I am pleased and excited to announce a new and very important friend in my life. Strong, slim, light and stylish, this friend may definitely become more popular and effective than I am. She is named Benetton Formula 1, and, as you may have guessed, she is not human. She is my new bike!
Although mother superior was a bit concerned about my safety on a bike, I have been jogging distances between 3 and 10 miles and walking to villages—I have decided that bikes are safer than that; especially when you think about that all important problem for white women in Africa—sunburn!
When I arrived at site, exhausted from riding Chinese made bikes through the busy, dusty streets at training, mother superior told me that women don’t ride bicycles in this area. I was a bit relieved. Since my stay, however, I learned that the streets are not as busy out here and that I can get a much better bike than the one in training. I actually need a bike because women here ride motorcycle taxis—boda bodas—through the impassable and narrow village paths. Peace Corps volunteers, however, cannot use motorcycles because of their high injury and mortality rates. As I am transitioning from busy work at school (teaching, etc) into community outreach programs, transportation to the village is vital.
After speaking with my Peace Corps APCD, who was born and raised in my region, I had the authority to tell mother superior that the Peace Corps requires bike riding—whew! About safety—my APCD said it was absolutely fine and my bike is definitely faster than the ones guys have around here. Truthfully, though, people don’t steal wives here, they have to buy women from their parents with cows. So, as long as no cows are being surreptitiously shipped to the US—I am quite safe. I also asked several school girls who walk home to their villages if it was safe and if they had any trouble. They said it was fine.
After that, I had one afternoon in Kampala to get a bike. I went with Heidi and her Ugandan friend, Raymond, to the bike street, where we saw hundreds of used and refurbished bikes. We saw everything from a sixties era Harley Davidson bike, to a recent Walmart purple and white plastic Barbie bike. Bikes with 20 gears that didn’t work, bikes with no gears, bikes with no chains, no seats, no pedals. Bikes that were very shiny but falling apart. Raymond and Heidi knew a lot more about bikes than I did, and after two hours of shopping, we arrived at the perfect bike. Not too heavy but with gears and a recognizable European brand – not Chinese—and, of course, cute—Raymond found the best one. After that, Raymond started bargaining—a process which took over an hour and involved many frustrated sighs, walking away, feigned resignation, etc. So, now, for $85, I had a bike.
When you don’t have a vehicle, however, the purchase of a bike is the easiest part. We took a taxi back to the hotel and Raymond rode the bike back, a journey of at least 15 miles, without any hesitation. I wanted to hire transportation for the bike, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and as he is a better bargainer than I, he won. The next morning, the bike went on top of a taxi into town, where I waited with it and my luggage for a bicycle helmet, sent with a volunteer from the PC office (which is not centrally located). Another taxi, where the bike was put into but hanging out of the trunk, took me to the crowded, teeming taxi park. A man took $.50 to take the bike to my taxi for my village (why he didn’t just run off with the bike and sell it for more than $.50 I will never know), and I got in the taxi. A combination of twine ropes and cardboard pieces secured my baby to the roof of the vehicle, and, after hordes of vendors walked past with everything from bottled water and bread to hair pieces, radios, underwear, and flashlights, we were off. High speeds, teeth rattling roads, and interminable bypasses were next. I had visions of arriving with not a bike but only a souvenir of it, like one wheel, as I sat packed between inquisitive customers (you are not married? Why don’t you marry? Are you a nun? (to this I lie, and say yes—don’t worry, the nuns themselves told me to do it). Finally, I arrived at site. The girls greeted me—they are so sweet when I come home, with hugs, etc. The nuns themselves were excited about the bike and all have plans to borrow it—which I do not mind. So here is the beginning of a new chapter of my PC service—community programs, village outreach and better Runyancore speaking, all through my bike! Already, I have two community seminars and one rural needs assessment planned, I also have done a bit of plain fun exploring.—I even have plans for carrying sister Margaret on the back!
Although mother superior was a bit concerned about my safety on a bike, I have been jogging distances between 3 and 10 miles and walking to villages—I have decided that bikes are safer than that; especially when you think about that all important problem for white women in Africa—sunburn!
When I arrived at site, exhausted from riding Chinese made bikes through the busy, dusty streets at training, mother superior told me that women don’t ride bicycles in this area. I was a bit relieved. Since my stay, however, I learned that the streets are not as busy out here and that I can get a much better bike than the one in training. I actually need a bike because women here ride motorcycle taxis—boda bodas—through the impassable and narrow village paths. Peace Corps volunteers, however, cannot use motorcycles because of their high injury and mortality rates. As I am transitioning from busy work at school (teaching, etc) into community outreach programs, transportation to the village is vital.
After speaking with my Peace Corps APCD, who was born and raised in my region, I had the authority to tell mother superior that the Peace Corps requires bike riding—whew! About safety—my APCD said it was absolutely fine and my bike is definitely faster than the ones guys have around here. Truthfully, though, people don’t steal wives here, they have to buy women from their parents with cows. So, as long as no cows are being surreptitiously shipped to the US—I am quite safe. I also asked several school girls who walk home to their villages if it was safe and if they had any trouble. They said it was fine.
After that, I had one afternoon in Kampala to get a bike. I went with Heidi and her Ugandan friend, Raymond, to the bike street, where we saw hundreds of used and refurbished bikes. We saw everything from a sixties era Harley Davidson bike, to a recent Walmart purple and white plastic Barbie bike. Bikes with 20 gears that didn’t work, bikes with no gears, bikes with no chains, no seats, no pedals. Bikes that were very shiny but falling apart. Raymond and Heidi knew a lot more about bikes than I did, and after two hours of shopping, we arrived at the perfect bike. Not too heavy but with gears and a recognizable European brand – not Chinese—and, of course, cute—Raymond found the best one. After that, Raymond started bargaining—a process which took over an hour and involved many frustrated sighs, walking away, feigned resignation, etc. So, now, for $85, I had a bike.
When you don’t have a vehicle, however, the purchase of a bike is the easiest part. We took a taxi back to the hotel and Raymond rode the bike back, a journey of at least 15 miles, without any hesitation. I wanted to hire transportation for the bike, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and as he is a better bargainer than I, he won. The next morning, the bike went on top of a taxi into town, where I waited with it and my luggage for a bicycle helmet, sent with a volunteer from the PC office (which is not centrally located). Another taxi, where the bike was put into but hanging out of the trunk, took me to the crowded, teeming taxi park. A man took $.50 to take the bike to my taxi for my village (why he didn’t just run off with the bike and sell it for more than $.50 I will never know), and I got in the taxi. A combination of twine ropes and cardboard pieces secured my baby to the roof of the vehicle, and, after hordes of vendors walked past with everything from bottled water and bread to hair pieces, radios, underwear, and flashlights, we were off. High speeds, teeth rattling roads, and interminable bypasses were next. I had visions of arriving with not a bike but only a souvenir of it, like one wheel, as I sat packed between inquisitive customers (you are not married? Why don’t you marry? Are you a nun? (to this I lie, and say yes—don’t worry, the nuns themselves told me to do it). Finally, I arrived at site. The girls greeted me—they are so sweet when I come home, with hugs, etc. The nuns themselves were excited about the bike and all have plans to borrow it—which I do not mind. So here is the beginning of a new chapter of my PC service—community programs, village outreach and better Runyancore speaking, all through my bike! Already, I have two community seminars and one rural needs assessment planned, I also have done a bit of plain fun exploring.—I even have plans for carrying sister Margaret on the back!
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