Scenes from Kampala

When you travel to a foreign country, you expect that there will be cultural differences and you adjust accordingly. You bargain for everything. You take your life into your hands every time you cross the street. You ride to work on the back of a motorcycle. The pollution eats at the back of your throat. Bananas and boiled eggs are sold on the streets. A jogging club provides an early wakeup call on Monday mornings, chant-singing as they pass below the window. Orange Fanta is everywhere. (*Note: If the internet in Uganda were slightly quicker than, say, a glacier, there would be a picture of me drinking Orange Fanta above. Instead, you'll just have to imagine the look of satisfaction on my face.)

You accept these things because they are what make places and people different; and you can’t get enough Fanta. They allow you to appreciate your own culture and see the richness of others. But there are some differences that don’t really enrich the experience.

When I meet Ugandans and introduce myself, they have difficulty pronouncing my name. The long A in Shane is not a natural sound to Lugandan (the first language of most Ugandans), so they end up pronouncing my name “Shan” like the English word “than.” I repeat my name and emphasize the long A.

“Shaaane.”

“Shan?” Then they will look at me and laugh. “You have garl’s name. Why Shan?”

No explanation satisfies them, so I’ve stopped trying. The truth is, in Uganda, I have a girl’s name.

***

Daily maid service is included as part of our monthly rent charge. The woman who cleans our room, Rose, is very pleasant, and while communication is often difficult because of her thick accent, our brief exchanges are, if nothing else, an opportunity to share a smile or laugh.

Yesterday, as I was preparing to head to work, Rose was in the room exchanging towels and mopping the floor as I was applying sunscreen to my ears (SPF 30, Mom). She turned to see me rubbing my ears, but she hadn’t seen me pour the sunscreen from the bottle into my hand. She asked what I was doing.

“Oh, it’s sunscreen. So I don’t get burned.”

She looked confused.

“My ears burn easily,” I tried to explain. “From the sun.” I tried to pantomime a sunburn, which must have looked totally ridiculous to Rose.

“You work outside?” She knows that I work at the High Court, and she couldn’t understand why this muzungu would need sunscreen on his ears if he worked inside.

“No, I just burn very easily. My ears burn on the way to work.”

“Oh,” she said slowly. A smile she tried to conceal crept across her face and she laughed a little as she returned to her mop.

***

I mentioned in an earlier blog post that security guards carry single shot rifles with them. Two days ago I was up before the sun and took a seat on the balcony to watch the city wake up. At 6:15 a.m., a large truck came to a stop just below the balcony and approximately 50 men poured out of the back onto the street and dispersed in every direction.

It was the truck owned by a security company that provides guards for companies in central Kampala. Many of these men are employed by banks, stores, or, as is the case where I live, apartment complexes.

As I was heading to work later that morning, one of the security guards outside my building wasn’t sitting at his usual post behind a desk next to the building’s main entrance, but had gotten up to do something or other at a shop across the alley.

He was no more than twenty feet from his post when an old man grabbed him by the shirtsleeve and began chastising him.

“You don’t leave your weapon. Or stick. Or whateveryoucallit!” Total disgust as he pointed to the weapon leaning on the unoccupied chair behind the desk. The security guard’s young face revealed his embarrassment as the elderly man, who I imagine had been a soldier decades ago, smirked his disgust and walked away.

I guess it’s nice to have a security guard at the entrance to the apartment, and old men to remind them to do their job properly, but maybe hang on to the gun next time.