You have no idea what it means to pray until you have driven in Kampala.

There are no signs. The rules are unwritten. The most dangerous driver is a cautious mzungu (white person). Francis, our driver, is fast, nimble, and seems to have a prophetic gift for knowing when there will be enough space in traffic to get through what seem to be countless obstacles.

One constant fixture is the Toyota taxi-bus overfilled with passengers, usually with colorful names (such as this one) emblazoned on the back window. Most of these are the same model. If two of them run into each other, the rule is they both pull over and exchange parts by the side of the road, the one at fault giving up a new fender or door to the victim. Most of the time they work it out because they know if they have to get the police involved it will be expensive for everybody.

Another is the boda-boda; these are motorbikes that carry individual passengers hanging on to the driver for dear life as they thread through the other traffic at high speed. Yes, people die. Don’t ever take one anywhere.

And remember the words of Saint Paul: pray constantly.

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