Probabilities

Thoughts of fear morphed into thoughts related to self-preservation on the drive from the Entebbe airport to my hostel in Kampala. The roads were rivers of cars, each flying into whatever crevice they could find, to inch themselves further up the road. The motos zoomed around in Kamikaze like paths, narrowly avoiding catastrophe. It was abundantly clear now, as everyone had told me, that Kampala, Uganda was not an ideal place to ride a motorcycle.

Remi showed up to the the Fat Cat Hostel as promised at 10am. We debated the price, as I arrived a day late due to a missed flight in Turkey, but it became clear that he did not know multiplication so I paid the amount he asked. He took no downpayment, gave me the keys and left. I had succesfully purchased my cause of death for just 203 USD – a bargain considering the cost of doctor-assisted suicide.

My Moto was a cherry red Bajaj 150, with ‘Boxer’ written across the fuel tank. It was the same as nearly all of the local ‘Boda Boda’ moto taxi guys used. At sunrise I threw my leg over the Red Devil, and put it in neutral so I could roll it around the corner, out of view of the locals. Best not to have an audience if I could avoid it, I thought. Turn the key, grab the clutch, and hit the red button. Hey, she turned on. Not bad, I thought. Now…for first gear. And thus began a 20 minute demoralizing attempt to get the Red devil into gear. As I stalled, and stalled, and stalled, locals walked by showing no concern nor sympathy, only mild interest at the idiot straddling a stalled moto.

For no reason but sheer probability, I eventually got the Devil moving. Aha, I knew I was cut out for this. The only important thing now was not to stop, because that would mean needing to get it into first gear again. Also, however, due to sheer probabilty, I was cut off by a taxi, forcing me to slam on the brakes, then stall the Devil on a hill of the main route out of town.

Juggling is tough, and juggling while riding a unicycle is degrees more tough. That’s what starting the Red Devil on this hill felt like. Not only did I need to focus on releasing the cluch slow, while twisting the throttle and grabbing the brake, but I also began to roll farther and farther backwards, with traffic passing at nearly manslaughter distances. Now, to an experienced motorcyclist that will sound grossly overcomplicated and dramatized, but I am far from an experienced motorcyclist.

A local of about my age emerged from the crowd that had formed and mercifully told me he was going to ride the bike over to a side road and show me how to ride the Devil. Trusting my knight in not shining moto clothes, I pawned off the Devil to him and met him on the side street.

My Ugandan motorcycle would have made the Square intruders in California squeal. The local got on the back of the motocyle and made noises in Lugandan when I was supposed to change gears. When I made a mistake he’d grab the handelbars with froce and take control. We stopped after making a few circles and after having may near crashes. I owed him breakfast now, he stated, with the tone of a setencing judge.

So off I go with this guy, completely terrified to be riding this motorcycle in traffic, and having no idea where he was taking me. My internal compass told me we were going deeper into the city, and I was stuggling to keep the rubber side down – not helped by the Local trying to have a conversation with me.

Our two man parade was interrupted by a small army of Ugandan police, six to be exact, loaded not-so-elegantly into an early 2000’s pickup tuck. First they berated the Local, alternating between English and Lugandan. then it was my turn. After the usual formalities with an officer, they began to threathen me, while withholding my liscense and passport. The told me the Local was in fact leading me to a dark alley to rob me, and that the way I was riding the moto was going to get me killed. They said this straight faced, while the kamikaze motos did kmikaze things in their peripherals.

I had two options now, the criminals – whoops- I mean cops said, you are coming down to jail, what you have done is a capital punishment in Uganda. The actual crime committed was not really important to the cops, they were operating – as most cops do- on a biological high of power.

Ohhhh golly gee, ‘I wonder if there’s anything I could give you to resolve my issues’ I asked. ‘200,000 shillings’ the cheif cop mumbled without pause. Having hid all but 100,000 shilling in my socks, I told them 100,000 was all I had and showed them my empty wallet. They took it and told me to follow them, saying they would direct me to the route to get to Jinja, my destination. I managed to coerse the bike into first gear and got on my way to Jinja.

And that would be a nice story, but it didn’t end like that.

Just 20 minutes from my destination I stopped for a wee on a little side road. A man approached me, being far too friendly for anybody with intentions not sinister. Before I could react he took the key from my motrocyle and told me I would enjoy meeting his friends. So he called them, and they came. Now, 4 sinister strangers circled me, alternating between overly friendly talk and threats. Eventually they took 50 dollars from me, and I told them thats all I had for them to take. The lead P.O.S looked at me and said, ‘You don’t feel harrassed, do you Brad?’ Clearly, the only correct answer was, ‘no, of course not.’ To add insult to robbery, the chief P.O.S demanded a ride back into town. The only small joy I got from this was that I was still a completely dreadful moto rider, and the cheif P.O.S realized it and got scared. I jolted into 3rd gear and wobbled a bit, for some form of redemption and after just two minutes on the Red Devil the Chief P.O.S asked to be let of. With pleasure asshole.

And I made it to Jinja, just like that.