From Joe to Pro

I've traveled a little bit before, but never to so foreign a place as this. And I've never seen another place where an American is revered so much. Wherever I walk, activity around me stops. People stare and gesture to each other. They show faces of curiosity and admiration. Too much attention really; sometimes I'm uneasy with it. I try my best to stop periodically to talk with people, trying to relate to them with my own questions and interests. Inevitably a crowd gathers. It's humbling, and I try to piece together what they must be thinking about me. In a few rural villages, I learn that I am the first white person (let alone American) that the children have seen before. I walk and they jog alongside, quietly saying 'Muzungu' (their equivalent of 'gringo' I think) to each other. When I stop, they gather around, and a few very young children will always poke through. They creep forward very slowly, staring up at me. Every time, they stop a few steps short, and then walk up to touch my pants or shoes. They hold touch with one finger and look up to see what I do next. I smile every time, and I sit down. Those are some of the best moments in Africa thus far.

To the children and townspeople, I am a symbol - to which they attach a certain status. There is a land, somewhere, that is so foreign and wealthy that they have only heard about it in stories. They may know nothing of Burundi or Congo, but they know America. They know immediately that I am visiting from that place, and I may be the only direct connection they ever have to America. There is an odd, sort of untold and mutual understanding that happens there every time. I'm trying to learn how to bridge the gap the best that I can.

Even in more urbanized, networked cities, there is a similar sort of recognition - albeit less pronounced and inevitably mixed with some hostility. Here was a scene from Nairobi: While I was there on the way to Rwanda, Joe Biden was wrapping up a week of diplomatic talks hosted by the Kenyans. I was in the airport waiting for my next flight out, and a man walked into the terminal gate to announce that there would be a delay due to 'unavoidable complications.' The man stood up high on a box and yelled; there are no airport announcement systems there. The people around me groaned and complained, although I couldn't understand their exact words. Two men in front became rather angry and lashed out at the hapless airport attendee. However, in midst of their tirade, a large jet bearing 'United States of America' taxied past the terminal. Thus the delay. Immediately, the angry men turned to watch. The people in the terminal rushed and pressed against the window, pointing, yelling, waving, snapping pictures and fighting to catch the slightest glimpse of the American symbol. I kept my seat. It was remarkable to watch.

There was an odd moment. I don't think I can overestimate the reverence many of these people have for their concept of America. I was confronted there with an image of world domination, generosity and exploitation both, in midst of another world racing to catch up, but still wary of the American presence. It's odd to sit between the two. I don't always know what to do with it.

I started to work this week. I traveled to Uganda and Gisenyi (the Congo border) both, but I've been back to Ruhengeri each evening to sleep. I'm still trying to sort through information and find my bearings. Traveling overland here is chaos, period. That will probably serve up a few stories for the next post. Peace & Love.