Getting from Here to There.

True, the days have been busy at the office and around town. I’m starting to write my weekly reports and find my way in the organization. I’m making my way around Kampala and showing up on the doorsteps of different corporations asking them if they’re interested in buying some of our Christmas cards to help fund our annual Christmas festival in Gulu.
But I’ve mentioned to a few people at home that half of the exhaustion comes from simply travelling to work and back.
Each day is full of seemingly insignificant choices in transportation, yet I believe that they determine quite a bit.

Each morning I leave the hostel’s compound with a little bit of Swahili banter with the guard, who seems delighted that a Westerner knows a bit more than the typical “Jambo”. We greet each other, tell each other to have a nice day and “Tutaonana Baada Ya” (We will see each other later, Kiswahili)
Then I begin the walk down the hill from the hostel. Every morning there are boda boda drivers (motorcycle taxis) yelling from the bottom of the hill. “Yes! We go?” I shake my head no. A few mornings in a row, one particular man drives his motorcycle up and asks if I need a ride. I’ve already told him I’m going to Gulu soon so he greets me in Acholi. “Kopango?”
I answer “Kope”. But that’s all the Acholi I know so far, I have a lot to learn. He leaves, and I wonder if maybe one of these days I should just let him drive me to the taxi to give him a little extra income.
I reach a busier road which takes me to the main road where I will catch a taxi into town. I get a lot of stares, a lot of “Mzungu!” even though most of these people see a lot of Bazungu (white people) every day. We’re still a spectacle.
Depending on what time I leave, there is usually a pretty serious traffic jam so I have to wait a while for a taxi. One Ugandan guy in a BMW pulls up and rolls down his tinted window and winks, asking me if I want a ride. Hey man, it’s tempting, but I think I’ll stick with the lesson I learned from Sesame Street on how to say no to such offers from strangers.
I see a few Westerners occasionally in their big SUV’s with whatever NGO branded on the side of their vehicle as I’m waiting for a taxi. I wonder if they ever took public transportation or if they started out in that SUV. Then I wonder how much I can really judge them because I would probably opt for an SUV right about now too.
A taxi finally arrives, beeping its horn, with the “conductor” hanging out of the window pointing his finger down. Kampala. “Nakasero road?” I ask. “Yes, Nakasero”. Shoot. That means I’ll be walking a longer way this morning but I better take the chance I have to get into town.
I judge how the day is going to go by which kind of seat I get on the Matatu. If I get in the front, it’s going to be a good day. That means I don’t have to empty out of the van every time we make a stop so the person behind me can get out. I just get to sit and enjoy the scenery of the chaotic Kampala streets on a Weekday morning. If I get stuck in a “jumpseat” in the middle, it’s probably not going to be such a good day. They’re flimsy fold down seats that are usually angled in an awkward way that makes you feel like your hip might be out of joint by the time you get out of the vehicle.
And then there’s the whole part about asking the taxi to stop. If I don’t say “Masao Ssebo” (Stop Sir) loud enough, numerous other people feel the need to repeat my words until the conductor hears. Poor white girl in the back, can’t speak up for herself. This is another reason I like sitting by the driver, I know he’ll hear me in time.

When I get to downtown Kampala, this is where some of the harder decisions begin. Do I wait for another taxi (which seems a bit silly because it could take a while and it’s not so far to walk), do I take a boda (which is more intense than a theme park ride. Oh, and there’s no safety features. Oh, and I hate theme park rides.) Or do I walk.
I remember my Urban sociology class where we talked about how much the automobile has changed our culture, how we have become so very isolated from one another, and how there is much value in walking or riding a bike and interacting with those around you. I’ve decided to walk every morning except for one in the beginning, just to see if I could find the right taxi.
Walking the rest of the way may seem like no big deal but it is actually quite a heavy decision every morning. It means that I’m going to be a bit more tired and sweaty by the time I get there but more importantly, it means that I’m going to have to pass by the begging mothers and children. It means I might shamefully avoid them by crossing the street or turn my eyes from their gaze and their hand as I make my way to work. I hate this part and I feel completely helpless and white and privileged and ashamed. I also feel like blaming someone like Museveni or the churches on this busy road or the beggars themselves because surely there must be another way. I know that you’re not supposed to give money to begging people, I know that there is deception and corruption and unhealthy structures supported by this practice, but I still feel guilty. So then my mind is turning. If I gave, is it really to help the person or soothe my conscious? Maybe I should’ve risked taking the boda so I don’t have to go through this thought process . . .

So then I put in a days work at the office or around town visiting businesses, maybe risking a bit by taking a boda here or there (I’ll spare the details in case my parents are reading, which I’m pretty sure they’re actually some of my most faithful subscribers. J )

Then I start the journey back. Who I am surrounded by depends on what time I leave the office. If I leave at about 5:00 pm I’m surrounded by a bunch of school kids, which is probably my favorite time. There’s something about their presence that takes the edge off maneuvering the streets.

“Luzabelo! Luzabelo!” That’s my taxi. Took me a day to figure out that stood for Luzira and Bugolobi, the direction I need to travel in. I’m pretty excited because there’s an empty front seat. I get in and wait for the taxi to fill so we can leave.

“Yes, my dear. You are very beautiful . . .” Oh boy, here we go. This is my taxi driver starting in on me.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“American?”
“Yeah.”
“You see, I’m looking for a beautiful American wife.”
“Good luck with that, man.”
He laughs.
“But you see, you’re very beautiful.”
“So then do I get a free lift?”
He keeps laughing. “No, no.”
“Well I guess I’m not beautiful enough then . . .”
He laughs as if it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.
He makes similar comments the rest of the way back, cracks up when I know some cocky things to reply with in Lugandan, and I keep asking if I get a free ride. Doesn’t happen, they still take my 700 shillings.

I get off the taxi, cross the busy street and make my way up the hill to the hostel. I see a mother trying to rewrap her baby and carry her umbrella as well as a bag of stuff. I ask if she needs any help.
“Yes, thank you sister.”
So we walk together and talk a little until I branch off to go up the second hill.
As I pass through the gate, the guard asks me in Kiswahili how work was and how the day was. I reply and ask him the same.

This account is a pretty average day. Yesterday was different because one of these kids who was begging me followed me for a while and I ended up sitting with him and buying him dinner and talking to him for a while. I didn’t get home until quite a bit later. And I was a bit of a wreck, but that story is for a whole other series of blogs.