One bad boda don't spoil the whole bunch...

The theme of today is "down-time." The week has already been quite long, and it's only Tuesday. Never let it be said that there is such a thing as a dull moment when travelling. 

Hanging out at Refugee Law Project Compound

This morning we ran into a man who is opening a micro-finance institution in Gulu and working with John Deere to bring in some big machinery to loan to the people so that they can make more effective use of their agricultural land. This is a positive step for this area and is the kind of thing that will do the most good for Uganda. Of course, he was an Alabama man (and a major 'Bama fan) and so we got into this great conversation about Gamecock football. We would travel all the way across the world just to end up talking Gamecock football. 

Other than that...

Yesterday, I finally got to take my first boda ride (and second. and third.). This is an adventure that should not be missed should one ever make it to Gulu-town (I wouldn't risk it in Kampala. The taxis are dangerous enough!). My first ride was only a block and a half to a meeting I needed to attend. I wasn't sure where I was going, so I had the driver drop me at the post office. It was close enough to Acholi Ber that I just went ahead and walked back to my room from there. At noon, however, we had arranged to travel by boda to the CTC to have lunch as a team. This is about 7 km outside of town, and would take about an hour to walk. 

My boda driver, Mande, is a good guy. I've had a number of conversations with him since arriving in Gulu last week. Of all the drivers at the stage on our corner, he seemed the most trustworthy. Rule number one for travelling abroad: follow your gut instinct. Mande had agreed to only charge me 1,500 shillings to get to CTC from Acholi Ber, which is incredibly reasonable (esp. since my trip to the post office had cost me 1000 shillings that morning). 

As I've explained in previous blogs, a boda is just a motorcycle or a dirtbike. This is one of the only ways to get around Gulu town if you're not footing it, since private hires and taxis are fairly rare sights. At noon, as promised, I met Mande at the stage. Laura and Blake found their drivers and I told Mande very seriously, "You drive carefully. I cannot pay you if I die." He laughed, "I know!" 

Now, being that one cannot be getting friendly with one's boda driver, the best way to hold on is to the back of the bike. This is good because bumps and ruts in the road seem like they'd throw the passenger off, and that would really suck. Road rash, even dirt road rash, is no fun. I jumped on, I held tight to the back, and for a moment I began to pray..."Dear God. Please don't let me die on a boda in Uganda." Mande seemed to notice my obvious distress and so didn't drive too fast, carefully taking bumps and ruts in the road. 

We practically flew out of town, our own little motorbike gang. Through a field, and past a community of houses with children walking home from school, laundry being hung to dry, games of checkers being played by old men, and angry games of cards being played by young ones. Mande and I had a talk about his life (he's lived in Gulu town his whole life, and has a wife and a one year old baby named Victor) and how long he's been riding his motorbike ("I'm good with this, but I'm still learning how to drive the motorcar. Can you drive a motorcar?"). 

Riding on a boda, it is sometimes difficult to not focus on the road in front of you. I find that doing so only stressed me out. Mande wasn't going to let me fall off the bike, and the bumps and ruts weren't nearly as nice to see as the goats, cows, children, men, and women of the communities we passed. It was a beautiful day for a ride, too. As we got off at the CTC, Mande asked me "What time will you be done?" "I don't know." I responded, "Do you have a mobile phone? I can call you if you want to come back for me." 

Unfortunately, no such luck. I gave him 2,000 shillings for his effort and bid him goodbye.

Mango Trees at CTC

We had a pleasant, but very serious, conversation with Ron and Denise that included a walk through the idyllic property of the Catechist Training Center. This place certainly has restorative powers, as both Denise and Ron looked better than I've seen them in ages. 

During lunch, I had the opportunity to taste a fresh mango. Fr. Felix informed us that if they are left on the tree until they are yellow, they'll be sweeter. This one was certainly sweet. Fr. Felix gave Apio (Denise's Acholi name, meaning "First Born Female Twin") a piece which she then shared with me and I shared with Blake and Laura. Ron noted that it was especially generous of Fr. Felix to do this since Denise -- as Fr. Felix's namesake -- still owed him a rooster. There was good humored laughter as Laura offered the rooster from the Refugee Law Project in trade. This would take care of Apio's debt and Laura's unwelcome 6:00 AM wake-up call all at once! No such trade was made, though, and all remains as it was.After eating more fresh food than anyone had a right to (quite possibly the best meal I've had since landing in country a week ago), the three of us who were staying in town (Laura, Blake, and Myself) bid our farewells and hit the road. 

Attempting to find a boda back to town is sometimes less costly, but usually more difficult. We headed towards a known boda stage and on the way were passed by several that in our own turns offered to pick us up. I told my boda driver I simply needed to get back to town (anywhere in town was not far from my hotel to walk). Laura told hers the same thing, so I had my boda driver follow hers. It was a good thing.

My boda driver seemed happy to catch a fare back to town, but Laura's just didn't give me a good feeling. I wasn't sure why, but I kept on my guard. We traveled quickly back through familiar territory, past the community, past the field, back into town, and then...it seemed...we were going somewhere I didn't recognize anymore. I wanted to tell my boda driver to stop, but Laura's driver was still going. "Maybe we're going the back way into RLP?" I thought. 

When finally we came to a stop, we were a ways out of town going the opposite direction by a strange compound I didn't recognize. "This is not where I said I needed to stop." I told my driver, frustrated. He wanted to charge me more for taking me past town, and I wasn't having it. 

"Why are we here?" I kept demanding. "How do we get back to town?" The drivers just laughed. 

I refused to get back on the boda to have them take us back -- I didn't trust Laura's driver as far as I could throw him and I had a feeling that my driver would follow hers in whatever he did. "We'll walk. Whatever." I growled, trying to look much more intimidating than my 5'1'' would permit. All I knew was that if this guy was thinking of anything inappropriate, he wasn't going to have an easy time getting me to cooperate. 

I angrily paid the fee for our journey, and we headed off in the direction we had come. Thanks to Laura's awesome sense of direction, and my ability to remain calm we were able to keep it together until we made it back to town. Thankfully, we were travelling in broad daylight and so there were many people around and we were relatively safe to get back to town. Trying to correct this error at night would've been needlessly dangerous for us. Rule number two: Never drive with someone you don't know at night. 

Later that afternoon, after walking for what felt like days, we ran into Laura's boda driver at his stage. "How did you get back from Karatas?" he asked, surprised that we were back so soon. 

We explained our plight with the bad boda boys and he made the universal "That's not good." noise that sounds like a somewhat high pitched sigh. "Why didn't you call me?" he asked. Laura got his mobile number. In the future, we'll just put a call into him and boda back together. Leaving town, I'll always arrange for Mande -- who I have a rapport with.  

In the end, two of three boda trips weren't that bad, and normally one wouldn't run into this many difficulties with a boda. I still completely recommend the experience. 

Also, for the record, we enjoyed  some local food the other night. I've had a request or two to discuss what I'm eating while I'm here. Now...for the most part, I'm eating at Muno (white person) hangouts with particularly western faire. However, some nights, we get adventurous and attempt to find some local grub. This night we sat down at a local place with "goat. beef. (some type of greens)." on the menu. 

"I'm not going to be able to eat goat." I nervously laughed. "I can't get over the cute ones by the road..."

The waitress put this to an end, though. "That is over." she said to everything but the goat meat. So..of course, I ended up with no choice but goat meat for dinner. I didn't make it through much of it, though I did try it, and ended up giving my meat to Laura and taking her cassava with salt. For the record, cassava is actually pretty tasty stuff. 

Goat, Cassava, and Rice...ie, dinner.

In the end, I realized that outside of chicken and very occasional beef, I'm not a meat eater at home. I prefer pastas, rice, and beans, usually. This may explain my disinterest in attempting to munch on meat as a general rule since arriving. 

Speaking of eating, I'm quite hungry and headed to find lunch. Apwoyo!