Muzungu, where are you going?!

Muzungu, where are you going? Pronounced: Moo-zoon-goo

This is the phrase that I hear at least seven times every day, often multiple times on the same street. I hear it in the morning when I’m walking into town, in the afternoon when I’m walking to a restaurant, in the evening when I’m sprinting home to relieve my non-assimilated digestive track, and every conceivable space in between. The only time I don’t hear that question is when I’m sitting right where I am at this moment, typing on Joel’s computer and listening to the affectionate screams of the four loudest children to ever grace this earth. (They live on the same piece of property, and when the sun comes up, Musa, Goddie, Joseph and Emma start their day by sprinting around the house screaming jibberish [not Lugandan, but Jibberish] at each other as a means of entertainment. They have a knack for stopping right outside the windows where we are sleeping, simply to scream.)

“Muzungo, where are you going?!”
“I’m going home.”
“Jinja?? Kampala?? Tororo?? Lira??”
“I’m going home. Now.”
“Muzungo, where are you going?!?!”
“I just told you!”

This was a conversation I had upwards to 30 times the other day while waiting at the bus stop to pick up some friends coming in from Lira. The bus drivers have these minions who race up to you and get paid to escort you to their bus. It is extraordinarily convenient when you want to go somewhere, and ten times as frustrating when you want to be left alone. Alone time is a myth here, but that is not the subject of this post.

Muzungu, by the way, is the name for white man. Direct translation: “White man, where are you going?” I find this superbly funny that everybody constantly wants to know where I’m going. As you may have guessed, white men are not very common in Mbale. This is not true of all of Uganda, but certainly here. Especially because our house is in the “Indian Quarters” (although I’m not too sure I’ve seen even one Indian anywhere near our compound), people stop what they are doing and stare at me. This phenomenon increases exponentially as we increase our numbers, and I fret to the point of restlessness about what’s going to happen when there are 7 of us walking around. Again, our presence is even more conspicuous amongst the little ones, but they don’t ask me questions. They just scream “Muzungu!!” until I look at them and wave. Then they laugh and jump up and down until I’m out of site. I’ve made something of a game out of this, sometimes making faces at them and causing some serious giggling fits. The children are adorable, but the adults are just plain confused.

Muzungu is not a racist term. There is zero emotion behind the word. It is simply a statement of fact. I have white skin, hair on my arms, face, and head, and that makes me different. In this situation, being labeled as different is merely what it is, different. Not lesser or greater, just different. Completely unlike the six letter synonym for Negro, this comment does not instill any feelings other than pure statement of fact. However, I propose the question as the devil’s advocate: what if the shoe were on the other foot? This is a proposition in theory and not to be taken seriously. Can you imagine being on campus at the University of Oregon on a warm spring day, when people are friendly and the ladies have come out of hibernation? I bet you can. Can you imagine seeing LeGarrette Blount walking down campus on his way to class or wherever? Certainly, you can. But can you imagine if 30 people dropped their shit, stared at him and shouted from all angles, “Black Man! Where are you going?!?!” HAHAHAHAHAHA The situation is just too funny to me. The FBI, PITA, hippies, and every organization you can imagine besides your grandfather would come crashing down through your door and demand you apologize to Oprah on national television.

I hope you enjoy this hypothetical situation as much as I do, and please, let me know if anybody tries it out. Although, I have thought about this so much that it is simply not possible to be any funnier than it is in my head. Hope you have enjoyed this cultural insight as much as I have; thanks for reading!