The Road by Meru

Once a week I travel the road by Meru. Meru is Kilimanjaro’s mirror, perhaps not in stature but certainly in geographical terms. Mt. Meru rises up on the road to the west while Kilimanjaro dominates the eastern horizon on the road to Moshi. But when you are on the road to Meru, the last thing on your mind is an immortal mountain. No, you are thinking of your life, and thinking of how short it has been.

You think like this every time you get in a bus here. Let’s just say, the rules are a little different this side of the Great Rift Valley. Passing on the left, passing on the shoulder, passing in the middle, passing the bikers. Passing is a big deal here. But with passing, the rules seem to be that there are no rules. And I’ll be the first to admit that I really sort of love it. It’s got to be the cheapest way to know you’re alive. In fact, it might be the poor man’s skydiving, this thing called driving in Tanzania. Today’s trip past Meru involved all of the above—riding the shoulder, skyrocketing over range after range of speed bumps, and buzzing past villagers on bicycles carrying jugs of water back to their houses. Welcome to Africa.

People would have a squall if you drove like that in the States. I remember one time with my older brother driving through Jenkins on our way home. The car ahead of us was moving slower than ever, and despite the oncoming traffic Zac pulled out around the grandma and dared the unthinkable. He passed with an oncoming car in sight. “There’s enough road for all of us,” he said. He must have sensed my discomfort. Either that or he felt the change in barometric pressure in the car as my heart rate escalated to death. At the time, I thought he was mad. But that is the rule they live by here, passing at will.

The concept of passing differs slightly here in Tanzania. It does not always involve accelerating to overtake the car ahead of you. Sometimes, it just means that you make room for three cars on the road at once. Most of the time it means that driving is one ongoing game of chicken between costas and safari cars, causing your heart to sporadically pump enormous amounts of blood through your veins and incite several small myocardial infarctions all at once. You triple your wrinkles (and your prayers) in one short ride to Arusha.

So why would I take this journey once or twice a week when I promised my family I'd be careful? Because walking is a far more dangerous way to get to church...