Lessons from the supermarket

Today I went to Kampala to have lunch with a friend.  Earlier in the morning, the sky was looking a
little dark.  The radio announcers talked
about a “light drizzle” throughout the day. 
What they meant to say was “small monsoon” in the early afternoon.  The heavy rains produced flash flooding in
Kampala, especially where I was going.  I
seriously thought there was a chance that my car could stall; the water had to
be up to the sideboard.  The upside to
that is that when it’s raining that bad, the security folks just wave your car
in and don’t search you.

However, when one is going into the supermarket, you must check any bags you
have (other than a purse) and for this reason, I no longer go into a
supermarket with anything else because I’m afraid that I’ll get in my car
without picking up my checked bags (which has happened).  Today, I learned that one must check one’s
umbrella when entering the supermarket. 
Perhaps this is just a public safety consideration, so that we don’t get
the floor wet, but I wondered how many people would leave their umbrellas in
the check station.  Note to self: don’t go to the supermarket in a deluge.

I don’t like to pay Kampala prices for some things I can get
in Mukono, like eggs, so I went to the small supermarket off campus to get
eggs.  Except that the eggs were
finished.  So I had to go to a
supermarket in Mukono town.  I went to
the cash register, and said I wanted to get a tray of eggs.  You can purchase them packaged, but it’s
cheaper to get the tray of 30 eggs and wash and store them at home.  Yes, wash. 
They stay fresh longer when they’re from-the-hen dirty.  The cleanliness of those eggs you Americans
buy is why they need to be refrigerated: 
to keep them fresh longer.

So, when I asked for a tray of eggs, the cashier was
surprised.  She asked me if I wanted
local eggs (as they had clean and packaged eggs).  I told her I did.  She asked again, and I again concurred.  She again asked if I wanted local eggs, so I asked if the other
eggs came from far away.  She laughed,
and said they didn’t, which made me wonder why the eggs I bought were considered
local. 

Since this is Africa and all conversations in public places
are public, another customer explained that the hens that produce local eggs are different.  Another cashier explained that they are
layered, whatever that means.  Another customer explained that the eggs tasted different.  

I asked my
cashier if bazungu (white people) don’t buy local eggs, and she said that no,
we do.  And yet, for some reason, my
purchasing a tray of local eggs became a topic of conversation at the cash
register.