Close Encounters. By Bethan. September 2011.

“Uh oh, Gareth, I don’t know what to do now.”  I said as I sat in a precarious position on a very large and busy junction in Kampala.

“Just sit tight and when there’s a space, go!”  recommended Gareth, seeing the impossibility of the situation.  Cars were streaming past, making our car shudder with each near-miss, boda-bodas were darting in and out of not-quite-stationary cars, dicing death by a hair’s breadth.

We were on our way back to Kasese via the BUU office, after a long and tiring week in Gulu and Kampala.   I approached the HUGE junction and looked at the array of traffic lights on display.  I picked one that seemed most relevant to my current position and desired route and saw that a green arrow was pointing right, in the direction that I wanted to go.  I crept forwards, believing to have the right of way but not quite trusting the system.  I was forced by the streams of traffic still flowing in front of me to stop about three feet shy of the junction (or what we would call the ‘yellow box’) and this is when I confessed to Gareth that I didn’t know what to do.

“I can’t even see the traffic lights now, at least I don’t think I can see the one that is supposed to tell me what to do: who are those traffic lights over there supposed to be directing?”  I asked as the lane with a red light to the left of us produced a stream of 4x4s and heavily-laden wonky trucks.  “I bet I get stopped by the police for doing something wrong even though it is not clear what is even supposed to be happening.”

“Don’t worry, just wait for a space and go.”  Advised Gareth.

“Hello madam.  I need to see your driving licence then I can tell you what you are doing wrong.”  Announced a rather robust Ugandan traffic-police woman in a gleaming white uniform (how do they get them so so white with all this orange dust!?) who had just appeared at my window.  Oh poop.  I produced my driving licence and started to explain that the light had been green and I was just following the traffic instructions and trying to go about my own little business without causing any trouble to anyone.

“You were driving recklessly.”  She announced as if I had been a 17 year old boy-racer.

I appealed to her better nature.  “Madam, I saw a green arrow pointing my way and I was just trying to get through the traffic to go over there (gesturing right) to get to Kasese.  I got stuck because the other traffic appears not to be obeying these traffic lights.”

To be honest I was stressed by now because Kampala driving does this to you.  Imagine driving in rush-hour London and times it by 20 or so.  Add crazy drivers in huge 4x4s (I know, if you live in Chelsea this is the case too!), street-hawkers and the odd stray animal and no road markings to speak of and you get the picture.  We also had a 7 hour journey ahead of us and we were wasting valuable ‘Sam-asleep-time’ by being stopped by this police lady.

Tears welled up in my eyes because, since I was a child, I have always cried when I am angry or indignant.  It's not the most useful response and something I fight each time it happens, but I never win.  I began to shout in order that my words would come out, but they arrived weak and wobbly:  “Madam, I assure you, the light was green and I was just trying to get through the traffic!”

Gareth began to fight my cause as he saw that my wobbly voice wouldn’t achieve anything.  “Madam, trust me, the light was green.”

“If you are going to shout at me I am going to go away and come back later.”  The police woman said and with that she walked off with my driving licence and left us bewildered sitting in the middle of a fast-flowing and turbulent stream of traffic.  Gareth boldly got out and followed her, otherwise believing that we could be there all day.  I sat in the car and sobbed pathetically, wishing that I could just drive off as the lights turned green again (while the police officer was talking to Gareth I witnessed at least 20 other more serious driving offences than the one I was being accused of!)  However, Gareth was now out of the car and my licence was with the police officer so I just sat with a sleeping Samuel and prayed that the whole ordeal would be over.

A lot of hand-flapping and gesticulating went on between Gareth and the police woman and I could occasionally hear wafts of the conversation: “Eh!  You people!  The light was…  You should have...”  “But madam, the light was… we did…”  and so on.  Eventually Gareth flew across the lanes of not-quite-stationary traffic and jumped in the car.  “Drive over there, NOW!” he shouted.  In a moment of get-away-car-ness I put my foot down and shot ten metres across the junction to park at the side of a very busy road full of shops and took my luck at sitting here without being booked for illegal parking.  The police officer eventually came to meet Gareth, who once again had had to go out of the car to hurry her a little.  (Don’t forget the 7 hours we still had to drive to get home!)

After a short while the police lady opened the passenger door and said “good morning.”

“It’s not a good morning actually,” I started, wobbly but indignant “I am just trying to get home and follow all the right rules but in our country green means go!”  I sobbed.

“Madam, if you cannot control yourself you will have to come to the police station so I can explain it to you there.”  I fell silent but the stream of indignation continued in my head, held back only through gritted teeth.  I did not want to elongate this encounter through the bureaucracy and likely expense that a police-station visit would involve.

The police officer began to draw me a diagram of traffic lights upon traffic lights on an odd-shaped junction, explaining to me that those vehicles that were “sloping down” heading to Makarere (wherever that was) should go when the top light is green and the bottom light is red but that those “pushing up” towards Kawempe should go when the top light is red and the bottom light is green, but that those vehicles wishing to “pass” up to the right (me) should wait on (yes, on!) the zebra crossing until I have seen that those “sloping down” and those “pushing up” (by the way we were not on a hill!) have passed, then I wait until the traffic lights on the far side were a random mixture of red and green, four cars and a goat had passed on my left and a cow had pooped on my right, then, and only then could I take my turn on the junction!

“Oh, I see now.”  I lied.  There is occasionally a time for lying, and this was it.  I was clearly never going to understand this junction and, although I was livid and still believed I was in the right, I thought about the long journey we had ahead of us and the prospect of being sat in a police cell having this explained to me again was more than I could take.

“Good.” Said the police woman.  “I have decided to forgive you and let you off with a warning.”

“Thank you madam.”  I forced myself to say through gritted teeth. “I can promise you, I will never come on this junction again.”  This time it wasn’t a lie.

The woman retreated carefully backwards out of the passenger door, Gareth hopped back in and, with Samuel stirring and about to complain at having been in the car an hour and not even being out of Kampala, we drove off towards home.  “Not long now sweetie.” I lied to Sam. 

A few hours later, in the lush-green of western Uganda, having passed several more police along the road, we were stopped by a policeman with a radar-gun in his hand.  Gareth was driving this time, (within the speed-limit, I hasten to add).  “Good afternoon Officer” he greeted the policeman.  Having inspected our licences and asked where we were going, it became clear that the policeman had had an idea that we didn’t like the thought of.  Noticing the policeman’s name “Baluku” embroidered on his shirt pocket, I introduced him to our Baluku (in Lukhongo all first-born sons have this name) sitting happily in the back, who dutifully waved and smiled at the policeman.  On seeing Samuel waving the policeman smiled, greeted him and then said “you tell your Daddy to buy me a car.”  We laughed, knowing not to bother going down the route of explaining that we were in no position to buy cars for people left, right and centre.  He changed tack:  “What can you give me to make me happy?”  We laughed again, and once we had ascertained that we were not in breach of any law, bid him a good day, and drove off before his hankering for a bribe could become any more blatant.

Needless to say we were very relieved to arrive back at our home in Kasese and find that the goats were still alive, the water was plentiful and the electricity was on.  We both said a prayer of thanks for a safe and happy end to a Very Long Day.