I don’t walk much. That might be odd for somebody whose daily bread are hiking expeditions, however, there is always a passenger motorcycle somewhere around. There are tens of thousands, some claim hundreds of thousands, of them in Rwanda and Uganda. They are a dangerous yet strikingly efficient way to travel, and a handy way to explain the difference between the two countries.
In Rwanda, motos come with a helmet for the driver and the customer. The model of the motorcycle seems to have been chosen specifically not to allow more than one passenger. In Uganda, boda boda drivers only put the helmet on when the police are having a bad day or trying to raise “voluntary contributions” before Christmas. As many passengers as humanly possible can be squeezed behind; three is not extreme. Thus the life finds its way (and its end) in the chaotic land of the free (wheelers).
Nevertheless, last week I had already sent my boda away when I felt a sudden, angry, determined need to pay a visit to the massive hilltop iron structure on the other side of our bay. Instead of my usual exercise, a swim in the dark yet perfectly safe waters of Lake Bunyonyi, I went for an evening stroll following the beat.
In the beautiful golden hour light I walked past the primary school that hosts my social enterprise and around Bufuka Church of Uganda down to the short stripe of land that connects our peninsula to the mainland, dotted with banana trees. My way led near a little trading centre where men in bland suits were drinking and women in colourful attire were chatting, where a carpenter was trying to make a shilling.
I wondered if any of these people shared my concerns.
Most probably not. First of all, Ugandans are resilient folks. They grow up in big families where your personal needs and preferences are compromised right from the get go. They would probably be able to have a nap using a booming loudspeaker as a pillow. Second of all, they probably like it. My village peace is my choice. Their peace likely feels like rural boredom.
As expected, there were only two guys on the little hill above. One was sweeping, one was on the computer. I asked them to turn the terrible Afro Beat down. They laughed. They took too much time. I pulled the power plug out.
Bunyonyi means “the place of many little birds”. All these lovely creatures could now express themselves again as silence engulfed the peninsula.
… Yeah, I had lost my cool. It happens sometimes and is uncool. It seems to especially happen to expats frustrated by too many things around them. Not cool really. Totally embarrassing in fact, especially in the presence of laid back Ugandans. They have the right to laugh at us.
But these guys were not laughing anymore. They were looking at me in shock as I threw some threatening words their way and went downhill to see the hotel manager. I calmly told him what I had done. I summarised my many months of attempts to stop the bumping-pumping noise—always meant to entertain staff members, not customers—that included regularly messaging my friend in Kampala who happens to oversee the place. However, nothing had made a lasting difference. So I had to go myself.
The cool thing is that as quickly I lose my cool I also regain it. Cool.
The manager had a much more interesting topic up his sleeve… One for tomorrow.
text: Miha Logar