There are some things you do not expect to happen to you when you’re in Africa. I mean, you do your best to prepare yourself. You warn yourself mentally for the dirty surroundings, the cold showers, the extra large bugs, and even the squatty potties. You say in repetition in order to practice for the tasks ahead, “It is just their culture. It is just their culture. It is just their culture.” Needless to say, all attempts, as well intentioned as they are, aren’t even in the same ball park as the awkwardness of the moments that await your unprepared self.
There I sat, crammed in an African themed school bus, trying to get over the fact that my “personal space bubble” was being popped by an onslaught of local men and women. Before I go any further, I feel that I should fill you in on a couple cultural norms of buses in Africa that conflict with those in America.
Norm 1: Seat tickets our never a necessity when taking bus rides across Kenya. If you do not have a ticket you simply slip the “money man” (as I call him) a couple hundred shillings and hop on.
Norm 2: Once on the bus, the seating arrangements are few and far between. The only option is to cram into the isle as best you can. If this means that certain parts of your body are protruding the personal space of the customers who purchased seats (the team and I), no harm done.
So there I sat, as 20 to 30 non-ticketed riders managed to squeeze into every possible space available. Arms surrounded me every which way. One stretched across and above my head in order to support the connected body from falling onto my lap. Another lay clenched to my head rest and still another upon the head rest in front of me. It was madness, and to top it all off the smell of each armpit had enough potency to peal an onion (I forgot to mention Norm 3: Africans do not use deodorant).
Then it happened!, the awkward of all awkwards or for those of you that are reading this at my expense, the hilarity of all hilarities. Moments before the bus journeyed towards are destination, a rather large woman squeezed into the last possible space in the bus. Lucky for me that space happened to be just to the right of where I was seated! As she rested her quite comfortable hind end upon my right arm, I froze in horror. I could feel my shoulder crying out for air, but there was nothing I could do but grin and bare it. As I sat in silence all I could hope for was that all feeling and color would return to normal once my arm was set free from the binds of this woman’s tush.
Once again, there are some things you do not expect to happen to you when you’re in Africa. Being on a smelly and crammed bus while a random African woman rests her large back side upon your unexpectant arm is one of those things. I’m not sure yet if this moment has scarred me for the rest of my life or not but I do know one thing; this moment forever brought a new meaning to the song “I like big butts and I cannot lie (minus the “I like” part).”
