to me. He spent the next hour trying to get
me to engage with him, laughing hysterically at his own efforts and making fun
of me in Afan Oromo to his friends. Feeling very alone, I pretended I couldn’t
understand anything he was saying, and luckily for me, he and his friends
couldn’t speak English.
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| A fairly typical bus interior, though on the day this story took place, the aisle was packed. |
Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, I
started to feel very sick in my digestive system, and all those ruts in the
road were absolutely making it worse. By the time we stopped for a police
check, I knew I needed to find a shint
bet (latrine) no matter what.
Well, that started the chain of perfect strangers
being incredibly kind to me. First, the previously rude guy sitting next to me didn’t
even blink when all of a sudden I revealed that I do in fact speak his
language, and started fairly aggressively saying that I needed to get off the
bus as fast as possible. He hopped to and helped me get from my back corner seat,
through the 25 people standing crammed in the aisle, and off the bus. From
there, an on-looking gentleman pointed me to a house where the owner
immediately ushered me back to her shint
bet. The radaat (bus assistant
who collects money and manages passengers) made sure the bus waited for me, and
when I returned, one of the policemen cleared a space for me on the front
cushion, so I wouldn’t have to be flying airborne off the bumps in the back
anymore.
Still feeling sick but also feeling very grateful,
we headed off. Unfortunately, I soon felt that same sense of urgency again.
Luckily, we stopped to let people off at another small town shortly thereafter.
Again, they all waited for me, a lady ushered me through her home to her shint bet, and I upgraded my seat to the
front chair (the previous occupant had finished his trip, and the people
collectively decided I could have it). When we started driving again, the
driver reached over and gave me a pat on the shoulder, telling me with full
concern and sincerity to ayzosh (be
strong).
Finally, when we turned off the main road in
Fincha, the driver and Fincha’s bus station attendant saw that I still looked
pale, so they helped get my stuff off the bus and into the arms of a sweet
young shoe-shine boy who carried them to my porch for me.
I’ve been sick like that before during my service,
and I always wondered what would happen if I was traveling on a bus instead of
curled up in my bed. I imagined the bus leaving without me and me stranded on
the side of the road with no way to get home. Instead I was totally cared for
by an entire host of strangers, with not an instant of hesitation or even a
hint or resentment.
