A ride towards being at home

I took a ride on a few chapas – Mozambique’s version of bus transport – the other day when I went to ShopRite to get things for the house. I am allotted an allowance to help set up my household. The money is intended for items ranging from furniture to plates and cups. It is not nearly enough to cover costs so I am very slow in buying anything because I am having trouble prioritizing what to get. On top of that – if you have spent much time with me – you will know that I hate to shop so I have not been motivated to go and spend, being fortunate that my flat mate has many things here already.

Back to the chapas. As in many developing countries, public transportation here is widely used by the public and is extremely crazy. It is an experience that I can’t really relate to anything else I have ever done. When I read about Maputo in tourist guides, there are many warnings about not riding in the ordinary sort of chapas that serve the masses as they are not considered safe, they are overloaded, they are traveling on streets that are dominated by the most blatant sorts of traffic violations I have ever seen, and I am probably being kind here. Even so – if you live in Maputo and you don’t have a car and you don’t have much money and you need to get about town, you will eventually find yourself relying on chapas to get around.

There are different classes of chapa. Nicer ones that you can ride long distances, say to South Africa or Swaziland. And then the not so nice ones that make this something to write about. Actually, the first chapa I got on was a fairly good size and not too crowded – I realized later I was just fortunate that it was still early on a Sunday morning, and I was on a rare, fairly modern, quite large chapa. The more prevalent ones range from being the size of a small school bus to the size of an extended van. They look to be ancient. The sliding door can be knocked off if you bump it wrong and just as easily popped back on;  they have engines you can actually fix because there are no electronic parts; they are – in a word – old. These chapas are constantly pulling alongside the curb at designated spots, one following the next in a confusing way, with no indication that I can understand about where any particular chapa is headed. It also it seems that people jam into them faster than people depart from them. The improbable, eternal bowl of rice that never empties. In fact it seems to just get more and more crowded. This means that, for example on Sunday when I made a transfer, I got on one of the smaller chapas and was one of approximately 25 passengers crammed onto four benches. The gentleman who collects the toll and directs the loading and unloading ended up standing – literally – on top of me for the first few miles. I am learning to reassess my “personal space.” By the time we approached my stop, there were easily 32 of us.

 When I got on the chapa on the return, I was on a bench to the back, which was where I discovered I am claustrophobic under certain circumstances; the first circumstance being when I am in a van with 30 other people and on a bench made for four but seating eight. No matter which bench you are on, if you are not on the last one or two back, and you are on the open door side, you are getting in and out as people disembark, and are reloaded. There was a young boy at the far end of my bench who stared at me the entire time; I think he may not usually see white women riding these chapas.

The return trip was made more challenging as I was carrying four bags of purchases that needed to integrate into my allotted space. I was glad I was going four miles, not forty. I thought about pictures I have seen of people riding on top of buses in developing countries and wondered if I might not be one of those people who might risk sitting on the top of the bus with the chickens. I would be very tempted if I had a long way to go rather than being inside with the 50 or so sardines, I mean passengers sweating away their few pounds as they collectively bumped along the 80 kilometers to the next town.

Since Sunday, I have had quite a few people, other volunteers and Mozambiquans I know, ask about my journey, “So, you went on the chapa?” And then I am rewarded with a knowing sort of nod. I realize I have made a certain rite of passage. It provides a certain sensation, a kind of prediction - I am going to be ok here.