The Borderline

My favorite taxi driver, Joseph, tells me driving in Nairobi is crazy. But that’s ok, because it’s the same everywhere in Africa. He mentions this as the car in front of us puts itself in reverse and almost backs into us, a bus trundles down the wrong side of the road (and yep, there’s a median), another car sits jammed perpendicular to the flow of traffic, motorcycles weave everywhere, vehicles idle inches apart in a near standstill, matatus cut each other off, and you can barely hear yourself over the din of horns. Speaking of matatus. They’re these 15-person vans where people cram into an absolute lack of legroom as they blare music and screech to a stop to load more people in from the side of the road. They’re all personalized with slogans, stencils, etc. My favorite is one adorned with the slogan proclaiming “SPREAD THE GOSPEL” and covered in playboy bunnies. Not that I’ve seen it more than once.

They say a Ugandan who drives in a straight line is drunk. Lanes, and sides of the road, mean nothing. Transportation within the city comes in two forms: matatus and these things called bodabodas. They’re how you get around, if you feel like reaching your destination before evolution brings about the return of the dinosaurs. So, I had my 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th motorcycle rides ever. In Kampala, at night, behind a stranger, speeding, helmetless, without traffic laws. Sorry, mom.

Kenyans are rude. They’re aggressive and don’t acknowledge the word “no.” The adults shout: “Taxi for you madam, Taxi!” They stare. They hit on you. They call out to you on the street because you’re white, and having a white friend is a sign of status. Or something. The kids spot white skin. They follow you in a swarm, holding out hands then bringing them to their mouths in the universal language. “Please, sister, five shillings for a banana, sister.” “Sina pesa.” I don’t have money. “Please sister, give me something, sister.” “Hapana.” No. “Please sister, I am starving sister.” “HAPANA.” Because you know that the kid harassing you, dressed in an oversized t-shirt, going through motions imparted onto him before he could walk, is simply acting. His father, or uncle, is without doubt watching from the shadows as his charge works the streets, all day, every day, instead of attending school. It’s exploitation of children, pure and simple, and it’s the culture here.

The moment I stepped through the shoddy gate into Uganda, it all stopped. Literally, like the gate was a giant brick wall reaching to the sky that wiped the cultural slate clean. I did not receive a single appeal for money. No one yelled at me. If a boda driver pulled up and I shook my head, he went on his way. Although the country is less developed than Kenya, people take care of themselves. They work, and– I don’t know why– they do not beg or harass. Children are not exploited. Teens don’t pester you when you refuse to pay for… oh yeah, nothing. People are polite. Even in the city: although it’s busy, Kampala was relaxed. I didn’t worry about who was behind me on the street, ever.

Kampala was also blessedly clean. There was no trash cluttering gutters, piled behind buildings, strewn along streets, heaped in the markets, sending up clouds of smoke into the night. I spotted public trash bins for the first time since I arrived in Africa. Roads were in good condition, throughout the city. All the way to the border, for that matter. Street signs were well-made and readable. No, Kampala doesn’t have the highrises and I’ve got no clue about other aspects of life, but in terms of sanitation and infrastructure, they seem to be kicking Kenya’s ass. Especially since, you know, 90% of Nairobi’s highrises are privately owned: the blatant result of a nice long tradition of rampant corruption.

But I digress. Saturday we headed from Kampala to the nearby town of Jinja, donned helmets and PFDs, proceeded down to the banks of the Nile and hopped into a raft to embark on a 35-km float. Although there were clouds overhead, the water was a blissful 80º. Monkeys clambered through the shrubbery covering the banks. Lizards lazed, perfectly camouflaged, in overhanging leafy branches. A reptile that may have been a 2 m. monitor lizard sunned itself on a rock in the middle of the river. We scared up a mammoth colony of supersized bats which proceeded to swarm around their island in a great dark, dense cloud, crawling up and over every trunk, branch, vine, and leaf in sight.

And between munching pineapple and cookies on the glassy water we navigated a bit of whitewater, including somewhere around seven class 5 rapids. Imagine the Willamette. Now imagine the Willamette, but whitewater all the way across. Now imagine hanging onto the raft for your life as you plunge spinning into the rapids, screaming bloody murder as waves crash over you and you pray you hit the upcoming wall of water in a manner that allows you to go over, rather than flip over. It was absofreakinglutely awesome.

That is all I have to say.