The Carrie Underwood song after which this post is named takes on added significance when living in Africa. There have already been many instances in the four short weeks we have been here where we have found ourselves seeking the sort of surrender this song implies. But the reason for the title of this post has much more literal than figurative significance this week.
Why? I have decided to drive in Uganda.
Why? We are growing weary of having to call (and pay, and wait) for a driver every time we need something at the store, want to go to the mall, etc. As I have previously posted, the Ugandan Judiciary has been quite kind to provide me a driver and a (stick-shift) car for my trips to and from work and various appointments. But this leaves us a bit wanting in the evenings and on the weekends. Since the car is a government car, one needs special permission from the government and an international driver’s license to drive it. Before I left the United States, I secured an international driver’s license. To get it, you need fifteen bucks and a faint pulse – you don’t even need to be able see. Seriously, they issue international driver’s licenses to the blind. If you don’t believe me, look at the regulations themselves here.
So what’s the big deal? Well, to get permission to drive a government vehicle, you need to take a driving test.
OK, so what’s the big deal about taking a driving test? Well, Uganda is a former British Protectorate, which means that they drive on the left side of the road here. As one might expect, the steering wheel is also on the opposite side of the car – on the right. This, in turn, means that the stick shift is to the left of the driver. Likewise, the turn signal is on the right, rather than on the left – on the left is the windshield wiper controls. Adding to the challenge is the utter lack of road stripes, stop signs, or other discernible traffic rules (there are only five stoplights in the entire country). Add to the mix a meteor shower of motorcycles driven by seemingly suicidal teenagers who are carrying one passenger, two passengers, three passengers, a small herd of goats, enough lumber to build a two-bedroom apartment, enough sugar cane to keep the Coke factory supplied for month, etc. Sprinkle in a herd of pedestrians (most of whom are children) for whom Frogger just isn’t quite realistic enough. And, of course, the road is potholed like it has been hit by a meteor shower.
Kampala Traffic
Since early this week, I knew I was taking the driving test today. On Tuesday, I switched places with my panicked driver for the last kilometer of my trip home – a lightly trafficked stretch of road with only a few turns. As I pulled out into traffic, and tried to find second gear with my left hand, he muttered something in Luganda.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It is a Ugandan saying that means, ‘if you can’t find it, grind it,’” he replied. Is that supposed to be funny??
With each turn, on came the windshield wipers. “No, the turn signal is on the other side,” he said repeatedly stressed. I (barely) resisted telling him an American saying that starts with “no” and ends with “Sherlock.”
Then on Wednesday, I took over for the last three kilometers home, including through some “intersections,” which are simply free-for-all-roundabouts. Less grinding, more wipers.
So today, we went to the Ugandan version of the Department of Motor Vehicles. Unlike in the United States, I didn’t have to wait in any lines. Instead, we were escorted to a back room to meet with a guy behind a desk. He inspected (i) the letter I brought with me from the court that requested the test, (ii) my international permit, (iii) my California driver’s license, and (iv) the fidgety mzungu sitting in front of him.
“The application fee is Twenty-Five Thouthand Shillings,” he declared. (Most people in Uganda pronounce “Thousand” as “Thouthand.”) I had no idea if this was legit or not, but he looked serious, so I pulled out my wallet and handed him three ten thouthand shilling notes.
“Got change?” I inquired? He scowled at me as if I had said, “I got this money from your wife” or something equally offensive. He muttered something in Luganda to his buddy sitting across the room, who then pulled out a five thouthand note from his pocket and handed it to me, pocketing one of the ten thouthand notes. I thought about asking for a receipt, but thought better of it.
Mr. DMV motioned for me and my driver to follow him outside. Along the way, he quizzed my driver (in Luganda) about my driving abilities, who mercifully covered for me (or so he later claimed). Just when it appeared that Mr. DMV was going to give me a pass, his supervisor emerged and instructed him to take me for a test drive. Here we go . . .
Sherlock whispered to me a quick reminder about the location of the turn signal and wished me luck. The parking lot from which we were to emerge dumps uphill into a fairly busy road. “Should I turn left?” I hopefully asked. “No, go right.” This, of course, meant crossing traffic uphill to the wrong side of the road driving a stick shift on the wrong of the steering wheel, which is located on the wrong side of the car. Now or never, I thought. I gunned the engine, released the clutch, and flipped the turn signal, which cued the flippin’ windshield wipers. Mr. DMV glared at me incredulously. “Windshield was a bit dirty,” I weakly muttered as I fumbled to shut them off (speeding up their motion before finally halting them).
For the rest of the five-minute drive, Jesus took the wheel. I passed. As of tomorrow, I will have a car on the weekends and in the evenings. Unfortunately, I may also have one less pair of underwear for the rest of the trip.
In other news, Sara Ribbens had her interview with the US Embassy on Wednesday and was issued a visa to return Nya and her other kids! She leaves tomorrow! Here is her celebratory post.
Additionally, I picked up all of the paperwork that Henry will need to start school on Monday. He is taking a bus from Hoima tomorrow afternoon to stay with us on Friday and Saturday night. We will spend a good portion of Saturday shopping for what he needs to bring with him when he checks into the boarding school on Sunday afternoon. Our shopping list includes a mattress and bedding, a ten-liter jerrycan(?), a flask(?), a plastic basin, two bars of soap, a pair of slippers, a pair of sandals, canvas shoes, a peeling knife, a mosquito net, a night dress(?), a mug, utensils, an electric flat iron, a box file, an apron, a swimming costume (?), ten rolls of toilet paper, a rag, and rubber drier (?).
Joline and I are looking forward to attending the mandatory “parent meeting” on Sunday. We will post pictures of us dropping Henry off.
In case you haven’t tested your Uganda cultural literacy, check out the new tab Daily Quiz we have set up.
Also, if you don’t know the Carrie Underwood song referred to in the title, click here. And if you want to see a hilarious parody of it – “Cletus Take the Reel” – click here.
