Uganda and Rwanda

Leaving Kenya.

July 18, 2009

I got back from Masai Mara in the afternoon and decided to take the midnight-bus to Uganda.  So I said goodbye friends at the apartments and went downtown to the bus station.  The bus left after dark.  It was the longest 12-hour bus ride I've ever been on.  The window next to me wouldn't close all the way and the cold wind kept me from getting any sleep.  I put on my sweater, my rain jacket, and wrapped up in both my masai blankets but I was still freezing.  I tried stuffing toilet paper into the window crevices to block the wind, but that only gave me a few minutes of calm before the wind sucked the paper out.  I eventually ran out of toilet paper. Then I shivered. For 12 hours.

By morning, the bus finally got to Uganda and I was surprised to see it to be mostly like Kenya, with the exception of the taxi system, which is comprised of a horde of screaming, two-stroke motorcycles made in India (by the way, they only cost about $1,000  :) .  To get a ride, you simply wave down a bike and hop on the back.  It felt like I was a kid again getting a ride from my brother.  I had some trouble balancing my backpack while my motorcycle driver dodged other motorcycles, cars, and pedestrians.  Road-rage in these countries takes on a whole new meaning.  He was somewhat impatient, so every once in awhile we would take a detour onto the sidewalk and make his own path through the crowd of pedestrians.  My mom would not survive here, she hates motorcycles.  Luckily we didn't hit anyone and I didn't somersault off the back.  

At one point I almost lost my balance and my heavy bag almost pulled me off the back; the driver laughed and yelled, "I see you aren't used to motorcycles! ha-ha, It's OK, just hold on!"  I had to smile a little, as I fondly reminisced about my beloved bike I had to sell in order  to come to Africa and I wanted to say, "You call this a motorcycle!"  But I didn't.  

      

We finally arrived at a small bus outpost where I would wait for the next bus to Rwanda.  The bus station was in a small courtyard, enclosed by high walls with barbed-wire trimmings.  A single gate, made of a patchwork of iron scrap, controlled the flow of traffic in and out of the lot.  The place resembled a prison yard.

 A small cafe was tucked away in the corner of the property and everyone gathered there to wait.  Buses arrived roughly every thirty minutes and whenever the gate opened, there was a rush of activity from everyone; men chugged what was left of their chai, women gathered their scattered children, and everyone lined up to get into the bus.    

    

It seemed that everyone instinctively congregated according to their respective activities: the women lounged around the perimeter by the cement steps with their babies draped around their backs; men sat around the tables on one side of the café sipping chai or a local beer; restless children played next to the ticket counter; and all the taxis, with their little motorcycles, crowded together just outside the gate.  They pestered every passerby--me most of all.  

I wanted to get something to eat outside the compound so I walk over to the main gate.  In a loud voice, I told the first motorcycle driver that I didn’t need a ride.  I knew the others could hear me and saw my gesture of refusal, yet they all persisted, and I end up saying “No taxi” a dozen times in as many seconds as I wove my way through them to the main road.  They smiled slyly as I passed, knowing in advance what my reply would be, but asking anyway.  Maybe they just wanted to hear me talk, or maybe my constant grin invited conversation, or maybe they were actually hoping I would change my mind.  Either way, I wasn’t annoyed.  If I grew up here, I’m sure I would be just like them.  The last driver I walked past didn’t say a word, but instead he offered a playful smile as he sanctimoniously unfurled his arm and waved his hand, leading me to the street and freedom as if I was royalty--his friends’ laugh echoed by my own.  I smiled as I realized I am so much like them.

A few hours later, I was sitting at a small table in the open-air cafe.  It was dark now and the compound was nearly empty.  From my chair, I noticed a young taxi driver nearby, painstakingly polishing the paint and chrome of his little two-stroke motorcycle.  He chatted cheerfully with his friend, who was momentarily distracted from their conversation by an attractive girl walking by.  The boy with the motorcycle was too busy polishing his bike to notice the girl-- he carefully folded his cleaning rag in half and exposed a clean area of cloth for the finishing touches on the rim of the rear tire.  He continued chatting away, unaware that his friend was on a mental vacation with the girl walking by.  I had to chuckle at the scenario.

Suddenly he gasped and stopped wiping; he leaned in closer to his bike, eyes squinting in the half-light of evening.  Intrigued, I also looked closer (my table was only a few feet away).  There was a blemish in the chrome.  Though the spot was miniscule, he was so familiar with his prized two-stroke that he knew it shouldn’t be there.  He cursed under his breath as he polished in vain.  Looking for sympathy, he pointed out the spot to his friend, who turned his head to the bike without taking his eyes off the girl.  I smiled and almost laugh out loud--they are both just like me. 

I attracted more and more attention as the café became less crowded.  I sat next to the other men--they seemed less interested in my presence.  I ordered cup after cup of chai as the evening turned in to a chilly night.  Temperatures change quickly here, like back home.  I lost my heavy sweater somewhere in Nairobi so I wrapped up like an Eskimo in my green rain jacket and red masai blankets.  I hadn’t shaved in a few days.  I bet I looked like an escaped convict or something.  I was undoubtedly the subject of many conversations and the source of many smiles and giggles from the kids. 

At one point in the evening, I noticed all the women gathered around a small T.V. on the wall, a locally filmed cooking program was showing.  The women were transfixed; not because they wanted to learn, but because they wanted to point out all the mistakes the lady on T.V. was making.  She was making dough for some sort of bread.  I couldn’t see the finished product so I didn’t know if it was chapatti, maandazi or something else that I’d never heard of.  It didn’t matter -- all the ladies in the café were grinning ear-to-ear.  Occasionally, one of them would point at the T.V. and make a comment, upon which all the others would laugh uproariously and shake their heads in concurrence with the critique or smart-ass comment.  I couldn’t understand a word, but I knew exactly what they were saying and I had to smile.

A waiter furtively knelt down in the café and briskly buffed his old, tattered shoes.  I watched him and maybe he felt my gaze, so he glanced up then quickly looked down again in embarrassment.   I felt for a moment as if I was him.  He didn't look back at me, but forcefully stood up and resumed his duties of serving me and the other men chai and maandazi. 

A few days earlier I was reading the paper, and discovered that, on average, waiters in East Africa make less than $40 a month and work at least 60 hours a week.  That works out to 66 cents an hour.  If he saved every penny, he would have to work more than 1,200 hours (or five months) to buy my $800 Nikon camera.  Chances are, 90% of his wages go toward the very basic survival needs of him and his family, leaving him with 10% to spend on something nice, like a camera.  At that rate, I figure it would take him 50 months to save enough to buy my camera -- more than four years!

Of course, I didn’t run these numbers while I was watching him buff his shoes and tie his shoelaces.  No, I was thinking to myself how happy he seemed, but how shy he was at the same time; how his shirt was worn to threads in parts and yet, how immaculately clean it was; and about what sort of injury he must have had, to get such a large scar across his thin forearm (I wanted to ask about it, but decided not to). 

I do remember tipping him generously though, and in retrospect I’m glad I did.  4 more hours until my bus arrives...