*BAM. Scraaaaaapeee.*
“Whoops.”
Our taxi driver put his head in his
hands, as I deftly pulled back on my door and closed it again; but
not before it crushed in the other car's side mirror, dented the
metal at the front door hinges, and scraped the side of her door.
When I had moved to exit the back of the taxi, no one was there, but
I should have rotated my neck and checked well in back of me. She'd
come flying by, inches from my door. I had not even open the door half
a foot, before she sailed by, taking brunt of the blow. Thankfully,
Musana, our taxi driver – his doors had not even a scrape.
With no insurance to call and no police
to fetch, I exited the car and mingled between some nearby cars with
Anika. The frustrated lady that exited her vehicle, did not need to
know we were white. This could only add to the cloudy feelings. I was
not sure what would befall, but I knew the doctors appointment to the
city would be a bit more than expected.
Bumps and scrapes in Kampala are
frequent. They have an entire ward at the hospital called the
bodaboda ward – affectionately named after the taxi motorbikes. It's specifically for
accidents that are a result of them. It is hard to imagine how they
deal properly or fairly with with
vehicle accidents here. If
insurance is not in place, or something is done in clear fault of
another, who will not recompense for his actions, there
is no police force on which
to rely.
One time, a
volunteer from Norway had her purse stolen, so a volunteer
coordinator had taken her to the police station to file for a report.
He warned her ahead of time that this police station was not going to
be anything like she had ever seen. She probably would not even see a
computer in the building. The girl entered a small room, with one
wooden bench in the entryway, and a man came up to them with a big
tattered notebook. The moment the police saw the white girl, and
heard that she had her purse stolen, he spoke to the coordinator in
Ugandan, asking him to please “tell the volunteer if she wants help
finding her purse, she will have to pay us.”
“She
just had her purse
stolen. Go ahead and ask her yourself.” He had challenged.
The Ugandan police
could not bring himself to do this. Instead they stalled the report
process for three weeks saying they did not have the insurance
paperwork ready, until the coordinator told the police man the Norwegian government was getting involved. The policeman was very
upset - the papers were ready the next day.
Our taxi driver chuckled as he walked
back over to us. I think he saw the whole situation as slightly humorous. I was incredibly white in the chaos of Kampala.
“She wants 70,000,” He stated. The
victim driver had called the mechanic and that is how much he was
asking to repair the mirrors and dent on the door.
“I called as well,” Musana added.
“I have a friend who works in mechanics so it is the correct
price.” I was grateful for him, who has been a faithful taxi driver
for us, many times, and was deemed trustworthy
Seventy thousand is under 30$ Canadian,
so I was more than happy to extend that for my rather distraught deed.
On returning to the apartments that evening, we tipped Musana, and I
disembarked out of Anika's door.
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