Adventures in the Boda-Boda Kingdom

Kampala is a growing city of nearly two million people, but you would never know it from the public transportation systems and infrastructure. In fact, it's as if Kampala has no idea how big it is or how quickly it's growing. I've never seen a planned neighborhood here, which for an American is refreshing but for most Ugandans is increasingly frustrating. The city operates on a triumvirate of public transport hawkers: 1) the matatu: these are 14 passenger vans, but if you can imagine something that's half as large as a regular 15-passenger van in the U.S. and then cram twenty people into it, your image will be right on. These are usually extremely dirty and if you think the driver smells, the conductor probably smells worse. 2) Special hire: this is for the rich or well-to-do when they are without their cars OR for regular folks who have to haul a bunch of stuff and don't want to piss off the other 19 people in a regular taxi. Special hire drivers are notoriously pushy about getting you into their cars before they overcharge you for a short trip. 3) Boda-boda: first of all, this is one of my favorite Luganda words. To my knowledge there are only two cities in the world that have these: Lagos, Nigeria and Kampala, Uganda. They are basically mopeds (never larger than 100 cc engines for you gearheads), the drivers of which are not quite as pushy as special hires for one reason: they don't have to be. Can you think of a more fun way to spend a quarter when you have to get somewhere?

In Kampala, as in any other city, you have to know a few landmarks to get where you're going. The difference is that in most cities, all the public transport people know most of the landmarks, too. That's certainly true of the matatus and the specials, but when you get on the back of a scooter with a 14-year-old boy driving, you might be in for an adventure in navigation. Most of the time, you try to get a guy who looks a bit older or one who at least wears a helmet. These fellas usually tend not to think they're quite as invincible as the young'uns, who would just as soon kill themselves and you before allowing that ISUZU 18-wheeler go in front of them.

And now for a recurring adventure in the Boda-Boda kingdom . . . inevitably I run into at least one boda drivers per week who has no clue where he's going, is half-drunk, or has simply borrowed the machine from a friend because he was hurting for cash and the other guy had to sleep sometime. Now these dudes are really frustrating, because even if you speak to them in their own language, they will tell you they know the place when they really just want your money. So what happens is you get halfway there and then the dude says: "which way?" If there's another boda driver around, you can just get off, pay the first guy half what you agreed, and gamble again, but if not . . . So after a while you get used to the look on the guy's face BEFORE you board the bike, and you tell him you'll find another driver. Now out of the roughly ten occasions I've done this, about half have resulted in a mad rush of boda drivers coming to me and telling me they know the place. And invariably, one of these poor fellas is hopelessly crosseyed. So while I'm trying not to laugh while he says, "Yes sah, I know the place, I can take you there, you sit and we go," I just think how happy I'll be when I can get in my own car and cause my own problems on the road. In the mean time, it's continued misadventures in the Boda-Boda capital of East Africa.