Travel Tale

A few weeks before officially moving to site, Peace Corps allows volunteers in training to travel to the place that they will call home for the following 2 years of their lives. Future site visit is exciting for a variety of reasons. You get to see your community, meet the people you'll be working with, visit the house that you'll be living in, and start taking stalk of what will and won't be available to you during your time in Peace Corps. For me, traveling to site also meant independence. After months of being told what to do, where to be, and how to get there I was looking forward to being on my own for a few days. Getting around in developing countries is not new to me and, while I would describe local transport as uncomfortable, dirty, unreliable, and extremely time consuming there's a (big) part of me that loves it. When you're on an old crappy bus or in an overloaded share taxi (matatu) you're REALLY in it. You become enveloped in the smells, the language, the latest styles and music, the way that people interact and the lack of personal space. It's very real. It's very alive.

I made my way to the Kampala bus park early in the morning and found a bus heading to Lira. I was one of the first people on it, never a good sign. More often than not the buses don't have schedules but leave when they fill up. Entering an empty bus means a long wait. Ce la vive. Waiting is just part of the game. I grabbed a samosa from a street vendor, took out my book, and settled in.

About an hour and a half into the wait I was distracted from reading. There was a lot of commotion right outside of my window, I wanted to see what was going on. Yelling, lots of people piling up looking angry, looking violent. In the middle of the action was a man who had been accused of stealing. In populated areas like bus parks and markets, when someone is identified as a thief the community uses it's own form of justice- mob justice. Men surrounded the 'thief' who's guilt was taken at face value. Kicks, punches, blood. He screamed, tried to get away but the mob had gotten huge and there was no escape. More yelling, more blows, his shirt was torn to shreds as people pushed, either trying to sneak in to land a punch or get a better view of the action. Finally he broke free, was set free, and ran off into the chaos of Kampala almost naked and covered in blood. Justice had been served.

Not how I would have liked to start my day but for the most part everyone was okay and, unfortunately, it's not the first time I'd seen something like that. I was relieved when we finally set off half an hour later. We drove two hours before we stopped at the first 'rest stop.' Various little towns along the major routes are equipped with public latrines and street vendors armed with either baskets of goods and very long limbs or food squired on sticks that are able to reach the bus windows. Satisfied with my samosa I declined the street meat and dozed off. I woke up 45 minutes later to find that we hadn't moved. What's going on? I looked to the front of the bus just as the radiator was being lifted out and carried away for repair. Realizing that it was going to be a while I decided to get out and stretch my legs.

On the edge of the road I was about 20 steps from the bus when there was a horrible loud noise to my left. People started screaming and crying, running away from the road. I ran too, what's going on?!?!?! I looked back and about 15 feet from where I had been walking a woman had been run over by a matatu. She was laying on the ground in a pool of blood, not moving, not screaming. I turned and caught a glimpse of the vehicle that hit her, it never stopped, just drove at about 70mph away from from it's victim. Reflecting on the violent scene from the morning I couldn't blame them for that. Had he stopped the driver would most likely have been beaten to death on the road in the name of justice. It was horrible. The woman was lifted into the back of a pick up truck and taken to the nearest health center but you didn't need a doctor to know that life was quickly draining from her body, no one could have survive that. I was in shock for a few minutes, what do you do after watching someone die? Eventually I took a seat on the side of the road and some local men pointed out the woman's daughter. She was very sick, laying on the ground on the opposite side of the street. She had just been released from the health center and her mother had been crossing the road to bring her a mat to lay on and rest. She had seen the whole thing. After witnessing the violent, accidental loss of a life it was strange to have my life be dictated by something so mundane as car trouble. We were stuck there for another 2 hours. I can't explain how happy I was when we were finally called back to the bus to continue the trip.

We'd been on the road for a few hours and I finally felt able to relax again. One side perk to my site placement is that, when traveling from Kampala, we cross over the Nile River. I love crossing the bridge, watching the white water churn, imagining how the water forming the rapids will have to pass through Sudan before being scooped up by a woman washing laundry in Egypt. Upon reaching the other side you are rewarded with greetings from a troop of baboons who live at this famous location and try to demand a crossing fee of food.

About 10 miles past the bridge something didn't feel right. My seat partner and new friend pointed it out first. Do you feel that? No. Oh wait, now I do. What is it? Just then the back axle of the bus snapped in half. We left the wheels behind as the bus skidded out of control down the road, sparks flying outside of our windows. The passengers let out a chorus of prayers as we slid off the side of the road into a grassy ditch. The huge ton of metal threatened to flip but, thankfully, we stopped, perched at a scary but safe 45 degree angle. I got up and jumped out the door- the angle rendered the stairs useless. Somehow, we were all ok.

Now standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere thankful to be alive my seatmate and I discussed what to do next. Just then we spotted an 18-wheeler coming in our direction and the answer was clear. We flagged the truck down and hitch a ride the rest of the way to Lira.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that day. How lucky I was to have survived it. How unlucky I was to have gotten on that bus when there were so many others waiting to leave. After many rambly trains of thought I always come to the same conclusion. Bad things happen but I’m okay. Regardless of where I was in Uganda or the world, there was going to be an act of mob justice in the bus park, that woman was going to get hit by the matatu, and the axle of a bus heading to Lira was going to snap. I was there, witness to it, part of those stories of the world but I’m ok. On the brink of an experience that’s bound to expose me to massive human suffering- social injustices, poverty, AIDS, effects of war, lack of resources, and rampant community violence- what a great lesson to have pounded into my head and heart. Horrible things happen everyday but, while you need to acknowledge and honor them, you can’t drown in them. In the face of suffering you try to find solutions, you allow yourself to live, and you learn to recognize that you can still be okay. Like so many other moments in my life, I would never have chosen these events but I’m grateful for the window of wisdom that they’ve opened for me.