In Uganda, hitchhiking is common as the cold. But don’t picture a hippie with a joint in the 60s. Think of an old lady with creaky joints in her 60s. A lady of this description flags me down one Sunday on a rural dirt road. We greet each other through a cloud of rolling dust.
“How did you sleep?” I ask.
“Fine. Take me to the church!” the old hitchhiker says.
“The church up there.”
“There! UP THERE!” she points with her lips and hits every syllable hard.
“Huh? Wha? Wher–? Ok, just get in and show me.” Continue reading