We all know the Sartrian Stare even if the name doesn't ring a bell. It's that piercing look stemming from a visage that is at best blank and at worst vile. The only purpose of that look is to pass judgement on the person, a judgement that is almost never positive. Every day that I've been in Uganda I have been on the receiving end of the Sartrian Stare. Our travels have taken us into many small towns and villages in Uganda. Every single person along the side of the road gives me that glare and I must admit, it's beginning to take it's toll on me.
Well maybe that isn't entirely accurate. We drive past an impressive number of schools populated by an overflowing number of tiny African children bound together in matching checkered uniforms. The youngest children, no older than five, rush to the side of the road with beaming smiles and wave shouting, "How are youuuuuu?" at us as we drive by. I doubt they have any idea what that means, seeing as their inflection is completely wrong. Odds are they just learned the phrase through repetition and don't fully understand its meaning, but still. The kids love us. Their innocence blinds them to the second most obvious differences between me and them.
The primary difference is simple; I'm a white man with blond hair in Africa and believe me, I stick out. The kids look at me and see the obvious difference in pigmentation and my weird hair that hangs over my forehead instead of clinging tightly to my scalp. Their adorable looks are those of fascination and are definitely not the Sartrian Stare.
But those older than about five know that the most salient difference is not our skin: it's our money. Older Africans have seen us white folk before and there are no looks of intrigue. This continent is incredibly poor, even for the third world. Adandoned construction projects dot the landscape and are vastly outnumbered by buildings only half finished and flanked with unused raw materials such as bricks or metal siding. We have seen small children wander off into jungle more dense than even the most wild, unkempt patches of American vegetation carrying plastic jugs two third's their size in search of a natural water source. We've seen countless numbers of men pushing bicycles up steep hills loaded with at least sixty pounds of green bananas (a starchy dietary staple) in their barefeet.
I was always one of the more wealthy of my friends in Evanston, but I hardly noticed socioeconomic differences. When I went to Duke I met people so wealthy that my social status was relegated to that of the kids shouting, "How are youuu?" And now it has come full circle, my skinny ass sitting atop the economic pyramid. I can imagine those who will read this and wonder how on Earth I could worry about such things when I am on a vacation of this indelible nature. The only way I can respond is that you don't get the Sartrian Stare to this magnitude. I do.
Dad has developed an immunity to the look and rightfully so; his work in Rwanda between 2006-2008 single handedly saved hundreds of Rwandan women from certain death by cervical cancer. He's earned his niche here in Africa. I haven't, but would like to somehow. I take solace in the rationalization that my individual impact on tourism, one of the key pillars of the East African economy, does more for Uganda than 99% of its own inhabitants. But I also know that the theory that money trickles down carries about as much credibility as the sales pitch of a traveling healing-tonic salesman.
Please do not take this post as any indicator that I am not having the time of my life (again). Everything so far has been wonderful and the best lies ahead. Just know that it isn't all fun and games, because while the excitement of watching an irate bull elephant rip a candelabra cactus tree from the ground pulls on one corner of my heart, the unenviable and regrettably unchangeable plight of the average African citizen pulls on the opposite.
ACB
No comments:
Post a Comment