The commotion at the Gulu bus station has already hit full-stride by 8am, when I arrive like a pack mule, weighed down by my bursting bags and set for the bumpy drive to Masindi. Young guys are perched atop the buses and minivans, strapping down bags and baskets and basins, bed frames and seat cushions, boxes straining at the joints, spare tires, colorful plastic chairs. Schoolkids in rumpled uniforms sit in idling buses, their faces pressed to the windows. Guys are circling through the crowd, scribbling on little ticket pads; in fact, so many of them are selling tickets and calling out "HoimaHoimaHoima!" or "MasindiMasindiMasindi!" that I get the feeling no one ever leaves Gulu, they just go to the bus station and sell each other tickets. Boda-bodas bump past with dead chickens hanging from the
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