Traveling From Masindi to Gulu with my mom and Aunt (In March, I'm catching up, sorry)

It was like a road trip,in a way, but without the fun stops at Dunkin Donuts for iced-blueberry coffee. And without the comfortable family-sized air-conditioned vehicle. Oh, also without traffic rules or the requisite road trip music you can sing along to.
It was with great fear and trepidation that I even considered bringing my mom and aunt on public transport to the northern part of the country. Not because they are old—oh no, they are as young and spry as they come. Just because traveling in Uganda can push you to the very limits of sanity, the very edge of reason, the extreme, farthest-out reaches of your strength and energy. In short, it can bring you to your knees, weeping, begging for mercy (or for your mama).
We boarded the bus to Gulu, or rather, tried to board the bus to Gulu, but there wasn’t a bus going to Gulu. There was a bus going to Bweyale. I nodded knowingly as the driver told me this, and confidently lead my mom and aunt to the very back of the bus he indicated. They asked me where Bweyale was, and I had to confess that I had no idea—no map, no clue. I was just hoping it was actually North, in the general direction we wanted to go. (This reminds me of a talk I heard at Dartmouth last year, by Wangari Mathai (spelling? she won a nobel peace prize for her work in the environment, pretty cool lady)--she told as story about traveling in Africa, and how somtimes you realize you are going the exact wrong direction and just need to GET OFF. I've wondered if I would have the courage to get off? In the middle of the bush? Would that be a good idea? Luckily, friends, it hasn't happened --yet--)
The bus was almost full, so it seemed possible that we might leave in a reasonable amount of time. Meanwhile my mom kept looking behind her at a wide gap behind her. “Do you think they can close it?” She was worried. I studied the construction of the bus carefully, craning my neck around and finally saw a stick propping open what seemed to be a door. “don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” I said as someone began to cram huge bunches of bananas under our butts. “Ooh!” My aunt exclaimed. Sitting on bananas for a few hours could be interesting. The rows in front of us began to fill, and the efficient (read: greedy) conductor began instructing all the rows in front of us to sit five across. For some reason he didn’t ask this of us, which became a source of animosity as every single person boarding looked at us and said in Luganda “Why don’t the WHITE people have to sit five across?” Yeah, I felt good.
We eventually started moving—went about five feet and then stopped again to load something on top of the bus. Five more feet- took something off the bus. Six feet. A bag of charcoal on top. Four feet. The driver stopped to chat with his friend. Thirty feet (we started getting excited)—three guys jump off, run around for awhile, and three different guys get on.
It took awhile to reach Bweyale.
We eventually did- (luckily, for me, it was generally in the right direction)—upon getting out of the bus in the dusty street, we were inundated with offers for assistance. “GOING WHERE?” “WHERE GOING?” “COME HERE,MAZUNGU.” “WE GO?” I tried asking a few people where the bus for Gulu was (hoping that it did exist). I got a few different answers, several people assuring me that everyone else was just “disturbing” me, but finally found someone else who was going and said the bus was coming, in fact, would be leaving very soon.
Someone dragged up a few benches for my mom and aunt and insisted that they sit down. As soon as I got the bright idea to ask about tea though, our new friend told us to “Come quickly!” We indeed came quickly, to find the (van) empty except for, now, the four of us.
There began an hour of waiting—wishing—hoping—praying—as the hot afternoon got hotter, and the dusty town got dustier. I could tell that a few of the people standing around were also going with us, but it seemed an eternity before some secret signal was given an everyone ran for the van, piled in, and we took off.
For two feet. A woman with two chickens got in. Another ten feet. A bag of charcoal. Five feet. Someone took the bag of charcoal off. Half a kilometer. Six more people get in. My mom and aunt started voicing their frustration. “Why are we stopping?” “We’re stopping again?” “What are they DOING?”
At this point I began to seriously worry that I was doing irreparable damage to my relationship with my mom and aunt—would they ever forgive me for exposing them to such a torturous experience?
We proceeded to stop approximately ever five kilometers on the 120 kilometer trip up to Gulu. When we finally reached the fair town of Gulu, and disembarked that accursed vehicle, I was told in no uncertain terms that we would not be attempting any other forms of public transportation for at least 48 hours.
I wish I could say that was the end of our misadventures on public transport, but you’ll have to ask Aunt Carol about her experience sitting next to the Large Man with a poor understanding of personal space (and how she defended herself with well-placed jabs to the ribs.) Or how they both enjoyed riding three- to a motorcycle through bumper to bumper traffic at night in Kampala. Or how nice a private-hire taxi felt when their cheapskate niece/daughter finally was willing to shell out four dollars for a little comfort and safety!
Another time, though. Another time.