Living the pain of public transport

At 1.11pm on Friday, I called my wife to tell her I stood in front of Majestic Plaza near the Old Taxi Park in Kampala. Standing at Mini Price, she recognised me.

All along, she had been calling me panicking as police and Kampala Capital City Authority operatives arrested roadside vendors. At the refurbished Luwum Street, I saw many loading the vendors’ stuff on their vehicles.

I pitied the vendors but the mind quickly switched to my own pending ordeal. My wife had to see the doctor. Actually, it was meant for March, but alas, Covid-19 came knocking.

We did not want another postponement. But how do we reach Kawempe-Mbogo in time?
The New Taxi Park was more packed by people than vehicles. We performed the afternoon prayers in the open dusty space just after the entrance next to Nakivubo Channel.

The occasional times I used to pray from here, we did it in congregation, standing one’s foot next to another’s behind an Imam. But now, everyone was on their own, under the scorching sun.

We even doubted whether we were allowed. We tried to observe physical distance. I prayed on my overcoat, and the man who pulled out another mat for others was reprimanded. The mat was pulled away to keep the numbers in check. But no one stood more than a metre apart.

Afterward, we crossed northwest to the Kawempe Stage. There were only two taxis. One metre behind another. A middle-aged man stood at the entry of one which had eight passengers on board.

But he was labouring to explain to those sitting and standing on the hot tarmac: “We don’t want you to flex for seats like on other stages, we want some order here. We get eight or seven people sit in this taxi as they wait for another to pick them.”

It did not make sense to me. “Now what’s wrong with these two taxis?” I promptly asked. He said they were not yet cleared to carry passengers.

“So those inside this taxi are assured of the next trip, and they will be followed by another lot, like that. But if you suggest otherwise, we can leave you to fight for the seats,” he added.

It simply meant sitting inside the stationary taxi was your ticket for the next trip.
Going by the seven-per-taxi guideline issued by the government before public transport was allowed back on Thursday, the people waiting at the stage needed almost seven taxis.

“So when do the other taxis come to pick us up?” I wanted to ask. But I realised it was as unpredictable as when the coronavirus vaccine would be found. But one woman instantly asked the same question.
“Nnyabo nange simanyi,” (I don’t know) the volunteer answered.
We seemed okay with the ‘booking’ strategy.

I was hungry. I thought I would eat from inside the taxi, but our turn to enter was not coming any sooner. I decided to eat my chapatti while leaning against the iron sheet fence of the park.

People seemed patient. But when the operating taxi came, those waiting outside wanted to jump the queue and enter before those in the ‘booking’ queue. Typical Ugandan style.

Commotion
But the volunteer stuck to his plan. Then chaos ensued as he chose the next lucky seven to book. Everyone wanted to be inside the taxi. We gambled on a formula. It was unclear who had come first. My wife laboured to beg for fairness, but I advised her otherwise. Because, honestly we were not the earliest nor the latest. And no one cherished to be roasted under the sun, moreover waiting for a taxi that would charge twice as usual. I contemplated cancelling the appointment.
Finally, we agreed on a formula and we were among the next lot. When another taxi picked those in the booking taxi, it was our turn to escape the roasting sun. But one stubborn woman, who wasn’t part of our lot, sneaked into the booking taxi first. The volunteer told us to wait outside. I felt cheated. I wanted her out. But the young man on my right begged me to let her be. “Violence won’t help,” he told me. “Which violence are you talking about?” I asked him. I let her be.

The patience paid soonest when the volunteer took us to another taxi, metres away. We all sighed in relieve. Immediately, a man sat behind the steering wheel. Another entered and shut the main passengers’ door. Wow! We were setting off at 2.19pm.

“Enjoy your ride,” one woman screamed to the sneaky one left alone in the dormant taxi.
Eight adult passengers and a boy about 10 years old, who stood with his mother were on board. The conductor had no place here. But he pulled out a green spray bottle (kind of a sanitiser) as he squatted to avoid being spotted by traffic operatives.

Only the three seated on the front used the ‘sanitiser’. It took me 10 minutes to remember that we all needed to do it. We didn’t anyway.

There was traffic on the road. But not the irritating type. We moved, almost smoothly and by 2.44pm, we disembarked at Kawempe Police Station, having paid Shs4000 each.

There was silence. Some people on their phones, others muted behind masks. There was also space. Luggage and backpacks enjoyed free seats. The driver felt for the conductor but the road was a ‘danger zone’ fully manned by traffic police officers. He remained squatting.

Leaving the taxi
After exiting the taxi, we walked for 16 minutes to the medical centre. I scribbled this story as my wife underwent treatment. By 5pm everything was done. But she was still drowsy and frail. The doctor had promised to drive us back home. He tried his best, but at 5.38pm, he dropped us off at Bwaise, a Kampala Suburb, where the Northern Bypasses flies over Bombo Road.

“I am sorry I cannot go to Busega now. This jam is too much and I have four operations to perform at Bombo [Military Hospital] tonight,” he said.

We got out. My wife, still weak, rested on a pavement. At least she was regaining her gaze.
Normally, this spot has taxis ferrying passengers to Busega, Rubaga Division. But these are not normal times. We waited in vain. Then I began begging boda bodas to rescue us. None wanted to ply the Busega route because there were many roadblocks.

I could not call anyone because of the impassable traffic, and the curfew. We decided to walk as we wait for a boda boda. But we were joking. If I were alone, probably it would be fair, but my better half.

Finally, at 5.59pm, we convinced one to commit the double sin of ferrying passengers, moreover beyond the stipulated 5pm time.

To take the risk, he charged us Shs7,000 for the 11-minute ride. We wore our masks and sped off. I didn’t utter a word apart from prayers that Allah guards us against any accident and authorities.

At the agreed stoppage (now 6.11pm), we crossed the Bypass barricades to wait for another boda-boda to take us home. Three refused to give consent. We gave up and rested in front of a residential gate. Fortunately, the air on boda boda had helped my wife shake off the chloroform. We were close to home. No longer afraid of the curfew arrests, after about 14 minutes, we strolled home.

My wife’s left hand on my shoulder, my right around her waist, we reached home at 6.50pm.

Taxi registration

Two weeks ago, KCCA started registering taxis in the city centre and started giving route charts and numbers to those who had paid all the licences and insurance. Many taxi owners didn’t have money to pay for taxes and the insurance because they had spent months without working. Each taxi is supposed to pay between Shs650,000 to Shs1m. Police officers mounted roadblocks on major roads to ensure only those with valid documents operate. The deputy chairperson of Uganda Transport Development Agency, Mr Castrol Ssekyaya, said the valid PSV and third party licences for taxi operators expired during the lockdown.

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