“Filled with silky-haired goats, chickens, and what must have been nearly thirty human bodies—in a space meant for about ten—the matatu didn’t feel like a vehicle at all. With its windscreen cracked and browned, several of the door handles sheared off, one of the wheel arches missing and a general weariness distributed throughout the whole structure, onto which various bits of wood and steel plate had been tacked, it seemed less like a machine than an ancient artifact, something to worship or view at an exhibition.” Giles Foden, The Last King of Scotland, p. 44.
I just have to write about my taxi ride to Magale. Just so you can get an idea of what it is we’re dealing with, I’m starting from the very beginning, at the taxi park. It goes like this: You enter the park and walk around yelling your destination. Magale! Magale! Somehow someone somewhere hears what you are saying as you yell at a big dirt parking lot full of taxis. We’re quickly shuttled over to an empty matatu (taxi, which is a white van with a blue checkered stripe down the side and religious affirmations like “God is Good” or “Jesus Saves” written on the back windshield.) Luckily we have Geoff as our fearless leader. He’s done this a million times. That sets my heart at rest. We found one, hopefully the right one, and piled in.
Then came the onslaught of vendors attacking the car: cheap jewelry you might buy for a 3 year-old, pens, paper, newspapers, candies, cokes, boiled eggs, bags of yogurt (over my dead body will I ever eat a milk product here!), bread (incredibly disappointing, like cheap white bread that is 3 days stale and half the thickness of a normal slice), bras. One man even held up the bra to his chest to make sure we knew what it was. Thanks pal. Amy took a picture, so we have it immortalized forever. We started with two people on our row, then 3, then 4, now a child sitting on the floor board, bags piling in, 5 and the taxi was packed and ready to go (we’re sitting about 4-5 people/row built for 3). Not too bad. A little tight, but doable. Apparently the driver had a few errands to run, went up and down the same street twice, and then stopped for sugar. And no one complained! No one here complains! Incredible. That’s when we learned how to say, “Let’s go!” in Lugisu. I’ve used it a couple times since.
The worse was yet to come. At Bubulo we picked up the rest of the people I was praying wouldn’t get on the matatu. We were now sitting 7 people and one child on our row, 6 people in the row behind, and 5 and 5 in the remaining rows. We quickly learned the front row is NOT the best row… And just when you think there isn’t a possible spot for one more person they pack another one on, plus bags and a live chicken!) I know I am prone to exaggerate, but this is pure unadulterated truth. Amy and I took turns leaning forward. It was too cramped to fit our shoulders. I was on one butt cheek for most of the 2 hour ride, shoved into the window on one side and Amy’s back on the other with my knees pushed up into the back of the driver’s seat and my bags.
There is the driver (I’m still learning to put my trust in them) and then there is the conductor. His job is to man the sliding door, collect the money, and get people into the taxi. For lack of space, the conductor is jackknifed at the waist with his back against the roof and his body pressed against the door and the lucky people who are “sitting” on the ends of rows 1 and 2.
Jammed in like sardines we BARRELED down the road, jarred, jostled, jumbled till our teeth rattled. Numb bum and feet. No one complains! Everyone just accepts it as life. We’re still in the stage of searching out whomever speaks intelligible English and asking all the questions we can imagine to pass the time. I hope I never outgrow that stage. I hope things don’t become commonplace. I hope I never cease to be awed by my surrounding.
After about 1.5 hours of this torture we sped into a less than bustling trading center and screeched to a halt, saddling up right next to another taxi that was JAM PACKED with people and goods. Everyone poured out of our taxi, but this was not Magale. In all the confusion we figured out that our matatu was in fact NOT going to Magale, but that we would have to transfer to the taxi at our side, pay the taxi we were in the full price of the trip, and not pay the next taxi anything at all, Yeah right. Somehow they expected us to fit bags and ourselves in a taxi that was already busting at the seams. Geoff threw a fit. We were all confused. Magically 4 spots opened in the other taxi and we shoved and pried our way into the second row. I now had the grand luck of having the conductor and his general lower section all up in my space. Amy was stuck next to me between 2 seats of different heights and a wooden bar sticking out between them. I didn’t mind the conductor so much anymore.
Off we go again for the last leg of the trip. Clutching my bag, again smashed between amy and the cold metal side of the taxi, carrying over 23 people, plus children and various and sundry items, meant for 14, with the conductor’s bum in my face. No one else was complaining, so I didn’t either. This is Uganda.
Getting out of the taxi was a feat, like popping a cork. As luck would have it we stopped right under a store sign that said something about Holly’s inn or something. Of all the places to find the word “Holly”. Too bad they spelled it wrong.
Two days later: This time we would be returning to Bumwalukani on our own, senza fearless leader Geoff. Confident we found our matatu back to Kiholo (pronounced Chiholo), which is the trading center for Bumwalukani. Smarter and more seasoned, we sat on the very BACK row – good move. Again, barreling down the dirt road I felt like I had gotten it, was used to it, able to handle life here…until a taxi came zipping past us missing us by inches on the right side. Our driver, not to be outdone, stepped on the gas. The back seat was now the bumpiest ride of my LIFE, so much so that somehow my bra strap worked itself undone!!! “ Oh my gosh! We’re DRAG RACING!” Julie screamed. We all turned out heads to look out the window just in time to see ourselves passing the offender – both cars of passengers staring at each other wide-eyed as we over took the road as king, now going twice as fast as we previously were.
I realized that no, in fact I have NOT “gotten it”, or am not yet “used to it”.
But what can you do. It is the only way to get anywhere! This is Uganda.
ith every day. Some of the pictures are of me teaching the children health education, playing with them, or walking home with a group of them to visit one child's house (where I milked a cow and got more of it on my feet than in the pail!). They are precious. Sometimes I catch them looking at me, the y
ounger ones especially. I flash a smile, their eyes grow big and then they hide their faces. I love it.
