Clown cars and death matches

Today I hunted my office down. It took some effort. I called the agency and asked for directions, but of course didn't know any of the landmarks. Have I mentioned that street names are very irregularly posted? Anyway, I wound up jotting down the landmarks that the receptionist gave me, guessing at their spelling by her pronunciation -- not an easy feat when you're speaking with someone with a thick Lugandan accent. Then I went downstairs and wandered around the health club asking people where Old Kiira Road going toward Kyanbogo University might be. Nobody had ever heard of Kyanbogo (although ironically, I actually spelled that correctly). There were arguments concerning the location of Old Kiira Road. Eventually, the folks at the health club put me on a boda boda, gave the driver a lot of directions and gestures in Lugandan, and sent us off.

It was my first time on a boda. Have I explained these particular vehicles, yet? They are these tiny sticks of a motorcycle, more a scooter really, with an elongated back seat for extra passengers or baggage. Using them is kind of fun, but it's also like riding a Vespa with a death wish. Over potholes. In the rain. Without stoplights or helmets or seatbelts or handholds.

Don't tell Mom and Dad that I rode on a boda, and I promise never to take one again.

The other form of public transport that I've encountered is the matatu, which I've written about before. These vehicles are the size of a minivan and usually sit 12-15 people. A conductor sits by the door waving people in, and the car will stop roughly near your destination, wherever the driver sees fit. If one person in the back corner of the vehicle wants to get out, five or six people are displaced from their seats and might have to fight to get back on. And here's to hoping you can actually find your desitnation from the spot where the conductor drops you off.

Of course, locating yourself is no easier on a boda. I thought Philly cab drivers were nuts, but at least they know where they're going. No such luck in Kampala! If you can't tell your driver exactly how to get where you're going, they'll just take you somewhere and stop, then ask for more money. This might be because they're lost ... or maybe they just know that you are. Here's to being a stranger.

Negotiating prices is half the fun. Drivers will radically overcharge a mzungu. After all, we're rich. I have to explain to these Ugandans that the U.S. dollar is only half the value of a euro, and I'm a student so I don't have a lot of money in the first place. I tried to explain it to Jamira last night, I even went into details about student loans and how I'll be working to pay the money back for the rest of my life. She just looked at me as if she were thinking "a dollar is a dollar, you crazy mzungu." Oh well.

Uh. The power just died, and I'm writing in the dark ...