Left, Right, Wrong?
We leave at 5:30, in the dark, and the brakes feel more solid. We’re waved through by the police and climb our way away from Kigali, toward Kampala, Uganda. The sun rises over Rwanda in a way that makes us glad to be alive. We twist and turn until we find ourselves back at the rutted part of the valley, where I must drive at 2 mph to navigate deep pot holes and steep road edges. This is where the boys yell, “Rwenzori,” and where we all search for empty bottles. This time, however, we're moving so slowly we are able to hand the bottles to the boys. Someone hands out bread. Three young men, aged between seven and 11, it seems, run beside us in their bare feet and shabby gray clothes, their eyes shining as they reach for the bottles. They thank us in their native tongue, Kinyarwanda. I remember a bottle in my bag with a little water left and I dig it out with my left hand while steering clear of holes and boys with my right and I hand the bottle to the smallest boy, who’s out in front. He’s joyful now, as are the others, as are all of us in the van so that when the road clears and I can pick up speed, we all wish we had more bottles and more food to hand over.
The boys are yelling thank you and still running and jumping up and down, holding their bottles close to their chests, until we’re out of sight. Until they’re out of sight.
We get to Uganda in a couple of hours. Bavon leaves the vehicle to call his wife and I’m left to drive the car through the border. “Here’s the paperwork,” Bavon says, shoving a file folder at me and slamming the door. So I pull up and wait and wait and a guy looks at my papers and asks for Form 87AC2, an A4 size. I have no idea what he’s talking about. He makes me pull to the side, out of the way, and points to a tiny building with a tiny, grilled window. I wait for Bavon but he doesn’t come, so I walk over the window. Then Lucas shows up and Bavon shows up and they talk to the guy behind the grill and figure out we have to fill out another form and pay more money before the car can go through.
The gatekeeper has now poured himself a large cup of coffee and is sitting, relaxing. It’s still early morning and a mist hugs the ground and the nearby hills. This border valley is lush with grasses and crops and those steer with the remarkably huge, slightly curved horns. They’re horns are sometimes two or more feet long. Magnificent. A few cows loll on the other side of the fence, where the gatekeeper is facing. I approach and he asks if I’d like a cup of coffee. Very generous of him to offer and I should have said yes. Instead, I ask if I can take photographs of the fields and cows. I promise not to photograph any immigration buildings. They’re all very touchy about that. He says sure, and if anyone questions me, send them to him. I photograph the mist and the fence posts made out of tree branches that have taken root and sprouted tiny, leafy appendages.
Once the paperwork is in place, Bavon shoves the file toward me once again, tells me to drive through the next border, Uganda, that he’ll be right back. So I pass the friendly, coffee-drinking gatekeeper and roll toward the next gate. I’m waved through, but then the guy runs over and demands a pass of some sort which doesn’t sound familiar. He tells me to park and go see a policeman sitting up the hill. I’ve given my passport to Sister to have it stamped. My friends are all in line with a hundred other people to get their passports stamped and I’m alone with our vehicle, outside the border, facing a mile-long line of double parked transfer trucks, mostly petrol carriers. What if they all decide to move through the gate and squash our car? Who’ll watch our bags if I go speak to the policeman up the hill? I’m a bit undone as to where to park and how to visit the officer. So I pass into Uganda and move past the trucks, hoping to find a hole to park in, but no luck. I drive a mile, turnaround and drive a mile back, to the front of the truck line, almost. I get out and lock the doors and a man passing by, an aged man with a scowl, tells me to park elsewhere and I curtly tell him, “they told me to park here.”
Luckily, Gertrude, Richard and Sister are headed to the car and I’m free to visit the cop, who interrogates me about where we’ve been and where we’re going and he smiles flirtatiously while asking me about the U.S. Ugh. I sign the book and get a pass the size of a postage stamp and then we’re all free to move into Uganda.
“Who’s going to drive in Uganda?” I ask Lucas.
“We’ll keep the same driver,” he says with a grin. I think about it. Left side of the road. I’ve been in Kenya riding on the left for six months. “Okay,” I say and we’re off.
‘Keep left. Keep left,’ I say to myself. And it’s fun being on the left. No longer do the guys in the back flip out when someone passes us. In Rwanda, when cars first passed on the left, they all jumped, thinking we would crash. This is how unused they were to being on the right. I drive on the left for about 50 miles into Uganda, until we reach Mbale, where Jack the driver is waiting. We pass through town, turning here and there, moving through roundabouts and intersections with no confusion. Gee, this left side thing isn’t so hard after all. Then we see Jack sitting on the patio of his “hotel.” He’s so happy to see us. We’re happy to be here by 10, early enough for breakfast.
I tell Jack about the brakes, so he can decide if they should be looked at or not. He sensibly decides to have them checked. We all order breakfast. Now that Lily, Bavon’s daughter is traveling to Kisumu with us, and now that Jack has rejoined us, we number 12. We all order breakfast—eggs, toast, fruit, coffee, tea—and keep the staff hopping. When the bill comes, it’s about 13,000 Uganda shillings, or about 150 Kenya shillings. 12 of us eat breakfast for less than $2 USD.
Jack picks us up. The black stuff was just grease, so the mechanic lubed the wheels and we are good to travel. Uganda is huge. Just look at it on a map and marvel at the distance from Kenya’s border and Rwanda’s border. Jack soon takes the 80 khp cap off the engine, which also disables the speedometer and odometer, and we’re cruising through the countryside. I’m sitting up front between Jack and Bavon and am surprised to see Bavon instructing Jack exactly the way he’d instructed me. Made me feel better, knowing the navigation wasn’t gender-inspired. But poor Jack. By the time we reach Kampala in the evening, he is truly worn out and stressed.
We spend the night in Kampala at the Sports View Hotel overlooking the Mandela Stadium. This is the most expensive place we’ve stayed during our trip, paying nearly $20 USD a room (of course, we doubled). We look at a guest house across the street which is very comfortable, but the toilets are communal and everyone in our group is convinced staying at the Sports View will be better. It isn’t. Even though we run the hot water for 20 minutes in the shower, as the receptionist instructed, it never warms up. Another night of sponge bathing. The bathroom tiles are loose, the sink is hanging away from the wall and the toilet has no seat. Our rooms face the highway and across the highway is a nightclub with pumping music and many, many very loud young partiers. And below our window is the hotel’s own sports bar with loud, pumping music. The window to the balcony has no glass, so when a transfer truck flies past, grinding gears, it sounds like we’re on the side of the road. I swear I can feel each truck’s breeze.
The nightclub stays opened until 4am, the music consistently blaring, but we all agree we were so exhausted we slept well and were only awakened occasionally. But we lose an hour, moving into Uganda's new time zone, and morning comes quickly.
The boys are yelling thank you and still running and jumping up and down, holding their bottles close to their chests, until we’re out of sight. Until they’re out of sight.
We get to Uganda in a couple of hours. Bavon leaves the vehicle to call his wife and I’m left to drive the car through the border. “Here’s the paperwork,” Bavon says, shoving a file folder at me and slamming the door. So I pull up and wait and wait and a guy looks at my papers and asks for Form 87AC2, an A4 size. I have no idea what he’s talking about. He makes me pull to the side, out of the way, and points to a tiny building with a tiny, grilled window. I wait for Bavon but he doesn’t come, so I walk over the window. Then Lucas shows up and Bavon shows up and they talk to the guy behind the grill and figure out we have to fill out another form and pay more money before the car can go through.
The gatekeeper has now poured himself a large cup of coffee and is sitting, relaxing. It’s still early morning and a mist hugs the ground and the nearby hills. This border valley is lush with grasses and crops and those steer with the remarkably huge, slightly curved horns. They’re horns are sometimes two or more feet long. Magnificent. A few cows loll on the other side of the fence, where the gatekeeper is facing. I approach and he asks if I’d like a cup of coffee. Very generous of him to offer and I should have said yes. Instead, I ask if I can take photographs of the fields and cows. I promise not to photograph any immigration buildings. They’re all very touchy about that. He says sure, and if anyone questions me, send them to him. I photograph the mist and the fence posts made out of tree branches that have taken root and sprouted tiny, leafy appendages.
Once the paperwork is in place, Bavon shoves the file toward me once again, tells me to drive through the next border, Uganda, that he’ll be right back. So I pass the friendly, coffee-drinking gatekeeper and roll toward the next gate. I’m waved through, but then the guy runs over and demands a pass of some sort which doesn’t sound familiar. He tells me to park and go see a policeman sitting up the hill. I’ve given my passport to Sister to have it stamped. My friends are all in line with a hundred other people to get their passports stamped and I’m alone with our vehicle, outside the border, facing a mile-long line of double parked transfer trucks, mostly petrol carriers. What if they all decide to move through the gate and squash our car? Who’ll watch our bags if I go speak to the policeman up the hill? I’m a bit undone as to where to park and how to visit the officer. So I pass into Uganda and move past the trucks, hoping to find a hole to park in, but no luck. I drive a mile, turnaround and drive a mile back, to the front of the truck line, almost. I get out and lock the doors and a man passing by, an aged man with a scowl, tells me to park elsewhere and I curtly tell him, “they told me to park here.”
Luckily, Gertrude, Richard and Sister are headed to the car and I’m free to visit the cop, who interrogates me about where we’ve been and where we’re going and he smiles flirtatiously while asking me about the U.S. Ugh. I sign the book and get a pass the size of a postage stamp and then we’re all free to move into Uganda.
“Who’s going to drive in Uganda?” I ask Lucas.
“We’ll keep the same driver,” he says with a grin. I think about it. Left side of the road. I’ve been in Kenya riding on the left for six months. “Okay,” I say and we’re off.
‘Keep left. Keep left,’ I say to myself. And it’s fun being on the left. No longer do the guys in the back flip out when someone passes us. In Rwanda, when cars first passed on the left, they all jumped, thinking we would crash. This is how unused they were to being on the right. I drive on the left for about 50 miles into Uganda, until we reach Mbale, where Jack the driver is waiting. We pass through town, turning here and there, moving through roundabouts and intersections with no confusion. Gee, this left side thing isn’t so hard after all. Then we see Jack sitting on the patio of his “hotel.” He’s so happy to see us. We’re happy to be here by 10, early enough for breakfast.
I tell Jack about the brakes, so he can decide if they should be looked at or not. He sensibly decides to have them checked. We all order breakfast. Now that Lily, Bavon’s daughter is traveling to Kisumu with us, and now that Jack has rejoined us, we number 12. We all order breakfast—eggs, toast, fruit, coffee, tea—and keep the staff hopping. When the bill comes, it’s about 13,000 Uganda shillings, or about 150 Kenya shillings. 12 of us eat breakfast for less than $2 USD.
Jack picks us up. The black stuff was just grease, so the mechanic lubed the wheels and we are good to travel. Uganda is huge. Just look at it on a map and marvel at the distance from Kenya’s border and Rwanda’s border. Jack soon takes the 80 khp cap off the engine, which also disables the speedometer and odometer, and we’re cruising through the countryside. I’m sitting up front between Jack and Bavon and am surprised to see Bavon instructing Jack exactly the way he’d instructed me. Made me feel better, knowing the navigation wasn’t gender-inspired. But poor Jack. By the time we reach Kampala in the evening, he is truly worn out and stressed.
We spend the night in Kampala at the Sports View Hotel overlooking the Mandela Stadium. This is the most expensive place we’ve stayed during our trip, paying nearly $20 USD a room (of course, we doubled). We look at a guest house across the street which is very comfortable, but the toilets are communal and everyone in our group is convinced staying at the Sports View will be better. It isn’t. Even though we run the hot water for 20 minutes in the shower, as the receptionist instructed, it never warms up. Another night of sponge bathing. The bathroom tiles are loose, the sink is hanging away from the wall and the toilet has no seat. Our rooms face the highway and across the highway is a nightclub with pumping music and many, many very loud young partiers. And below our window is the hotel’s own sports bar with loud, pumping music. The window to the balcony has no glass, so when a transfer truck flies past, grinding gears, it sounds like we’re on the side of the road. I swear I can feel each truck’s breeze.
The nightclub stays opened until 4am, the music consistently blaring, but we all agree we were so exhausted we slept well and were only awakened occasionally. But we lose an hour, moving into Uganda's new time zone, and morning comes quickly.
posted by Cindi at 10:30 AM
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