Road to Kenya

If there is one place in the world I have been that I wish to never return to, it is the Dar es Salaam bus station. The ferry from Zanzibar back to Dar got us in about 8 hours late, so we couldn’t buy our bus tickets in advance. We wanted to take an early bus to the Kenyan border, so we set our alarm for 5 am and hoped we could get a seat at the bus station. The traffic outside off the station, even at 5:30 in the morning, is a whirling dusty madhouse of honking drivers and shouting pedestrians, all shoving their way through a vast street with no clear lanes nor traffic signals. In the taxi I sweated profusely and cringed with stomach pains brought on by diarrhea.

Inside the station, the touts were on us the moment we stepped out of the cab. They grabbed at our backpacks – “Let me help you, my friend” – but we knew better. We politely refused any help, clutched our bags, and pushed forward to the dizzying assortment of buses. The station was basically a massive walled-in parking lot with hundreds of dusty buses and vans parked at every angle, with no clear organization. This was going to be a twelve-hour bus ride and we were ready to pay for the luxury bus, with AC and bathroom. The touts were relentless, several shouting at once, pulling us in different directions. One guy said “Here! The Dar Express, leaving now to Arusha.” Another shouted, “No, that bus goes to Moshi. Kilimanjaro Express goes straight to Arusha. Wait here, it will come in 10 minutes.” “No, that bus is full. I give you better price. Dar Express, nicest bus.”

At one point I lost sight of TK as I was mashed in the dense crowd. My backpack was stuck and I could feel that it wasn’t just smushed between people, but purposely held in place while something was pulled out of a side pocket. I was more concerned about losing TK, and my knees literally started shaking. I felt like a child lost in the supermarket, on the verge of tears. It didn’t help that everyone pressed against me seemed to be a foot taller than me. (East Africans are much taller than southern Africans.)

Luckily we found each other before I started sobbing, and we hastily boarded the Dar Express – we had read it was the nicest. But they lied about something crucial: there was no bathroom on this bus. I had diarrhea and I just committed to a twelve-hour bus ride with no bathroom. (They also lied about it being a direct bus and having AC.) While I suppressed a panic attack, TK ventured back outside, in search of a nicer bus. He found one but it was full. And so began the worst bus ride of my life.

I’ll spare you the details and just give the good news: all that was stolen from my backpack was a case containing two decks of playing cards.

After a night in Arusha, we took an eight-hour bus ride to Nairobi. It was a great relief to catch our bus on the road instead of a bus station. 

May I use this photo to brag about what amazingly good packers we are?
This is all we brought on our two month journey, and it includes our tent, sleeping bags, laptop, and camera.