TRIPPING!

“I’ve had enough. This is too much!” screamed the lady next to me in the Scandi.

And I agreed with her. I never knew but we don’t have a road after Nakuru. It was such a bumpy ride that at one point I was so sure we were cruising through people’s shambas. Not to mention I was seated where, the back seat. Yep! That was my riding style to Ug. Back right on a Scandi.

How you ask did I end up on an enviable seat like this? Here’s my story.

Me, being the Kenyan that I am of course went to book a bus at the last minute…bana, there’s more adrenaline rush that way (watch Crank). So I rock up and I find this gorgeous looking lady at the counter. By the way, when in need of last minute favors everybody is gorgeous, and you must let them know otherwise you’ll be on the hell ride. The bus was fully booked but this ‘gorgeous’ lady managed to get me space, not a seat, space. As for where I was to seat…

“Come at 11.30 jioni and we’ll allocate you your seat number.”

Scary. Eleven thirty clocked and I am there like Phileas Fogg with a bag that makes me look like a backpacker and an extra bag that’s carrying the camera, which was to take many, and I mean many, incriminating pictures.

The bus isn’t there yet, so we wait.

We wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I get up to go looking for my traveling drink. A vodoski cocktail cleverly disguised in a Keringet or Aquamist PET bottle (not Dasani). I must have flunked in camouflage class coz how do you pretend you’re drinking fresh mineral water when clearly it looks like coca cola? I always forget that I need to mix it with Sprite.

I come back and continue the wait.

And wait I continue.

And while waiting we watch a 1990 Man U game sijui on which channel.

Finally. The bus rocks in. We learn that the bus was actually coming from Dar. Now they tell us. Scandi? Na ni nyinyi mlisema nisiende na Akamba. Now see.

I board and get my seat number. Number 46. Now in other buses, seat 46 is somewhere in the middle. I smile. Not for long. I discover on Scandi the seat is huko nyuma. Nyuma. Nyuma kabisa. And much to my dismay I discover the seat can’t lean back. Meaning I’ll be sitting like a student all the way to UG. But, afadhali mimi. One passenger discovers his seat is both number 43 and 44. So it’s a 1st come first serve seat. And number 44 checked in first. Number 43, ended up sitting on number 45, next to me. In the confusion the original number 45 passenger is left behind. Scandi?

After much back and forth, we are finally off at 1.30 in the a.m. two hours late.

Nothing much happens on the dark ride to the border other than the moans and groans (no, not those ones) from the disgruntled lady next to me. She’s Ugandan and she’s making my day. Suddenly, we pass Nakuru and we say bye to the road. This must be a guy’s shakee. Someone I’m talking on the phone with assures me that we are lost. I check out the window and I see a cow and chickens. And for a minute i believe we may be lost.

Yaani, the road is so rough I feel every pothole and its relatives. Wote. The sufuria-holes, plate-holes, pan-holes, the works. It’s hard to imagine but we got so used to the road that we actually slept (I’m ashamed to say I drooled on the UG mama. But since I woke before her I was able to convince her it was a bird).

After what felt like 69 hours, we made it to the border, shaken but not stirred.

Malaba was another story. Me, and this lady, number 45, potead. But first at the Kenyan post, there was this cop who was eyeing me suspiciously all the way. I was in the queue behind like 5 other people but not once did his eyes leave me. He was stamping guys’ passports on auto. He wasn’t checking them, just me and suspiciously. When I finally reached him, he scrutinized my passport, page by page. Which is weird considering I have a temporary passport. It’s a one leaf affair.

After getting our PPs stamped by the Kenyan cops we started the long walk to UG. Man, no man’s land is so huge. Me, and number 45 wandered into the town in Uganda side before we realized we were on the wrong side of the fence. And without proper authority. We had to walk back. We then entered the immigration area but again we found ourselves among the trucks. Lost. We had to go back again. Finally we got to where we were meant to be. Malaba post is huge, but I must say the Ugandan side is so organized. I was impressed. Kenyans wake up.

And all the way from Malaba through Jinja (Owen Falls Dam) to Kampala, I saw the most beautiful landscapes and forests i had ever seen. Plus a few relatives (if you believe in Darwin).

But the moment we rocked into Kampala, the image of a clean, organized Kampala that I had cultivated in my head vanished faster than the boda boda I saw carrying two huge mamas.

The potholes.

The jam.

The mayhem. What was going on here?

Everyone was on any side of the road. Traffic that was going up had a car going the other way. The bodabodas were zooming past in all directions like busted ants. For an inkling of five seconds, I was traumatized. But all in all…I WAS IN KAMPALA! I had seen worse during Nairobi’s shame days so I recovered quickly. But…I WAS IN KAMPALA!

And the ladies? WOOOOOOOWIIIIIIIIII! (Did I mention I got a little naughty on the bus and started clicking away at fly chicks traveling with me?)

The bus checked into home base and my boy came to pick me up…and began the first adventure…