Jason Miller (Kyalo)

This is a small sample of a chapter from a future book– Jason Miller

One of the funniest things I encounter during my travels is watching perfectly innocent words turn into complete disasters somewhere between one language and another.

We all assume communication is simple until we leave home.

Americans, unfortunately, have a reputation for expecting anyone who speaks English to understand not only our language but also our slang, sports references, movie quotes, and whatever nonsense we happened to hear on social media that week. The irony, of course, is that many of us struggle to order lunch in another language.

I remember sitting through a motivational meeting when a colleague enthusiastically told one of our local team members to “ping” someone and have them show up at a certain time.

The poor guy nodded politely.

My colleague nodded confidently.

Neither had the slightest idea what the other was talking about.

My colleague assumed the task was understood. The employee assumed “ping” was some mysterious American management technique.

Everyone left happy and completely confused.

I have committed far worse offenses myself.

While learning Kiswahili, I once attempted to ask for a drink. Instead of saying kunywa (to drink), I proudly announced kunya.

For those unfamiliar with Kiswahili, kunya means “to go number two.”

So instead of asking for a beverage, I essentially stood up and enthusiastically requested permission to use the bathroom in front of an entire room of people.

The room exploded with laughter.

I wanted to disappear into the floor.

Another memorable translation disaster happened in Nairobi.

A group of about ten Americans and I had just flown in from the coast. It was late, we were exhausted, and we were hungry enough to eat the table decorations.

We stopped at a restaurant and placed our orders.

Now, if you’ve ever traveled with ten hungry Americans, you know dinner is less of a meal and more of a logistical operation.

The friend sitting next to me ordered a hamburger.

“Just ketchup and pickles,” he explained.

The waiter nodded.

“Only ketchup and pickles on it.”

Another nod.

“That’s it. Ketchup and pickles.”

A third nod.

Satisfied, my friend leaned back in his chair.

Eventually the food started arriving one plate at a time.

Then the waiter proudly set a plate in front of my friend.

On the plate sat a bun.

Ketchup.

Pickles.

Nothing else.

No burger.

No meat.

Just the toppings.

The waiter had followed the instructions perfectly.

My friend stared at the plate in stunned silence while the rest of us completely lost it.

Apparently, in his mind, the existence of a hamburger patty was so obvious it didn’t need to be mentioned.

The waiter disagreed.

I laughed so hard I had tears running down my face.

My friend was so hungry he almost cried too.

Eventually he started laughing as well.

What else can you do?

Lost in translation.

One of my favorite signs sits just north of Nairobi on the road toward Thika.

A large church proudly displays its name in giant letters:

OVERCOMING FAITH CHURCH

Every time I drive past, I chuckle.

I know exactly what they meant.

But I can’t help imagining an entire congregation gathering every Sunday to overcome their faith.

“We’ve almost beaten it, folks. One more prayer meeting and we’ll finish the job.”

Roadside businesses are another endless source of entertainment.

Along the Garissa Highway I’ve passed a bar called Bob’s Villa, which I always imagine was named after some local version of Bob Vila.

Then there is the unforgettable Pork Chicken Hotel.

I’ve never stayed there.

Frankly, the name doesn’t inspire confidence.

Nearby, in the small town of Sofia, sits a fruit shop called Vintage Fruits.

A classy name, certainly.

But I’ve never considered “aged fruit” a major selling point.

Wine? Absolutely.

Bananas? Less so.

During the COVID years, I spotted a hand sanitizer station at an airport with a large sign that boldly instructed travelers to:

SATANIZE YOUR HANDS

I spent several minutes wondering whether that was a health recommendation or the beginning of a horror movie.

Restroom signs are another adventure altogether.

More than once I’ve encountered men’s and women’s signs swapped on the doors.

But nothing tops an experience in Uganda.

Two friends and I entered a public restroom. One friend needed a stall. The other two of us did not.

An elderly cleaning lady was inside.

She looked directly at all three of us.

We looked directly at her.

She continued cleaning.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody shared a common language.

Eventually we decided that if she wasn’t concerned, neither were we.

As we were finishing up, our friend inside the stall called out:

“Hey! There’s no toilet paper in here!”

Without hesitation, the cleaning lady grabbed a roll, walked over, opened the stall door, and handed it to him.

Just like room service.

We completely collapsed with laughter.

The poor woman looked utterly confused.

To her, she was simply doing her job.

To us, it was one of the funniest things we’d ever witnessed.

Apparently privacy was optional.

The surprises don’t stop with signs and conversations.

In the highlands of Kenya sits a place called the Disneyland Hotel.

Now, before your imagination starts picturing castle turrets, fireworks, and smiling employees waving from Main Street, adjust your expectations.

The hotel entrance features hand-painted versions of Mickey Mouse and his friends that look less like beloved childhood characters and more like suspects in an international investigation.

Every time I drive by, I wonder how many children have taken one look at the gate and decided they were never sleeping again.

Then there was the shoe store in Kigali, Rwanda.

Like many places around the world, knockoff brands occasionally appear on store shelves. On this particular day, I spotted a pair of Converse-style shoes proudly displaying what was clearly intended to be an inspirational slogan translated from Kinyarwanda into English.

The message read:

“Some people are when we crossed a high mountain it also crosses real self.”

I stood there staring at the shoes for several minutes.

Part of me wanted to understand the deep philosophical meaning hidden within those words.

Another part suspected there wasn’t one.

To this day, I regret not buying them.

Imagine wearing those to a business meeting.

Someone glances down and says, “What does your shoe mean?”

You simply nod thoughtfully and reply, “Exactly.”

Restaurant menus in remote areas are another source of endless entertainment.

The farther you get from major cities, the more adventurous English becomes.

In Kasese, Uganda, we found a restaurant proudly offering:

Cheese Bugger

Chicken Bugger

and my personal favorite,

Crumbled Goat

Now, I enjoy goat meat.

But “crumbled” sounds less like a culinary preparation and more like an unfortunate accident.

I pictured a chef dropping the goat and serving whatever pieces remained.

Just across the border in Rwanda, another menu featured a Cheese Bogger.

At that point, I wasn’t sure if I was ordering dinner or collecting spelling variations.

Menus like these always make me smile because everyone involved is genuinely trying.

Meanwhile, most of us English speakers can barely spell our own language correctly on social media.

Perhaps my favorite business name of all time comes from Freetown, Sierra Leone.

While driving through town, I noticed a grocery store with a sign large enough to read from half a block away.

The name was:

“Submissive Wife, Husband Is The Head Supermarket.”

I nearly drove off the road.

Imagine the marketing meeting that produced that masterpiece.

“Honey, where are you going shopping?”

“The Submissive Wife, Husband Is The Head Supermarket.”

“Did you buy groceries?”

“No, but apparently I received marital counseling.”

I often wonder how many arguments have started in the parking lot.

Perhaps there should be a competing store across the street called:

Independent Woman Discount Center.

The two could battle for customers every Saturday morning.

What fascinates me about all of these experiences is that they remind me how complicated communication really is.

Most people speak multiple languages far better than I ever will. Yet despite our best efforts, words occasionally wander off course and create something completely unexpected.

A missing letter changes the meaning of a sentence.

A translation app creates accidental poetry.

A church name gains an entirely new interpretation.

A hamburger arrives with everything except the hamburger.

And somewhere in East Africa, there may still be a pair of shoes reminding people that when a high mountain crosses real self, some people are.

Travel has taught me many lessons over the years.

Patience.

Humility.

Adaptability.

But perhaps the most important lesson is this:

If everyone is laughing, and nobody is offended, then you’ve probably just created a memory worth keeping.

The world is full of languages, cultures, and customs that make life richer and more interesting.

Sometimes they also make a menu offer a Cheese Bugger.

And honestly, that’s part of the adventure.