I remember sitting in one of the busiest, most diverse airports on
my way to Uganda people-watching and thinking, what are the odds I’m going to
see someone I know? I’m not talented enough at math to even guess at what the
improbabilities of that might have been, and I didn’t like facing the reality
that I wasn’t going to unexpectedly run into a familiar face. I remember thinking
that my chances were even slimmer once I arrived in Uganda.
It made me a little sad because of how much I love running
into people I know. You know, like when you go to Village Pointe Mall and you’re
walking around, and you just happen to bump into 10 people you know? And, even
though, you are in Omaha, you have that feel of a small town. The feel as if
you belong somewhere. People know who you are and care enough to stop and chat
for a few minutes or at least wave and let you know that all Husker apparel is
15 percent off today at Scheels. It’s a good feeling.
Now, I live in Uganda and have for the last seven months.
For a huge portion of that time, hearing someone say my name or running into
someone I knew when I was out and about was a rare occasion. Sometimes I would
think I heard someone say my name, and then I’d laugh and remind myself,
seriously, a decent part of the population can’t pronounce my name, let alone
recognize me from any other white person they might see around Mbarara, and who
really knows me anyway? I want to explain that my name, “Kelsea”, is completely foreign here. First of all, the “l”s in Runyankore sound quite similar to “r”s causing the two letters to be switched and interchanged quite often. But then throw an “s” into the name and it’s just a little too much. The “s” often comes out as a “th” sound, and usually either the “l” or the “s” gets omitted from my name making it sound like “Casey” or “Kathy”. I often think it's a good thing that my parents have been calling me by the name of one of my seven siblings for the last several years, so I’m used to answering to an unfamiliar name. Most of the time, when people that don’t know me are
actually talking to me they are calling me things like, “muzungu”, “sweetheart”,
“my dear”, “my sister”… you get the picture. But, the other day I was on a boda
with one of my favorite drivers, Charles, when I thought I heard a group of
boda drivers yell my name. I laughed and confided in Charles about how
sometimes I think I hear people calling my name before I realize how silly that
is. And, then he laughs and says, “No, they really are saying your name. They
just think it’s Kathy. You know, short for Katherine. ” This makes me laugh
even harder, more at just the joy of knowing that people do know me in this
community. So I tell Charles, “I actually kind of like that name. Will you just
let them believe that?” He laughs, and says okay.
It wasn’t long after our arrival in Uganda that Carolyn and I
were sitting out in the front yard trying to catch some sun. We had on tank
tops and shorts, completely inappropriate dress for stepping outside of our
compound. But, due to the large, thick hedge and sturdy, orange gate we felt
comfortable and safe wearing it around the yard. As we sat there, we began to
hear voices coming from different sides of the yard and at different angles. I
think it was Carolyn who noticed the children peeking through the hedge and yelling
at us, “You are beautiful!” Meanwhile I asked, “Carolyn, are those children that
are up in that tree on the other side of the hedge?” Sure enough, they were. Apparently, Nkokonjeru's version of the neighborhood watch was curious as to finding out more about us girls.
Another day and I’m on the back of Charles’ boda again. He’s
picked me up from the local university after spending the night there with my
girl friends. Because he’s also the one who dropped me off there the day
before, he realizes that I never came home for the night. As we near my house,
he tells me, “Okay, Kelsea, just so you know, you’re going to be home alone. I
took Martha to town about an hour ago, and I saw Carolyn walking on Nkokonjeru
Road.” It’s a simple dialogue and one that occurs frequently. No unexpected surprises for me.
“You have been lost.” Translation: “Where have you been? I
haven’t seen you in a while.” If I haven’t gone to the post office in three
days, if I haven’t stopped in at my friend’s cafĂ© yet that week, if I miss a
few afternoons of sitting on a bench at campus, or skip shopping at Pearl
Supermarket one week, that is the response I get.
People in our community keep tabs on us. I don’t even think
it’s on purpose, but they know. And, what a blessing that is. I wish I could
tell you the peace of mind I have knowing that if anything ever happened to me or either of my roommates,
people in the community would notice the absence of the white girls.
In a relational culture privacy isn’t a familiar concept. Our
Ugandan friends are always asking us, “What do you do when you are home alone?”
We have long lists of things, but often just tell people we like to read. What
astounds our friends the most is when they discover that we spend “alone time”
in our rooms by ourselves. Sometimes our neighbor Dorcas will come over and be
working in the house when one of us will surface from our bedrooms. She is
often caught by surprise and responds, “Ah I didn’t know anyone was home!” And,
then it is to our pleasure to let her know that actually we are all home, just
shut up in our rooms. It just doesn’t make much sense to people.
So, thanks to this very relational culture I live in, not only does someone know where I am at all times, but I’ve also finally reached the point where there isn’t a time that I leave the house that I
don’t bump into someone I know. It’s different than the random boda drivers
yelling hello to me. These kind of run-ins are with people who I’ve actually
conversed with, met somewhere, and been formally introduced to. And, even
though, I’m in a town, a country, a culture, that was once completely foreign
to me, I have that feel of a small town. The feel as if you belong somewhere.
People know who you are and care enough to stop and chat for a few minutes or
at least wave and let you know that you are dressed smart and your roommates
are at the market. It’s a good feeling.