Loving Boda Bodas on Valentine's Day

I LOVE boda bodas. And if I were to die on one of them today, I’m pretty sure that I’d die happy. Much like India’s motor rickshaws and Benin’s scooters, Uganda’s motorcycles weave in and out of traffic like whirling dervishes, almost with the grace of synchronized swimming gone a tad awry. I’ve never been a huge fan of amusement park rides, but somehow I think that the rush is a similar one. I’m certainly not following my father’s common mantra “safety first” as I ride them, but it is one of the first things that I utter to the driver, and remind him every so often to rein him in just a wee bit. In any case, here in Kampala, they’re certainly the fastest and cheapest way to travel, especially during rush hour, though it seems a bit ironic that I use them to travel back and forth to the main hospital in a city where traffic accidents are often fatal, and where there’s no EMT services.




While the hospital is perched on one of Kampala’s seven hills in a rather serene setting, the ride back into town jolts me back into the realities of urban Africa. And not just because of the boda boda ride. Morgan and I have been staying in what is described as “the smartest place in this not-so-smart part of the city”, and the throngs of people, plumes of dust and diesel, and products moving every which way certainly excite and enliven the senses. Whereas in other parts of the world, or for other people, central Kampala near the old taxi park could be described as “terrifying”, “exhausting”, and/or “chaotic”, for me it’s none of those things, though it’s very close at times. Morgan and I were discussing the fine line between “vibrant” and “overwhelming”, and we concluded that the dividing line between the two is aggressiveness. It would be a bold statement to say that Kampala has none, but Ugandans here seem to be some of the more polite and kind people who I’ve met, and that becomes especially clear and important when you pack a thousand of them into one city block, and reduce the walking space perhaps in half with people hawking shoes, tomatoes, and magazines/newspapers. This should not come as a surprise since the two Ugandans who I’ve had any real interaction with in the States are sweet as sugar, but still it is, because if you packed even half the number of Americans into the same city block, there’d likely be no shortage of drama, and I imagine that I’d quickly feel overwhelmed.



I remember when I first traveled to sub-Saharan Africa almost two years ago and was shocked that I didn’t feel shocked by it. I expected swarms of humanity, poverty as far as the eyes could see, and a fevered sense of sexuality and aggression. As I tried to describe in the slide show following the trip, I’m not sure if these preconceptions were due to my racism or the media, or a combination thereof, but for the most part none could have been further from the truth. Outside of the markets, there weren’t so many people, there was poverty but not dramatically so, and Ghana happened to be the least sexualized country that I’ve ever visited (I've not yet been to the Vatican). So prior to this trip, I wondered if I’d be shocked this time around, if things would feel so new, so different, so foreign. I DID expect to be humbled by the poverty, the victims left behind by AIDS, the impact of years of civil war. And all those things may come, but I’ve been struck by how little abject poverty I’ve seen. While most Ugandans are by no means rich, most people seem active and employed in some fashion—many in the informal economy—and beggars are a far less common sight than in Berkeley or San Francisco.

Speaking of Berkeley and San Francisco, there are many people here from there, and from other parts of the States and Europe. International development and relief-type work is a major industry here, and “wazungu”, Swahili for white people (and more commonly used for anyone who is not black), are quite a common sight because of it. My friend Erin had told me that people would be yelling “mzungu” at me all the time, and I’m sure that will be true in more rural areas, but it’s not been at all the case in the cities we’ve visited so far. In fact, much more common once people know that I’m from the US is a string of Bugandan words which I don’t understand followed by “Obama”, which I do. And not only that but bumper stickers, calendars, and framed pictures of “the first African leader of the United States” right next to the framed picture of president of Uganda. It’s no doubt that Obama’s been excellent for the American brand. My contact at the hospital wasn’t sure whether it was because he’s black, he’s got Kenyan connections, or because of his politics, but people here love Barack Obama, and perhaps they now like me just a little more by extension. If nothing else, it’s nice to be able to quietly chant “O-bam-a, O-bam-a” as I walk down a crowded street and see smiles come to people’s faces. Can’t imagine that if I were saying “Sar-ko-zy, Sar-ko-zy”, and that’s kind of nice to be associated with something/someone so positive.