RoadsKathy Devine — Scarborough, ON Roads have a special meaning to most people. They take us to and from work and school. They take us to visit friends and relatives. Roads are associated with every place we go and every event that takes place in our lives. Roads symbolize rites of passage from birth to death. The three weeks we spent traveling the roads of Uganda allowed us to glimpse how Ugandans live, work, and play. What a country of contrasts! As we entered the capital city of Kampala, traffic came to a stop. Kampala streets are too small for the number of people and vehicles. Black diesel fumes spewed from vans and trucks. White taxi vans were filled to overflowing. Newspaper salesmen rushed up to our windows to sell a copy of The New Vision, The Monitor, or The Red Pepper. Women sitting on the sidewalk were selling newspapers and baskets. Men selling socks or shoes weaved their way through the walkers and cars. Motorcyclists carrying three or four people darted amongst the cars. Always present were women carrying babies on their backs. In the rural areas, the roads became bumpier and, at times, the pavement ceased to exist. Uniformed children walked along the sides of the road towards school. Children carried yellow plastic jerry cans and babies on their backs as they headed toward the well. Goats tethered by the side of the road were busy chewing grass. Cyclists loaded down with matoke or furniture were off to sell their wares or returning home with something new. Suddenly we'd come across a small village. Speed bumps slowed us down and shack-like stalls and stores displayed their goods. Coffee beans on the ground were drying out in the sun. Men sat idle in groups. Broken down and rusted out cars sat abandoned. Women bent double at the waist were washing their babies in plastic basins. 
Night falls quickly at the equator. One evening at dusk, around 7 pm, we saw a pregnant woman returning from the fields along a bumpy mountain road the ever-present baby on her back, a toddler in one hand, a jerry can of water in the other hand, a basket of produce on her head, and urging a small herd of goats in front of her. As we proceeded on our way in the darkness we saw many Ugandans walking along the road on their way to gather for the evening in one of the small villages that dot the country. Kerosene lanterns and candles offered light as they talked, purchased goods, or got haircuts. We continued along the road towards to our final destination for the night. After four years of traveling in Uganda with SCAW part of my soul has been left in this country. As Robert Frost says in his poem “The Road Not Taken”:
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