The Bus From Hell - Kampala to Kabale
The first 2-weeks of my African adventure have gone by like a blur. Visiting friends in both Kenya and Uganda, along with enjoying a handful of ultra-cruisy backpacker joints and friendly guesthouses, I have been blissfully unaware of what Africa has in store…
Returning to Uganda’s capital city, Kampala, after a 3-day safari in Murchison Falls National Park, I was content to shower, geek out (wifi…finally) and enjoy backpacker comradarie over a few cold one’s. That was until a few travel suggestions threw me from relaxed evening to hellacious night. ].
Advised against Uganda’s primary bus line, the Post Bus, because of its lengthy, start/stop routes, as well as, Horizon Bus Line, due to its almost clockwork breakdowns and safety issues, I was unanimously encouraged to take Kampala Coach. Priced only 5,000 shillings higher ($2.50) I was assured the ride would be more comfortable and quick. Ringing at least 4 different phone numbers (Uganda phone number change almost as often as Paris Hilton changes her clothes), I finally connected with a living human being who said I could either go tonight or tomorrow. Now, the rational Regina should have cooled her britches and planned for the following evening but since Kampala did nothing for my backpackers libido (big, dusty and dirty) I couldn’t bare the thought of a full day tolerating its madness. Rushing about, I crammed 3-day old undies and socks back into my bag, swept all my valuables from their safe box into my daypack and bolted for the hostel reception desk.
Here comes a lesson I have learned many times before, but sadly declined to acknowledge on this occasion, “Go with your gut”. My gut said no, but my impulsive brain said yes! Four, gut affirming, red flags soon followed.
1. Overpriced taxi. In this case, 30,000 Shillings ($12.50) - more then my entire 8-hour bus trip would cost. Now, if it were daytime, I would have happily waddled to the main road and hailed a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) for half the price, but as the clock struck 8 p.m. my responsible travel side emerged. Never travel alone at night, especially as a solo female with her life secured precariously on her back. Swallowing hard, I came to grips with the non-negotiable rate but then strike two whizzed in from the mound!
2. The taxi driver didn’t know the bus terminal location. Correction, he knew of three but the only way to know which terminal I would depart from, involved me phoning the bus company, once again, so the driver could ask directions. C’mon dude, I’m paying all this money and you don’t even know where to take me?
3. And then came the change up pitch. Carefully unfolding and refolding my soiled Ugandan Shillings in the taxi (in preparation for payment), I discover fewer bills then anticipated. Retracing my days purchases, it soon hit me like a ton of monetary bricks! When I was paying for my hostel dinner, I handed the man a 50,000 shilling note but because of all the confusion with the taxi driver, I had completely forgotten to ask for my change (and the receptionist conveniently forgot to remind me). An 11,000 Shilling dinner (5.00 USD now cost me 20.00 USD). ARGH! Yes, it could have been worse, but after so many negative actions leading up to this bus ride, I couldn’t help but sulk angrily in the passenger seat! Note: Always, always, always check your change!!! Or in my case, ask for it!
4. The final strike sent me back to the backpackers dugout. The taxi driver brought me to the wrong bus station! This was Horizon Bus not Kampala Coach. All the horror stories swirled around my disheveled head as the ugly green beast scowled at me from behind its dirty grill. The bus attendant on the phone was obviously claiming to be Kampala Coach when he wasn’t. No sense in arguing, I was here now and the bus was leaving in T-minus 4 minutes. I had two choices: Scream, run and hide in budget-busting 3-star hotel –or- look to the “horizon” and carry on.
Swallowing my backpacker pride, I grabbed the green bull by its horns! Paying my ticket through a gritted smile, I clambered onto the loud, crowded, smelly bus.
Maneuvering over luggage, limbs and hair weaves, I was offered to sit next to a relatively harmless, yet still very creepy dude, to which I politely declined. Quickly bypassing his attempted conversation, I secured a seat in the back (right above the blasted wheel…a decision that would soon become a pain in my side, back, bum and head). Wedging my large Mammut backpack between the seat and floor, I then secured my day pack (containing most valuables) to the Mammut bag with two carabeeners. A make shift security system which has become a personal habit of 3rd world bus travel. |
If I fall asleep, thieves cannot grab one bag, without the other rucksack defiantly holding on. My other precaution, involves small pad locks. I always use a small pad lock to lock the zippers of my “important bag”, so red hot fingers can’t maneuver the zips open for a quick grab. Might seem rash, but my motto is simple, “you can never be too sure!”
Pleased with my security system, I nestled into the grubby seat and opened my latest novel. “Hello my friend. How are you?” The famous Ugandan opening that in this instance, was not welcomed. The creepy guy from seat 12 A was back and practically hanging over my seat. Not wanting to appear rude (as I did have the next 8 hours with him) I made cordial conversation before pretending to close my eyes for sleep. He continued to stand there, staring at me, until the bus driver finally yelled at him to sit down. His departing words, “God be with you.” Really dude, your first question regarded my marital status (to which I replied married with 3 kids) followed my a pornographic stare and now you’re willing me with God. Not buying it. “Sit down!”
Finally on the move, we made it all of 20-feet, before the bus turned out of the terminal and literally into the petrol station next door. Another invariable truth of countries such as these, it would be far too smart or efficient to fill the gas tank before leaving the station. And not just the primary tank, 8 extra gasoline bottles were filled and heaved beneath the aging bus. Not a great sense of confidence with all that bomb-like fluid sloshing directly beneath my seat.
Maneuvering through the ever-crowded streets of Kampala we finally hit the road…and hit it hard! Uganda must have the most speed bumps of anywhere on the planet. And not just one in every city, or residential area, 5, 6, or 7! All spaced about 30-feet apart. I’m still not sure what this precaution achieves. The majority of the population drive either beat up corolla’s, wining boda bodas or overloaded, ground-kissing matatus, which mean the change of breaking into a dangerous speed between 30-feet of speed bumps is impossible. So what’s with the all the damn bumps!! Tossed to and fro with every bit of bloated pavement (only amplified by my position directly over the back left wheel) I tried to find my happy pace. “This too shall pass Reg”. Calm yourself…Breathe…CRASH, CLINK!!!
The 10-foot long rebar poles slid onto the bus via the narrow aisle, now crashed back and forth. The noise was inescapable. Not even heavy-duty earplugs and valium could drown out the metal on metal carnage.
Then came the “inflight movie”. Another concept I have never understood. It is 10 p.m. and most people want to sleep, not listen to a D-grade soap opera on high blast!
And finally, the icing, or should I say frosting on the cake, a broken window! Freezing, I rifled through my bag for “down” protection! Wrapping half my sleeping bag around my torso and shoving the other half into the open window seam I attempted to reduce the chill.
With no chance of sleep, I pulled out my head torch and novel and struggled to read sentences through incessant bumps.
A few hours in, we stopped for our first potty break. Guess who returned to my seat? God himself - still drooling and still hanging over my seat. This time, my patience was thin and I kindly asked him to leave, saying I was very tired. He didn’t oblige. Instead, he reached for my novel and pretended to read through it (girls love an intelligent man…right?) Resisting conversation – and his deranged stare - I again resorted to fake sleep until the bus finally lurched into motion and he was told to SIT DOWN!
The ONLY positive of the trip was its length. Taking less then the proposed 8-hours (an extreme rarity in Africa) I arrived in Kabale 1 hour early (at a brisk 5 am). Awoken by the bus driver hitting my window and yelling, “Mzungo, Mzungo (Whiter Person, White Person)…Kabale”, I catapulted into backpacker auto pilot. Quickly stuffing my sleeping bag into its sheath, I unclipped my carabeener security device in seconds and dashed through the aisle.
Aw, fresh air…and fresh eyeballs. Surrounded by a handful of creepy looking men awaiting, what I can only presume to be a later bus, I quickly made my way to the only lit door step in the alley (as their was no bus terminal to speak of). Grabbing my Ugandan prepay phone, I quickly dialed the digits of one of Kabale’s Hostels. My ambition of any answer at 5 am was slim and after the 8th unanswered ring, I hung up. Running through my limited options – not to mention my pack in search of pepper spray – 30 seconds was all it took before my phone rang. A polite gentleman’s voice apologized for missing my call and asked me where I was. He then told me to hail a boda boda and come to his hostel, only a few minutes away. Then, another stroke of luck, one of the only awake boda drivers in all of Kabale sputtered past. Climbing aboard, we peeled through the pea soup thick fog for all of 15-seconds before arriving at an iron door. The hostel was literally around the corner. Oh well, still better to get a lift then hobble through the dark streets with my life’s possessions on back. The man on the phone opened the creaky door welcomed me with kind, but sleepy eyes. Ushering me into a dorm, he pointed out the loo and shower on the way, before wishing me sweet dreams and crawling back into his bed. Adrenaline still on high, it took a while to sleep but I did manage a few precious hours before the sound of morning (right outside my window) rifled me to attention.
And so ended the hellacious bus journey. The first of, what I can only assume, MANY!
Pleased with my security system, I nestled into the grubby seat and opened my latest novel. “Hello my friend. How are you?” The famous Ugandan opening that in this instance, was not welcomed. The creepy guy from seat 12 A was back and practically hanging over my seat. Not wanting to appear rude (as I did have the next 8 hours with him) I made cordial conversation before pretending to close my eyes for sleep. He continued to stand there, staring at me, until the bus driver finally yelled at him to sit down. His departing words, “God be with you.” Really dude, your first question regarded my marital status (to which I replied married with 3 kids) followed my a pornographic stare and now you’re willing me with God. Not buying it. “Sit down!”
Finally on the move, we made it all of 20-feet, before the bus turned out of the terminal and literally into the petrol station next door. Another invariable truth of countries such as these, it would be far too smart or efficient to fill the gas tank before leaving the station. And not just the primary tank, 8 extra gasoline bottles were filled and heaved beneath the aging bus. Not a great sense of confidence with all that bomb-like fluid sloshing directly beneath my seat.
Maneuvering through the ever-crowded streets of Kampala we finally hit the road…and hit it hard! Uganda must have the most speed bumps of anywhere on the planet. And not just one in every city, or residential area, 5, 6, or 7! All spaced about 30-feet apart. I’m still not sure what this precaution achieves. The majority of the population drive either beat up corolla’s, wining boda bodas or overloaded, ground-kissing matatus, which mean the change of breaking into a dangerous speed between 30-feet of speed bumps is impossible. So what’s with the all the damn bumps!! Tossed to and fro with every bit of bloated pavement (only amplified by my position directly over the back left wheel) I tried to find my happy pace. “This too shall pass Reg”. Calm yourself…Breathe…CRASH, CLINK!!!
The 10-foot long rebar poles slid onto the bus via the narrow aisle, now crashed back and forth. The noise was inescapable. Not even heavy-duty earplugs and valium could drown out the metal on metal carnage.
Then came the “inflight movie”. Another concept I have never understood. It is 10 p.m. and most people want to sleep, not listen to a D-grade soap opera on high blast!
And finally, the icing, or should I say frosting on the cake, a broken window! Freezing, I rifled through my bag for “down” protection! Wrapping half my sleeping bag around my torso and shoving the other half into the open window seam I attempted to reduce the chill.
With no chance of sleep, I pulled out my head torch and novel and struggled to read sentences through incessant bumps.
A few hours in, we stopped for our first potty break. Guess who returned to my seat? God himself - still drooling and still hanging over my seat. This time, my patience was thin and I kindly asked him to leave, saying I was very tired. He didn’t oblige. Instead, he reached for my novel and pretended to read through it (girls love an intelligent man…right?) Resisting conversation – and his deranged stare - I again resorted to fake sleep until the bus finally lurched into motion and he was told to SIT DOWN!
The ONLY positive of the trip was its length. Taking less then the proposed 8-hours (an extreme rarity in Africa) I arrived in Kabale 1 hour early (at a brisk 5 am). Awoken by the bus driver hitting my window and yelling, “Mzungo, Mzungo (Whiter Person, White Person)…Kabale”, I catapulted into backpacker auto pilot. Quickly stuffing my sleeping bag into its sheath, I unclipped my carabeener security device in seconds and dashed through the aisle.
Aw, fresh air…and fresh eyeballs. Surrounded by a handful of creepy looking men awaiting, what I can only presume to be a later bus, I quickly made my way to the only lit door step in the alley (as their was no bus terminal to speak of). Grabbing my Ugandan prepay phone, I quickly dialed the digits of one of Kabale’s Hostels. My ambition of any answer at 5 am was slim and after the 8th unanswered ring, I hung up. Running through my limited options – not to mention my pack in search of pepper spray – 30 seconds was all it took before my phone rang. A polite gentleman’s voice apologized for missing my call and asked me where I was. He then told me to hail a boda boda and come to his hostel, only a few minutes away. Then, another stroke of luck, one of the only awake boda drivers in all of Kabale sputtered past. Climbing aboard, we peeled through the pea soup thick fog for all of 15-seconds before arriving at an iron door. The hostel was literally around the corner. Oh well, still better to get a lift then hobble through the dark streets with my life’s possessions on back. The man on the phone opened the creaky door welcomed me with kind, but sleepy eyes. Ushering me into a dorm, he pointed out the loo and shower on the way, before wishing me sweet dreams and crawling back into his bed. Adrenaline still on high, it took a while to sleep but I did manage a few precious hours before the sound of morning (right outside my window) rifled me to attention.
And so ended the hellacious bus journey. The first of, what I can only assume, MANY!