Turning the tables on the tourists

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There are moments when the people that we so love to observe and quietly comment on get their payback; moments when the children and the market ladies, the artists and the guys who sell stuff in the bus windows turn all eyes on us. Children pour out of rural classrooms and chase us down the road chanting "Uzungu!"; people gather round when our car breaks down; ladies laugh and sing as I try to pound maize without scattering it all over the place.

There was the day we sat on upended crates and shared a plate of plain rice - needing sustenance but wanting something gentle on the tummy. We were studied by the people that passed just as we study every vendor of lettuce, chilies, or oil decanted into glass bottles and plastic sacks that look like test tubes. And just as ours do, their eyes lingered on us, cast over their shoulders even as their feet took them around the bend. They shared whispers, just as we mutter to each other, trying to be subtle as we point out a brilliant smile or a particularly beautiful stack of tomatoes.

Waiting for buses to leave, especially open flat-bed trucks where it is so easy for young boys to rest their chins and just gaze and giggle as we chat or write, or heaven forbid read, to pass the time.

My entertainment and good humor seemed to end the day that a gaggle of Catholic school girls caught me squatting to pee behind a wall - they called their friends, they poked their heads through the gate, they stood staring long after my pants were up and the deed was done. They lingered far beyond any reasonable point which decency would allow - sharing with their pals the news of a stark white bottom. Let's turn those tables back why don't we… (stl)

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Photos

Fascinated by the breakdown
We felt so lucky to have hitched in a ride in a fancy truck with some other travelers. Our luck ran out when the engine overheated a few kilometers out of town, but was revived when we talked and laughed and played with the scores of people who came out to watch.

Pounding maize
These ladies saw us admiring their rhythmic pounding and shared songs and called us over to try. After one look at my unskilled pounding that sent maize flour flying, I got wrapped in a sarong to protect my black pants from the white flour. And then they laughed and sang some more.