Some Work Related Photos and Random Blog Post

Brad finally found a friend that is willing to change a little bit for him.
Meeting the kids at an elementary school in Aromo, a village north of Lira.
Jordan and Akullu Betty posing at a bakery in Lira.

While We Are On The Subject Of Transportation

Public transportation in developing countries was designed for bald people, because they have no hair to rip out during bouts of frustration. Cairene streets are stuffed with some 300,000 Peugot 504s, all of them manned by chain-smoking, toothless Egyptians. The taxis in Amman require notary proof that you have put your house up for a second mortgage even before you get in. And if I recall correctly, government policy in Costa Rica dictated all taxis had to play 50 Cent “In Da Club” loudly on a set of broken speakers. I have one fond memory of taking an overcrowded minibus from Cairo to Alexandria with a bunch of Egyptians who had all agreed that if nobody wore deodorant, then nobody would be guilty of committing a social faux pas.

Here in Uganda, people get around on two wheels instead of four. Bicycles that have never seen “better days” and have a cushion fixed above the back wheel are called boda-bodas, and they are everywhere. Their motorized cousin, almost always a Chinese “Boxer” with a top speed of 40 km/h, is side-splittingly (yet ‘re logically) called the moda-boda.

I am afraid I cannot talk much about bicycle bodas. I have taken them on a number of occasions, but I feel so terrible making the driver lug my 190 pound butt up and down the hills of Mbale I try to take the alternative. My colleague Caitlin had an interesting experience her first time taking a boda-boda. Ill-prepared for the jerky ride (women have to sit side-saddle, due to dresses, a precarious position that does not come naturally to Westerners), Caitlin was caught off balance and her foot swung into the back spokes. Unaware of Caitlin’s bleeding ankle, we continued on to our destination, the center of town. When we arrived at our destination, the dude tries to get more money out of Caitlin, even though she had already overpaid by 200 shillings, more than enough than it would take to merely pop the spokes back into place. So, we began to argue about it. And, of course being in Africa, twenty seven passers-by immediately swooped in to see what the argument was about and to throw in their two cents each. Finally one guy turns to us and says, “Wait a minute, let me get this straight, you overpaid by that much and they’re still asking form more? Just walk away.” We took his advice and walked off to a mixture of angry shouts and laughing.

Moda-Bodas, when stationed under the shade of a tree, provide an excellent perch from which to croon sweet nothings at passing white girls. They are absolutely everywhere in the streets, except of course when you are in a hurry to get home and it is beginning to rain, in which case they have all hidden themselves under a far away tree to laugh inconspicuously at the sopping muzungu. My mother might not enjoy hearing about this, especially when she finds out that I take them nearly every day, given that she still calls motorcycles “donor cycles.” I really do enjoy traveling this way, in the end, unless of course you happen to have one of the abnormally large African insects fly into your eye. My roommates don’t enjoy bodas nearly as much, because, being shorter than 6’1, their noses are located directly downwind of the boda driver’s armpits.