What’s with those Masaka taxi drivers?

By Brian Ourien It is not good to get used to Kampala taxis because you will not enjoy travelling elsewhere. The crummy environment of the upcountry taxis is, to say the least, annoying. The journey from Kampala to Masaka is such a delight. The lush greens of the endless expanse of marshland are simply breathtaking. The winding road not withstanding, natural lustre graces the journey to Buddu-land. Coasters, Kamunyes and Estate Peugeots are the main form of transport to and from Masaka. From Kampala, the journey is quite comfortable. I sat at the back of the Coaster and enjoyed the ride. It felt like I was visiting a far off place. It was my first time in Masaka and almost everything caught my attention – from the memories of the 1979 war to the miserable cramming of passengers in small taxis. Most of the taxis here are tiny Toyota Corollas built for only four passengers. You would be shocked to count as many as 11 people in such a small saloon car. Four of them, including the driver, are seated at the front with one of them sharing the driver’s seat and the gear lever right between his legs. In the back seat, seven passengers squeeze themselves, some of them leaning out of the window probably to get a little fresh air. A presenter on one of the FM stations in Masaka once spoke of the over–loading and got a good number of angry calls from the taxi drivers threatening to boycott the station. When it was time to leave Masaka, I walked to the Taxi Park, which is right in the middle of town and boarded a coaster at about 6.30 in the evening. I was forced to abandon a seat for a lady. I had to take the seat near the door. I was then alarmed when the conductor asked me to move up so somebody else could share my seat. I could not imagine sitting between two seats for a journey of over two hours! I stormed out of the coaster and straight into a Kamunye where we were promptly packed, four people per seat. By this time I was too incensed to do anything about it. Besides, darkness was fast approaching and I did not want to spend the night in Masaka. Beaten at my own game, I settled for the seat near the door. We set off for Kampala at about 7.00 p.m. The night was growing and the speeds increased with it. I did not have a chance to look at the speedometer, but I could swear the devil himself was in that driver’s seat. Everyone in the taxi was dead quiet. Only the smooth sounds of the gospel music group Makoma blaring through the speakers at the front maintained our sanity. Looking out the window would send you continuously repenting for fear of meeting your creator with a dirty book. Only the driver didn’t seem to realise that we were almost flying. Somewhere along the way, small insects covered the windshield of our taxi. The insects, called essami, are attracted by the light from the vehicles and only come around during the wet season. A few children by the roadside in the next village were waiting to clean the windshields with water and rags. With a spotless windshield, we stormed onto the road. As we approached Mpanga forest, the taxi surprisingly slowed down and stopped. We were at a Police roadblock. With a casual glance into the overloaded taxi, the policeman waved us to the side of the road. The conductor frantically begged for sh1,000 from passengers in the taxi, rushed out of the car and in less than half a minute, was back and off we sped. He had paid his way out of Police hands. The look on his face said it was a routine thing. We were getting closer to Kampala, but the speed showed no signs of decreasing. My window, which was wide open at the start of the journey, was now half an inch open due to the speed of wind that came in. By the time we reached Kampala, it was safely closed. ends