As has been well documented in previous posts, travel in 3rd world countries usually ranges from adventurous to disastrous. When booking tickets from Nairobi, Kenya to Kampala, Uganda I asked how long the trip would be and the man behind the counter simply shrugged.

 

Thankfully that trip was more on the side of adventurous . . . our bus broke down and we waited an hour and a half for a replacement to arrive to continue our trip. Most of the buses here look like David Livingstone himself built them; they are usually rusted hulks of metals that belch assorted chemicals into the air while spilling liquids from the underside.

 

It was into one of these medieval wonders that our team stepped yesterday for a “four hour” ride from Lira, Uganda to Kampala. We knew the trip would be unique when not only were 50 live chickens loaded underneath in the luggage area, but at least ten were brought on board as “carry-ons”. It felt less like Greyhound, and more like Foster Farms.

 

As the bus began its journey on the pock-marked road to the capital city, we began our traditional swerving to miss potholes, goats, cyclists, vendors, cars, and the various pedestrians that are entirely immune to the incessant honking of a bus bearing down at them. I like to describe the driving as “weaving like a Navajo squaw”.

 

About two hours into the trip, smoke began pouring from the engine into the cabin . . . the gasket had blown as the engine overheated. As we poured out of the bus with our backpacks, Andy warned the team that in this small village we should be careful not to attract attention from the already inquisitive children gathering to watch the “Mazungus” (lit. white people from land of smoking bus). Ben and I nodded solemnly before pulling out our juggling balls and beginning the show.

 

Within minutes we had easily gathered 250 children and adults watching some of the finest 3, 4, and 5, ball juggling that Akruna, Uganda has ever seen. Between executing stupefying feats of unparalleled talent, I kept checking the status of the bus as they poured gallon after gallon of water into the radiator.

 

Finally after about an hour we were notified it was time to leave. The notification came as the bus started up and pulled away leaving us to chase madly after it like . . . a bunch of white people about to be left in the middle of a small village in Africa. Thankfully after about 60 seconds of driving it gave up the ghost once more.

 

The bus conductor called everyone together and explained in Swahili how we would get the rest of the way to Kampala. I was standing at the back so I had trouble understanding him. Thankfully the man next to me explained to me that there was a bus half the size of our fallen steed that would be taking as many as could possibly wedge into it to Kampala.

The catch was that there would be no luggage going.

 

I made the snap decision to send the girls and Andy, while Ben and I stayed behind to fend for ourselves and our luggage. Thankfully a Matatu (lit. Ugandan minivan / deathtrap) pulled up and offered to take us the rest of the way. Ben and I and all our luggage crammed into a vehicle similar to a old VW bus with 16 other people for a tortured four hour ride.

 

You know you are on a minivan hurtling through Uganda when within minutes of each other you:

a.      Hit a turtle in the road

b.      Are offered mystery meat on a stick through the window by a vendor

c.      Hear the loud “cock-a-doodle-do” of the rooster sitting in the lap of the woman in front of you

d.      Stop having the sensation called “feeling” in your lower limbs within ten minutes of driving

 

We got to Kampala at 2:00 a.m and all vowed to never again take a bus in Africa . . . until tommorow.