Over dinner on the evening of January 18, we were remarking to a Ugandan friend, Benard Ssebide (who works for Mountain Gorilla Veterinary Project), that we’d been incredibly lucky while traveling through Africa as we hadn’t had any real difficulties with transport between places. Sure, we had a bus in Zambia that made everyone scream when the brakes locked up, we’d been crammed into a mini-bus with 22 other people (that should seat 13) for 6 hours between Mandimba and Cuamba, Mozambique, and we‘d been delayed a few hours between Arusha, Tanzania and Nairobi, Kenya with a leaking radiator, but no REAL problems. The next day, things changed.
We woke early on January 19 and walked to the main Post office in downtown Kampala, Uganda for our bus that day. To make ends meet the Uganda Post Service delivers people with the mail. There are plenty of private companies, but we picked the Post bus because we were told it was the safest. We imagined we’d be sitting on bags of letters as we sped through the countryside on our 8-hour ride.
We arrived at 7am sharp as instructed and waited patiently with many other passengers on the side of the road until our bus rolled up at 8 o‘clock. Despite our hour-long wait, somehow all the other passengers beat us onto the bus, so we were left with the seats over the rear axle with a broken armrest and window that wouldn’t open. The woman in the seats in front of us soon decided to switch her seat, so we upgraded to a window that could open and a functional armrest. Yeah for fresh air!
When the bus lurched a few times pulling away from the post office, we remarked, “That’s not a good sign.” We didn’t know how right we’d be.
Four hours later, we awoke to our heads smashing against the bus ceiling. Apparently, the wheels on the bus really do go round and round, and the people on the bus really do go up and down. As we were right over the rear axle, when the driver hit the Mount Kilimanjaro of bumps in the road, we went flying. This is an unpleasant way to wake up. Despite shouts of protest from the back, the driver continued on at full throttle.
Within the hour, we found ourselves broken down on the side of the road. We joined the other passengers in standing outside in the mid-day sun. For nearly two hours, we stood there while a mechanic came and went twice on the back of a motorcycle taxi while apparently repairing the radiator. We were close to the town of Mbarara and many people abandoned the bus if they were at all near their destination. We were unfortunately still about 3-hours from our destination.
Broken down Post Bus near Mbarara, Uganda
Once the radiator was patched and re-filled with water we were herded back onto the bus. We were excited that we were back underway and remarked, “that wasn‘t so bad.”. It was at this point that a fellow passenger, a Slovenian man named Sammo, remarked that his friend took the Post Bus a few weeks before and broke down for 8 hours - we were feeling lucky. Ten minutes later when we stopped to add more water to the radiator, we regretted our optimism. Little was every shared with us passengers about what was going on, so when we pulled into a garage in Mbarara thirty minutes later our hopes crashed. We were there to have the radiator replaced.
A similar delay in the US would have everyone up in arms about the inconvenience, requesting updates, and demanding refunds, ticket vouchers, or at least a new bus on which to finish the trip. But this is Uganda, so that is not the way things went down. We were never officially told anything by the driver or any mechanics. Instead, whispers about our progress spread like gossip back through the passengers. We and all other passengers who had no other means of transport patiently waited in the bus while it was worked on for three and a half hours. Some people got off the bus, but never went far as they had no idea when we might suddenly leave. The adorable three-year old girl sitting across the aisle in front of us sang songs that made us smile as she lounged in her mother’s lap.
Rumors of an imminent departure circulated long before we actually left the bus garage, but eventually the repairs were finished and we backed out into traffic. It was rush hour and dusk. The ride was uneventful for the next two hours when we pulled over to the side of the road in a small, dimly lit village. From our near-the-back seat it seemed to be just another stop to drop another passenger off…that is until pandemonium broke out. Snapped fully awake by a whoosh, we looked to the front of the bus to see the driver standing over the open engine compartment in a cloud of smoke glowing orange and yellow. Fire! we thought and we scrambled for the windows on the right-side of the bus. As we prepared to squeeze out the small window openings (there was no emergency exit), the crowds outside assured us to stay put. We aren’t sure why we thought they had insight into our safety on the burning bus, but it gave us pause enough to look towards the front of the bus a second time. It wasn’t fire. Apparently, the driver was pouring water into the hot radiator and the steam was illuminated by his flashlight. Thanks, buddy.
With relief, we sat down again and were subjected to more confusion. Bits of information flew around the bus: “two people were out on the pavement on the left side of the bus bleeding,” “they were both passengers on our bus,” “there was a lot of blood on the ground,” “head wounds,” “they were hit by a car,” “they rushed out the front door during the fire,” “No, they landed on their heads when climbing out a window.”
Whatever was the real cause of their injuries was never explained to us. The atmosphere was very grave and we waited. We were told we needed to wait until the bus cooled down to continue. While most other passengers remained patient, we and Sammo began to look into other ways to reach our destination (Kabale) which was said to be only 20 miles further. Eventually we were convinced by other passengers that any minute we would continue. After an hour passed, the engine was started. One of the victims of the accident remained in the village - she might have lived there, we don’t know. The other victim was brought onto the bus and we continued. At one point we thought chest compressions were being done, but later his wounds seemed superficial. Nothing made any sense. Supposedly there was a hospital in Kabale, but if we were taking him there, the driver’s pace had no urgency at this point. One hour later we arrived at our destination. Only 7 hours late. When we arrived at the Kabale post office, the driver and ticket guy wished us a good night, as if the entire experience was just another unremarkable day. Fortunately for us, this trip was unlike any other day we’ve spent on a bus.
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