photo© Julie Wang 2014 |
" 'Shank’s Mare'--good
old walking--is the only way for most people to go miles and miles and miles
each day, usually barefoot, or wearing rubber boots or sandals. Every day rural Ugandans travel up hills and
mountains, over rushing torrents on a single log or rotten boards usually over
slippery, muddy pathways. To market and
back is a round trip of about three miles for most, to buy eggs, bread, sugar,
tomatoes, or simply to get to school or work, since there are few school buses
and most are too poor to pay for transportation.
Next comes the bicycle, not as useful as
you might think in the country, because roads are so rutted and uneven,
hence a bicycle ride can be extremely dangerous. On paved roads, however, bicycles are used to
carry heavy loads of sugar cane, matooke (plantain), wood, maize
flour, building materials, etc and even quite small boys seem able to balance
this kind of weight.
The next ubiquitous form of transit is the
boda-boda or motorcycle, known in Benin as a Zem, the motorcycle has become the
single most useful way to go short distances and a source of income for the
fearless young men who wait at every street corner waiting for passengers. It is a hazardous occupation and deaths are
all too frequent.
In Uganda, depending on what you are
wearing, you either ride astride or side-saddle, with feet tucked tightly into
the side of the vehicle to avoid losing a toe, usually with at least one other
person in front or behind, all clinging to each other and to the driver to
avoid falling off! In Benin, a half-Muslim
country, touching the driver is unthinkable, you simply cling tightly to the
metal carrier behind you and two people together is against the law. The only exception is for small children, who
frequently ride to and from school, clinging to each other all the way.
The potholes in both countries are
unimaginable. So boda-boda’s weave along
the road, trying to hit the high spots that are the least rutted and
muddy. In consequence, overtaking,
especially when another car is coming in the opposite direction and the road is
lined with pedestrians, can be a hair-raising experience. Best not to look. Praying is recommended.
Riding a boda-boda in Kampala is
particularly anxiety-provoking because there are always traffic jams, so the
motorcycles weave between cars, each of which is trying to cut off the car
beside him, leaving the motorcycle passenger particularly vulnerable.
Yesterday, I rode double with my friend in
Kampala to the street markets. They are
numerous and varied, each market specializing in a different type of commodity
– shoes, fabric, fruits and vegetables, electronics, etc. It is somewhat reminiscent of New York City
in the 70’s, each street on the lower West side lined with small, dark, musty
stores dedicated to hats, or furs, feathers, spangles, or jewelry, you name it.
You could wander from one to another to get the best bargain, since stores
selling the same specialty were grouped together.
So, too, in Uganda, where if the shoe
doesn’t fit, your accommodating seller will rush to a friend’s stall on your
behalf to bring back what he thinks you are looking for, hoping for a sale to a
Mzungu, who will surely pay more than the average Ugandan.
Clutching tightly to each other, so that I
wouldn’t fall off the back and my friend felt more secure, we wend our way down
the side of the hill where our hotel was located.
After a hair-raising U-turn, crossing the
road against a fast flowing stream of traffic, we advanced rapidly, especially
at red lights when we had the advantage of being able to squeeze through tight
spots between cars. Never have I more
fervently regretted wearing open-toed shoes.
This is not for the faint-hearted.
It puts getting old in perspective.
I feel lucky to have the
privilege to do so, should I be so lucky as to survive this experience!
Next, for a truly jarring ride, there is
nothing quite like the bush taxi or matatu,
whose springs have certainly seen better days and whose seats are quite likely
to be only semi-covered with some kind of cloth or fake leather. These vehicles are basically Toyota vans,
with a seating capacity of 14 in 5 rows.
Never have I ridden with fewer than 20 people crammed almost on top of
each other, with chickens held tightly on people’s laps, a goat stuffed in the
back on top of other baggage, and often a mother right next to you suckling her
infant.
After a rainfall, getting over the deep
quagmires of mud can be close to impossible, frequently requiring long detours
on higher ground. Breathing room is so
limited that if your cellphone rings there is no way you can reach into a bag
and pull it out.
Yesterday, driving to Mbale early in the
morning, we found ourselves in a matatu race – two drivers going hell for
leather down a rutted, muddy road, racing to be the first to pick up the next
waiting passenger. We overtook or were
overtaken at least six times in less than a half hour.
On our way home, the matatu had to be
pushed along a few feet in order to start the motor. Closing the door, the conductor accidentally pulled
it off its hinges and then carefully replaced it so he would not fall out. About a half hour down the road the engine
ground to a halt again and after a few fervent prayers and fiddling around in
the engine we were pushed along the road until the engine eventually caught. We finally made it home safely just before
nightfall, exhausted from all the excitement!
Moving up the transit totem pole is the
Elgon Flyer, the relatively comfortable long-distance bus that takes you from
Mbale to Kampala in about four and a half hours. Again, seating is tight and if you are not an
“important person”, i.e. a man, preferably well dressed, you are likely to get
bumped from your numbered seat to the back of the bus. I now know why riding at the front was always
considered the white man’s privilege.
Revenge must be sweet.
The bus makes frequent stops along the
way. After about two hours comes a
“short call” during which everyone tumbles out into the surrounding countryside
to do their small business. “Long calls”
require a pit stop at an actual latrine, but I have not yet had the courage, or
the necessity, to find out how sanitary they actually are. I am not eager to find out.
When we stop for lunch about a hundred
local vendors crowd around the bus, each waving sticks of barbequed chicken,
beef, pork, bread, bottles of cold soda, samosas, chapatties, roasted bananas
and corn on the cob, pineapple chunks, papaya, whatever they can lay their
hands on and try desperately to make some money from that day.
On the day we went to Kampala the trip was
also interspersed with someone lying dead beside the road following a
motorcycle accident. We also experienced
a near fist-fight when a passenger who wanted to get off early demanded his
money back and was refused. Other than
that, the trip was uneventful until we got close to Kampala and the heavens
opened.
In equatorial Africa (Kampala is
essentially on the equator) when it rains it pours, straight down in
buckets. Of course, we all got drenched
as we got out, struggling with bags and having neglected to bring a rain
jacket, in the hope that it would somehow magically not rain once we left the
elevated wilderness of Mt. Elgon.
Fortunately, we had contacted Moses, a gentle, knowledgeable man with
that rarest of commodities, a clean, well-kept Subaru, which he uses as a
private taxi.
Ah, the luxury of a private taxi knows no
bounds when you are stranded in a foreign city with no hotel reservation and no
real idea of where to go to find a decent place to stay. Naturally, after nearly a month with only hot
water in a basin in which to wash, we were longing for a truly hot shower under
which we could relax for at least 20 minutes each.
Moses, our hero, almost literally parted
the waters for us, negotiating the hilly streets of Kampala down which at least
two feet of water were pouring unimpeded.
He also drove us to two different hotels. One we had heard about wanted to charge us
$310 a night (almost a year’s wages for the lucky employed Ugandans who make up
only 20 percent of the population). The
second was perfect, at $160 a night for 3 people in the room, and a view over
the golf course to which we were given a free membership pass. Yes!
As usual, fortune favors the brave (with a little help from our
friends). Mind you, most of our friends
were staying in rooms costing approximately $7 a night, so we were definitely
splurging.
Finally, on the transportation spectrum
comes the private car, of which the local Catholic priest in our village has
three! So much for humility and
compassion for the poor by the Catholic church.
I would be hard pressed to justify even one private car for our little
NGO. A bus, or even a van would be
amazing, and our co-director finally has a motorbike which he proudly rides to
our new construction site and back several times a day.
Right now, at the end of a long day of
travel, I am tired and frustrated by the seeming uselessness of helping the
people here see the need to work together to improve their lives. Unless they are willing to trust and help
each other nothing will change and nothing can be accomplished.
I am reminded of a poem I encountered age
about 18 which I copied down in my book of important things to remember:
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or
does it explode?
- Langston Hughes
--J.W.
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