I sometimes take a bicycle taxi (jinga) home from work if I miss the hospital transport, or if I’m traveling somewhere far enough to dissuade walking but close enough not to need a vehicle. It’s a great way to get around. Usually…
Most of the time, the drivers are not too bad – they work hard for their 50 cents and get you to your destination safely. The interesting bit comes some afternoons, especially on the weekends (Sundays are the worst), when your bicycle guy has had too much Shake-Shake. A usually calm, scenic 2 km bike ride becomes a harrowing near-death experience as you dodge and dive dogs, goats, women carrying water or produce on their heads, other cyclists, and the dreaded passenger buses careering by at 120 km/h. The bicycle that is normally a rickety old contraption is even more shaky as you swerve and hit potholes and bumps, and your stomach is sore at the end of the trip from keeping your balance for the past 30 minutes.
Sometimes, however, the opposite can be true. Instead of an exhilarating trip, your driver can be as slow as the old women carrying their goods to the market. You are being passed by kids, women, men, even oxcarts, and this doesn’t bother your driver in the least. I now take these moments in stride, forget about why I’m in a hurry (usually doesn’t matter anyway), and take a good look at the scenery around me. I see Mphangwe mountain in the distance, the setting sun reflecting bright oranges and pinks and reds off distant rain clouds. Beside me is a heron fishing in a puddle in the middle of a wide open field of tall grass. Six small kids are running at me from a village on the other side of the road, huge smiles on their beautiful faces, shouting “How are you?!” at the top of their lungs. All these things are part of this beautiful country, this beautiful town – and though there is poverty and death and suffering, it is good to be here. Life is simpler in many ways, happiness is easier to find.
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