Undo

“No one is bothering to ask where this Pickup truck is going.”

9:14am: We are crammed at the back of a pickup truck. My clothes are dirty and I haven’t even started the journey. There are 12 women and two small boys seated atop two layers of sugar sacks and an assortment of plastics destined for Koch Onyaco. Four men have taken strategic position on the roof of the pickup and two men at the front seats.

I am seated on a sack right at the back of the driver’s side. My legs ache from that awkward position. If I raise my leg a little, I will step on the woman immediately squeezed near me, the only option would be head out further atop so that I might kind of join the men at the top but it’s so squeezed up there and I am not sure I will keep my hold when the vehicle starts moving.

Daphne is seated right below me at a valley created by two sacks; she is quite pretty from where she is. Her brown shawl, her face sunk downwards. The outline of her face equanimous and ready for the challenge. Some kind of innocence crept over her. It was something she shared with the other women. An integration with the sacks, seamlessly, no shifts of discomfort like I am experiencing. There is an easeful recline in their postures, like they are ready to go right to sleep.

A kind of silence enshrouds the boundary of the pickup. Like the vehicle has cast a spell onto us, all around us are pickups going to different destinations with rowdy touts and passengers exchanging all kind of noise. There seems to be nothing in particular keeping us here. If you looked well at the pickup, there is no space for an extra person unless they are going to sit on top of the women. If you ask me, no one is bothering anymore to know where this pickup is going. All the touts have shifted attention

Setting out on a journey engenders a strange emotion, one is seized by the feeling that he is free not only from the land that he has just left behind him, but also from the time that he is vacating                                                                                                        Forbidden Colours-Yukio Mishima

 

8 o’clock saw the bus finally leave Kampala behind. The process of waiting for the bus to fill being such an unpleasant experience to ones patience, you could see the change in the faces of the passengers as they drew in the last air before shutting off the outside. Travel mood had set in. It was time to settle down in position for sleep perhaps, or pull out novels and newspapers to read, or stare out of the windows. So, we reached.

 

On land, after several hours, it feels fresh. Even with the wash of Gulu heat that welcomes us. The journey had been quite disorienting. Locked windows, the hum of built up pressure and the awfully loud music through out the journey. Yet here is Gulu town in its afternoon laze. Any venture out of shade is a sweaty mess and a dusty one too. You may think crossing Kampala roads is hard till you meet some Gulu roads. Think Ben Kiwanuka road. Then think of it worse. There is a certain unruly law at road here, bicycles, motorcycles, are the major speed traffic here, then the vehicles set in, faster. There is no time to settle in. The vehicles are mostly SUVs with tint glass, those without tint are NGO’s owned. While vehicles are not that many they drive at such scarily speeds. The pedestrian has to fit in uneasily. I stand at the bus park near a music stall listening to a song by Otim Alpha called ‘alany pa coo’, I am not alone in this idleness…there are several people waiting for buses to various destinations, the park has several taxis and pickup trucks and no bus. I am waiting for Edwin, who is give me a ride. It may be sad to say the best parts of Gulu are out of town, most times I come to this town and I think, where did I leave off last time.

NEXT on DAY…the first moments before embarking on a Pickup truck ride.

 

Coming to you soon

DAY

 

19 April 2007

 

 

DAY is a clip from my diary following several days of traveling. It's not going to give you the whole story though but a read .....