Before I even set foot in Rwanda/Uganda, I was warned by my Ugandan brother, Ken, that I would hear the word muzunghu throughout my travels in Uganda. Apparently, if you are white this is the name given to you. I told Ken I was mixed and so that I should not be called that. It did not matter, he said, if you were not African you were a muzunghu. Initially, I felt a little offended, especially since I am mixed and because I felt it put me in some typical tourist category. But then when I realized there was no malice in the use of this word, I embraced it and even had fun with the term. There are not many non-African tourists traveling throughout Uganda. Those who do stick to the safari route. We were not the typical tourist and made our way down unpaved roads, into local eateries and places where many of the locals did not often, if ever see a muzunghu. Ken told me that in the village we would be visiting, there was a lot of excitement and anticipation to see not one but two muzunghu. So, I practiced how to say it, even told the family of the new name I'd have and off I went and with me the idea to really go with the term.
Thus, when I got to to Uganda and would talk with people who were looking at me with curiosity (and I heard them whisper the word), I would make a friendly gesture or say hello. When I was trying to bargain one of the (too) many baskets I wanted to bring home, I would say, "No muzunghu prices. African prices." That would often get a laugh but the bargaining would then continue to the point where my brother, Ken and even our hired driver, would join in with the same sentiments. They were relentless by the way, in getting non muzunghu prices, resulting in the acquisition of many lovely baskets (which I mostly gifted upon my return.) When I was driving the car myself, people were quite surprised to see me behind the wheel. I was told I drove like I always drove on the left side of the road (well, I did learn to drive manual transmission in Jamaica, which is also on the colonial left side of the road), and that I seemed to understand the Uganda roads quite well (only 26% of the country is paved!). When I would park and folx would stop and stare, I'd get out of the care and say in a loud, playful tone, "muzunghu driving." I had a lot of fun with that one. When Ken's wife did my hair, we joked about my slippery muzunghu texture. The overall feel, where ever I went was that while I was a muzunghu, people were friendly, curious, welcoming and warm. There was not hatred, anger or fear, as I have too often heard with other labels of other people.
When I was preparing to leave Uganda, I realized that a shift had occurred. While I had initially felt resistant and offended to be labeled and given this name for a non-African it hit me that I would miss hearing the daily calling to me, muzunghu. It had become something like a sweet nickname. As I packed my bags I knew the next time I set food in Uganda and someone said, muzunghu, it would feel like coming home.
(here are random photos))
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