Tro Tro

The other day when I arrived at the Lorry Park to catch a mode of transport for my second trip to Bongo I found it was to be a tro tro… at 60 pesewa you would think it was a bargain compared to the shared taxi.  I would disagree.  Most uncomfortable.  The tro tro was full after I got on.  Or so I thought.  There are 15 seats (including the driver) or should be, a long seat for two and a pull down seat for one that pulls down to cover the aisle in every row of seats.  So once you are in, you are in.  And if you need to get out, everyone has to get out, or the majority at least. They are rust buckets, 20 + years old, seat covers pealing, repaired paint work in matt finish, electrical wires hanging and a door which doesn’t entirely close, well not without a good shove from the outside.  I sat on the very back row (my first mistake – but I had little choice) which I found to my horror didn’t have a back rest which was attached to the seat.  I was nearly catapulted out of the boot.  There were 3 in our row, very tight but ok.  It was then I realised I’d made the mistake of assuming it was a 15 seater.  Tro tro’s will not depart their station until the tro is full, 4 adults on every row of seats, just thank the good lord above if you don’t have children on your row as well, for they are seen but not heard (or felt it would seem) and don’t count as an extra bottom. So despite the tro looking like it was full, we still had to wait a very hot half an hour for the remaining passengers to get on and everyone on board to buy all the necessary goods from the hawkers which had fully enveloped the bus.  With that number of people inside the bus, and an equal (if not more) number of people surrounding the bus, the body heat was intense.  Coupled with the heat from the sun I’m surprised I didn’t pass out. The moving air through the open windows was a god send once we got moving; I’ve learnt to ignore the smell of old and new body odour that the wind becomes drenched in as it moves over the people in front and heads towards you. Note to self: Don’t sit on the back seat and always get a window seat. The fact I was literally stuck between the school girl (she was about 20 so hardly a girl, as they often are in Senior High Schools here) and a man who had chosen not just to place his arse on the seat but all of his shopping too (no concept of personal space… or a need for it) meant I was unable to move from side to side.  This combined with the fact I couldn’t lean back for fear of fall out the boot meant an uncomfortable back aching hours ride to Bongo.  ‘Why so long?’ I hear you cry‘…when the shared taxi only took 30 minutes…..’ That would be due to all the drops and pick-ups we had to do along the way, of course the person getting out is never the one nearest the door.    Every time we stopped it sounded like a pneumatic drill had started up just behind me, even a kick from the driver at, I can only assume was the exhaust pipe, did not alleviate the sound for more than 2 seconds.  Oh, and as well as the drops and pick-ups we had a flat tyre to contend with that was changed with most of us still on it….

The ride home was much the same (I prayed hard for a shared taxi but god wasn’t working on improving public transport that day).  Despite my new improved knowledge, I still ended up on the back row in the centre with a face full of BO.  This time the demographic of the bus had fallen to no more than thirty years and barring 3 women (myself included) had an unequal gender balance favouring the male working population of Bongo heading home to wherever it might be between Bongo and Bolga.  It was a loud boisterous journey, full of jostles, back slapping, shouting and elbowing by the young testosterone fuelled men who smelt like they were dripping in BO. I leaned forward on the seat in front (not trusting the back rest) and with my head in my arms, dreamed of my little Audi A3 and the tarmacked roads of our green and pleasant land…England.