Life in Kampala

Providing a break from heavier subjects, the lighter side of life in Kampala.

Mobile Phone

Ladies and gentlemen, as seen on countless Kampala street corners, the world’s most mobile phone:

World’s most Mobile Phone

It’s even got wheels.

The Equator

“Hey Australia! Which way does the water in your toilet drain?”
&tab;–Bart Simpson

Thanks to the valuable scientific knowledge in The Simpsons, many of us learned that while water drains counter-clockwise in our Northern Hemisphere, it drains clockwise in the Southern one.

So, I’ve been asking myself ever since, what does it do at the equator?

About a ninety-minute drive from Kampala, there are three small water basins set up at the equator where one can try the experiment oneself. The first basin is about ten meters into the Northern Hemisphere, the next directly on the equator, and the last about ten metres into the Southern Hemisphere.

At the exorbitant charge of nearly three dollars, I opted not to try the experiment.

Standing at the Equator

Luckily for science, weeks of staring at my bathtub drain, which according to the GPS unit I borrowed from the Injury Control Centre at 0º 20.63’ North latitude is pretty near the equator, have yielded the following result:

Counter-clockwise about half the time, clockwise the rest.

Purchasing Pants

Arriving for our first day at Mulago hospital, Amna and I immediately noticed a problem. We were underdressed. Luckily, with much haggling, used clothes are available here at very reasonable prices. This is part of a general trend throughout Africa. When second hand clothes dealers in rich countries are overstocked, they ship in bulk to Africa at discounted rates. These clothes are so cheap that local manufacturers are often unable to compete, effectively destroying domestic garment production in many countries. It’s a twisted irony. Clothes that were donated to help the poor rob them of employment.

I’ve been told that in some places these shipments are called “Dead white men’s clothes.” The logic is that no one in their right mind would give away perfectly good clothes for nothing. When nearly everyone is poor, fashion is a non-issue. Besides, 1970s polyester dries more quickly in the sun than cotton blends do.

About a week before my departure I had been telling a friend about this problem. “Really?” she’d responded. “I don’t want to donate clothes just to have them cause problems overseas. Which groups are responsible?”

It was an astute question. “I’m ignorant,” I replied. I’ve heard of the trend but I don’t know if it’s Goodwill, the Salvation Army, or what. Once the local clothing manufacturers are wiped out, I’m not even sure if the process could be stopped without leaving whole countries without clothing. I haven’t done the research.”

Back in Kampala, Amna, some friends, and I investigated Owino market, an amorphous heap of wooden and tin stalls stretching endlessly through the downtown core. It is a place so full of pickpockets that even local Ugandans dare not bring more than a few small bills with them inside. The sight of three potentially rich foreigners started a ripple through the shopkeepers. As the word, “pants,” escaped my lips, I was surrounded by eager men with measuring tapes, proffering me endless pairs of Khakis.

One of them had a green Value Village tag on the waist.

Value Village, j’accuse.

Pants Shopping at Owino

Shylocke?

Ugandans are a religious lot. Muslims drive taxis with Bismillah emblazoned on the front. Christians pepper their buildings with biblical references. For the New Testament Scholars there are frequent Agape Health Clinics. For those who prefer Hebrew, there are The Haggai Nursery School, The El-Shaddai Guest House, and the Shekhinah Prayer Centre. In my opinion though, there is one Hebraic business here that inadvertently tops the list:

Shalom Moneychanger

Yes fellow Israelites, you read correctly. Despite all our hard work to move beyond the stereotype, he changes money at a business called Shalom.

The World Cup Downtown

"Which team are you supporting?"

Right after "How are you?" and "Where are you from?" it’s the most common question I’ve been asked here. Wandering the streets of downtown Kampala after sunset, one often feels like a fish swimming between human islands that stand thirty men deep. The focus is always the same, a single small television screen resting in a shop window, above a restaurant counter, or even someone’s flat. The men trail out as if queuing in a bread line, never moving, always waiting and attentive. Often the TV is muted, as someone in the crowd has brought a radio from which the commentary can be heard in Luganda.

The rule here is solidarity. Though Uganda did not qualify for the World Cup, the teams to support are all African.

"Ivory Coast but they didn’t do so well. Now they are out," I responded one day in surgery, "What about you?"

"What about me?!" was the laughing response, "My skin is black, I support Ghana!"

By this time, with an impressive win over the United States, Ghana was the only African team left. Riding a matatu as the sun set this evening, I was perplexed. The van had stopped short. It was turning away from its usual route.

"Conductor, stage!" I called, asking to be let out. Amna and I exited, strolling around the ever denser downtown television islands as we approached the core. It soon became clear why the matatu had stopped. People filled the city’s central artery, shoulder to shoulder on Kampala Road. They stood calmly, expectantly, staring upwards into the distance.

We followed their gaze up to a large billboard, advertising the greatest public service I had yet seen in Uganda. It was broadcasting the World Cup game. In the streets of Kampala, thousands of Ugandans stood side by side, silently cheering the Ghanaians as they struggled with Brazil.

Already late for our dinner meeting, we stopped. I can not describe the energy of that moment, thousands of people together in the heart of a major city, happy, expectant, and hopeful.
The game was nearly done.

"Hey Mzungu!" someone called from the side of the road, "Who do you support?"

"Ghana!!" Amna shouted with a smile, "I am in Africa! Who else?"

Ghana lost that night. Still I wish that I could have bottled that moment. Never have I seen so many strangers so happily united, stoic in a single hope.