The taxi moto ride

There are many reasons why I prefer taxi motos to commuter taxis in Kigali. The first is that with a moto, you can find one and turn him into your trusted chauffer, and they will gladly pick you up no matter where you are and what time of the night it is. All you need to do is get their phone number. A moto is fun to ride on in that with it, you are never bored or short of topics to pick on and talk loosely about. With the commuter taxis, once one takes their seat, you immediately become some kind of commodity, a mere statistic to the taxi crew, namely the chauffer and his conductor. You are already in, so their focus now has to turn to the next potential passenger lurking at the street corner. It does not matter that you are rushing to work so as to clock in at the stipulated time. Taxi drivers don’t seem to know this simple fact. But the taxi moto boys do. But never is hopping onto a moto as refreshing as when returning from a late night outing. The booze and the loud music and the neon lights usually take such a toll on you – you don’t want to think of how you will make it home and crawl into bed. I am not a fan of the heat that enclosed places such as pubs and discotheques usually emit, so by the time I’m calling it a night, I am panting for breath. Here is where the moto comes in handy. I am now convinced that the best way to cure a hangover is not to wait till the next morning to hit a akabenzi joint for some fatty remedies; just hail a moto and let it whisk you home in the clear night breeze. If you arrive home still with the hangover, then perhaps you should apply checks on your drinking. Usually, a 5:00 am moto ride is as refreshing as a cold shower. If you travelled in a car, you would most probably be puking all over its interior, or snoring away like an ogre. The sight of most people at the back of a ride after a long night out is usually dreadful as compared to that of a moto passenger. On the moto, you know that you have to keep your guard partially up, because “what if something happens and I have to jump off?” It’s called self-preservation. In the car, you place your entire fate squarely in the hands of your driver, who in this case could also be under the influence. Talking of being under the influence, I had always known boda bodas (from Kampala) as men who love working while high on something. In Kampala, where adherence to traffic rules is rather lax, the motos have carved out a parallel reputation for marijuana smoking, or “being high”, it is said. Those that are not on weed are on this or that kind of liquor, and usually it shows in the redness in their eyes. In Rwanda, it’s not so easy to “spot check” the moto boys because they are wearing helmets. Always.