See post from Feb. 10
for context
Cultural Chaos Part 2:
Day 1; 7:02 am: After about 25 minutes of loading and rearranging, we
finally pull out of the driveway. The dog barks from within the compound, his
head protruding through the gate’s peephole, his cocked expression perplexed at
the sudden disappearance of all his
people. Harriet calls goodbye out the front window and returns to her conscientious
examination of Ugandan maps. Seven-year-old Loveline sits behind me with a
sprawling grin, her right foot taps in an anxious beat on my seatbelt. Before
we even make it down the street (note: my street is exactly one house in
length), she asks to pull over so she can urinate. Gracious re-adjusts himself
in the back seat as Loveline scampers from the car, pulls down her leggings,
and squats on my perimeter lawn. Gracious’ 3-year-old son, Kevin (named after
an action figure), remains a statue on his dad’s left knee. The toddler glares
at me and studies my movements skeptically. Gracious pets his son’s shoulder
and slides his other hand reassuringly along his wife’s knee. He mumbles to her
as Loveline hops back in the car. She hugs the 9-month-old girl to her chest as Loveline settles at her side.
I start driving again and head towards the main road. As I
merge onto Entebbe Road, Gracious announces that his wife is terrified of cars
(things that would have been nice to know before
strapping her in a car for 20+ hours of driving in two days). On cue, she
flings a blanket over her head to shield herself from the moving world. I peer
through the rear-view mirror to see a rocking purple mound where a mother and baby were once visible. My eyes return to the potholes. Gasps escape the
mound with each bump. Gracious nudges her and chastises in Luganda. “I want to
enroll her in the army, teach her a gun” he proclaims loudly in English, a language completely
foreign to his wife. I navigate around a stalled mutatu in the left lane,
unsure how to appropriately respond. I look in the mirror, his smile offers a
hint. “Then she will not be afraid of cars,” he exclaims with a laugh. Harriet
chuckles in the front seat. I force half a laugh as I try to imagine the purple
mound behind me bearing a riffle. My mind is still searching for a link between
comfort with guns and comfort with vehicles, but Loveline breaks my thoughts
with another toilet plea. 7:18, pit stop #2; this time she squats in the ditch
beside a chapatti stall. The lack of car movement suddenly reveals that the
infant beneath the purple blanket has wet herself. Harriet notices as well and
recommends we recommence our journey; “then the smell won’t catch us,” she
says. I try not to breath or let my face give away my discomfort.
A few minutes later as the pothole dodging continues,
Gracious calls out for a plastic bag; the three-year-old is motion sick and
puking. A chain effect, the purple mound and Loveline follow the toddler’s
lead. I stop again to let three back seat passengers empty the contents of
their anxious stomachs on the side of the road. 7:27. Pitstop#3. I make note of
our whereabouts—even with Gracious’ shortcut and a complete absence of traffic (a rarity in this city), we are not even half way out of
Kampala.
Mints are distributed. Nerves are calmed. We start yet
again.
7:47: We make our final pit stop within Kampala. This time,
Loveline dodges a group of goats and relieves herself beyond the edge of a lime
green building.
8:14: My passengers’ digestive tracks and bladders are sufficiently
empty. My seatbelt has stopped contracting in an anxious rhythm. The purple
blanket has moved to a bag on the floor. The toddler is looking out the window
while Gracious identifies cows and trees in heavily-accented English. As we
spin around the Northern Bi-pass, finally exiting Kampala, I breath a sigh of
relief that the first round of jitters have effectively been quelled. Only another 19+
hours in a confined moving vehicle to go!
