A Bus Ride in Uganda

I love the way Life can flip things around. Especially when the flip is in the direction I'd want to go. I left Kampala feeling down. I arrived in Gulu feeling up.

No need here to talk about why I was sad but I was. The weather wasn't even good ... another gray, rainy day in a long series of gray, rainy days that was uncharacteristic of Kampala weather. The taxi that took me to the bus terminal dumped me out a block away because traffic was impossibly snarled and he couldn't get there from here. But he pointed me in the right direction. Laden with luggage, I clumsily made my way through the drizzle, trying to avoid stepping in one of the many mud puddles or being run down or splashed by bodas and trucks zipping past me.

The Gulu bus was already packed but there was room for me. Or was there? Peering in, I couldn't believe one more person could get on, but a couple of non uniformed men acting as conductors insisted I should get on. I had arrived not knowing a schedule since I had heard they just go when they fill up, whenever that is. I was in luck. They tossed my backpack up into the narrow aisle and pointed to a narrow space remaining on a seat with two women. Again, it took a couple of seconds for me to see that it was indeed a seat meant to accommodate three people -- two broad bottoms were taking up more than two-thirds of the space. I stepped over and around the bags and bundles piled in the aisle alongside my own and squeezed into the aisle seat. I smiled at the lady seated there. Immediately the baby in her lap started to scream. Loudly. I understood only one word of what the woman said to her companion --- 'muzungu.' She was talking about the foreign white person. Turning to me, she said in English "The baby is fearing" and waited for me to step out into the crowded aisle so she could swap places with the other woman and get the baby away from me and facing the other direction. Things quieted down to a whimper. Ah, let me be present ...let me see where I am.

Looking out the window on the opposite side my eyes go straight to a guy dressed in a suit; he's walking down the street masturbating. This is a busy street with people all around him and he's walking along playing with himself. The two women opposite me are noticing him also and the three of us start to laugh. At that very moment of connection with them, conk ... a briefcase on the rack above my head slides off and finds its mark; lucky for me it was plastic and lightweight.

I think it was just then -- within four or five minutes of getting on the bus -- that my mood shifted. I'm really in Africa, I remembered. I'm right smack dab into the earthy experience I wanted. Something outside of my familiar world. This is going to be fun, I decided. And it was.

The bus closed the door and pulled out of the chaotic terminal within 10 minutes of my arrival. Fighting its way through heavy traffic, we had only reached the outskirts of town, on Bomba Road, half an hour later, when the driver pulled into a petrol station and people started pouring off the bus (making their way awkwardly past all these 'things' piled in the aisle. ) "Is this a rest stop?" I asked the woman next to me. "Will there be a toilet stop half way there?" Her terse advice "you better go now" proved to be valuable words. I barely had time to find the toilet and get back to the bus before it was pulling out again; most of the passengers who got off were buying snacks, although they would have many other opportunities along the way; only the opportunity to have a toilet break would be missing for the next five hour.

Looking out the window is highly entertaining for me, wherever I am in Uganda. It's rather like a stage show, a parade of new-to-me sights, sounds, and trivialities. A big billboard advertising chapati oil gets my attention. Before coming here I barely knew the definition of chapati, and I certainly didn't know there was a special oil for cooking it. (A chapati is a round unleavened flatbread, cooked on a hot griddle and sometimes air-fluffed over an open flame. Apparently brought to East Africa by Indian merchants many years ago, it's very popular and can be ordered Indian-style or African-style here, or in many variations throughout parts of Asia. But I bet you knew that.)

Now we pass the Tick Hotel, which son Daniel had pointed out to me during an earlier drive. He and I wonder if the owner knows how off-putting the word tick is to us muzungus, or if it's someone's name. We pass dozens of the ubiquitous "Cheap Store" shops with their all-alike painted signs. We pass the Divine Dairy, God's Glory Enterprises, and Better Hope school. I wonder about the story that must surely be behind the names of the Missouri Hotel, the Florida Hotel, and the California Hotel -- not one of them looks like a hotel but apparently they have rooms to rent.

We pass an occasional washing bay for cars, scooters, and other vehicles. They're always busy. They're always muddy. I don't know if running water is available or just water in buckets and tubs. With all the red dust and dirt, this business enterprise serves a valid need.

Ugandan pop music is playing loudly for the first hour, but then a movie begins. There's only one monitor, mounted high at the front of the bus. I missed seeing the title and I'm puzzled by the production. Light-brown-skinned people wearing loin cloths are running around attacking each other with spears. It doesn't look to be in Africa; my guess might be natives in the Amazon jungle. The subtitles are of no help to me either; I can't even identify the alphabet.

I doze off despite the bumpy road, but wake up each time the bus stops for another snack break. Vendors rush to the windows to sell their temptations -- skewers of grilled/braised meat, tiny and ever-so-sweet local bananas, donut-type rolls, chapatis, and some kind of root vegetable, possibly casava. And cokes, fresca, fanta. I decline, especially the drinks. I'm beginning to wish there would be a bathroom break. The brief stops are barely long enough for snack purchases. Anyone can buy food but gender equality ends there. Men needing a 'short call' simply hop off the bus, walk a few feet away -- maybe to a nearby ditch, and turn their backs while doing their thing. (You can probably guess now what a 'long call' is; on this 5-hour trip, no one of any gender gets to indulge in a long call. At least, not that I saw.) Hmmmmm ? What about pregnant women for whom short-call urges come often?

At some point, the conductor makes his way through the bus, asking for the tickets we bought shortly after getting on the bus. His answer to my query about how many people are on the bus is '67'. I ask if there are 67 seats or 67 people. Yes, he says. I think it can't be yes to both, because there are still some people sitting on boxes in the aisle. The cost of a ticket for the 200-mile trip is just 20,000 Ugandan Shillings -- about US $10.

The movie ends. I'm still unenlightened about its origin or its message. Watching videos shot by amateurs at Ugandan weddings, engagement parties, and other social events educates me a bit about Ugandan culture and keeps me entertained for the next bouncy, uncomfortable miles. The show ends with music videos so I now know the names of a few pop stars. It's a good diversion from a full bladder.

It's raining when I get off the bus -- but just barely. Happy am I that a boda driver is waiting. He secures my backpack in front of him and I climb on the seat behind him with my smaller bags and away we go ... back to my temporary home at One Mango Tree, ready to see what other little adventures await.