The Wild Side of Ugandan Public Transport

A week in the capital finds you hot and sweaty, your skin exfoliated by the rich red dust that blankets every surface like a delicate chiffon veil. Taxi upon motorbike upon car hoot and compete for precious inches, attempting to beat the three traffic lights that control the city centre. The drivers are a cross between artists and opportunists - creating lanes where there were none, cheerfully going about the day’s missions with the knowledge that there is no other way to live.

You, the passenger, become the neglected wife, left to entertain oneself as the drivers continue their affair with the road. You count the people selling superglue and toilet paper at the major intersections. You take in the smell of burning clutch and exhaust. Your thirst is renewed afresh every time you pass the many billboards advertising that fizzy drink – but that is quickly solved by the numerous hawkers circling, yelling. The sun is relentless, penetrating each and every part of your being, making you yearn for a cold beer. And so you escape your matatu (minibus taxi), mount a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) and get swept away to the ‘burbs, where there is the promise of cooler, clearer air and a beer, possibly on the lake. This journey is neither dignified nor smooth but as you weave through the traffic, hot wind on your face, you are free.

You are John Speke, Christopher Columbus even, and the ride leaves you feeling invincible. You are in UG. A trip to the beautiful white sands of the Ssesse Islands sounds great. So you go. You arrive at the ferry port and take a minute to appreciate the unobstructed view of the beautiful mass that is Lake Victoria. Only once you have taken it in do you realise that the view holds no ferry. You stand amongst the other passengers, motorbikes, televisions, chickens and suitcases, all waiting to be carried across and it slowly dawns on you that they are being loaded onto a large fishing boat. You join the queue and find yourself seated at the helm, arm resting on a TV, legs secured by a stranger’s bag. You settle in for the ride and share a couple of beers.

An hour passes, and another. You are desperate for the bathroom. Another hour passes and as you sail into the sunset, you calmy relieve yourself into a plastic bottle, modesty wrapped in a sack held around you by your brother, watched by eighty unsurprised Ugandans. You are home.