My hectic journey from Kampala to Gulu
A week and a half ago, I was determined to journey by bus northward from Kampala to Gulu. It was not much of a sacrifice to endure for four hours what Ugandans experience in their daily journeys.
Opiyo Oloya
PERSPECTIVE OF A UGANDAN IN CANADA
A week and a half ago, I was determined to journey by bus northward from Kampala to Gulu. It was not much of a sacrifice to endure for four hours what Ugandans experience in their daily journeys.
As the friendly hotel driver stopped the taxi to let me out at the bus park, a bunch of eager young men crowded around us, each trying to get a hand on my luggage. Seeing how things were about to get out of hand, I employed my fluent Acholi that sounded both harsh and dangerous: Nyee, wun kong wudire cen kwica oyot — The lot of you move back immediately! That had instant effect as everyone pulled away, leaving me with my two pieces of luggage and the computer case.
It was only 6:30am so there was at least an hour and a half to kill, waiting, hoping and praying that I made the right decision. Inside the old bus, the paint had long pealed off. The seats were Spartan, torn and crammed together to take as many bodies as humanly possible. The driver was asleep at the wheel as the bus-boys yelled out for more passengers.
I was jolted from my dreamy world by a rough hand on my shoulder. A fairly small man with darting eyes who on a good day could not possibly wrestle down a sack of posho glared at me. “You took my seat, he said in Kiswahili. I responded in English — “Where is it written that this is your seat? I came here, found an empty seat, and I am not moving.†“I slept on this bus last night, and I put my stuff right under the seat you are sitting on,†he responded in a mix of English and Kiswahili. Then, as I always do when the fight is brewing in me, I simply looked straight into his eyes, silently.
It is the look used that says, I am done with you and time to move on. The small fellow understood and quickly said, “You can sit sir, I will find another seat.†My victory was momentary.
The herbal tea I drank early in the morning meant I had to respond to nature’s call. There was no choice here but to leave my belongings to go to the toilet. Once there, I encountered a fat man with a bulging stomach sitting on a stool with toilet paper in his hand. I paid sh200 and the man tore a strip off the toilet roll and handed it to me. I had no use for it and gave it back. I quickly did my business, washed my hands and retreated to the relatively saner world out there.
The journey began a few minutes after 8:00am. A big fellow who wore his thick black leather coat in the forbidding heat and was sweating profusely, and a smaller man who sat in isle crunched me to the wall of the bus. I could barely breathe. In Wobulenzi, the bus screeched to a stop at a police checkpoint. The bus-boy who wore a beige collarless shirt talked to one of the uniformed officers, but the officers did not appear to budge. Early on, his colleague had dropped something to a police officer who promptly waved the bus on. But these officers were different. Against all odds, the bus-boy seemed to have run into honest officers who were not interested in taking bribes, but keen on upholding the law.
The officers —Constable John Francis Adome (Badge 33866) and Officer Kyeyamba (Badge 17714) ignored all the entreaties from Mr. Collarless Shirt who later identified himself as Mohammed Ramadan (likely a fake name). The officers were determined to write up the bus for various violations and the bus owner had to pay the fine at the bank or appear in court to answer the charges.
Someone shouted that the bus belonged to a member of parliament, the Honorable so and so. The officers were not impressed. The Silent Man who had sat across from me in the isle since the bus left Kampala got out of the bus, now jumped into action. “I am Detective Constable Philip Adonga from eastern region, and I am asking you to immediately arrest this man for bribing a police officer — pointing to the younger bus-boy who had earlier dropped something to the traffic officer at the earlier police check-point.
Identified as Ismael Viga, the man admitted dropping sh5000 to the officer at the earlier road-block. Meanwhile, it was hot, and the passengers were clearly ready to riot. Yet the driver insisted that Mr. Viga was the mechanic without whom the bus could not be restarted. It was a dilemma worthy of King Solomon. The police officers were now torn between impounding the clearly unfit bus or allowing it to continue on its journey in violation of the law.
Finally, bowing to the comfort of passengers, the mechanic was released to accompany the bus to Gulu and be re-arrested for bribery. The self-admitted crook was released and donning on his dirty oily overall, disappeared beneath the bus, tweaked a few things, banged this and that, and declared the bus ready to proceed. As the bus roared back to life, I could see the man identified as Ramadan smile triumphantly — he had won.
In Gulu, everyone waited to see what I would do since I had been in the middle of it all, taking notes and pictures. I picked up my bags and my computer, and walked away.
Opiyo.Oloya@sympatico.ca
PERSPECTIVE OF A UGANDAN IN CANADA
A week and a half ago, I was determined to journey by bus northward from Kampala to Gulu. It was not much of a sacrifice to endure for four hours what Ugandans experience in their daily journeys.
As the friendly hotel driver stopped the taxi to let me out at the bus park, a bunch of eager young men crowded around us, each trying to get a hand on my luggage. Seeing how things were about to get out of hand, I employed my fluent Acholi that sounded both harsh and dangerous: Nyee, wun kong wudire cen kwica oyot — The lot of you move back immediately! That had instant effect as everyone pulled away, leaving me with my two pieces of luggage and the computer case.
It was only 6:30am so there was at least an hour and a half to kill, waiting, hoping and praying that I made the right decision. Inside the old bus, the paint had long pealed off. The seats were Spartan, torn and crammed together to take as many bodies as humanly possible. The driver was asleep at the wheel as the bus-boys yelled out for more passengers.
I was jolted from my dreamy world by a rough hand on my shoulder. A fairly small man with darting eyes who on a good day could not possibly wrestle down a sack of posho glared at me. “You took my seat, he said in Kiswahili. I responded in English — “Where is it written that this is your seat? I came here, found an empty seat, and I am not moving.†“I slept on this bus last night, and I put my stuff right under the seat you are sitting on,†he responded in a mix of English and Kiswahili. Then, as I always do when the fight is brewing in me, I simply looked straight into his eyes, silently.
It is the look used that says, I am done with you and time to move on. The small fellow understood and quickly said, “You can sit sir, I will find another seat.†My victory was momentary.
The herbal tea I drank early in the morning meant I had to respond to nature’s call. There was no choice here but to leave my belongings to go to the toilet. Once there, I encountered a fat man with a bulging stomach sitting on a stool with toilet paper in his hand. I paid sh200 and the man tore a strip off the toilet roll and handed it to me. I had no use for it and gave it back. I quickly did my business, washed my hands and retreated to the relatively saner world out there.
The journey began a few minutes after 8:00am. A big fellow who wore his thick black leather coat in the forbidding heat and was sweating profusely, and a smaller man who sat in isle crunched me to the wall of the bus. I could barely breathe. In Wobulenzi, the bus screeched to a stop at a police checkpoint. The bus-boy who wore a beige collarless shirt talked to one of the uniformed officers, but the officers did not appear to budge. Early on, his colleague had dropped something to a police officer who promptly waved the bus on. But these officers were different. Against all odds, the bus-boy seemed to have run into honest officers who were not interested in taking bribes, but keen on upholding the law.
The officers —Constable John Francis Adome (Badge 33866) and Officer Kyeyamba (Badge 17714) ignored all the entreaties from Mr. Collarless Shirt who later identified himself as Mohammed Ramadan (likely a fake name). The officers were determined to write up the bus for various violations and the bus owner had to pay the fine at the bank or appear in court to answer the charges.
Someone shouted that the bus belonged to a member of parliament, the Honorable so and so. The officers were not impressed. The Silent Man who had sat across from me in the isle since the bus left Kampala got out of the bus, now jumped into action. “I am Detective Constable Philip Adonga from eastern region, and I am asking you to immediately arrest this man for bribing a police officer — pointing to the younger bus-boy who had earlier dropped something to the traffic officer at the earlier police check-point.
Identified as Ismael Viga, the man admitted dropping sh5000 to the officer at the earlier road-block. Meanwhile, it was hot, and the passengers were clearly ready to riot. Yet the driver insisted that Mr. Viga was the mechanic without whom the bus could not be restarted. It was a dilemma worthy of King Solomon. The police officers were now torn between impounding the clearly unfit bus or allowing it to continue on its journey in violation of the law.
Finally, bowing to the comfort of passengers, the mechanic was released to accompany the bus to Gulu and be re-arrested for bribery. The self-admitted crook was released and donning on his dirty oily overall, disappeared beneath the bus, tweaked a few things, banged this and that, and declared the bus ready to proceed. As the bus roared back to life, I could see the man identified as Ramadan smile triumphantly — he had won.
In Gulu, everyone waited to see what I would do since I had been in the middle of it all, taking notes and pictures. I picked up my bags and my computer, and walked away.
Opiyo.Oloya@sympatico.ca