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Lake Bunyoni After Sunset
Although this photo definitely has nothing to do with my story, it's a pretty nice picture, isn't it. This was at the campsite before Kampala. Here is the story of a unique trip I experienced in Kampala...
We were staying at a campsite in Kampala, the capital city of Uganda for a few nights and it was lovely. There were cute little monkeys in the trees, goats walking around the place eating all the litter, and warm showers. Who could ask for more? I would have been mad to leave it really, but I was itchy to get out and see what the city was like. No one else was interested though, so with a few pointers from our Kenyan driver, I took off alone. I guess the city was quite nice, totally consumed by the fact that an Akon concert was only a week or two away, but I suppose quite bearable for a big city in Africa. Before too long, I decided it was time to get out of the heat and back to the campsite.
But what do you do when you’re in the middle of Kampala, it’s some kind of peak hour, the traffic is backed up for miles, and you want to get back to your campsite quickly? For me, the choice was simple - jump on a boda
Equator
Passing through the equator on the way to Kampala. This has nothing to do with my story, but look how dirty I am. boda (a kind of motorbike taxi service). Now I have a few stories about insane bike rides in Indonesia, but let me tell you, they don’t even begin to compare to this next tale.
I was the only mzungu (white person) in sight, wondering if there was some sort of protocol in Uganda when it came to picking a driver. I carefully inspected the long line of drivers in line, standing proud beside their bikes, and made an educated guess loosely based on quality of bike versus sanity of driver. My best option was a youngish looking African guy with a look of death in his eyes and hardness in his features. He also looked slightly insane, but I dismissed this quickly - I try not to judge people from appearances. Little did I know, this innocent overlooking almost led to my downfall, but more about that later. I suppose, looking back, my decision was purely influenced by the vehicle, but let me tell you - that was a fantastic looking motorcycle.
Anyhow, it turned out he didn’t speak any English so we negotiated on the price with me speaking English at him, and him replying at me
The wind rushing over my scalp...
Once again, sorry Mum. Me and some boys found a lovely little (very little) barber shop in Kampala. The barber told us he'd never cut a white man's hair before. I think he did a damn good job too. in Swahili. Somehow, we agreed on a price and before too long we were on the open road and moving quickly. Now when I say open road, I actually mean grid locked streets, but I definitely mean it when I say we were moving quickly.
At first, I thought it was great. We tore off around the corner and I felt that Ugandan wind rushing over my scalp (sorry mum, I shaved my head again). I felt free and invincible, casually holding on to the back of the bike without a care in the world. I watched as this modern city flew past me, thinking how great it was to be experiencing something new once again. It didn’t take long, however, before this liberating euphoria wore off.
Perhaps 45 seconds into the trip I was reminded of the road rules in Africa (there are no rules - actually, sometimes there are no roads) when we swerved out of the way of an oncoming truck, passing so closely that any of the remaining hairs on my head were shaved off too. I should add that we were in his lane at the time, but I’m led to believe that
Our Truck
We nicknamed our truck 'Old Leaky' after a startling discovery on the way to the gorillas during a particularly heavy rain. Here she is at our lovely campsite in Kampala. this is a common practice East Africa. I thought we had cheated death to be honest, but my driver didn’t even seem to notice, he just kept swerving and overtaking, swerving and overtaking. I glanced over his shoulder at one point to see what speed we were going but found that the needle was stuck at zero. I could only really gauge our speed by how many vehicles we were overtaking, and we were passing them all.
He continued in this manner for a while, driving on whichever side of the road was emptier, and slowing down for nothing.
It was somewhere around the point when a policeman actually forced us to stop at a red light that my driver began to chat to me, perhaps forgetting that I couldn’t speak Swahili, perhaps showing his true colours as a maniac kidnapping lunatic. I still wasn't sure. To be honest, he may have been chatting to himself - or even other cars - but I guess each way he ends up as a lunatic in my books. He chatted like we were old friends, sometimes laughing, sometimes pointing at things, but mostly just chatting. Come to think of it, he was actually laughing quite a bit, so I was slightly comforted by the thought that he was probably one of the friendly ones, but he was definitely insane.
I casually suggested he slow down at one point, and he casually laughed. He didn’t speak a word of English. He probably thought I asked him to go faster, because that was his next move.
I can’t remember when I began to doubt whether I would live to talk about this ride, but I think it was when we were approaching a sign that said (quite clearly) ROAD CLOSED, and we showed no signs of slowing down. I could see past the sign - I saw the heavy machinery tearing up the old road and piling dirt everywhere. I knew that red tape and orange cones mean ‘do not cross’. I also knew it had been raining over the past few days and I knew that these were treacherous conditions.
Now I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - my Swahili has never been good. Perhaps there is some remote chance that by some freak coincidence ROAD CLOSED is actually Swahili for “Come and have a go at your extreme dirt bike skills, but please look out for the steamroller”. Who knows? But if this is true, I guess it explains my driver’s next move - otherwise it’s back to the much more plausible insane theory.
Without so much as a pause for thought, we went around the red tape and ploughed on straight past the sign. Over the next few minutes, my white knuckles grew sore as I held on tight to the back of the bike over huge piles of dirt and through ditches of mud all the while weaving between tractors and steamrollers and any other unfortunate souls unlucky enough to be in our way.
Imagine it: the only white guy in sight, clinging on for dear life as an insane African took me over the hills and through the rubble, ducking and dodging, swerving and weaving, with the crazy African chatting to me/himself the whole time. I guess it would probably have looked pretty funny to anybody else.
Maybe my driver thought it was some sort of obstacle course, hey, maybe it was. Maybe there was some sort of finish line at the end of it all (I wouldn’t know - I’d closed my eyes by now). Either way, the smooth road at the end was an enormous relief.
Eventually, and perhaps thanks to some minor miracle, we arrived at the campsite in one piece. I paid him, and he thanked me in Swahili (that bit I DID understand). As he started the bike again for his return journey, I thanked him for the conversation and told him that I hoped he didn’t die on the way back to town. Of course, he had no idea what I was talking about, but he smiled and waved and tore off down the road. I watched him as he swerved out of the way of an oncoming cow, then turned and walked off to my campsite, shaking my head in disbelief.
I think the others wondered why I came back silently to the bar and ordered a drink without saying a word to them. Perhaps they wondered why I was so hesitant to jump on a motorbike when we got back to Kenya. All I do know for sure is this: If you come to Africa and want a thrill... don't waste your money on bungy jumping or water rafting, just seek out the youngish looking african guy on the main street in Kampala. The one with a certain hardness to his features and a look of death in his eyes. And that glimpse of insanity in his smile....
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dani
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the hair issue
I was enjoying perusing your blog and pontificating how nice it was to see you with hair, for as long as I've known you I've wondered if you were secretly undergoing chemotherapy. But alas, it was not to last. Sorry Ol, I'm with your mum on this one. As for the 'beard'...what were you saying about my tan? I think they're equally as probable... :) xx stay safe.