Give Me a Biscuit

The rainy season is here. This means I wake up every morning to gray skies and soggy ground. But by afternoon the sky looks bigger than I’ve ever seen it, a brilliant rain-washed blue with huge puffy clouds crowding each other all around.

This also means that the kids are home on a month-long break. Yesterday town was full of them, and when I went for a walk after work, it was clear that they were in a holiday mood. Let me explain: Children will ask any mzungu for anything that they think they can get: money, candy, pencils, biscuits, your watch, your phone, a bicycle, etc. The common belief is that all white people are rich and can afford to give them something. A lot of times with tourists this is true, but I am a volunteer, and it is very hard to make them believe that I am not rich. Therefore I get asked for a lot of stuff. The culturally sensitive answer (which I have given up on because it doesn’t work) is to respond that I don’t have any of what is being asked for, or maybe tomorrow. I usually just say no, which is perfectly acceptable in the US but all but unheard of in this culture. I say that’s what I’m here for: cultural exchange. This is a conversation I had on my walk:

Children: Mzungu! Mzungu!
Me: Sasa (very informal how are you)
Children: Give me a biscuit (cookie)!
Me: No
Old man walking his bicycle laughs
Old man: The children like to joke with you. They are just playing. (Clearly untrue--they really wanted me to give them cookies.)

Now repeat this exchange about 12 times, add some catcalls, about 20 “howareyous” with plenty of giggling whether I answer or not, and blatant staring from every person I pass, and you’ll get a normal day for me. If anything, I can say I’m working on patience. This is where I take a step back, think about this situation from their cultural perspective rather than mine, which puts a different spin on things. And makes me even more thankful to be an American.

Miss you all. Love me