The big man on the bus

Reclining in his makeshift seat next to the driver, he devoured the roasted chicken and french fries with no apparent regard for the forty plus hungry passengers sitting behind him. Then, with his greasy fingers wrapped around a cold bottle of water, he took a gulp to wash down his meal. With my eyes fixed on his large frame, I shook my head in disbelief as he lifted the bottle to his mouth for a second and third time wondering how he, as a ticket collector and main guarantor of passenger safety and comfort, could behave in such a selfish manner.

He, who was often called big man by some of the male passengers, was absolutely aware that the last food stop we made was at six o’clock the previous evening and that it was now lunch time. He must have known that we were out of  food and water.

After spending the night parked outside the gate of the Zambia-Tanzania  border waiting on it to open at 7am and then waisting close to three hours going through customs, a breakfast stop was in order but wasn’t given.

According to the Zimbabwean woman sitting next to me, who got on the bus in Harare and a few other passengers,  he was upset about the money customs officers asked him to pay and complained about us being hours behind schedule due to delays at the border and an accident on the highway.

On the road to Dar es Salaam we had to stop for about an hour because of this accident

(He wasn’t the only one upset about border fees. I wasn’t thrilled about having to cough up 50 US dollars to enter Tanzania, especially when I only had 35 Euros on me and therefore had to walk over to the bureau de change hoping to get a good exchange, which, naturally I didn’t receive so I had to dig into my bag and pull out some Namibian dollars which luckily covered the difference)

In my view, he exposed his tyrannical tendencies at the bus station in Lusaka (where I boarded the coach) when he told me to move out of my first row seat. “But this is my seat,” I protested, calmly, not wanting to make any enemies. “No, it’s not you’ve made a mistake,” he replied, standing next to the second row seat that he wanted me to relocate to. I should mention, that the ticket agent had given me a first row seat so that I could enjoy the extra leg room and even guided me to it ten minutes earlier.

“Come move here, this seat is more comfortable,” he said, with a cunning smile. It took a lot of strength for me to accept his unfair treatment, but I felt it would have been unwise to start a verbal war with a ticket collector in a foreign land, especially since he seemed bent on ruling the bus with an iron fist. A few minutes after moving into my new seat, the bus pulled out of Lusaka Inter-City Bus Terminus and he proudly plopped himself into that first row seat.

This is the bus...I don't have a shot of the big man or the front row seat

During the first four hours of the journey, the bus stopped on numerous occasions. However, he routinely fixed himself by the door and rudely stopped some men from exiting the bus to relieve themselves in the bushes.

Yet, I must concede, that for the most part, he appeared to have earned the appreciation of everybody on the bus, excluding mine of course. The African music he played had people singing and the Tanzanian television dramas he put on the large Sony flat screen captivated everybody. He also handed out lollipops, which was an extremely popular act ( I must say, it was odd seeing so many grown men and women sucking on candy on the end of a stick. I gracefully told the big man I didn’t want his candy).

Just when I was beginning to forget about the seat incident, he bumped my shoulder on his way down the aisle, waking me out of a light sleep. I don’t know if the contact was intentional, but when it happened again later on in the night, when the bus was completely dark, I suspected that he might have been looking to start an altercation.

By late morning, on the second day of our trek to Dar es Salaam, I heard a number of loud sighs that eventually turned into faint grumblings. One female passenger asked that music be played or that something be shown on the Sony flat screen. Though her requests were not met, the big man did hand out candy and then passed out several lollipops to passengers he referred to as VIPs.

Taking into account the minor confrontation that occurred earlier in the day when he tried to bully me into staying on the bus by putting a hand on my chest and I refused, deciding to walk right pass him (when I returned to the bus, he was standing at the door conversing with a female passenger. He pretended not to see me and was deliberately blocking my entrance but I powered my way through him), I definitely wasn’t a VIP.

“We have not had our breakfast or lunch and you want us to use the bathroom,” said the Zimbabwean, translating the outburst of a gentleman sitting behind me after the bus made a bathroom rather than a food stop. The man’s words garnered to support of almost every traveler. An hour later, the bus stopped and the big man announced in a stern voice that we had 10 minutes to get some grub.

Although I hadn’t eating all day and didn’t have any Tanzanian Shillings to purchase a meal (all I could afford with my two US dollars was water and a box of ginger cookies), I felt vindicated watching the big man lose the admiration of most passengers. I was tempted to lead a mini celebration when he gathered his belongings and got off the bus in a small town near Dar es Salaam. The final hour of the trip was astonishingly more enjoyable without the big man.