Boda-Boda Don't Care!

First of all, let’s get one thing straight: drivers are crazy throughout East Africa.

I still wonder whether the money being spent to install and operate traffic lights is in any way worth the investment. The casual adherence to traffic laws is something that unites all Kenyan, Tanzanian, and Ugandan drivers, but Uganda, especially the capital city Kampala, has a special corner on truly absurd traffic. For starters there’s a lot of it. It’s not that there’s more or less than, say, Nairobi, but the jams are certainly more frequent. For the weeks leading up to my time in Kampala, people have been preparing me for the terrible jam that constantly plagues the city. In truth, it’s not as bad as I was expecting. In fact, Ugandans seem to sincerely enjoy complaining about jams. Any time they have to stop at all, even if it’s just for the occasional red light, they angrily cry “JAM!” and throw their vehicles into park, sometimes turning them off altogether. This could last anywhere from a few seconds to a couple of minutes, then traffic starts moving again.

But these things are not what distinguishes Kampala’s traffic as the worst in East Africa. That honor goes to the Boda-bodas.

Boda-bodas are motorbikes that are used as public transport, like taxicabs. And they are everywhere! (I was reminded of the bicycles in Amsterdam.) People driving cars at least occasionally acknowledge traffic laws; boda-boda drivers ignore them outright.

Traffic signals? Lane markers? Street directions?

Boda-boda don’t care!

A single bike might have three adults crammed on, or perhaps a man in a three-piece suit being driven by a teenager, or an Indian woman in a sari with a small child between her and the operator. The truth is the boda-boda is the best possible way to get around; it’s more expensive than the taxis and buses, but gets you there so much faster. (And more than a little dangerous; I understand the hospital has an entire wing dedicated to Boda-boda injuries.)

Whenever we’re out driving around, I find myself staring at them in wonder, like they are putting on a show for my own entertainment. People ride them so casually, straddling a complete stranger, either holding on to nothing or perhaps casually gripping the back of the seat behind them. Women in skirts will usually ride them side-saddle, though I cannot fathom how they can possibly find their center of gravity as they go hurtling through the streets of Kampala. There are always talks in the city about abolishing them, but most people doubt that they ever will. Boda-bodas exist in a paradoxical world where they are both the cause of the jam and the only way to get around the jam.

I am adding them to the list* of things I fully intend to do when I am certain that my health insurance will cover and all possible injuries

*Also on the list: bungee jumping and sky-diving. That’s how terrifying it looks.

It's Not a Boulder, It's a Ledge.

I have observed that, overall, the roads have significantly improved since my last visit in 2010. Work on the Great North Road, which is the main route from Nairobi to Arusha, was completed in Kenya, and we were only diverted onto side dirt roads three times in Tanzania for roadwork. This is an unbelievable improvement! Coming from Nairobi to Bukoba, I was super impressed by the quality of the roads. We only encountered the occasional pothole, except for when passing through towns, when they became more frequent. My seatbelt was fastened for a bumpy ride (thank you, Bette Davis), but it was quite luxurious- I was able to read in the car and even occasionally nap (not that I wanted to; the scenery was so amazing I didn’t even want to blink!). Of course, these roads were major highways, by African standards. Once you get to the villages, you are driving on dirt roads, except for when you’re driving on dirt paths or are not able to drive at all.

As I mentioned before, Fr. Kamanzi took me to his village, Maziba, to see where he was born. To say that the road was treacherous is an understatement; our driver, Wanjara, is nothing short of a superhero. The road to the village is a recent development. Fr. Kamanzi and his brothers convinced the villagers that the road would aid their homes in untold ways, and they engineered the road themselves. In fact, building the road became a project of the whole community. The government didn’t step in until after the road was completed, and only to do the minimum to assist with maintenance. Armed with simple tools and the wisdom of Fr. Kamanzi and his brothers, the people created a road that snaked down a dangerous, rock-strewn hill to the very heart of Maziba, some 7 km long.

The entire region has an impressive population of rocks and boulders, some of which simply could not be maneuvered around, so they were faced with somehow removing them without the help of heavy machinery or modern explosives. I think their solution was rather ingenious. They placed 10 large rubber tires on the rocks that had to be removed and set them on fire. After the stones became red-hot, they poured cold water all over them and the boulders cracked and shattered into pieces small enough for the people to move them.

Now that’s street smarts! Ziiinng!

Roads? Where we're going, we don't need roads.

Everything about this place is wonderful and different and exciting to me. The food, the people, the animals... But nothing has thrilled or, at times, terrified me nearly as much as travelling by road here in Kenya.

First of all, everything you think you know about traffic laws can be completely thrown out the window. Hello, British Colonization! Let's drive on the left side of the road, shall we? Red lights? They don't mean "stop" in the strictest sense; I would say they are open for dramatic interpretation at the whim of the driver. No passing zone? Never heard of it.

The public transportation, called "Matatus", are an endless fleet of vans, privately owned and operated, that drive at breakneck speeds up and down their routes, swerving in and out of traffic and stopping for nothing, filled beyond capacity, often with passengers hanging out of the sliding door.

And forget about pavement. Even the (very few) roads that are paved are so pocked with potholes, you can't get up to 30mph (or is that 60kph?) before slamming on the breaks to avoid a gut wrenching bounce. There is a saying in East Africa that you can tell if a driver is sober if he is weaving and winding all over the road; only a drunk driver would try to drive in a straight line.

Oh, the potholes. On the dirt roads we've taken to places like Ongata Rongai and Kiserian in Rift Valley, we seem to spend more time driving on the shoulder to avoid the dips and divots than on the road itself. And we're not talking little chunks taken out of the road. We're talking craters. I keep channeling Crocodile Dundee: "That's not a pothole. This is a pothole." I keep thinking we've seen the worst, then we'll be bouncing along a glorified cowpath and I'll realize it's only the beginning.

I keep hearing that Tanzania is even worse. I'll have to let you know.