Cinderella's Long, Hot, Festering Winter

Ah. It's Sunday morning, and it's a beautiful day to burn some trash.

As I walk down to Zzana today, giving less and less attention to the "Bye Mzungu" cat calls, I try desperately to get Ja Rule out of my head. Ja Rule, according to most young Ugandans, is really Tupac. Nevermind that he doesn't look much like Tupac (shorter eyelashes for starters) or doesn't necessarily sound like Tupac, and of course nevermind that Tupac is dead, telling a Uganda "Gangstah" fan that Tupac is dead is a heartbreaking conversation that should be avoided at all costs.

If only Kampalans knew another Ja Rule song beside the (avec Ashanti) "I'm not always there when you call/ But I'm always on Time..." then Ja Rule's popularity here would not be so grinding. For some reason, even radio stations (not to mention kids with their Chinese "Ju Xing" boom boxes) enjoy playing that song on repeat ad infinitum.

So, what song saved me from the Ja Rule quagmire? Nothing less than the apotheosis of butt rock, Cinderella's "Don't know what'cha got 'till it's gone" followed by another two powerhouse tracks from their 1988 career apex, Long Cold Winter. (The other two songs in my head were "Gypsy Road" and "Long Cold Winter.")

As I passed by the piles of burning trash, the children screaming "Bye, white man" to me, and the children screaming because their mother was beating them in the middle of the "fu fu" (red dust) road, I reflected back on a few of the days previous events.

Just when I thought I had figured out how to navigate my newfound celebrity, yesterday brought a number of further difficult-to-digest adventures in whiteness. There were three people yesterday who felt my hair and skin without asking, only then to comment on how soft I was. "No," I said. "Your skin is softer. That is your idea rather than your hands talking. You put vaseline on your skin multiple times a day. My skin is dry and sunburned." But these protestations never convinces anyone.

I had dealt with the hair rubbing before, and it wouldn't have bothered me if only thirty minutes before, a man my age, completely naked from the waste down and hacked half-to-death by a machete only handful of moons before had not grabbed my arm and refused to let go during my walk home. He didn't say or ask for anything. I think he thought I was just lucky, or maybe his insanity was too much... But, he did not have a necessarily crazy look about him. Pieces of his one remaining ear fanned out of his skull like peacock feathers. And I stared at the ear as I, with increasing force, disentangled his fingers from my arm.

I also got blood on my shirt when I broke up a fight yesterday, which perhaps would add to the tension I felt later that evening but had nothing to do with whiteness or an American passport.

Actually, I had a wonderful moment in the evening before things slid downhill. I showered when I got home, worked with the children for a few more hours, then headed around the corner to the neighborhood watering hole. I slunk into the store's garden and opened my beer. There were a number of western Ugandans there (from Besigye and Museveni's home district) who had traveled to Kampala for the elections. They were all well educated, and I was able to have a conversation about politics and language and never had to discuss Tupac's death or how I was going to help them to America. Things seemed good.

I headed home after the conversation, where I was greeted by Jerry, one of the Outside the Dream students, who reminded me that I had told him I would visit his sister sometime while I was here. He, Jjuko (another student), and I traversed the hair-thin trail through the trees, over barbed wire and breadcrumb trails of plastic bags to his sister's house for half an hour. Though it was much longer than the five-minute walk he had promised, I was looking forward to meeting his sister. She was married, had a professional husband and a child, and I thought there was a much better chance of another interesting conversation than a half-hour haranguing to ensure my transport of her to America.

I could not have been more wrong. She was more insistent than anyone I have met that I take her to America, and there was no way I would be able to navigate the trails home in the dark. We stayed five hours, until I finally agreed to look into what it would take to get her to America when I got back to the States. I told her the odds of my actually finding a way to get her to America were no better than one in a million, but she seemed either satisfied with that, or much more likely simply annoyed with my stubborness.

But, the attention my passport (white skin? or tiny blue portfolio?) brought yesterday still had more to offer. When I arrived home, I found a present on my bed accompanied with a long letter and poem about the importance of friendship. It was from Isma, whom I'd met twice, the first time for less than twenty minutes, the second time for less twenty seconds. I opened the bag to find a wonderful pair of 501 Levi's, which I now must return to him.

Excepting my superficial promise to look into immigration for Jerry's sister, I have never made any hint of a promise to help anyone here except for my students (and then only by teaching and educating them), but I can't help but feel some guilt when someone gives me a present that I do not inted to repay.

I'm not sure what the solution is. I still think it's better to talk to people than ignore them. And if they buy presents of their own volition, it may bring with it valuable lessons of its own. I don't want to ignore everyone and only leave the compound with Steve's private driver. But, it is increasingly seems to my benefit (time-wise and sanity) to focus only on what I need to be doing here and little else.