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Early
last Saturday around 11:30am in the morning, I went to the
cross-country bus terminal at the western end of Mercato to
catch the bus shuttling to Wolaita Sodo, some 383Km south of
Addis Abeba in the Southern Region.
The
reason for my journey was to fulfill one of those social
obligations some families have to discharge during the
aftermath of a death of a member of the family.
It was
drizzling lightly when we left our house, and we had to take
refuge under our umbrellas, till we caught a minibus that
was heading for“Awtoboos terra” at the
cross-country bus terminal station.
The
cabbie driver had wrapped his head with a piece of rag that
had seen better days, as a towel, perhaps, to fend off the
chilly air. At the terminal, there was a traffic jam, and we
could not move an inch. He had to drop us off some distance
before the gates, thus leaving us no chance to enjoy the
luxury of travelling into the terminal proper.
The
terminal was crowded with passengers. Most people wore shemma, or
raincoats. It was still dark when we arrived there, and we
thought it was wise to carry our own luggage, fearing the
risk of theft. One never knows what could happen with so
many people around, not to mention the abundance of luggage
and the absence of adequate light.
Passengers posed all sorts of queries, including where they
could locate the buses heading to their destinations. There
were no posters or signs to indicate directions. Nor were
there any guides to tell passengers what to do. Helpless and
worried passengers spent time wandering hither and thither,
not knowing where to go and whom to ask for information.
After a
while, we came across a young man, who was wearing a canvas
overcoat with a hood, selling tickets. The bus fare was 48
Br for each of us. By my reckoning, it is about 1.25 Br per
kilometre, which is not fair considering the number of
passengers packed in the 62-seater bus, and the long
distance to be covered under stressful conditions as people
had to sit on narrow seats and endure great discomfort all
the way.
The
fellow told us that the bus would be coming soon, and we had
better stay on the verandah near the café. There were
literally hundreds of people standing there with their
luggage waiting for the buses to come. We waited for too
long, and began doubting the trustworthiness of the man who
had collected our money.
We
looked for him in the thick crowd in vain. He was nowhere to
be found. Time was running out. The big buses came one after
another from somewhere outside the compound. At last, our
bus showed up at half-past seven. It was an old vehicle that
should have stopped plying the roads a long time ago. We had
no choice but to step in before it was full.
Some
passengers could not find seats. The driver and his
assistant pretended ignorance of how that could possibly
have happened. After we left the terminal, they managed to
accommodate those standing by giving them little stools, or dukas as
they call them, to sit on. With the disadvantage of a
language barrier, apparently, the passengers could not
complain much. They cooperated, I should say.
The bus
travelled down the roads amidst the labyrinth of demolished
houses next to new constructions. I could not tell where we
were heading till we finally came to the junction on Debre
Zeit Road near the CRDA headquarters. The part of the
journey around Gotera Square, amicably nick-named
the Confusion Square, was rough.
I could
clearly see that the face of the capital was changing in
earnest, following the newly-built roads. The scarcity of
cement seemed to be justified, judging by the volume of
construction taking place in every direction. The capital is
expanding at an accelerated speed, moving beyond its bounds.
We reached Kaliti before we knew it. The drizzle grew into
downpour.
Silence
reigned in the bus, as there were no entertainment
accessories installed. Curtsey of a fellow passenger, who
had a dry cell battery-operated radio receiver, we were able
to listen to a sport news broadcast from one of the FM
stations.
Unfortunately, the journalist was tirelessly telling us, in
flat intonations, about Sir Alex Ferguson and et al,
instead of talking about the Beijing Olympic Games, which
obviously are of more interest at the moment. But the radio
was a blessing in light of the deadly silence. Soon enough,
some passengers fell asleep, as if to settle the debt of
unfinished slumber.
By the
time we stopped at Zeway for breakfast, or lunch, if you
want to call it that, it was 11 in the morning, the rain had
stopped. Recess lasted the better part of an hour. Vendors
were rampant, trying to sell soft drinks at four Birr per
bottle. Orange fruits sold at six Birr per kilo. As usual,
there was a brief stop at Shashemene, as only one passenger
stepped down.
We saw
some food aid piled high in kebele compounds, perhaps ready
for distribution later in the day. We did not see any one at
these centres.
Could
it be food for sale?
The
383Km journey came to an end around 17 hours in the
afternoon, after a tiresome journey lasting over 10 hours.
The
next day, we started our journey late in the morning because
we had decided to travel on a piecemeal basis, transferring
from Sodo to Shashemene and then to Addis. The bus terminal
at Shashemene is the largest terminal I have ever seen so
far, unlike that of Addis Abeba. With urbanization and
industrialization growing at a fast rate, the mobility of
people from one corner of the country to another,
particularly through the Addis terminal is inevitable and
bound to increase.
The
authorities concerned ought to be farsighted and plan ahead
of time. At least, they ought to construct adequate shelters
and install orderly systems to handle passengers properly.
After all, this is a cosmopolitan city and the seat of the
African Union. We should never forget our responsibilities,
even for one moment. |
