Road Trip

We got in late last night from a five day trip to the State Capital. We left by bus early Tuesday morning, an experience I will add to my New-Year's-Eve-In-Time-Square-List (otherwise known as "The things I am so glad I have done but never want to do again"). Public transport in this area is limited to "buses" that only run in the dry season when the roads are actually passable. Due to a lot of work on the road and light rains this year (previous blog posts notwithstanding) we had heard that "buses" were running daily, though the trip was six hours long and people were sometimes being asked to get out and walk across the river crossings. Nonetheless, government paperwork and low oatmeal supplies beckoned, and owning only a vehicle without doors or a windshield, we decided that "buses" were the way to go. Besides, we are always up for a little locally flavored adventure. I say "bus" of course because somehow I fear that just bus does not conjure up the right image. Think more along the lines of metal seats, metal windowless window frames and a metal roof all welded into or over the cargo bed of a beat up old lorry. Slap on a coat of bright blue paint, peeling campaign posters, ostrich feather hood ornaments, 30 sweaty people inside and five sun scorched guys on the roof-rack outside and you have our "bus". Really once we started lumbering down the mud-contorted dirt road I felt like we were in the belly of a massive blue army tank being slowly beaten to death on our way to war.

Our fellow travelers were varied. They mostly seemed to be men travelling alone – a soldier in uniform, a young man in a t-shirt and sunglasses, an older man in a jalabiya with a cane. But there were a few women too – a pretty one in a bright yellow tobe, a young mother miraculously nursing her baby as we hurtled down the road, an old woman who looked like she was probably travelling with her granddaughter. The most interesting traveler to me was a large dark skinned women dressed in folds of green tie-dye. She had on gold rings and a silky looking shower cap. From the way the bus driver waited without complaint while she held up the bus to buy some bottled water before we left, I guessed she was someone important. Her three sons travelling with her confirmed that they were probably a part of a military commander's family being educated at some English school outside of the country by the way they obliviously sang along with pop music pounding from their ear buds and loudly muttered "Whatever!" every time we had to pile off the bus for soldiers to rummage through bags and travel papers at check-points along the way. We later found out they had lived outside of this country all of their lives and were just coming back for a quick visit. At one point one of the boys sighed wearily, "Man, it sure is hot in this area," which made Bryan and I smile for some reason.

We stopped for lunch at a small village at crossroads nearly half of the way there. We piled off to throw back a cold soda and pita bread stuffed with grilled meat and some lime. The road was lined with mud and thatch shops selling food and drink to hundreds of people passing through. Besides those of us travelling by bus, there were many Fulata, a nomadic people group that stretch all the way from here to West Africa. I have had a week to think of how I could possibly describe how colorful, exotic, beautiful and thoroughly unfamiliar the Fulata look to me, (and honestly even to most other people around here), and I am still at a loss for words. Though I have seen them often now, they never fail to completely amaze me. The men wear tunics and flared pants of black or green with colorful fringe and embroidery. Their hair is usually shaved high off the brow but combed tall and flat, like a pharaoh's crown. They carry long wooden sticks whether they are with their herds or not, and it is not uncommon to see them with swords. The women are dressed in black cloth with brilliant embroidery. Their hair is also long but elaborately braided and clasped with bronze or silver hoops and combs. Their ears and wrists are absolutely drizzled with beads and metal. Sometimes they have dark tattoos on their cheeks. Every time I see a group of Fulata women I feel exactly the same way I do stepping into some upscale department store in an American mall and running into a group of stylish women out shopping together: out of place, out of style, out of my element. Their pride and beauty is intimidating and completely mesmerizing all at once.
Once we were all back in the bus I quickly came to regret not sucking it up and just hiking up my skirt to pee behind a scraggly bush at the edge of the market like everyone else. Thankfully, the road got better the closer we got to the state capital and we eventually hit tarmac. We arrived at the "bus station" in the late afternoon, retrieved our dusty bags and headed off to "The Friendship Hotel" where we usually stay. The bright pink satin bedcover (we forgot that hotels here don't come with actual sheets) and water squirter on a hose by the toilet (we remembered that one and came armed with toilet paper) were easily overlooked in light of the amazing air conditioner that blasted away the dust of the road and the TV that had two English channels. It felt good to be in the big city.