I took this picture from the window of this scenery on the way to Kampala. It’s like this for several miles. This must be where the stock photo on my home page came from. I have wanted to change my home page photo with one I’ve taken, but haven’t found the right one yet.
On my trip from Bugiri to In Service Training, by way of Kampala, I carried my backpack and lugged a purple suitcase. Seeing me that morning, a few people in my neighborhood asked, “Are you going back to America?” I assured them I would be back shortly. I was vague and omitted I would be gone two weeks because I don’t want the word to get out and my place robbed of course. As it is, the kids on my route are surely going to wonder. I sort of look forward to their excitement when I return.
I hated giving up my suitcase to the Taxi porter, but there really isn’t much choice. It gets tied to the roof with other stuff (including chickens sometimes) or stuffed in a compartment behind the last row of seats via the back hatch. My bag and I were transferred four times before reaching my destination. When it was on the roof, every time we hit a bump I would turn around to make sure it didn’t fall off. On the leg from Jinja to Kampala, they cinched a rope to tie down the back hatch with my bag because that rear compartment was so full. I was in the second to last row, and at one point I reached over the back row and took this picture just to confirm it was still there. Peace of mind I guess, but not much I could do if it wasn’t.
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Just before reaching the Old Taxi Park in downtown Kampala, we stopped, and a passenger removed the other bag you see in the photo. It alarmed me that the conductor didn’t go back there with him. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I saw my bag tumble to the street while we pulled away through heavy traffic. I yelled for the driver to stop, along with other passengers, and toiled my way out and ran back through the traffic. Happily, I soon saw a boda driver with my bag balanced on his handle bars. I trust he was trying to follow us. Probably should have tipped him.
I returned back to my taxi, and the conductor said “Sorry”. “Sorry” is the unemotional response Ugandans make to any misfortune- in my case it’s usually when I bump my head getting in. Last week it was the only response when I said “I thought you were picking me up for dinner, I waited for you in the rain.” “Sorry” rarely sounds sincere, it’s like the casual version of “Excuse me.” However, the conductor graciously allowed me to keep my bag next to me the last mile since now there was room for it. Still, I reflect how only a few months ago, traveling alone with taxis, navigating in crazy downtown Kampala no less, was sort of a scary process without a veteran PCV to guide us. Maybe next June I will be that PCV helping the next Agri-business cohort.