Discovering My Comfort Zone

There have been jarring instances when I walk around town that make me reflect on myself and how the world works for me, a bit.

The other day Denise and I were walking home...and by walking home here, I mean we were hiking up a few hills. It takes about an hour to walk home because of the large, sloping hills. Sweat pours down Denise's face in the beating sun, and we both pant up the constant inclines. It's a nice little workout, I'll admit.

Anyways, we were hiking home, and man approached us on the road. Normally, people here just gape at me, smile, perhaps wave, exchange a mwiriwe (hello), and then leave us alone. This man, started approaching us and gibbering off to us about something. He seemed a bit off in the head, but I couldn't put my finger on why. He looked at me adamantly, as Denise stepped to the side, and I said to him, "I don't speak Kinyarwandan!"



"Non, mais j'ai besoin d'aide!" No, but he needed some help.

"Ah, désolée, je ne peux pas aider." I was sorry I couldn't help him.

"Mais ma jambe!"  Something was wrong with his leg.

He pulls up his pant leg to expose something that looked a bit green or scratched. I wasn't trying to look, to be honest. I didn't want to. I immediately starting running in my head. Oh no, what is it? Gangrene? Leprosy? AIDS? Diabetes?!

"Je ne peux pas aider." I still cannot help him.

"Mais il faut!" But he seemed to think otherwise.

The man reached out and grabbed for my bag. I immediately panicked, thinking maybe he is going to pass a disease along to me, or perhaps try to attack me on the street. I didn't know whether his act was an act of desperation or violence.

"Ne me touche pas! NE ME TOUCHE PAS! Je ne peux pas aider!" Don't touch me. Just don't.

I was ready to fight. But he backed off immediately. He muttered some words and watched us walk away from him.

Right away I was upset. I didn't know what just happened. All I know is that my inherent defense skills turned on, and I wanted this man to go away. But was that the right of me? What if the man needed help? Was I being an Ugly American because I was unwilling to help and be friendly in a culture where people pride themselves on their friendly, helpful demeanor to strangers? Was I being jaded and unfriendly, and setting a bad example, disappointing humanity?

But then again, why did he focus on the white person, the MZUNGU, to ask for help? Denise was right with me, and he barely looked at her. I started to wonder, and partially resent, the approach. Just because I am pale in complexion doesn't mean I have money. And why is it that whenever people see me, they approach me for help, for money, for food, or whatever? Why do I look like a walking pocketbook? I don't, in fact, have a lot of money. And the fact that EVERYONE comes to approach me, The Mzungu, for money, it makes me less inclined to help anyone. And then they seem to take is as a direct offense to them, if I refuse. But, really, is that all I am here? Don't they understand that everyone else has been doing this to me since my arrival, and perhaps I just have nothing left to give?

In the US, I have the luxury of anonymity. I can walk through town, unnoticed, and un-approached. Peaceful, quiet, and sometimes a bit lonely. But here, I am approached, stared at, gawked at, and it is even lonelier than being alone. It's alienating. Because it's being singled out in the community as the bread winner, as the aid giver.

I have absolutely no wish to be Angelina Jolie. Give me anonymity over fame any day.

Another story I have, though, is related to the perceptions on health here. The same day we were walking home, a student ran into us. She is one of the older students, and apparently a friend of her had recently passed. But she looked at Denise, who was all sweaty, and said, "But teacher, why are you so sweaty?"

Denise said, "Well, it's a hard walk up."

Student said, "Ah, it's because you're fat."

Denise laughed. "Well, I'm burning it up!"

The student looked at me. "But teacher Kim, you're also fat. Why are you not sweating?"

I paused. I was offended. I didn't know what to say, or if I wanted to respond.

Denise said, "It's all muscle. She doesn't need to sweat."

I said with a poker face, "I am used to exercising. This doesn't bother me."

This is not the first time someone here has commented on my weight. I've always been a big girl, even at my thinnest. It's because of a lot of reasons, but it's not because I'm lazy. That's for sure. I have a health disorder. I have to work out more than most people. I lost a lot of muscle here because I'm used to a daily work out ritual, and here it feels/seems/is virtually impossible for me to work out 4 times a week because of my schedule, and the exhaustion, and the cumbersome reality that exercising here is just readily available.

I've always been very, very sensitive about my weight. It's probably my greatest insecurity, and I have learned to accept the fact that I'll never be slight - my body just enjoys holding weight. So when people here always tell me I'm "huge" or "fat", it's like taking a spear in the heart, or rather, the gut. It deeply wounds me.

But then my colleagues will tell me how weight is considered a good, desirable thing here in Africa. It implies wealth. It implies being able to provide for your family. It tells people that you are well-nourished, and won't get sick as easily. Apparently, it's a good thing to have more weight. People here want to be bigger. And I understand all of this, but I don't know if I could get used to being considered well off because I can't drop a pound.

Health is also a word that is a bit different here than at home. Healthy, in the US, means fat free... organic... natural ingredients....low-carb, etc. Here, healthy seems to mean nothing like that, but rather full of stuff, high in carbs, high in calories. Which makes sense - people here are undernourished, so they see healthy as meaning will put weight on them and help them avoid starvation. So the mayonnaise is everywhere, and potatoes abound. I, personally, do not like this type of healthy. I miss my spinach salads with vegetarian burgers and low-fat cheeses. This diet, for me, is NOT healthy, and I look forward to being at one with my organic Kombucha again, someday....soon.