Policemen and thieves and how to travel through Uganda without hotel bills

Ole Samurai prepares to be lodgings for the night

“Are you going to leave at four or five?” asked the man with the gun and the Security Group hoodie.

I was lost for a bit there because all I had asked him was where I could find some reasonably priced accommodation in the neighbourhood of the petrol station he was guarding. “You just give me a thousand,” he added.

            “Uganda shillings?” I asked, finally catching his drift.

            “Yes, U shillings,” he confirmed with a self-satisfied grin. “You won’t be alone, see?” he went on and, pointing with the barrel of his gun at three cars, four matatus (communal taxis) and a luxury Toyota mini van. “There are people in those cars and they will continue to Kampala early tomorrow morning_____”

            “And of course we will be safe because you have a gun?” I asked, interrupting his pitch; why let the man continue preaching to the deaconry, right? “Here is two thousand,” I added to his delightful surprise, “one for your hospitality, the other for the idea.”

He beamed at me.

very thoughtfully, in case you need to freshen up .....

“And if you wish to freshen up before you sleep,” he said most hospitably, while leading me to where there was a long-snouted plastic container and basin, “you just come here.”

As promised by the askari with a gun, Ole Samurai and I spent a peaceful and rather uneventful night together (one inside the other, to be precise) at the Bugiri Petrol Station on the Malaba Kampala Highway.

The discovery early in the morning that there was a running tap under the water tank and even better, a working bathroom next to the tank, was purely accidental, but a welcome bonus.

My Ugandan friend in Kampala however didn’t seem impressed.

“It’s legal nowadays,” he said nonchalantly when I explained how I’d never waste money on hotel rooms again. “They changed the law just the other day to allow travellers to sleep in their cars. Otherwise you would have been arrested for jaywalking.”

Jaywalking indeed!

As if they would give a hoot! Except in the city of Kampala where my most organised always-travel-with-a-map brother Muthomi was once delayed for almost an hour for carrying an expired driving licence,  the policemen of Uganda are generally very well disposed towards people with Kenyan plates on their cars.

“Habari my friend,” said the first ever Ugandan highway patrolman to wave me down. ”How is Kenya?” he shouted as he hurried to catch up and come to my window.

“Kenya is good.”

“Wapi chai yangu?” (Where is my tea?).

Just like that, without even looking at my cracked windscreen, or scrutinising my then expired driver’s licence and insurance! The total lack of shame with which he uttered this last statement, despite the fact that tea is the oldest euphemism for a bribe in Kenya, is the true definition of impunity. So with a smile that said “no offense, officer but you’re being silly,” I let him have it.

 “Did someone inform you I was bringing it?”

 “These crazy Kenyans!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. He waved his hands wildly in the air in dismay at our craziness. “Have a safe journey,” he added as he waved me on, with a look almost of pity in his eyes.

Henceforth, I have adopted the retort “did someone say I was bringing it?” as standard response to anyone who asks me for “my tea.” Try it some time, but not on a Kenyan traffic policeman. The fines, both legal and illegal, can be too steep for that kind of talk – especially with the tough new laws.

But this is not about the Kenyan police. It the story of how I spent a restful night at Bugiri petrol Station during one uneventful journey through Uganda. On this trip, friends and neighbours, I was also to find out that Rwandan plates driving through Uganda do not command the same respect as Kenyan plates do. This may explain why, on reaching Kampala the next morning, I had to part with Ushs. 20,000 (Ksh 800) for making a simple S turn. (What? Never heard of an S turn? It’s when you make an illegal U turn, realise your mistake and make another to correct the first one.)

The male and female cop that caught me were friendly though, and made small talk about Paul Kagame and how he had fallen out with M7 for a long time until their wives orchestrated reconciliation. And after the cash had disappeared into their dark trench coats, they even wanted my phone number so we could keep in touch. I lied of course; gave them the wrong number by two digits!

Nothing amusing though about the next bunch of Ugandan cops that stopped me later that day. Having taken some time to have the old junk’s suspension checked, I had left Kampala at around seven pm and hoped to do at least four hours of the nine hour journey before finding a friendly petrol station to pitch camp at for the night. It happened on a rough stretch of road less than three hours after leaving the city.

It was a bit confusing and rather scary, not just because the “policemen,” just materialised out of the bushes and had no actual uniforms to speak of safe for worn out army issue jungle jackets, but because they were armed with only a torch with a watery weak beam and were not beneath pleading, nay, begging, for at least USh 2,000 (Ksh. 60)

“Ati leasti,” said one, meaning “at least” and playing the torch on the back seat of the jeep,”2000 will help us purchesi the batteries for thisi torchi. Iti is for your safety, ssebo.” He moved around to inspect my meagre cargo better. “Nobody cares abouti us out here,” he added getting back to my window.

Something, I realised, was not quite right.

But it didn’t hit me until just when I was handing over my USh 1000 donation for their Police Torch Fund. It was only then that I took off as fast as my 20 year old jeep could.

It was their furtive gestures, darting eye movements, faltering English and confidence levels that tended to rise and fall as we haggled that had set my hairs aflutter and set alarm bells in my head. Moments later, my intuition was proven right when out of the bushes came two big motorbikes with bad engines. They gave chase for about a kilometre then fell back.

“.... many highway robbers on that section of road,” said the armed guard at the next petrol station when I narrated my experience as I handed over my last 1000 U shillings for the overnight truck stop. 

As I settled for another uneventful night’s sleep, I couldn’t help feeling very lucky. Even luckier that the next day I would be in Kigali , Rwanda, kwa Paul Kagame, where a man can go unmolested anywhere, any time of day or night, and cops don’t ask for Chai for fear of dismissal and jail.

© Lloyd Igane; Nairobi 2012

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