Black and white

After having recovered to a certain degree form our 'strange bird'-experience in Entebbe, we're sentenced to another week in Kampala. Not that we're terribly sad about it, although our legs start itching again. We're waiting for two packages with spare parts from the Netherlands, that have to soften the anguish of our material-trouble.

We internet, stroll through streets, shops and markets and are surprised by the economical losses caused by the early rains. Every Ugandan that respects him- or herself takes shelter under a lean-to or porch as soon as raindrops start falling from the sky. One Wednesday afternoon a whole lot of drops fall at the same time, streets become rivers and the city floods. Nobody is amazed, but everybody stays on the same dry spot for hours, until the God of Rain decides to close the tap. This Wednesday afternoon he's indecisive for a long time. The end of the day I decide to walk to the Lumas Inn, from the internetcafe where I spent the afternoon working, despite the heavy downpour. Everybody in the porches looks at me, like my dismissal from mental hospital was very premature. I hear disbelief and pity in their voices when they shout: "He, mzungu, where is your car?" The idea that a white person could get wet by rain is incomprehensible to them.

White people are rich. All white people own a car. White people do not have to work hard, because the dollars come running to them without moving a finger. White people are smart and very practical. As a matter of fact they know and do everything better. White people never have to do their own housekeeping, because they have servants to do so; cooking, washing, mopping, they don't know how to do it and there is no need for them to know. Being white you're born with a huge bank account and a car. It's better to be white than black.

In short this is the stereotype picture black people have of whites. A picture that doesn't resemble life as we know it. It's rooted very deep though. When we cycle through villages in rural areas parents call their children to wave to the passing whites and say hello. There are many black cyclists, we're the only ones getting all the attention. Schoolchildren go berserk when they see us, black fellow-cyclists are ignored. The black fellow-cyclist in his turn loves nothing more than accompany us for a while and talk to us. Bystanders call at him inquisitive and jealous: "What are you talking about with those whites?" Our black fellow-cyclist smiles proudly. There are even sayings and jokes that indicate the difference between black and white. If a black person at a moment appears to own some money, people ask him: "Where did you find that mzungu you killed?

busstation Kampala

At first we feel very uncomfortably with all the attention and the special treatment. Wherever we cycle or walk, everybody looks at us and many of them start a conversation. The main purpose for them seems to be that now they're able to say that they actually talked to white people. After some time we're more easy-going, but we never really get used to it. After our second week in Kampala we get on our bicycles again. The packages from Holland have arrived, unfortunately without the watch that somebody stole probably in Nairobi. Nairobbery after all.