Boda Boda

Today, for the first time, I have ridden on a boda boda - and not once, but twice (and will again to get home to my village this evening).
Bodas are common forms of transport in these parts. They are motocycle taxis... the driver sits in front, and a passenger pays to sit behind him. Perhaps half of the drivers where helmets, and none of the riders (I have one provided my MCC... it sits beside me as I type). And women must always sit side-saddle, grasping the seat back rather than the driver. Roads are narrow and dusty, and bodas often have to swerve to the very edge when a truck or taxi (15 passenger van) is passing. All this I knew... and I was fairly nervous to try it for the first time.
My first chance came unexpectedly. This morning, I was hiking the mile or two (uphill both ways) to my school to visit with the teachers and ask some questions about preparing my lesson schemes. When I left my house, the sun was very strong... I wore sunscreen and sunglasses. But as I walked toward St Jude, the sky began to darken. Suddenly, it started to rain. I was closer to school than home, so I kept walking, quickly becoming chilled and wet. Within a few minutes, a boda drove up. The driver was an elderly man, and he carried no passenger. He asked where I was going, then said, "some help, nyabo," i.e. he was offering me a lift. Unable to refuse, I took it. My first boda ride was fairly short and helmet-less... I clutched tightly most of the way. But, I didn't fall off or anything else drastic... :)
My second boda ride was planned. This afternoon, my sister and I rode bodas to Kangalay (don't even try to pronounce it!), where she caught a taxi to her boarding school and I jumped in a special hire (car taxi) to come to Masaka. I wore my helmet and visited with the driver, who was glad for a chance to practice his English. A nice fellow, his contact is now saved in my phone for future excursions :) This ride was a few miles, and as I became more comfortable, I clutched a bit less tightly (I often see women not holding on at all, often with a baby or bag in their laps).

And so, I have come to Masaka alone, feeling both anxious and exhilarated at the sense of adventure that comes with this chance. Thankfully, the town is fairly small, so it is a good place to get a sense of my own ability to find my way around and communicate in broken Luganda.

And to get home, I will again take a taxi and a boda boda...