pioneer bus experience: of stinking armpits and illiterate people.

Now everybody, for one reason or another has had a sting or crush for these orange tins patrolling the streets of the city since the taxis decided to eliminate themselves with their strike.

A taxi driver’s experience on the pioneer buses will as much as he pretends be the most cool he could ever get in his entire lifetime in public transport because he’ll for once distance himself from shouting at each stage, having to struggle for parking, bargaining with commuters over the pay and obviously the comfort of a stench-free environment but that only applies to taxi drivers.

I, just like any other banana citizen was impressed by these orange tins and decided to save 700 shillings for these buses (my taxis’ fares vary from 1500 when in good mood to 2000 when the day is as hot or when a talk show hosting besigye has just been concluded).

A journalist’s experience is obviously quite different from that of a taxi driver. So mine was that of stinking armpits and a bunch of 60 illiterates in public transport (excluding me obviously). First I braved the hot kampala sun and noisy shouts from expectant taxis to join them but all in vain they waited…and (i warn them never to call me brother…..”blaza olaga wa”) do i look like you in any way? mmmtttssccchheeewwwww!

Eventually the long awaited moment came, a pioneer emerged from the flickers of people crossing the road and parked right infront of me making me the first on the ‘meant to be line’. I cleared my fare and sat expectantly waiting for a gorgeous or close to that woman, to start a conversation with about their experience.

The lines outside grew thinner from the window view with not a single of my expectations glimpsing success save for a somewhat intelligent girl offering to stand right infront of me. By now I expected people to figure out that these tins have provision of 31 standing humans not guys only, I mean how do you tell me to offer you my seat, thats so “unafrican” we only see them in movies and they end right there. The fact that 31 humans have to stand meant that 31 armpits had to be opened to hold the lobs put up.

This not only kills the mood of expectancy but also the joy of boarding these tins. Ranging from expired fumes to none at all and the obvious natural fume “kavubuka” is what emanates from these 31 humans while the other sitted 30 suffer the locality of accepting them in their form to the worst they can get.

My huge laughter pangs were held back for the sake of my already built relationship withthis miss by my side when one of the commuters shouted anxiously “maaso awo”. My head went straight to the libraries of disses and the best it would pick was “you think this is your father’s car that stops at your gate?”. Obviously it remained in my thoughts but I couldn’t help but laugh when the bus trailed on to the next stage with the woman yelling and throwing all sorts of tantrums. The least you should expect is the bus to stop at a stage for your education.

Then, next lesson, you don’t shout at the conductor, you just press the bell and the driver knows someone’s getting out at the next stage.

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