I got in a fight with a Boda Boda (motorcycle taxi) driver. No fisticuffs, but many heated, slurred, (now forgotten) words were exchanged in the front yard of where I work. At 3:26 am. He tried to charge us 5,000 Shillings to come home! FIVE THOUSAND! I know now that sounds like a lot, right? Well it's not. It is $2. BUT the thing we are all discussing here is principle. PRINCIPLE! I mean would that boda driver try to charge an African 5,000? Never. He would be laughed out of town if he did. Right out of town. But what happened? As my Ugandan colleague said this morning when I called to relate the story to her, "He saw two whites who he thought didn't know." Well you know what? These whites did actually know a little bit.
"You think we can't tell you apart?" Doug yelled?
"Yeah I know you." I said. "I will not call you again. You know why? You don't give fair prices. Its not right."
In the end, we paid 3,000 each. $1.20. That is the ok price for 3:26 am. I promised this boda driver I would call him in the morning once I spoke to my colleague who would verify he was ripping us off. I still have to call him to set the record straight.
The night before that was fun. We went to Spot On for some beers and to sit by the bon fires. We were hanging out with two 19 year old Ugandans who didn't drink. We bought them sodas. Their names were John and Keith. So we called one John Bosco and the other one Keith. Which makes sense. Then we went from there to the other side to go to TNT. TNT was crowded with people and the smell of armpits was rich in the air. We had some drinks there and then we ran into this large man who we had seen at Spot On and he had this rasta guy following him around sort of like a mascot or puppy or something. But it turns out the large man is a radio DJ from Kampala and everyone knew him and he got us into the VIP area with him. So that was fun. I also had a body guard following me around. I bought him a beer and he proceeded to follow me and procure things for me all night. When we eventually left, the rasta and the body guard put us on bodas (with whom we eventually had words). As we were about to launch into the cool night air, this total jerk took my dope hat (my purple trucker hat that says dope in neon green letters) off my head. RIGHT OFF! Then they tried to make us leave without it and I threw a tantrum of American proportions. "NOBODY JUST TAKES MY HAT. GIVE ME MY HAT BACK, THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!" Note: I am yelling this while straddling a motorcycle and turned around yelling at a crowd of curious onlookers.
Then the rasta got my hat, handed it to me and calmly said "Ey. Sorry, here is your hat."
"We go," I growled to the boda driver. "But first we find rolex." We took a half turn down the street where the rolex (street food-an omelette rolled inside flat bread. so good) are and they had packed up by that time so we carried on.
"I will eat left over pasta. We go now to Kaliyabuhire (my village)."
So we began to make our way back and then we ended up where we started this story.
It was fun, and I often go back and forth about whether I should fight over boda fares. But sometimes the principle of ALWAYS being charged mzungu price, and being treated like a walking wallet gets old. Last night I guess it got old enough to react. Needless to say, I probably will not call Matthew the Boda driver this morning (I made him save his number in my phone) to tell him how right I was. Probably not worth it.
