Saturday night something happened that today feels like a bit of a dream. I went to a big house party with two friends, Andro and Anna. We left around 1:30am and were walking along the road back towards his apartments which was approximately a 15 to 20 minute walk away. Anna wanted to hop on a boda boda, so we flagged a guy down. We were squishing together to see if all three of us could fit together, trying unsuccessfully to end the evening in a comedic downward spiral. We could have made it work, but another boda guy pulled up, so the driver we were smooshing told one of us to get on the other bike. We were literally going to just ride them down the hill, for about 2 minutes, to reach the "Radio Simba" building, a very centralized, well-known place, and walk down that little dirt road to Andro's place. I hopped on the other boda as driver number one was telling him in Luganda where we were headed, just down the road.
Andro and Anna's guy took off, and we trailed behind, slowly. Very slowly. I had been imbibing, so to speak, and therefore happened to be only half-watching where we were at on the main road. The boda driver was driving for about a minute and then he said something about how we had passed Radio Simba. "Oh, ok well I guess it's right back there then," I remarked, and we slowed and took a 180 degree turn to head down a small road. By now I was actually looking at where we were going, trying to shake the gin-fizziness out of my head. The driver took the dirt road, which dipped sharply off the main, and I realized it was definitely not the Radio Simba road. He accelerated suddenly, and I had a strong wave of instinctual, self-preservation-type fear jolt through my body. This road was completely dark, and he seemed to suddenly be in a hurry, (in stark contrast to how quickly we had fallen behind the other boda guy with my friends) and we were definitely not going the right way.
In my mind, flashing thoughts passed of warnings I had heard about riding with strange boda drivers, especially at night. A friend of a friend recently relayed a story of a female friend of his who had a boda driver take her down some wrong turn, a quiet road, and throw himself on her. She managed to fight him off and get away, but it actually had caused me to think twice about being so casual with whose bike I was getting on the back of, especially as a single female at night. The funny thing was, since I was only going about five minutes down the road, and following behind my two friends on another boda, I hadn't thought twice about riding with this guy.
As I said, he had accelerated and that moment of fear and pure adrenaline rushed through me, and I felt cold-stone sober as I instinctually grabbed his neck from behind, digging my fingers tightly into his jugular, and growled, "Turn Around, NOW! This is not Radio Simba!" I think I scared--or at least surprised-- him at that moment because he slowed and quickly turned the bike around. He then acted like he didn't know where Radio Simba was, and needed me to direct him. I couldn't tell if he was putting on an act at this point, because he realized that I was a fighter and wasn't going to be some easy victim. He acted like he didn't speak much English (many uneducated Ugandans actually don't speak much English) and kept remarking about which way he should go, and I needed to tell him and whatnot. This seemed incredibly strange. Here I was, mostly drunk, wondering if I just misinterpreted the entire situation, but also not trusting this guy at all, and completely in-tune with the strong self-preservation instinct that had taken over me. It was strange for several reasons: the driver had received directions from boda-guy number 1, any driver I've ever spoken to about this area knows where this radio station is, or at least knows the grocery store right next to it off the main road, and this guy's behavior just seemed sketchy to me, for whatever paranoid (or upper intelligence) reason.
We made the remainder of the three minute journey down the road where Andro and Anna were standing next to their driver, worried.
"What happened?!" "I was about to come back and look for you."
"Apparently we got lost." I deadpanned. I had no intention of paying the driver who may or may not have been trying to assault me, but Andro handed him 1,000 shillings. We began walking down the dirt road and I relayed my story to them. We realized that even if Andro had come back for me, if we had continued down that dirt road, he would have had no idea how to find me off the main route.
I'm still not sure what happened. I hope I only misinterpreted the situation and borderline attempted to strangle a stranger. All I know is that whatever voice that sometimes speaks up within us and guides us in an enlightened way told me to do something fast in that moment, and strangling my driver was the first thought that crossed my mind.
Other than that, all's well that ends well in Kampala. Stay tuned!
Andro and Anna's guy took off, and we trailed behind, slowly. Very slowly. I had been imbibing, so to speak, and therefore happened to be only half-watching where we were at on the main road. The boda driver was driving for about a minute and then he said something about how we had passed Radio Simba. "Oh, ok well I guess it's right back there then," I remarked, and we slowed and took a 180 degree turn to head down a small road. By now I was actually looking at where we were going, trying to shake the gin-fizziness out of my head. The driver took the dirt road, which dipped sharply off the main, and I realized it was definitely not the Radio Simba road. He accelerated suddenly, and I had a strong wave of instinctual, self-preservation-type fear jolt through my body. This road was completely dark, and he seemed to suddenly be in a hurry, (in stark contrast to how quickly we had fallen behind the other boda guy with my friends) and we were definitely not going the right way.
In my mind, flashing thoughts passed of warnings I had heard about riding with strange boda drivers, especially at night. A friend of a friend recently relayed a story of a female friend of his who had a boda driver take her down some wrong turn, a quiet road, and throw himself on her. She managed to fight him off and get away, but it actually had caused me to think twice about being so casual with whose bike I was getting on the back of, especially as a single female at night. The funny thing was, since I was only going about five minutes down the road, and following behind my two friends on another boda, I hadn't thought twice about riding with this guy.
As I said, he had accelerated and that moment of fear and pure adrenaline rushed through me, and I felt cold-stone sober as I instinctually grabbed his neck from behind, digging my fingers tightly into his jugular, and growled, "Turn Around, NOW! This is not Radio Simba!" I think I scared--or at least surprised-- him at that moment because he slowed and quickly turned the bike around. He then acted like he didn't know where Radio Simba was, and needed me to direct him. I couldn't tell if he was putting on an act at this point, because he realized that I was a fighter and wasn't going to be some easy victim. He acted like he didn't speak much English (many uneducated Ugandans actually don't speak much English) and kept remarking about which way he should go, and I needed to tell him and whatnot. This seemed incredibly strange. Here I was, mostly drunk, wondering if I just misinterpreted the entire situation, but also not trusting this guy at all, and completely in-tune with the strong self-preservation instinct that had taken over me. It was strange for several reasons: the driver had received directions from boda-guy number 1, any driver I've ever spoken to about this area knows where this radio station is, or at least knows the grocery store right next to it off the main road, and this guy's behavior just seemed sketchy to me, for whatever paranoid (or upper intelligence) reason.
We made the remainder of the three minute journey down the road where Andro and Anna were standing next to their driver, worried.
"What happened?!" "I was about to come back and look for you."
"Apparently we got lost." I deadpanned. I had no intention of paying the driver who may or may not have been trying to assault me, but Andro handed him 1,000 shillings. We began walking down the dirt road and I relayed my story to them. We realized that even if Andro had come back for me, if we had continued down that dirt road, he would have had no idea how to find me off the main route.
I'm still not sure what happened. I hope I only misinterpreted the situation and borderline attempted to strangle a stranger. All I know is that whatever voice that sometimes speaks up within us and guides us in an enlightened way told me to do something fast in that moment, and strangling my driver was the first thought that crossed my mind.
Other than that, all's well that ends well in Kampala. Stay tuned!
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