Though I’ve only been back in the States for a week now, it sort of feels like I never went anywhere – amazing how quickly home and summer vacation routines take over. In spite of this my Masaka eyes are continuing to see the world differently.
I just returned from a road trip, visiting friends in Memphis and small-town Arkansas. It’s strange that one (long) day’s drive can take me to such a different world – no air travel necessary. The town where my friend Meghan is living as a Teach For America teacher is completely racially divided. We drove along the lake and admired the beautiful houses and their private docks, though as far as Megh knows, only one Black family lives on the lakeshore. Off of the lakeshore drive, the town is literally divided in half – south of Main Street is White and north of Main Street is Black. The churches are divided by race as well. I felt uncomfortable when we went to the grocery store – how do you interact with this community? If I saw a white person, I tried to suppress assumptions about how racist they must be and if I saw a black person, I realized that if I was too friendly they would probably just assume I was trying to be culturally superior by ignoring the enormous elephant in the room that is racial injustice. It was depressing. How is it possible to get out of that cycle of racism?
Driving a personal car on those smooth US interstates seemed to be the utmost in luxury after Uganda’s crowded taxis and pothole-ridden roads. In fact, in Uganda my preferred mode of short-distance transportation was the boda boda, essentially a motorcycle taxi. A motorcycle’s two wheels could avoid the potholes more efficiently than a car could. I never mentioned them earlier because of a silly superstition – I reasoned that if I widely admitted to taking boda bodas, I would jinx myself and die in a terrible crash. The Peace Corps have strict rules against boda bodas for insurance reasons, but frankly, if you refuse to take a boda boda you severely limit your ability to travel in East Africa.
- Boda Boda boys waiting for passengers; the sign posted on the tree lists the going rates for the most common rides from Ssaza.
When I first arrived in Masaka I remember wondering about all the motorcycle gangs collecting at every street corner… until I realized that they were boda boda boys waiting for their next jobs. Official boda boda drivers hold a special license and are members of professional boda boda unions. According to an article in The New Vision newspaper, boda bodas originated in the Uganda-Kenya border town of Busia (10 July 2008). They were bicycles ridden across the border in order to smuggle coffee. This evolved into transporting people across the border without the necessary documents – bicyclists would shout, “border border” to potential passengers, though their pronunciation was “boda boda.” Boda boda use has now spread outwards from that border town to fill a niche in public transportation needs. Motorcycles now seem to be more favored than bicycles, at least in the hilly town of Masaka.
FSD did their part to scare us out of boda boda use during our orientation week. During my first day with my host family, however, Maama told me we were going in to town to pick up some things. I thought “town” could just mean Ssaza, the town we walked to, but then all of a sudden she was approaching the boda boda stage in Ssaza, debating prices with the drivers, and then what could I do but hop on? And by hop on I mean sit sidesaddle because of wearing a skirt!
Boda boda riding is an acquired taste. At first, it’s terrifying and you’re pretty sure that you’re going to die whenever you get on. Riding sidesaddle seemed very precarious. Plus, not knowing the routes very well in the beginning made me put all my trust in the driver’s professionalism. I was trying to figure out why I wasn’t learning the roads very quickly… until I realized it was because I only ever saw the left side of the road! My route to town looked completely different from my route home. I solved this by honing my sidesaddle technique in order to face more forward.
After a handful of rides, it became somewhat enjoyable, and definitely an indispensable part of life. I came to prefer riding sidesaddle even if I was wearing trousers – the better to hop off if necessary. It was only necessary once, during my closest brush with a crash in Nyendo, when my driver pulled out in front of a lorry. Luckily, the lorry driver saw us quick enough to stop and my driver also realized his error and stopped abruptly, almost losing balance. I have a lot of respect for these drivers, being able to balance one to three passengers and maneuvering through the potholes and traffic.
Generally I would take a boda boda from my office in Ssaza to Masaka Town for 1,000 UGX and then back home to Namaseenene for 1,500 UGX. After my confidence about the whole process was sufficient, I really enjoyed hailing boda bodas and then practicing Luganda with the drivers, telling them where to take me and determining the price. Boda boda boys are notorious for overcharging, so it was important to know the acceptable price for the distance. I found that generally they were sufficiently surprised and happy to hear me speak Luganda, so they would give me a fair price right away.
This boda boda driver is waiting for a Rolex, a classic street food item that is basically a scrambled egg wrapped in a chapatti.
Another option for short-distance travel between Nyendo and Masaka Town were car taxis. These were usually white sedans, and you could tell them apart from private vehicles in Town because they would drive slowly and honk short, intermittent beeps, signifying “there’s room for more passengers.” Though it felt sort of like hitch-hiking, such a car ride between Town and Nyendo was only 500 UGX, while a boda boda would be probably 1,000 UGX and more dangerous on that stretch of busy highway.
I will make it clear that I have never taken a boda boda in Kampala, because I think that really is a death wish. In Uganda, drivers yield to larger vehicles only, and in Kampala, the sheer volume of traffic is enough to keep me in four-wheeled vehicles. The hierarchy I have observed goes something like this: Greyhound/Charter-type buses can do whatever they want, barreling down the middle of the highway and yielding for no one. Lorries and other large trucks come next, then coasters and mini-bus taxis. Personal cars are just below that. Then come the two-wheelers, the motorcycles and the bicycles, staying close to the shoulder. If a vehicle is coming up behind a motorcycle or bicycle, the vehicle driver will lay on the horn, forcing the two-wheeler off the road and onto the shoulder. Vehicles slow down only as the very last resort to avoid someone.
If you are on foot, you better be prepared to run across the road because people will NOT slow down for you like they do here in Ames. This took some time to get used to, particularly since I had to remember to look to the right first when crossing a road. Legally, Ugandans drive on the left, but in practice, they drive to avoid potholes and other obstacles without slowing down. During my first week in Masaka, I would see cars coming at me WITH NO DRIVER, until I remembered that the driver sits on the right. I have easily transitioned back to driving on the right here, though I have caught myself walking on the left, confusing some fellow pedestrians.
Another situation where I would be afraid to take a boda boda: Queen Elizabeth National Park. In addition to the hippo, note the amount of stuff that can be squeezed onto a motorcycle behind the passenger.
