Boda Boda Duku Duku, translation: mr crazy motorcycle taxi man, please fear no evil and drive like a bat out of Hell
Boda drivers, the proprietors of motorbike taxis in the great city of Kampala, will always hold a special place in my heart. No ride is ever the same, beginning with the haggle and ending, hopefully, with you stepping off in one piece somewhere in the neighborhood of your intended destination. The process, starting below, is sometimes enjoyable, sometimes death defying, but always surprising in one way or another.
Usually to start a journey one need only start walking in any direction and be a Muzungu (a white dude or anyone clearly not from Africa) to solicit the cat-calls of a veritable band of bodas. This can range from one or two guys yelling "Hey . . . hey, hey" and giving a few eyebrow raises in your direction to a full onslaught of bodas racing toward you to a screeching halt between you and whatever point you appeared to be walking toward followed by everyone yelling "Hey Boss Boss".
The next step is my favorite part: sizing up your boda driver. Most are semi-bad drivers who at least know how to avoid killing you, some are like a wise well trained city tour guide who seem to know everything and everyone (my guy last night) and some are certifiably nuts. And if it wasn't obvious, it's very important that you pick a boda man of the non-crazy variety.
Crazy boda generally come in one of two varieties:
1. Obvious crazy. This guy will simply look like he did a line of coke within the last five minutes. Very easy to pick out and avoid, though usually far less dangerous than the second type. WAY over eager to give you a ride and keeps revving his engine uncontrollably and blood-shot eyes are usually the give-aways.
2. Subtly off. This guy is harder to pick out. He may even look normal at first glance. This guy probably has a helmet, but if you closely the helmet has some obvious over-the-top deficiency that any sane person would know makes the helmet both look ridiculous or do more harm than good (i.e. the clear face-plate is completely disconnected on one side and flapping around hitting him in the eye). Your ride will probably go something like this: starts off normal, average pace for a while, then the first sign of traffic causes a switch to flip . . . he floors it through an intersection with cars FLOWING in both directions.
or
He's just the type that seems confident. He seems okay. You agree to a price. Then you get on the bike and 3 seconds into motion you realize the seat has zero suspension and is basically dragging on the rear wheel. Then he decides that his Bajaj is actually a Ferrari. Everything from stop signs and traffic lights to "the correct side of the road" are only suggestions to be followed by mere mortals. He takes the center line as his lane (actually quite normal despite the obvious risks) and decides that he has the right of way because he is honking and flashing his lights and is wagering that the white dude poking his head out from behind will be enough to dissuade any oncoming boda from a game of chicken thus giving him no reason to go less than 3 times as fast as every other boda on the road.
These are of course the exceptions to the hundred plus bodas I've taken. Most are just slightly horrifying. And some even delight with conversation about the history of the restaurant they are dropping you off at and somehow find out that you have some mutual friends (again, both with my guy last night).
And you guessed it. I'm not currently in Sudan but rather in Kampala. And I've been here for about 10 days now riding loads of bodas. Why you may ask? That is a story for another day.
