White men can't jump...
White men can't dance...
Travelling through Africa I'm convinced these accusations are not without cause. Today I concluded (again) that white people also struggle embrace the beauty of a motorbike taxi.
As we race through peak hour traffic in Kampala, the wind blows through my hair and I clasp my little white fists around the luggage rack under my backpack. I pull
my abdominal muscles as tight as I can - to stay upright through the abrupt stop and start ride. I clench my teeth to stop myself from verbalizing my anxiety, as we cut in on the 4x4's and minibuses.
Just when I really start feeling sorry for myself, another bike passes. At the back of that bike is an Ugandan lady, neatly dressed in her pencil skirt, sitting sideways on the back of the bike. She casually holds her handbag with one hand, her phone in the other while she attentively engages in her phone conversation.
Right there I realize that bike rides, like most of life's unexpected circumstances, is much more enjoyable with a little less fret, a little less desire to control and a little more trust in your fellow man.
I throw my head back, shake my hair and wave at the stressed white lady in her 4x4.
TIA. Enjoy the ride...