The Great Escape

It wasn't a bad trip from Kampala.

Being a Sunday afternoon, the congestion around Nakasero Hill wasn't it's usual height and only one or two detours through run-down squatter blocks were needed before we broke out onto the Northern highway towards Luweero.

We'd made the 30km trip in little over half an hour and all that remained now was to transfer matatus at the Luweero taxipark and find one going into the Kiwoko town centre. I get shown aboard a van that is reportedly heading direct to the hospital. 'How much', I ask the conductor. 'For you, my friend, is 2000'. I'd had enough bartering in the city that weekend so I simply nod and climb aboard.

It's fair to say that matatus, Ugandan minivan-taxis, are not purpose built for comfort but this one seems a little worse than most. The upholstery is completely tattered. The seats lie in various angles and directions, some even point forwards. One isn't fastened to the floor as far as I can tell. The engine cover is partially broken leaving it's entrails open to the world. A wooden plank sits over the handbrake creating a make shift seat. There are two giant cracks in the windscreen. A giant decal over the front reads Luxury Cruiser.

5 of the 9 seats are already taken as I clamber aboard, a good sign as only 3 more need to be filled before we head off. Before long a Boda Boda, a motorbike, pulls up and a 10-year old girl climbs off the back. She's dressed tidily in satin shirt, shorts and sandals. Her hair is shaved short like may Ugandan children, except at the back where braids are just beginning to form. She waves goodbye to her father on the Boda and climbs into the seat next to me.

We try and have a conversation but her poor English and my even worse Lugandan mean we're restricted to just a few common phrases. She carries a plastic bag holding a jumper and a change of clothes. She tells me she's staying with her auntie in Kiwoko village for a few weeks.

'How much?', she asks pointing at my fare. '2000' I reply holding the ready folders in my hand. She laughs cheekily. 'It's only 1000 to Kiwoko'. Precious. You can always trust children to be honest.

We try and make small talk about the locale and the flash floods that are just starting to hit Uganda.

And time drags on.

We sit in silence for at least 20 minutes, staring at the vans and Bodas entering and exiting the park. We gaze with tedium as the shopkeepers sweep their shopfronts and. No on seems to be filling the seats.

She tells me her theories about surviving crocodiles. Her father, it seems, was attacked by one last year and managed to survive with all his limbs after making use of a machete. His machete technique obviously failed to completely convince Nikita by allaccounts and her last few months have been filled with endless research and brainstorming. Swimming away is definitely out. Running won't work either apparently, even on the flat. Fighting is a bit hit and miss, mostly miss. You can go for the eyes but that leaves a lot to chance. Her currently favoured paradigm is to climb a tree. I promise to bear this in mind next time I am chased by a crocodile.

My buttocks start to ache from sitting so long and I shuffle on the seat trying to get comfortable.

A lady knocks on the window selling chunks of meat roasted on a stick. Even from outside the smell of permeates the van. I wouldn't touch it with a barge pole but Nikita looks most excited so I buy her one. It's probably beef but could equally be pheasant or goat. Or even elephant really. There is no way to tell. She seems to enjoy it though, sucking off huge lumps and grinning. I start to develop abdominal cramps in sympathy.

And the time still drags.

I find myself mentally counting down the number of seats left to be filled. The one in the

back could have been taken except the lady who was about to sit there was invited to squish into the front alongside myself, Nikita, and another young man who looked just as uncomfortable. But at least there's still two seats in the back for additional passengers.

We'd been in the taxipark well over an hour. The trip itself only takes 15 minutes. Would we be there yet had we walked?

An 'elderly' lady in her 50's climbs in with a chicken tucked under one arm and a Cole bottle full of petrol in the other. The van immediately combines the smell of both with stewed goat from the meat skewer.

A breeze builds up, blowing dust and sand throughout the taxi park and into the van. It scratches the eyes and passengers pull up shirts and scarves to take shelter.

If I close the window, the smell builds. Smell vs. Sand. The smell builds to a nauseating level and the window wins.

Surely we must be leaving soon.

I pull a map of Uganda from my bag and show it to Nikita. She points out places she has family and been on trips. Jinja. Nakaseke. Kampala. Entebbe. Even as far north as Murchison.

By now she's partially couched on a sack of grain and partially on the engine cover.

We could take a Boda, I mention casually to the Nikita. She smiles. It won't be easy to climb over the 2 sacks of grain jammed between us and the door. Not without attracting the attention of the taxi driver who will insist 'we are leaving soon, very soon Ssebo'. But there is another way.

I catch the eye of a Boda driver and motion him around the side. I knock on the window and slide it open.

'How much to Kiwoko?', I ask, 'for me and the girl?' I was starting to become attached to her, and besides, she was saving me a fortune on fares.

'Ok my friend, for you today I will do 3'.

'Ea?, no no 2', I reply holding up the appropriate amount of fingers. Thanks to Nikita, I know exactly what the fare should be, the non-mzungu inflated fare.

Eventually he smiles. 'Ok ok, two to Kiwoko'.

Sweet. We have to be snappy. I slide the window open a bit further and pass him my bag. Then Nikita sits on my lap and pushes her feet out the window. She straightens her body

like a pin and I pass her through the window. The driver helps her clamber onto the back of the bike. Next I stick my own feet through the gap and contort myself through the opening. Smoothly I drop down onto the bike behind the girl and rearrange things to get balance. I check my pockets to make sure I have my camera and phone. The driver casts a look at me. I nod back. 'Tugenda', I call out and give the thumbs up sign.

The Boda Boda bumps towards the road with horn blasting, signalling our presence to other road users.

I cast one final glance back at the Luweero taxi park.