We were on our way up country a few days ago when we came upon this taxi. The word “taxi” does not mean a car with a meter in it that will take passengers where they want to go. There are those types of vehicles but they are most often called “private hire.” A taxi is a mini van with bench seats licensed to carry 15 passengers who wedge themselves in and for a few shillings get on and off along a predetermined route, much like municipal or intercity bus service.

This one was loaded down and I thought had had an encounter with a tree thus the branches hanging over the rear lights. I learned that those branches were a sign to the traffic police that says “Yes I know I am overloaded carrying more than the licensed number of passengers but this is a family are on their way to a burial. Please allow us to travel unhindered.”

It is a sad fact of life here that there are too many burials. The average life expectancy in Uganda for man is 52 years, for women 53. Someone who has reached my age is considered quite an exception and I am but 59. My gray hair engenders respect and accommodation. School children automatically stand when I enter the room.

There are too few of us here. Disease and war have robbed the country of an entire demographic. There are many families who care for 20 or more children, the sons and daughters of brothers or sisters who have passed.

The people in this taxi were on their way to a village somewhere to pay their respects to someone no longer with us. The branches are a sign to us on the road to grant them passage unhindered. We do.