Muzungu

As I walk around Ruhengeri, there is one word I hear probably ten times more often than any other word. It didn't take me long to figure out what "Muzungu" means. It's me. "White man". I'm astonished at the multitude of different ways there are to express this word. When spoken with wonder and excitement, is a very welcome sound. This is typically the response I hear from children. They come running from great distances, delightedly exclaiming "Muzungu! Muzungu!" just so I might notice them scampering along next to me for 5 or 6 steps. "This illustrious gentleman has traveled from afar to grace our people with his presence in this dark time. It is truly a glorious spectacle." (I imagine this is how Rwandan children would sound if I could understand them.) Sometimes, the word is uttered with significant curiosity and perplexity. Often, this is how it sounds when spoken by a woman. "How strange you are. Would you like to buy something?" The indignant tone of the word is probably the most distinct of its forms. It's almost a different word, and sometimes the last syllable is almost dropped in irritation. "Mu-ZOOngh." I have heard it in this form only from adolescent males, young boys who think they're adolescent males, or young men who probably still behave like adolescent males. "This is my turf. First, look at me. Acknowledge my presence. Now, beat it." Every once in a while, it's simply a statement. "Muzungu." As you'd guess, this is what I'm bound to hear from a man of some age, if he chooses to speak at all (they usually don't). "Hey Wilbur, there goes another one." "Yep." "Must be here for the gorillas." "Yep." "Think he'll get the runs?" "Yep."

When you meet another muzungu, you can legitimately assume one of two things without the proverbial repercussions that are supposed to occur when you assume. You can assume that the person in question is either an adventure seeker on safari or a humanitarian on a mission. Back in Nairobi, at the ACK Guest House, where we met those nice Dutch boys, a high percentage of their clientele is comprised of people on missions trips, and not just from the US. Here in Ruhengeri, our hotel houses mostly adventure seekers. They have enormous safari trucks parked outside. Essentially, if you were to breed a tour bus with a Jeep Wrangler, the offspring would look like one of these vehicles (sounds like a painful birth). We've talked with a few who have been to see the gorillas. One group got charged by an adolescent male (a male gorilla, not a male Rwandan), and a girl was knocked down, but she was ok. Yesterday, Ed and I met Mickey and Kashif on the road among a procession of locals. As you might suspect, Mickey is a white guy, and Kashif is of Indian descent. They are medical students volunteering at the hospital in Ruhengeri. They were coming out of a triple wedding, as they were familiar with one of the couples being married. Ed approached and announced "You must be American." Almost as soon as Mickey opened his mouth, I knew that this would qualify as one of those times when an assumption does bear its proverbial results. "Nauh, ahkchooleh. Ahm Anglesh." Trust me, it was about as difficult to figure out as I was listening to it as it probably is for you as you're reading it. (Two countries separated by a common language, right?) His thick British accent was almost cockney, but a little more refined. Having spent time in England, Ed was able to relate and soon figured out exactly the part of England that Mickey hailed from (South of London, I believe, but I don't remember). Meanwhile, a pair of young boys stood near the four of us as we were talking. I heard one of them saying "Muzungu" repeatedly to the other and pointing at us. I looked at him and affirmed, "Muzungu, muzungu, muzungu... not quite muzungu." Pointing to Mickey, Ed, myself, and then Kashif. The boy looked embarrassed that I had understood him, but he smiled anyway. Kashif began conversing with the boys in their language (maybe it's also the native tongue where he comes from) while Ed and I talked with Mickey.

That boy's smile is something I have come to expect here. No matter what tone of "muzungu" you hear, you can almost always disarm the situation with a wave, a smile, or a simple "Hello." They nearly always return a big, bright smile. Sometimes the men and the adolescent males (the male Rwandans, not the male gorillas) don't return the gesture, but you can count on it with the women and children. I'm sure that when I return to the US, I'll either revert immediately to the old habit of simply not greeting people, or I'll try it at first and then revert to the old habit after no one returns the gesture with any degree of warmth. I hate that feeling of "do I say 'hi' or not?" Hallways. Sidewalks. Elevators. Cringe. It's not even a question here. If I don't greet them, most of them look at me like I have a zit. If I do, most of them look at me like I just gave them a million dollars. Not a difficult decision. In the US, whether you greet someone or not, they're likely to look at you like you ARE a zit. Furthermore, in the US, where most of the people we pass are of the same racial heritage, there's really no reason to treat people like they are walking sacks of puss. In Rwanda, they have legitimate cause to look at me that way, because - just based on my skin color alone - I probably do look like I could be popped, but they smile back anyway. In a country full of muzungus, why don't we try smiling as a method of diffusion, rather than carping and passive aggression? Why don't we express interest in our communities and our relationships rather than in ourselves? You're not compromising your identity when you identify with something bigger than yourself. But you are missing out on a chance to magnify your individuality if you don't.