Taxi Ride

It was if being in a clown car with 10 other Ugandans was not enough of a challenge. Sandwiched between and the driver, my right leg pinched between the gear shift and the driver’s hand, my right upper appendage crossed holding for dear life to the plastic handle. A horn blowing into the African air beckoning for more passengers--if there was still room in the taxi to breathe, there was room for another customer. Cars swerving in and out of traffic, avoiding gas tankers, vehicles traveling too slow for the crazed taxi, pot holes, boda boda drivers, human beings...

As I walked down the path from COWESER, Uncle, Mister, etc. Dick taught me the word goodbye, Weeraba. I practiced several times aloud, followed by whispered and then again several times in my head. Weeraba, weeraba... weeraba. I challenged myself not to forget this word, although the only word I had no problem memorizing was tugende, “we go.” As you may suspect, it has not gotten me too far.

We stopped at the road ahead. Mr. Dick wished a good day to the lady standing five feet away. Poor Uncle Dick, in his late 30s he stilled lived with his mother and had no prospects for a wife. Although we reveled together about the freedom of the single life with no concern of others, the conversation between us ended in a sigh--the type of sigh indicating we did not believe a word we just spoke about. Around women, Uncle Dick gave off quite the scent. The I am desperate pheromonal spray unavoidable by any culture or sex.

Sadly, I knew exactly what was going on in each of their minds. Uncle Dick: Need sex, children, a companion... a wife. (Most likely in this exact order) Woman: this man is just trying too hard. How can I dangle the goods just out of his reach? To no avail, Uncle Dick failed in his attempt to secure her affection. The woman: “Weeraba, sebo.” Goodbye sir. Unconcerned for Uncle Dick’s failure to woo the stranger, I was elated at my ability to recognize and retain the phrase.

Mister Dick turned to me with a haphazard smile, in an attempt to save his dignity and pride. It’s alright Uncle Dick, it happens to the best of us. He immediately switched topics to my plans for arrival tomorrow. Coupled with my quizzical glance, he went about his meticulous directions. Meticulous directions often included movable objects like: “slope up at the black and white goat eating the pile of garbage” or “turn left at the bushes on the corner of the road,” hoping the family who owns the goat has plenty to eat and the owner of the bush does not feel the shrubbery has taken over his front plot. I nod my head instinctively, distracted at the Boda Bodas zipping by--drivers screaming out for passengers. I am sure I will figure it out later. In retrospect, this technique has caused a myriad of long-term problems; but, the short term problem of translating Mr. Dick’s broken English was going to take too much energy.

“Drivers are so wreckless.” I tuned Mr. Dick back in. I decide to contribute, “I hear it is the leading cause of death in...” Uganda tailed off as a white box-on-wheels approach Dick, myself and sprinting woman on the street. Mr. Dick slings his body around, looks me square in the eye stating, “You shall sit in the front.” I stared at the taxi. I glanced at the seemingly occupied front seat. I turn back at Dick with a concerned half smile on my face. Do I really have to get on this thing? Pretty much the exact same look a small girl wearing a pink tutu makes as she rotates her torso back to mom, Do I really have to grow up now?...Response: “It’ll be alright. I will be back this afternoon to pick you up. Go have fun at school--make friends.” Make friends. Parents always equated friend making with molding a snowman out of a ball of clay at snack time, as if it was ever that easy. Dick just shooed me off and bid me farewell, “Weeraba!”


I equate driving in this country to being on an unrestrictive, unpredictable roller coaster. When riding on a roller coaster you can almost prepare your body for the twists and turns it will encounter, countering any potential force you may feel. For example, by moving your body slightly to the left as the roller coaster turns right to combat the changing circulating acceleration. Additionally you have straps across your lap, perhaps even bars over your shoulders, uncomfortably gluing you to the plastic seat.

In an unrestrictive, unpredictable roller coaster, you have no idea where the roller coaster will turn. In your best defense you relax your muscles and allow the ride to freely move you, hoping the frictional force of butt to seat will result in minimal movement. Luckily--if one could consider this luck--Ugandan taxis, by nature, provide extra frictional forces keeping all but one or two in their seats. Not only do you have gravitational forces pressing you down, but the additional weight of the young man or woman sitting on your lap, the extra shoulder blade digging into your right pectoral muscle, a left leg entangled around your right thigh--flesh and bone seat belt.

Honk-shift-flash, a ritualistic mating call between taxi and potential customer--a classic romantic comedy. A man walks up to a woman in a bar in the very least saying, “hello;” or, throws out some embarrassing line to catch the potential of his mate. Embarrassing to the unfortunate souls sitting around the couple having to listen to the banter. After his one-liner, he moves closer to the woman, a sense of intimacy, a test to see if she takes his bait. If it works, he follows up with some sort of joke to seal the deal perhaps knocking on some chump at the bar trying to do the same as him or some fashion faux pa three seats down, taking pleasures in others’ pain--shaudefreude at it’s finest.

Honk. The driver blows his horn at every potential customer (a three year old shirtless child is not to be discriminated against). Shift. He guides his vehicle towards the side of the road. Flash. He clicks his beams on and off. The customer walks up to the side of the vehicle, discusses fare and destination. If a match, the door opens and the customer finds room in the vehicle--on a lap, on the floor, with the driver--she will squeeze herself in and the clown car clunks onward.

It is approximately 40 kilometers traveling from Kinoni to Masaka. 40 kilometers traveling on dirt road in a rickety metal clunker, clanking with each rotational tire spin. I attempt to see how long I could hold my breath. I developed, practiced and mastered this game as a young child. Often having to accompany my mother to various consignment shops and thrift stores, I also encountered the most particular scents. By particular, I mean scents that stung your nose hairs and caused the most disturbing visceral reaction. The type that made you rethink if the leftover onion, mushroom and anchovy pizza was a good choice of lunch. As Darwin would have it, I adapted to the situation. Trying to stay home evoked loss of dessert. A temper tantrum resulted in public humiliation, a week’s worth of dessert and a smack to the back of the head. These two options would not suffice, holding your breath became the premier option.

The taxi ride became long and keeping my breath, arduous. Between passenger exchanges I would drop off carbon dioxide and pick up oxygen. Each breath in carried in a thick scent of body odor, fruity perfume and clothing detergent.

For brief moment, I was alone in the front seat of the car. There were five people in the back and I am confident no one wanted to sit next to me, the Muzungu. I took this as a blessing and enjoyed the extra personal space. Four kilometers back read a sign Masaka 15 kilometers.

My taxi driver spotted three women with shopping bags. Honk-shift-flash. The trunk door opened and the ladies placed their shopping bags in the back. The left back door opened, the Ugandans squeezed. The front door opened and I was greeted with a woman in her early 30s. We exchanged nervous hellos as I placed my bag on my lap. I made the conscious decision of keeping my bag on my lap was the smartest choice I could make. If our car crashes, head on collision, my bag would be the first to break the windshield; and, if physics prevails and I am propelled correctly, the bag would be the first to touch ground, my feet angled up in the air. The force between the bag and dirt road would serve as a brake and the rest of my body would come to a slowed stop, feet gently touching the ground. Some one would catch the whole thing on tape and I would claim my 15 minutes of fame, maybe an episode of Oprah.

I thought my plan to be brilliant; although, I once flew off a snow ramp with all intentions of holding onto my inner tube. The wind current beneath me was too strong, I propelled too quickly, the inner tube was ripped from me hands. Once again, I realized I was not Peter Pan. The result of my accidental snow flight was a compressed chest and a sudden loss of breath, much different than the potential implications of a frontal taxi collision.

As the taxi driver urged the third woman to enter the packed car, I began noticing a crowd of people emerging from a path. The woman refused, the driver infuriated, he muddled something under his breath. Everyone giggled, but the woman sitting next to me. Her eyes became enraged, she glared directly at the taxi driver. I am pretty sure he was aware and feared his soul being burned by her firing eyes or possibly being turned to stone. My dad can produce a similar look. I had to cal the fire department on my soul several times. Facial expressions and reactions are not bound by culture.

The put the car into gear and crossed back onto the road. The crowd ahead approaching us, a trend among the people developed: Every third or fourth person glanced at the edge of the dirt road. My eyes followed theirs, and I saw a pile of clothes. Why are these people pointing at clothes? Is it on fire? Roadside fires were quite common in Uganda, they would not take time to stare at a fire.

The car pressed on. The woman beside me, now a bit more calm, began to take note of the situation ahead. She muddled something in Lugandan, I turned my head to listen, her eyes widened, mouth dropped ever so slightly and she began to shake her head. I jerked my head back to the scene. The image took better shape. 20 meters. The heap of clothes transformed into roadkill. 10 meters. Roadkill turned into a human being. I blinked convinced my eyes were lying. What I saw and what my brain could process were completely different entities.

In the first week of school I taught my students the difference between observation, inference and prediction. An observation is gathered by your five senses. What are you able to see, touch, feel, taste. I put up a picture of a the recent earthquake in China. My students rattled off what they could see: a building broken in half, a construction crew, the road separated in two, a woman holding her child crying.

An inference is a conclusion one can reach based on observations. My students rattled off their inferences: an earthquake has taken place, they are trying to find people, they are trying to clean up, the woman is sad.

A prediction is an educated guess of future events based on observations and inferences. My students came up with predictions: the construction crew will rescue three people, one of those people will be the woman’s lover and baby daddy. The woman’s husband ends up dying, no--getting crushed by the building and the rescue team only finds his brains! The woman is really happy because she can now marry her baby’s daddy. You have to admire their creativity.

My observations: a human being laying still, flat, face down on the ground, right leg contorted unnaturally upward to right side of his body, left leg bent at the knee making a four with where his right leg should be, his pants are pulled down, his naked butt pointed towards the sun, half a pool of blood on his right side, neck untwisted, head in mixture of dirt and blood, people walking past the body, people looking at the body and continuing their walk, people in conversation.

My inferences: hit and run, the man is dead, victim struck below butt shattering the right femur, the force of the car dragged the man along the dirt road, some observers care, some observers do not care, all observers have seen this before, no one is calling for help.

My prediction: The victim will remain on the ground until some one decides to drag the body off, the victim will be burned, a mother some where will still be waiting for her son to return home.

I closed my eyes the rest of the drive. The other passengers spoke to one another. I sat in silence. I was left to my thoughts, my nauseous stomach and my inability to look at the road. I felt like puking. I suppose if I had upchucked my lunch I would made circumstances much worse. I swallowed the increased production of saliva and thought of a happy place. The only image coming to mind was the young man on the road, lying their dead, gone, not able to breathe in air, run, jump, laugh, skip a rock, kiss, learn, dream, inspire....love.

What did he live for?

What do you live for?

Sandwiched between and the driver, my right leg pinched between the gear shift and the driver’s hand. I can feel. My right upper appendage crossed holding for dear life to the plastic handle. I can move. A horn blowing into the African air beckoning for more passengers. I can hear. If there was still room in the taxi to breathe, there was room for another customer. I can breathe. Cars swerving in and out of traffic, avoiding gas tankers, vehicles traveling too slow for the crazed taxi, pot holes, boda boda drivers, human beings... I am alive.

Weeraba sebo.