Nairobi
My cab driver in Nairobi took matters into his own hands. Upon learning that I still needed to book a ticket to Kampala, he promptly changed directions. "This bus is faster" he asserted, "much better". We arrived at the station only to learn from an attendant that every seat was booked and that the attendant would be joining us in our mission. It took two more stations and some horse trading in Swahili, but we managed to book a berth on a bus leaving in a few hours. The cab driver throughout all of this acted as my interpreter, agent and porter. He did not accept one shilling more than our agreed upon price, even though the attendant needed to go to three different shops to make change. Neither of them would accept a tip.
Waiting at the bus station I met Michael. Michael smelled strongly of alcohol and a lack of soap at eight in the morning. He immediately announced his suspicion of me on the grounds that I was writing in what could only be described as a sinister notebook and was the only white person present. After a brief conversation, he decided I was not some devious foreign agent, but in fact his new best friend. "I can't believe I was afraid of you" he proclaimed repeatedly to a highly amused bus station. When my ride finally arrived, Michael scrawled the contact information for his cousin in Boston into my arm and gave me a fragrant hug.
Travel
My assigned seat was already claimed by my seatmate, a tiny young woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to a cat, both in appearance and behavior. I later discovered that she also had the inexplicable feline talent for occupying a disproportionate amount of space for her size.
Bus travel is much the same anywhere in the world in that it is designed to deliver one's body and soul to a preassigned destination with an honest indifference as to whether the two remain connected. Local variations on this theme involve a lengthy monologue from the Kenyan version of an AmWay salesman and a ceaseless rotating musical selection of Afro-pop, rap, dancehall music and incongruous remixes of Michael Bolton. For some reason the bus company billed this as an enjoyable luxury that they in their generosity provided.
We rode through dusty corrugated steel and concrete towns, across rolling farm and scrubland into the green and charming Kenyan uplands where the high peaks and deep valleys might not have been the most scenic, but are definitely strong contenders for the trophy. I watched the scenery roll by and napped fitfully until dark.
Border
Sometime considerably after sunset we reached the Uganda border. The bus's inmates were shuffled into the customs shed and inspected with open scepticism. Considering our slightly worn condition after nine hours on a bus, I can't say I blame them. My passport, visa and fingerprints were inspected for any signs of forgery. Finally the border guard concluded that in spite all the evidence, I was actually not a vast international criminal network and stamped my passport.
"Welcome to Uganda" he intoned grimly.
Nobody even looked at my yellow fever immunization record. This is the one thing I was absolutely guaranteed I would need to cross the border.
Kampala
After a period of time where I seriously began to question whether time was still moving and was inspecting passing towns for any signs that we had been here already, we arrived in Kampala. I was decanted into the only waiting cab. He greeted me warmly, assured me that he knew where my hotel was, and quoted me what he assured me was a reasonable price. All of this proved to be lies.
Arriving at the front desk, the clerk confirmed my suspicion, and leapt to my defense. She summoned a security guard to assist in the tribunal. They mounted a spirited argument against a now sullen cab driver who insisted on the grounds of exactly no evidence that I owed him quadruple the fair amount. He was finally sent away defeated with more than he was entitled to and my guidebook in his backseat. My valiant champions, alive with sympathy and kindness showed me to my room, and verified that everything that could be done for my comfort was attended to. Upon wishing me goodnight, they tactfully retreated. I collapse gratefully onto the bed. It was now about three in the morning.
My cab driver in Nairobi took matters into his own hands. Upon learning that I still needed to book a ticket to Kampala, he promptly changed directions. "This bus is faster" he asserted, "much better". We arrived at the station only to learn from an attendant that every seat was booked and that the attendant would be joining us in our mission. It took two more stations and some horse trading in Swahili, but we managed to book a berth on a bus leaving in a few hours. The cab driver throughout all of this acted as my interpreter, agent and porter. He did not accept one shilling more than our agreed upon price, even though the attendant needed to go to three different shops to make change. Neither of them would accept a tip.
Waiting at the bus station I met Michael. Michael smelled strongly of alcohol and a lack of soap at eight in the morning. He immediately announced his suspicion of me on the grounds that I was writing in what could only be described as a sinister notebook and was the only white person present. After a brief conversation, he decided I was not some devious foreign agent, but in fact his new best friend. "I can't believe I was afraid of you" he proclaimed repeatedly to a highly amused bus station. When my ride finally arrived, Michael scrawled the contact information for his cousin in Boston into my arm and gave me a fragrant hug.
Travel
My assigned seat was already claimed by my seatmate, a tiny young woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to a cat, both in appearance and behavior. I later discovered that she also had the inexplicable feline talent for occupying a disproportionate amount of space for her size.
Bus travel is much the same anywhere in the world in that it is designed to deliver one's body and soul to a preassigned destination with an honest indifference as to whether the two remain connected. Local variations on this theme involve a lengthy monologue from the Kenyan version of an AmWay salesman and a ceaseless rotating musical selection of Afro-pop, rap, dancehall music and incongruous remixes of Michael Bolton. For some reason the bus company billed this as an enjoyable luxury that they in their generosity provided.
We rode through dusty corrugated steel and concrete towns, across rolling farm and scrubland into the green and charming Kenyan uplands where the high peaks and deep valleys might not have been the most scenic, but are definitely strong contenders for the trophy. I watched the scenery roll by and napped fitfully until dark.
Border
Sometime considerably after sunset we reached the Uganda border. The bus's inmates were shuffled into the customs shed and inspected with open scepticism. Considering our slightly worn condition after nine hours on a bus, I can't say I blame them. My passport, visa and fingerprints were inspected for any signs of forgery. Finally the border guard concluded that in spite all the evidence, I was actually not a vast international criminal network and stamped my passport.
"Welcome to Uganda" he intoned grimly.
Nobody even looked at my yellow fever immunization record. This is the one thing I was absolutely guaranteed I would need to cross the border.
Kampala
After a period of time where I seriously began to question whether time was still moving and was inspecting passing towns for any signs that we had been here already, we arrived in Kampala. I was decanted into the only waiting cab. He greeted me warmly, assured me that he knew where my hotel was, and quoted me what he assured me was a reasonable price. All of this proved to be lies.
Arriving at the front desk, the clerk confirmed my suspicion, and leapt to my defense. She summoned a security guard to assist in the tribunal. They mounted a spirited argument against a now sullen cab driver who insisted on the grounds of exactly no evidence that I owed him quadruple the fair amount. He was finally sent away defeated with more than he was entitled to and my guidebook in his backseat. My valiant champions, alive with sympathy and kindness showed me to my room, and verified that everything that could be done for my comfort was attended to. Upon wishing me goodnight, they tactfully retreated. I collapse gratefully onto the bed. It was now about three in the morning.
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