Kampala: feeling more and more like a home

Kampala’s international community is small; ok, I get it. But is it really that small?

I had spent the past hour speaking with Director Jack Norman of Catholic Relief Service (CRS), an impressive, down to earth development expert with diverse geographical experience. We chatted about partnership opportunities and CRS’s experience working on water projects in Northern Uganda. The meeting ended a bit after 2pm and my special hire (read: taxi) was waiting for me. I had not yet had lunch, so I decided to check out the local mall, which overlooks the city’s big golf course—yes, the city has one of those too even though the constant manicuring of the thick blades of grass still does not raise the quality of the greens above even the lowest quality public courses in the US.

Upon walking in into the mall, I see an expat who I met at a pantomime performance this past weekend. As I was about to say hello to her, I heard a familiar refrain -- not “mizungu” (term for white people), or “boss” or “big man” as I am known by many here who would like to somehow grab my attention -- but I heard my name. Turns out my friend Dismas, who I saw earlier in the week had just left the bank and was calling me.

We chatted for a few minutes about our days, the merits of bus transport, as well as his connections in the north, who turn out to be a leading human rights figurehead and a contender for president whom we hope to meet in the next week. It was just a casual conversation between two Kampalaians who just casually run into each other. Those two random encounters and my confidence walking around the city make this place feel like a “home” more and more.

The odd thing is, that although I no doubt stand out being 6’3” and white, I don’t feel terribly foreign. Maybe because most everyone in Kampala speaks English to some degree; maybe it is because people are quick to smile which puts me at ease; or maybe it is because it is safe to walk around.

It could be I just enjoy the place or that I am choosing to live in a world above the realities of Kampala and turning off the clues people are giving me letting me know I am foreign. But I doubt the latter. True, that taxi and motorcycle hail me down with such regularity and vigor as if my natural resting place in life is in the passenger seat. Same with the banana and peanut sellers who can only assume I must have a strategic stockpile of their produce in my hotel and therefore always need more for all they hound me. But a simple "no" turns them off unlike elsewhere like Vietnam. The truth is I have felt far more foreign in places in Eastern Europe where superficially I blend in easier (although most locals still knew I was foreign) than I do here.