I’m on the bus from Kigali, Rwanda, to Kampala, Uganda.
The trip takes between 9 to 19 hours, depending on the bus company and road conditions, curling around terraced hills, banana trees and fields of feathery papyrus.
“Careless Whisper” is playing on the radio. It crackles every time George Michael hits a high note.
A man across the aisle has his shoes off, legs extended. His socks are long and have individual toes, striped with various shades of purple.
I’ve been in that hazy place somewhere between sleep and consciousness. I smile at my new friend, Santo, sitting in the seat beside me. He helped me navigate through border offices and made sure I wasn’t cheated at a currency exchange bureau. We’ve been taking turns watching each others luggage during bathroom stops.
As we’ve rolled through the countryside, Santo has pointed out things I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise: Fish drying on the hood of a car, drums made from stretched cow hide, metallic grasshopper traps used to collect the insects for food, the dirt road that leads to his father’s village.
“How long –” I begin.
He answers my question before I even get a chance to ask it.
“Eighty kilometers.”
Mudflaps thwack against the truck in front of us. They say, “Different colors. One people. One love.”
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