Team Five Morris

For those who have experieced traffic in Kampala or similar emerging 3rd world cities help those who don't have a clue.  The driving here is sport.  It's eyes on the road, looking everywere for everything all at once.  It's intense, scary and at times blood boiling.  I've become a skilled traffic surgeon, even with my bulky 4x4.  Why would it be any differant on a motorcycle.  Well it is.  Let me first set the stage, I'm wearing blue jeans, my engineer boots a button up shortsleeve shirt and my super cool bad-boy sunglasses.  I'm hangin' out with Joel across the street from my house while he finishes his cup of milk, thats right milk.  My neighbor pulls up on his Honda Magna (kinda a big bike, especially for Kampala).  I had been eye-balling this machine for a few weeks now and I began to move my lips to Joel about how I used to have a similar bike back home when I was younger.  Before the words were out of my mouth he hollers at the guy to let me ride his bike, to which he excitedly agrees.  So, me being the good missionary that I want to be accepts the invitation from the guy and hops on.  It was nice, and it could really move.  In about a one mile stretch I about splattered on someones bumper 4 times.  The rules had changed drastically.  Like, bikes don't get any room, no consideration and I think most consider them a target to hit.  It was a bit frightening but I just kept saying to myself, "your reformed, your reformed" and sped wildly down the center of traffic until I arrived safely back at home.  The boda's on the corner got a real kick out of watching this and I think I've got some street creds now.  That is until I shout to the owner of the bike, "Webale Kafumba" which is "thank you for the food".  As soon as I said it I knew I had just undone everything.  He was gracious and gave me a little hi sign matched with the standard head nod.  And I went home and ate rice and beans and forgot to tell my wife about the whole think.