The Language Barrier

Many of you may be confused by this title, which is warranted considering that 97% of Ugandans speak English. It is the spoken business language, the written commercial language, and children start studying it when they are in pre-school. The high-school education system even demands an American style English course, where students study English literature and complex grammatical structures. It still catches me off guard when somebody from another culture asks me a question about a reflexive past-participle clause. My typical reaction is a blank, stupefied stare followed by a sly change of subject.

Before I get into my primary language short-comings, a brief background of the Ugandan primary language is necessary. Someone asked me before I came here what language is spoken, and my response, after expressing my true knowledge with that same blank stare, was, “I dunno. Swahili?” Little did my antagonist know, it was a trick question. There is no national language. The most widely spoken tribal dialect is Bugandan, but I gawk at the proposition of suggesting this as a national language. It is my understanding that there are now 31 tribes in Uganda (there used to be many, many more), each with its own dialect. Although some share similarities, most are radically different. For example, both our interns are from Kampala and speak Bugandan. They can roughly communicate with the Mbale locals, each speaking the native language, although that situation is hardly universal. There are many tribes with whom they simply have no platform for communication. In fact, they might as well be speaking Swahili, one said. This situation has been best described to me as a Bermuda Triangle of romantic languages. An Italian conversing with a Spaniard, each in his native tongue, and each quietly loathing the other for no apparent reason. It’s possible, but ridiculous. Of course, my plans for acquiring another language have been thwarted by this preposterous conundrum.

English. Problem solved? Not a chance. Simple accents are the smallest barrier in what I’ve come to know as a ludicrous circus of communication. The most frustrating interactions are with waitresses, and the second debacle on the list is any telephone conversation with anyone, concerning any subject. It is almost worthless to order food because: 1) They never write anything down, and are subsequently doomed to forget half your order or just bring you something else entirely and 2) White people all look the same, which leads to a roundabout of plate swapping. Until today, our own compound family thought Joel and I were brothers (which I can understand) and that Rachel, Caitlin and Jamie were sisters (which is outlandish at best considering their attributes).

Last week I was visiting the Islamic University In Uganda, which kindly appointed me a tour guide. After spending close to two hours with this gentleman, it gradually became apparent that he did not understand a word I said, which worked fine considering he was the guide. I didn’t really have to speak. However, during lunch I was trying to ask whether the restaurant boiled their water before serving it to customers. Ecstatic at the opportunity to shed his knowledge upon this visitor one last time, he tapped the glass whilst wearing a grin I can compare only to that of a child in a candy store, looked at me and exclaimed, “it’s called water!”

I don’t think my words have fallen upon anything but deaf ears over the phone, and I am certain that I have yet to decipher a solitary sentence. Text messages are critical, and that’s all I can say without the experiences coercing me to through this computer across the room and just sit on the floor to cry.

I call it a language barrier because this division of oral understanding, coupled with the illusion of anything getting done on time (African Time) has left me enthralled by MAPLE’s accomplishments. As an ignorant, third party observer, I would guffaw at the preposition of this situation resulting in anything but failure segued into perversity. In conclusion, I’m rather proud of what this organization, recently accused of being a “summer camp for post-graduate yahoos experiencing quarter-life crises,” has accomplished. I challenge anyone to suggest otherwise while considering that every Ugandan NGO I’ve encountered has spent the last 50 years promoting the concept that white people double as an ATM and their withdrawals solve every known problem.