There is no experience like riding in a taxi bus between rural villages. A taxi bus is a vehicle (looks slightly run down by Canadian standards) that is legally licensed to carry 14 passengers. Every day, taxi busses commute from one taxi park to another, usually situated in bigger cities. During rush hour, they manage to ‘fit’ (squish) at least 18 passengers; there were 22 people at the maximum fit in our taxi cab during our 3 hour ride back from Mbale to Busolwe. At each village, people have candles lit and have a night market theme going on, and passengers usually get on and off at those stops. In between the villages are extremely bumpy dirt roads (the same ones that I mentioned biking on), which put pot holes in Vancouver to shame. There are always many people walking along those roads, or biking on dilapidated bikes, and it’s horrifying to watch how taxi cabs swerve in and out between the pedestrians and bikers. There are no traffic rules that people follow—it’s terrifying. Plus, at each stop, we muzungus get the added experience of getting greetings from villagers (some are less pleasant than others). Or, people try to sell us snacks at double or triple the prices they sell to locals.
We got up at 5AM and left our homestead at daybreak in the back of Grandpa Hirome’s truck for Mbale. We had blankets in the back of the truck, and we must have looked really comfortable. As we sped away from our town, every person would do a double take at us: 1) owning a truck was a luxury in the town; and 2) blankets to cover us definitely marked us as privileged. Mr. Hirome (we call him Grandpa, and he spoils us like a grandpa does), drove us 90% of the way because he was attending a workshop in a nearby town. It was an amazing experience, sitting in the back of a truck, enjoying the morning stretch of sky. Into each town we turned into, all the men would stop and stare. It was really obvious and awkward. At one particular town, we had an audience of at least 30 or 40 men just stopped in their morning routine/work, staring at us and waving and offering the few compliments they knew in English. It was flattering, but little did we know the same compliments dished out in a different tone would stress us out for the rest of the day in Mbale..
Mbale is a city that is much smaller than Kampala, but dirtier and occupied by ruder men. We were in Mbale to buy supplies to supplement our projects in Busolwe, and by noon we had finished most of our errands. At the supermarket, the ‘security guy’ (just a man hired to hold a wooden stick) began to converse with our hostess Josephine (Josie). Later, Josie told us he asked ‘how much to buy one?’ referring to bride prices for each of us muzungus. This was only the beginning of a day full of innuendos, offers of marriage or purchase, and many disdainful and rude comments from women in the shops. We were so stressed out by the end of the day.
We did have a good lunch though, at a nearby resort. I was able to upload a third of my photos, and it was nice to just get away from all the rudeness and business of the city. Cities are much more disorganized, casual, and unprofessional here than back home. We don’t know the language, so we only hear the many ‘muzungu’s’ that are shouted along every single block we walk on. We are so appreciative of our hostess who is so honest with us. She is like a sister to us already. It helps because knowing that she could tell us up front what the men were saying allowed us to step back from the comments and know that they mean it in their own petty egotistical manners. Not knowing was difficult because one can always tell by the tone what kind of comment another makes… and it seemed more personal than when the insult was translated to us by a local whom we trust.
The ride home on the taxi bus was hectic, but there was something really reassuring about it… it felt like we really were being ‘locals’, living like the locals (though still relatively way well off) but we were making efforts to take transportation like they do daily, to eat as they do every day… etc. The bumpy road was a little nauseating, but also drove in the fact that we were going to be living here for the next three months… we are no longer visitors, even though we will still be perceived as the muzungus of the Busolwe village.
Tomorrow we are putting off our plans for work. We are going to sleep in, attend church with the family, and relax in the afternoon with the children. Maybe we will do our laundry and go for a bike ride, too.