It started out as a typical minibus ride home. I was squashed somewhere in the middle of a bus with a door that barely closed and the man sitting next to me wanted my phone number. Up until now, I thought I had experienced everything possible on a minibus: 50 kg bag of maize under my feet, a child sitting on me, two marriage proposals in the span of one block, someone trying to sell me a scrabble board, a very lively conversation about kicking Chinese people out of Zambia (thank goodness I looked Japanese that day), and the list continues.
I was one stop away from home and when I thought this journey might not have a notable moment, the bus ran out of gas. The logical thing to do would be for someone to run to the nearest filling station and get gas. Seeing that people would most likely get off and catch any number of passing minibuses, the conductor’s logical solution was to jump out and push. Imagine a little blue van packed with 15-18 people and one skinny-legged conductor pushing. He took a few running starts and then we were off. Luckily for him it was a slight downward slope to the filling station. We must have picked up some speed because he soon broke into a full run. However, in the end his plan failed because everyone on the bus got off.
It was probably quite a sight. The picture I have in my head is that of clowns jumping out of a tiny red car at a circus. Or, the commercial where a NASCAR team pops out the back of a hatchback. When I got out of the bus, I overheard a bunch of taxi drivers shouting a Chinyanja word and laughing. I learned from a colleague that the word means to vomit. That is, the minibus vomited. It might be a while before I experience a minibus ride to top that.
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