When I was ten or so there was a certain television commercial which mainly aired during Full House breaks when all you really wanted to know was how Uncle Jesse was going to get himself out of yet another crazy antic and what tender lesson he might learn in doing so. I guess you’d call the commercial more of a public service announcement because it seemed to be commissioned by no one and didn’t make me want to purchase anything except perhaps cable, where I’m told public service announcements with shoddy camera work and poor lighting are less prevalent. If you’ll allow me to set the stage, the scene opens with an unattractive older man in a clean button-up holding an important looking file. You the viewer, whether by design or a simple lack of plot development, receive no clues as to the file’s contents. For our purposes we’ll say the file holds confidential photos from a recent double homicide involving the man’s first grade teacher, Mrs. Farley. As the scene progresses you notice the man laughing about something, apparently able to keep his sense of humor even in the face of tragedy. You pause to reflect on the resiliency of the human spirit. There’s some witty banter among the men of the office, the sort where you can’t actually hear what’s being said but you just know it’s funny and you wonder why you can’t be in on the joke. You’re reminded of that time you ate by yourself in elementary school because Alicia made fun of your nail polish and all the other girls were eating laughing without you. The man turns his attention to a female colleague and refers to her as sugar pie or hotcakes or some other nickname that inevitably makes you feel embarrassed yet hungry. You lose focus for a moment as you consider making your way to the kitchen in search of a hot or even room temperature cake when suddenly the woman, outraged, loudly declares, “THAT’S sexual harassment, and I DON’T have to take it!” End scene.
A few days ago I was being eagerly molested by a female security guard outside a mall in Kampala and I, outraged, thought loudly to myself, ‘THAT’S sexual harassment, and I’m going to stand right here and take it because you, lady, have a small scowl and a large rifle and I really want the coffee served on the other side of that door, but I DON’T have to like it!’ I walked away feeling somewhat strange, not ashamed really but similar in feeling to the time last November when I was slapped on the butt with a metal detector outside my hotel. Taken aback. Maybe even a bit amused, though my counselor says this is a defense mechanism. Is sexual harassment in the name of safety still sexual harassment?
Things have changed in Kampala since the September bombings. Bags are poked and prodded, butts are slapped, and untrained german shepherds lick strangers and pee outside buses prior to departure all in the name of highly fallible safety. Everyone knows a strategically placed pair of women’s underwear on the top of your bag is enough to embarrass and deter even the most rule-abiding of security guards from digging deeper. I’ve heard the same is true of condoms. True, someone who carries both a deadly weapon AND an inordinate amount of ladies underwear and/or condoms runs the risk of looking like one of those really weird, creepy criminals but I suspect this is a risk the individual would be willing to take.
German shepherds are Kampala’s most recently adopted safety measure and frankly the most amusing of all, though my counselor would say this is a probably a sign of my resentment for any and all German ancestry. The overly-friendly german shepherd outside my bus a few days ago was brought in to sniff bags for either bombs or Pringles but, tiring of this no-doubt tedious task, had created an entirely new game for himself out of cleaning his private parts. Is there such a thing as sexual self-harassment? In any case, I imagine the little guy would have taken a break from his escapades to help me assemble a bomb piece by piece in exchange for a pat on the head. Hopefully safety is a mindset.
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