Matatu Chronicles: Uganda Edition, Part 2

PS: Read part one here.

The sun and her sisters were already up as we made our way out of the Uganda National Theatre where the Mash bus had parked. As soon as I disembarked from the bus, I felt different. Actually, that is a lie, the only different thing was that I had accidentally switched on the roaming button on my phone, left the data on and Safaricom and/MTN had eaten all my airtime. Great! No chance of posting ‘I have arrived, #vacaythings’ on Instagram. My knees were killing me, and I was definitely sleep deprived, so I couldn’t wait to put my feet up and get a shut eye.

We have a few boda boda bikes in Nairobi; (speaking of which, have you seen this ad on TV, “Boxer inaokoa?” SMH. Story for another day) where was I? Yes. We have a few bodas in Nairobi, but they are in strategic places, you wouldn’t find them everywhere in the capital city. Kampala gave me quite a shocker. It’s as if the ratio of bodas to people is 1:1. You know the way every student is required to bring a hockey stick on the first day of high school? I suspect Ugandans are asked to bring a boda on their first day in town! The number of bodas grew as we made our way to the ‘stage’ (terminal sounds funny) and I was soon whispering a prayer with every turn. We got there alright (thankfully) and paid Ush. 2000 (sigh)

See this life...

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Their Bus Station equivalent is huge! There were all these Nissans with blue lines round their waists and the sign ‘Taxi’ on their heads.  Most of them looked thirsty and beat up. They stood there waiting, as the men next to them advertised them to the masses milling around. I have always wondered, do matatus feel violated, with people hitting on their sides and behinds all the time, having to contend with all manner of humans all up in their space? I think we should stop with all this violence.
Side note: Just in case you are wondering, what the real taxi are called in Uganda, I got you. They are known as 'Special'.

Anyway, turns out the Masajja matatus were moved to another stage and to my absolute horror, I was to endure another bike ride to the other side of town.

At this point, I am just following my cousin’s direction because, well, I am new in this place, and I can’t speak Luganda to save my life. So we hop on and I tell you that ride got me confessing my sins, considering my headstone epitaph and appreciating speed governors all at once. The manner in which we snaked through traffic, always cutting right through seconds before a car whizzed by in top speed or pulling the brakes just in time was terrifying. Please, I hear some of you saying that sounds like fun, exhilarating and that I should loosen up a little and enjoy. Well, my parents are still waiting for a granddaughter (because they have two grandsons already) and I am sure there would be no smile on my face if I end up a ‘Death by Boda’ statistic. Seriously though, I think the ever convenient bodas should somehow be regulated, especially going by the fact that in the biggest referral hospital’s accident wing, 90% of the cases are boda boda related. Again, we got there alright, paid the Ush. 2000 and I quickly got away with my life, phew!

Over the next few days I would notice a few things; like the way the conductors don’t poke at your necks and shoulders saying “Centi hapo mbele”, People power dictates that they pay when they get to their destination. Woe unto the conductor if on a slow day, they are given a Ush. 10, 000 note and the person needs Ush. 9000 in change.  One of the things I appreciated most is the drivers and conductors etiquette, something their Kenyan counterparts could pick up on. The Ssebos know well enough not to bite the hand that feeds them, and that was quite refreshing! One strange thing though, is, apart from the trans-border buses,  there were no, at least I didn’t see any,  big commuter vehicles, just the Nissans. I think they are much smaller than the ones we have here, because my knees and neck were cursing at me for taking them through all this torture. Am I really that tall? Don’t answer that.

I am the one on the left sitting sideways :( the struggle!! 

Generally, all flaws aside, the Kenyan matatu culture is quite cool and unique, the most diverse in the region, I think. We have pimped up rides, (I saw on the news the other day that they now have water dispensers too) that more often than not let a stranger in on what Kenyans value, what music they are listening to and what’s trending. Some are so comfortable we wish we could live in them.  Heck, we even have methali stickers to offer us life lessons. There is none of that in Uganda, or at least in Kampala where I spent most of my time. Kwanza, the gava apparently banned radios, why you ask? Because the drivers couldn’t hear the traffic police officers. Why do traffic police officers need to be heard? Because on their first day at work, the officers are given brand new pure white uniforms and wait for it, a whistle. Yes. So one had to go, and in the end, the radio got quite a blow from the whistle. I hope the officers are paid well. That seems like quite some work.

I had a good time huko,..but if I am going to spend an hour or two in traffic, I better have some good music, WiFi and enough legroom to make it all worth it. So, it feels  good to be back home!