Cellphones. If I had to devise a national emblem to replace the conspicuously absent crested crane, it would be the trademark yellow sheds of MTN. The most widely used provider in Uganda has cleverly combined the one-colour promotion gimmick behind The Warehouse with monopolising the colour also used by the National Resistance Movement -the only political party legally allowed in Uganda. Convenient. You can't pass a village in Uganda without seeing modified 'dairies' 
boldly displaying their MTN status. These stores dot the countryside more plentifully than the fruit merchants that flag down passing cars to thrust their wares through the window. The Kiwoko township boasts one open-air butchery, a tailer's shop, a municipal centre, a petrol station and 5 specialist cellphone stores. You may not have electricity, running water, or even food for the week but with MTN you're never out of touch.
Coke. The most successful advertising campaign in the world. Is there anywhere on earth that escapes the contoured hobble-skirt bottle, and it's vile grinning santa claus? Decidedly out of place amongst the converted shacks peddling wares to passersby, a bottle costs between 500 and 1500 shillings depending on whether you have empty bottles to exchange. It is sold exclusively in glass bottles, none of this disposable plastic. Each morning trucks arrive at the hospital cafe - which is the collection of modified shacks selling shoes, bags, meat, chappatti and other goods, many and various, that have found it quite profitable to set up outside the hospital gate - unload crates of fresh coke and reload crates of empty bottles. As distasteful as I find this globalised caffeine fix, I must admit it's a welcome taste of home amongst the alien landscape of Luweero.
Vuvuzelas. Virtually unheard of prior to the world cup, these brightly coloured trumpets have suddenly become quintessentially African, continent-wide. Originating from the Nguni dialect, the word simply means to make a 'voo-voo' sound. And make such a sound it surely does. Leaning from the back of a motorbike, a young Bagandan man blows 120 dB, coincidentally the threshold of pain at 1 metre, towards passing traffic. People use them for all sorts of reasons: political rallies, demonstrations, parties, the pure joy of blowing a vuvuzela for no good reason, and, of course, for football. Two weekends ago, the Uganda Cranes beat Angola 3-0 and half of Kampala was making voo-voo sounds well into the wee small hours.
Motorbikes, or Boda bodas line each street. A remnant from the colonial era, where they were the only mechanised transport that could navigate the rainforest with much ease. Motorbikes would be used to ferry troops between border posts, literally from Boda to Boda. I'm still not completely certain whether they are officially public transport here or whether any old Joe with a motorbike spies a passing mzungu and assumes they need a lift and stops to offer their services. Either way they're awfully convenient once your bartering skills get honed.
'Where you going Mzungu?'
'Luweero'
'Luweero? That be 5000 shilling'
'5000? No. No don't be silly. It's only round the corner'
'Oh no. No no. It is far. Far for me'
'It's always 3000 to Luweero'
'No no. Wait a minute, wait a minute. Never 3000'
'But I paid 3000 this morning'
'Ah, but my friend, petrol has gone up'
'What? It hasn't gone up since this morning'
' Ah but it's just started raining mzungu'
' Haha. Good point. 5000 it is'.
Barack Obama. Which country is he president of again? His profile and slogans are printed on tee-shirts, bags, coasters, cups. His trademark grin greets passersby on a daily basis. Change you can believe in, with populist appeal you can't. Odd when you consider Uganda doesn't seem to be America-obsessed like parts of Asia and South America. You could be forgiven for thinking he is actually Ugandan, and doing the whole US president thing just for kicks. If the Whitehouse won't have him, he could certainly make a small fortune doing children's parties in East Africa.
Mzungu. There was never a big slave trade in Uganda like in Ghana and Ivory Coast. There was no large-scale expropriation of land like in Kenya and Zimbabwe. Consequently there doesn't seem to be the resentment of European influence that characterises vast swathes of Africa. While Ugandans are quick to typecast you as mzungu, there doesn't appear to be any malice behind it. They're simply stating the obvious. One can not, as a white man, be alone for long in Uganda. They line up to pat you on the back and high five you. Children wave excitedly from across the street. A toddlers face stares in sheer horror and toddles off to cry behind her mothers legs as the strange white monsters saunter past. 'Look', a young girl tries not to stare as she whispers to her younger sisters, 'a mzungu'. Everywhere people stop and stare. Mind you, last week I saw a group of mzungu in the old Kampala taxi park. I stopped and stared.
Jesus. Or in particular western modes of christianity. Traditional Bugandan weddings feature the bride in bold, bright colours and headpieces. Ugandan christian weddings, of course, feature the bride in white. The hospital chapel, amongst a Bagandan community that speaks almost exclusively Lugandan, sings english songs – Hillsongs and Parachute festival. Sometimes they are translated into Lugandan, sometimes just left in english, God's language. Authentic african first names are also absent replaced with good, solid, catholic names. Joseph. Patrick. Moses. Margaret. Esther. The names of businesses also bear witness to their zeal. There's 'Glory be to God' photos and videos. 'Jesus saves' motorbike repairs and ''Trust in Jesus' health insurance. Often, the subtlety of english significance is lost. There's 'God almighty is our sauce' restaurant and even the misnamed 'St Adolfs hostel for mzungu' and the 'Twin Towers internet cafe'.
The English Premier League. Forget the African Cup of Nations. Man U and Arsenal is where it's at. One of the first things I was asked on arrival in Uganda was who 'my team' was. I don't know really. The Blackcaps? Last weekend in Kampala there were 2 deaths and several arrests after a fight broke out between groups of fans supporting 'their' team. Even football riots aren't unheard of. Liverpool fans rumbling with Blackpool. Aston Villa vs Chelsea. Meanwhile the Ugandan super league struggles to draw crowds.
So there's this prayer meeting at the hospital and an announcement is made calling for church notices. A young man stands at the back and reads out the latest EPL results. Most importantly, it seems, Liverpool drew 2 – 2 with Sunderland and Everton narrowly avoided relegation. The congregation murmurs their approval amidst prayers of thanks and supplication.
The Toyota Hiace. Rivalling the cellphone as the official emblem of Uganda, a national fleet of reconditioned Hiaces keep Uganda running. Officially designated as 'taxi's' or matatus they function as a cross between a kiwi bus and an airport shuttle. They leave from the big Kampala taxi park bearing a sign for a certain destination. Mbarara. Mbale. Gulu. Luweero. Kiwoko. It leaves once all the seats are taken and fares negotiated. As you pass paedestrians on the side of the rode, the conductor calls the destination loudly through the window. The passersby either nod or shake their heads and depending on the response the taxi flings open the doors and hauls the new passengers in. They are licensed to carry 14 passengers, which means on the average ride from Kampala to Luweero you might be sitting with around 23 or 24, plus or minus a few chickens on your lap. Traffic police do a quick head count as the taxis roll past the checkpoints and pull most of them over. A few shillings quietly slipped in with the registration papers usually sorts out this problem efficiently enough.
Chappatti and samosa. Do they even reailse it's not Ugandan? Hindu temples dominate the Kampala skyline. Billboards promote Fortune cooking oil, just perfect for the perfect chappatti. At each matatu stop, street vendors pile up t the taxis windows and thrust their chappatti to prospective customers. It's a relic from the British East India Company I assume. Indian workers imported from the subcontinent to serve as beaurocrats and administrators in East Africa. Someone that knew how to run the English system but could survive the environment better than the ex-pats. They got an unceremonially dismissal by Idi Amin in the 80s but left part of their culture behind. Now, it appears, bollywood and tikkha masala are as Ugandan as Toyotas and Coke.
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