Month: October 2009

<!– @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>

203 “whats” in 1.5 hours. It must be incorporated into the gunnius book of records.

You must be wondering, what in the world am I talking about? Well, try sitting through a lecture where the lecturer talks like this: “As the department of what? Finance, we have to be what? Careful when doing what? Procurement because of the what? Exchange rate from foreign currencies to the Ugandan what? Shilling. Note that every ‘what’ is said with a high pitched questioning tone.

One of my classmates actually counted how many unnecessary whats were said, with a total of 203. Fascinating. Little wonder that I learnt much more from reading the notes later than in class (which almost never happens…what?).

Apparently many Ugandans learn to speak like this (this lecturer was extreme, but many do actually speak with this pattern) because their primary school teachers use this as a method to ‘engage’ the students…This is what? A. It stands for what? An apple. Oh dear.

<!– @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>

We were in the middle of a computer class on SPSS when suddenly the lights disappeared and siren-like warning bell started. Startled, we all stretched our necks and scanned the room like radars. My first thought: bomb! In those eery moments, I actually thought the building was going to blow up. (I have a video of this which I will upload once I get back home)

Of course, it was nothing of that sort. It was simply a power outage and the backup battery power of the computers were telling us to shut down before our work was lost. Simple as that.

<!– @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>

I never really experienced the rainy season in Kampala before I left. I suspect I will when I return for a few days at the end of November. Although for a few days, the skies just suddenly opened up and poured. And I really mean Pour, with a capital P. Without any notice, buckets can fall from the cloudy skies for half an hour and then just as suddenly stop. The local raincoat/umbrella? Discarded plastic bags (everywhere) and broad banana leaves (almost everywhere).

Well, it’s a tropical country, what did you expect? Red mud splattered feet and tiny rivers roaring down the many hills. Some places get completely flooded (like Bwaise, the slum we worked at), up to the knees because there’s really no drainage system. It’s not a coincidence that prestigious places (the university, religious structures, rich people’s houses) are all on hills.

<!– @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>

The other public transport we use are boda bodas, motorcycles which zoom around the city at all times making “bodabodabodaboda” sounds. Probably the most lethal form of transportation ever invented, especially in rush hour – you have not experienced Kampala without riding on a boda in rush hour, weaving in and out of cars with your legs just barely brushing the huge matatus. Prized for its flexibility and ability to navigate quickly in traffic jams (which happen everyday, including Sunday), bodas are an indispensable part of public transportation. Legally, bodas can only take one person in addition to the driver, but we usually travel in twos. Take your pick: squeezed between the driver and your friend or at the back, ready to bounce off if the driver zooms over a particularly large pothole. Boda drivers are notorious for quoting ridiculously high prices to mzungus. I often ask to see what price they give me, even though I know the local price. Helpful if you tell them you would give 500 more shillings than the negotiated price if they drive safely and slowly. But don’t forget, boda drivers have to pay 70,000 shillings a week as rent; most of them work day and night, often sleeping on their bodas on the side of the street.

Oh, by the way, there are only 60 registered bodas in the city of Kampala.

And rumour has it that 4 to 5 people die each day from riding on bodas.

The last day I was in Kampala, there was a crackdown on boda drivers, no wonder everyone was wearing a helmet and driving super fast to escape the police.

<!– @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>

Speeding around Kampala (and indeed the whole country, or maybe even the continent. At least I see them in Rwanda and Tanzania (called dala dalas) also) with little regard of traffic rules and human safety, are the mini-buses called matatus or taxis. Goes to most places in the city for a cheap price (less than 50 cents), they are officially public transport. The one we usually take back to the hostel even had a number: 800 – Kikoni, Makerere. Most have their end station in the city centre, congregating in the new or old taxi park (the old taxi park is like a sea of matatus, it’s a small wonder that we finally learnt how to find our matatu).

On about half of them, you can see peeling Japanese writing, evidence that they are mostly imported old trucks. It seems like they haven’t been fixed since being imported, often you find a thick black smoke following them around.

When walking on the side of roads, you get a cacophony of honks and beeps, telling you a matatu or boda boda (more next time) is coming and wants you to get on. I have yet to figure out how the locals know which matatu is going where….sometimes the door guarding/money collecting person (conductor) shouts out the destination, but most of the time the people just flag them down and get on without asking. Tell the conductor “stage” if you want to get off.

Legally only 14 people (including driver and door guarding person) can get on, but as you can guess most of the time, it’s at least 16. One time in Mbale, we had a 8 person matatu with 16 people seated inside, go figure.

<!– @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } –>

As I was getting out of the car, I bumped my head (as usual…).

“Sorry! Sorry!” said Moses, the driver, while patting my head.

The sorries here seem more for sympathizing than apologizing. They are ubiquous: when you drop something, when you slip on the road, when you fall while hiking…

Usually, my reply would be “it’s ok, it’s not your fault.” What else can I say?

(sorry is used as usual in the English context also)