Commuting to Lushoto from Moshi involves taking a bus to Mombo and then a daladala (gutted out van) up a mountain to Lushoto.  The bus ride was fine, actually, no.  Better than fine.  They gave out cookies and mango juice.  It was a total delight.  

The daladala ride almost did me in though.  First, just for background info, daladalas never leave on a schedule.  They leave when they’re full.  This could take minutes or this could take hours.  You never know.  Per my guidebook, I should just see this as part of the African experience and be patient.  I got in one that was decently full and waited, enjoying my African experience.  Apparently, other passengers in the daladala haven’t read that passage from Lonely Planet and after a few minutes, started going berserk.  Everything was in Kiswahili, so I’m not totally sure what was going on, but I think they must have been told that we were leaving soon and we clearly weren’t.  People made moves to leave the van, which isn’t as easy as it sounds.  We were packed in tight and so those about to abandon van had to crawl over those of us who were too busy being white and intimidated by the yelling to do anything.  The fair collector guy was not about to let any one out of the van and literally pushed people away from the door, throwing them back into their seats.  And while violence is always sad, it’s sadder still when you think about the innocent victims.  And let me tell you who the innocent victim was here:  A little white girl who was getting mauled by toppling Tanzanian mammas.  

The pushing eventually stopped and everyone took their seats, placing their asses safe distances away from my cranium which was relief.  While I was trying to check for any internal bleeding by palpitating my tummy, we finally got moving.  And I mean moving.  The driver was going at least 60 miles per hour on a road that was clearly marked 30 kilometers per hour.  Combine his speed, the sharp turns of the road, the rain, the fact the van didn’t have wipers, and the mountain fog and I was out of my mind with fear.  Everyone in the van was scared and all of the women started screaming the same word the nannies at the orphanage yell at misbehaving kids.  I contemplated asking to get out and walk.  But being a pedestrian on a road with zero visibility and drivers like this guy didn’t seem like all that much rosier of an option.  So, I took my chances. 

The driver did stop once for a military checkpoint.  Someone called out the window at an official, I think complaining about the driver.  So a guy wearing a beret got on the van.  I’ve read enough African boy soldier memoirs to know that the guys in berets are never well intentioned, so I also found this completely frightening.  The complainer went through about a five-minute version of the last hour of happenings.  The military guy seemed concerned and turned to say something to the driver.  The driver’s response was to exit the vehicle, unzip and pee in viewing distance, get back in without making eye contact with the military guy, and floor it away from the checkpoint while the military guy still had one leg in the car.  I was fully expecting an armed retaliation.  Instead, there was some yelling, but that’s it.  Not even a car chase.  Still, the driver drove like there was one. 

And then the five year old behind me started coughing…throat ripping, bloody tissue coughs.  And while I don’t have any medical training or actual experience with the disease, I have read Little Women, so I can say with the utmost certainty that this girl had tuberculosis.  (There’s TB in Little Women, right?)  The coughing in my ear provided the soundtrack for the rest of the death-defying ride up the mountain.  

In conclusion, I’m never going to be able to act like I care about your New York subway horror stories ever again.  Apologies in advance.