Silminga turned Muzungu

This morning I boarded the white and blue van to taxi a few miles to my school across Kampala to Kaojya Stage. Initially, I was sharing the cab with only one man other than the driver and conductor, the man who hangs out the window yelling the destination stop and takes each passenger’s fair, usually about the equivalent of between 25-50 cents. After the horror stories about naive muzungus being taken advantage of, I was a bit apprehensive about sharing a cab with a lone passenger. His black and yellow security uniform lessened my worries slightly. At the stage where the security guard got off, I felt a small lump of anxiety form in my chest before two school girls, about 8 years of age, hopped on board and sat down right next to me, despite all other seats being available. The girl next to me smiled with a mouth full of mismatched and missing teeth when I asked “oli otya?” and she replied with “gyendi.” “Mu soma?” (Do you all study?), “yes,” “Musoma wa?” (You all study where?), “Bukoto.”

Maybe it was my pitiful attempt at Luganda or maybe it was the unabashed curiousness of African children, unhindered by the fear of strangers imbedded in most American children, but it didn’t take long for my taxi-mate to feel comfortable enough to reach over and touch my arm. My light skin seemed to fascinate and delight her. Of course she could see we were different colors, but that didn’t seem to come with any inherent ideas that signaled any form of division between us, as made clear by her complete ambivalence to any sort of personal space. Her excited comments whispered to her friend clutching the Cars backpack were received with minimal interest. Despite her friend’s ambivalence, the girl in the blue dress was content with holding my hand for the final few minutes of the ride.

It’s a curious thing, walking down that street. Small children seem to either stare in wonder or wave with exuberant cheers of “Hello!” and “How are you Muzungu?!” Teenagers seem a bit less well intentioned in their greetings, if they do greet. Younger men are by far the worst making you feel as though you’re perpetually walking past a construction site. Women and older men typically just watch with mild interest, the way one might watch a cat walking across a lawn.

I know that my novelty grants me the spotlight of most streets I walk down. I don’t make much eye-contact, except with small kids, but I hear the calls and laughter. Others in SIT feel this too and get frustrated by how they are continually called out and comment on how hard it is to be white here. I wonder if any have tried to make the connection I have to being a minority in the U.S.? Sure we stand out and get laughs, but very rarely do I feel the butt of a cruel joke. I am not oppressed here and I have no fear of being harmed by virtue of someone’s hatred of the color of my skin. I hear laughter but no jeers. I may have an occasional hand softly touch my arm, requesting my attention but I have not felt the rage of bigotry or the spit of discrimination. We are isolated by our race, and more-so by our nationality, but the stereotypes associated with us are by-in-large positive: we are assumed wealthy, intelligent, & ambassadors of freedom. We’re pushed to the front of the lines allowed access solely because of our nationality.

Of course not everyone is overjoyed by our presence. In the slum of Bwaise, we got our first flicking-off from a passing cyclist. I can understand why: we Muzungus pack into our hired taxis, drive to slums and get a personal tour to see the poor and downtrodden. We spend a few weeks or months living relatively privileged lives, do a little work, write a paper, then go home to unimaginable luxury, usually never to return. Those that don’t find us patronizing must have greater faith in our capabilities and intentions, either that or they don’t understand how fully powerless we are.

Next Blog: Discussing homosexuality with a former Member of Parliament Dr. Mira Matembe