Potholes: Windows into Kampala

There seem to be potholes all over this city and they characterize each neighborhood. I have seen a neighborhood's social status plagued by the depth and frequency of its potholes. But potholes have also shown me that joy can be experienced in spite of inconvenience. Yesterday, as I walked across the property of my new apartment complex, I watched two little boys around three years old splash and dig their chubby little hands into the grime of a puddle that had formed in none other than a deep pothole. The boys were not worried about the hole's potential damage to their parents' car; they simply thrived on the thrill of splashing in the puddle.

Potholes have also taught me something about Ugandans' values and views of heaven. Last night friends of mine and I were discussing the innumerable potholes left unfilled to the detriment of bodas, taxis and pedestrians alike. Then one of my friends brought up a Kampala preacher, who, speaking on the subject of heaven, said, “In heaven, there are no potholes!!!” to the great excitement and cheering of his congregation. Ugandans aren’t asking for streets of gold in heaven, they’re just asking for smooth asphalt.

I have been here for three and a half weeks now, and I think I am slowly getting used to life in Uganda (potholes and all). I even moved into my own apartment on Monday, which was a cultural experience in and of itself as I was basically hit over the head with the concept of “Ugandan time, or “it’ll-happen-when-I-feel-like-making-the-effort time.” Kristen and I arrived at our apartment on Monday with all of our luggage only to discover that our landlords had not only not moved out, all of their stuff was still in the house, the promised painters had yet to arrive (and never actually did), a plumber had been called, and the house was a mess. So we dumped our stuff and headed into the city seeking mosquito nets, sheets, and a decent pillow. When we came back at 5 p.m. most of our landlords’ things had been removed but the painter never came, the plumber was pushed until the next day, and they “forgot” to mop up the mud they and their friends and mucked through the apartment all day long. But boy was it sweet to finally lie in my new bed, under a new mosquito net, on a new pillow and sheets. It was good to be home.

As you can see, I am still getting situated in Kampala. There is a lot to get used to here, not only in living here but working here. Now that I’m in my third week of doing my job all by myself (anyone else hear a chorus of “I’m a big girl now”?), I am feeling more confident at work. But this job has its frustrations. Nothing is easily accomplished. Calling a recruitment candidate to tell him/her that we have received his/her application for employment seems easy enough, but there’s the culturally gruff “hello?” to get past, the accent barrier to overcome by repeating myself and speaking very slowly (Ihn-tur-nah-shu-nal Jus-tis Mish-un), and making sure that the many “sure’s” and “yes’s” coming through the receiver actually mean the listener understand me and isn’t just telling me what I want to hear. And this is just a confirmation call; now imagine trying to plan a party or a prayer retreat….Work here simply has ten more steps and takes ten times longer than in the US. If I don’t come back to the States with more patience, please ask me what I did learn while in Kampala.

Last night was one of the first indications of my settling into a state of normalcy. Soon after I came home from work, Kristen and I were invited by our friend Meredith to meet her for dinner on the other side of town, in Old Kampala (identifiable by deeper potholes). So Kristen and I hopped on a boda-boda and headed downtown. (One unique factor was riding the boda on the sidewalk for the first time.) We safely reached our destination, a small restaurant that serves a variety of cuisines seemingly mixed together—American, Italian, Ugandan, and Indian. I had my first Tilapia, the fish found in Lake Victoria. It was covered in marinara sauce, exemplifying the aforementioned “mix.” But aside from the new food and wild boda ride, last night felt normal. As afternoon settled into dusk (and the dust of the road just settled) we sat on the outdoor patio, watching people pass in the street. It felt so natural to sit with these two friends, exchanging stories and observing Kampala around us. I never had to remind myself that I was in Uganda—I just felt right about being with my friends at dinner downtown. The fact that all of this happened in Uganda is almost irrelevant; that’s how normal it was.