I think the taxi ride warrants a bit of analysis: not because it was particularly frightening or exciting, but because it is a good example of a typical Ugandan travel experience.
While waiting for the taxi to fill up, I saw some men in the taxi park gambling over a game of cards. One of them seemed to be our driver. He paid his friend to drive in his stead, so that he could continue to gamble. When this new driver started to pull away, the gambler shoved some money into his hands and yelled at him a bit. Soon enough, we were on our way.
Before we even went one block, we pulled into a gas station. (Taxis and buses constantly run near-empty to conserve fuel, and we were heading to a rural area, so this is standard; still, I draw attention to it because back home I've never been on a bus as it pulled into a gas station. In all my time in Uganda, I've never seen a fuel gauge above the empty line. Incidentally, the same is true of speedometers: speed governors are connected to the speedometer, so the easiest way to circumvent the legally-mandated speed governors is to disconnect the speedometer. I have seen two functioning speedometers in all my time in Uganda.)
After the minimal fill-up (a big one: I saw the needle physically above the E
), the taxi wouldn't start. The conductor walked around the outside of the vehicle, opened up the window, displaced some passengers a bit, and removed a panel from the inside of the taxi; reaching through the window, he jiggled around with something or other, closed the panel, and said something to the driver. The driver tried again, but the taxi still wouldn't start.
Next, the gas station attendant and the taxi conductor pushed the 20-person-heavy (yes, overcrowded) taxi backwards while the driver attempted to make the engine catch. After a couple of lurches, it seemed clear more power was needed: another gas station attendant and one of the passengers joined in the push. The taxi had almost been pushed all the way out of the gas station when the engine finally caught. The driver revved the engine ridiculously high while the passenger and conductor scurried in the door. The taxi was on its way before the conductor even jumped in.
We left Mbale and headed for the hilly surrounding area. After about 20 minutes, the driver stopped for no apparent reason, at which point the engine halted of its own accord. The conductor vacated the entire front row of passengers from their seats. This time from inside the taxi, he removed the panel and started jiggling with things. After a couple of minutes he said something to the driver. The driver tried the ignition and the taxi actually started; the passengers quickly jumped into the revving taxi, which began moving before they were all in.
About twenty minutes later, a passenger disembarked. This involved stopping (there was luggage tied onto the roof) and so the engine died again. Fortunately, this time the taxi was facing up a steep hill: to start it, the driver simply coasted downhill a bit to gather speed, then put the taxi in gear to make the engine catch. The first two lurches had no effect; but on the third attempt, the engine caught. We continued our journey.
Fifteen minutes later, we sped into a police officer who was standing on the road with a smug look on his face. The driver stopped (causing the engine to stall, of course) and handed some money to the conductor, who used it to pay off the officer. Again the passengers were asked to file out of the front bench as the conductor fiddled with the taxi's innards. After a few minutes, the engine started, the passengers hopped back in, and we lept off once more.
The next passenger to leave was luckily near the door. The conductor opened the door, and the passenger jumped out while the taxi was moving. This saved us a stall.
The next passenger had luggage on the roof; the driver revved the engine the entire time the conductor untied it. As soon as possible after the passenger was dealt with, the car lurched into motion again and we continued.
Finally we arrived in Sipi. Another passenger and I leaped out as quickly as possible while the engine revved. As soon as I jumped out, the taxi rumbled ahead. Watching it fade out of sight, I couldn't shake the feeling that the taxi itself is just a perpetual story: I was only around for an hour of it, but the story really does have a past and a future which stretch further than I'll ever see. (Okay, so I'm obviously foreshadowing a future blog entry. Sue me for being an opportunist and sticking in the perfect metaphor.)
Of course, my 20 minutes total of trip planning had only gotten me as far as the actual town of Sipi: I disembarked with a change of clothes on my back, a camera in my pocket, money in my pouch, a pit in my stomach, and no clue as to what I was doing. But not to worry: I was accosted by numerous tour guides, and one particularly skillful one acquired my attention. (In this game of first impressions, the most confident people are usually the best guides. Projecting this confidence is an art; and so, as a tourist, choosing a guide based on gut instinct is the right thing to do.)
This tour guide brought me to a brand-spankin'-new hotel: Twalight (sic) Hotel. It is run by an Israeli couple who have been in Sipi for two weeks and decided to stay for three years. And after seeing the place, I considered joining them: the view from the hotel was simply mind-numbing. I was staying in a bunk on the third night of business, for the equivalent of CAD$4. No mosquito nets, because there are no mosquitos at Sipi's altitude. The staff were very friendly. I was also gleefully surprised to find that the other guests were not the usual rabble of tourists: at dinner, in the company of about eight other mzungus, I was pleased to hear that all of us had been in Uganda for at least a month (and it showed in their behaviours). They did have experience with taxis, for instance. One guest had been on the above-detailed taxi, two days earlier, and we had a good laugh about it. Another guest me that her friends had been in a taxi when it killed two children in a village. (I had to throw that completely typical nugget into this paragraph, because I think I don't write any negative stories in my blog. I wouldn't want my readers to think Uganda is a fairy-tale land, would I?)
The view was heavenly. The language was tricky (though nothing is as tricky as Luganda). That evening before dinner I set off for a walk through the village. Before leaving the hotel I asked for the basics (How are you?/I am fine/Thank you). I took a few minutes to memorize them. As I was walking out the gate, I tried to use my How are you?
on the guard, who laughed at me because I was greeting him like a woman. So I had to learn another How are you?
and another I am fine
, for use exclusively by men. Five words in five minutes is very tricky.
Walking through the village, a couple of children accosted me for money. I said no, and they laughed and kept walking with me. As always happens in this sort of setting, a convoy of children developed around us. (Not around me: the convoy would have been there even if I weren't.) One of the children was wearing a U of T t-shirt. The children showed me a shortcut to avoid a huge curve in the road: down into a valley and up through some bananas. I walked along for about half an hour, then I parted ways with the children and walked back to the hotel (no shortcut this time). I was accosted by more locals for money. I don't think they really believe they're going to get any: it's more like they found a used lottery ticket on the ground and are just checking the numbers before throwing it out, because why not? (They do need money, of course, but my giving them money will not improve their lives at all. Cynical? No, realistic.)
The next morning, I set out with a guide around Sipi Falls. There are three enormous waterfalls: the tallest is 99m wide (and maybe 2m or 3m thick). They were stunning. My guide really liked me beacuse I set a healthy pace. We breezed past the other tourists and walked for about four or five hours, all over the village. Down low, up high, all around... lots and lots of walking. And around every corner was yet another breathtaking sight. I've started to truly hate my camera: while it's useful for point-and-shoot photography, it cannot capture even a fraction of the sprawling vistas all around.
I ate lunch in a local restaurant, I relaxed at the hotel, and then I hopped into the trunk of an overcrowded hatchback to make it back to Mbale. We almost ran over a young girl, but other than that the trip was quite uneventful.
I then walked around Mbale a bit, and I didn't like it. I stayed in a small hotel which was less comfortable and more expensive than the one in Sipi. There was a good bar with good Indian food downstairs, so I got to watch Manchester United lose their football game. (One member of the audience ejaculated that the trophy has just grown legs and it's walking away!
, which I found quite funny.)
Sunday morning I awoke at the ripe hour of 4:30am to the sound of a bus horn. Buses only leave when they're full; until such an event, they will wake the entire town in an effort to find passengers as quickly as possible. They'll drive up and down the street making a racket which I'm sure could cause instant deafness at close range. One can imagine going out and yelling at them, but, well, what's the point? They may be waking several thousand people at an ungodly hour, but their system does work.
Just to spite them, I lay in bed for an hour and a half until the bus finally left: I was deliberately not buying into their advertisement scheme. I then took a shower and checked out, trying to pretend I didn't hear the next bus, which had in fact started honking five minutes after the previous bus had left. I hopped onto it when it was nearly full. This bus was decidedly unpleasant: I was sitting near a small army of Asian expats who really got on my nerves. (I disliked these particular people's collective attitude: I think it's the fact that they were so deliberately ignoring everybody else on the bus.)
The bus broke down for about an hour at a small trading center (which was fortuitous, because the delay gave me the opportunity to eat the most fresh and delicious bought-through-the-bus-window fried banana I have ever eaten). When we finally started moving again, we found the bus to be quite impotent (I think some of its engine's cylinders were on strike). After ages of lumbering westward, we finally pulled in to Kampala. It felt great to get back home: just in time for a delicious, home-cooked, Ugandan lunch.
All in all, I loved my little adventure. I think the spontaneity and the fact that I was alone were the main reasons for its being my favourite trip so far. (Oh, and Mike, my tour guide in Sipi, was fantastic.) Or maybe it was the hiking, which was absolutely glorious in that setting. When faced with such pure beauty, it is extremely easy to forget about all the problems that people in rural Uganda face every day. My guilty forgetfulness was at the forefront of my mind the entire weekend; but only now that I have come away from the magnificent setting can I actually think rationally about it.
This blog entry doesn't have a moral. It's just a story. I'll sign off with a few pictures. Enjoy!
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The view from Twalight Hotel. The waterfall in the middle is the third (of three) and tallest waterfall in Sipi.
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A sunset seen from the main road
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The bottom third of the third waterfall. Two children at its base should give an accurate sense of scale.
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A view from upper Sipi. The camera is not accurate enough to capture the view: the horizon actually reaches well above halfway up this picture.