Race through the streets

"Ready to feel blue again?" I asked Jordan, referring to her remark about feeling like we have blue skin the way people stare at us.

"This time it will be like having blue skin and water skiing naked through the streets," she said as we began our jog through a tiny Tanzanian village where they see a white person as often as a change of season.

If America is the melting pot we learned about in grade school, then an African village is a box of regular fries and I am the curly one that somehow made its way in. The villagers can choose to dip me in ketchup or throw me in the trash, but either way they know I don't belong.

As I ran I tried to stare straight ahead at nothing but the air, but it was impossible not to know that every pair of eyes was directed right at my light skin. The bolder locals feel the need to make some sort of reaction, either whistling, pointing, laughing, pointing and laughing, tapping their friends on the shoulder to make sure they don't miss this opportunity to see a "mzungo" doing some strange activity that is a bit like walking but slightly faster. It was like one of those dreams where you arrive to work without pants on, only real. I admit it can't be a bad thing for a white, middle-class American to feel a bit out of place for once.

To be fair, many of the people I've gotten to know throughout my three weeks in Tanzania have embraced me like a family member. Many locals start up innocent conversation. They attempt to connect to the world they imagine I come from, on more than one occasion telling me I look like David Beckham. It's the people I don't get a chance to know who look at me like an alien that gets to me.

Children stare with wide eyes and dropped jaws as if I'm the boogieman or some character they've heard about in stories they were certain was a myth until he came running by in his Nike trainers. "Pepe," some scream out, assuming I should have some candy since that's what they're told the white people will bring. In America we teach our children not to take candy from strangers. In Africa, it's encouraged. The adults don't have as much of a sweet tooth. They just ask for money. I don't have either to offer, so I am of no use to them. I am all for helping people in a time of need. But when it's a life of need it becomes a bit more confusing. I am sympathetic and defensive at the same time.

I wished I was in better shape so the group forming behind me wouldn't be able to keep up. I can hear the footsteps and laughter, but I forge on. Cultural and language barriers sometimes make it confusing to determine when someone is sincerely interested in your business or just plain mocking you. There was no gray area here. I stopped in my tracks, turned around and began running in my hecklers' direction, sending children screaming into bushes, wishing they hadn't messed with the boogieman.

"Good morning," a little boy says, although it is 6 p.m. This innocent attempt at conversation eases my tension for a few steps until a teenager on a bicycle heads straight for me, making some strange 'meow' noise -- an odd choice in my opinion -- forcing me off the road and into a field. This is the moment I choose to stop running.

I'm certain all humans have a limited capacity for cultural experiences. Me, after seven months on the road in 18 countries, I'm over my limit and my body is starting to reject it. As I walked back to the guest house, a group of teenagers pointed and whistled. I snapped. "Ooooooo, a white person, let's all stare," I yelled back. Of course I regretted it a few seconds later, but I couldn't help it at the time. I'm all for throwing yourself out of your comfort zone and experiencing new cultures, but sometimes you can have too much of a good thing. I once heard about someone dying from drinking too much water.

***

I came to Africa under the impression I would spend some time volunteering for an organization that helps orphans. I have not laid a brick for a school or been led to a group of children to organize a game of soccer. I've been asked for money and more money despite the fact I've explained I'm fresh out of school and in debt. I've met disctrict leaders who assume I'm here to finance projects based on no other information than the color of my skin. They slide their visitors' books across the table to have me sign for whatever reason and thank me for my contributions which I haven't made. I want to help, but with my ideas and energy, not my checkbook. I suppose when you see the mailman, you assume he's got mail for you. White people don't come to a village in Tanzania because they enjoy the scenery.

It's not the rats running through the ceiling or the spiders bigger than my ear crawling on the walls or the buses that make you feel like you're involved in a large game of Twister that have brought me as close to a breakdown as I've gotten on this trip. It's the feeling of not being wanted. "What am I doing here?" I've found myself questioning on an hourly basis. It's not fair to those around me. I'm not my usual curious self. Had they encountered me in my earlier days of travel we would be sharing stories over beers. Now it seems like there's no choice but to recharge my batteries and go back to the world I know.

I try to make the most of my days, but for the first time I don't know how. I read, run, write, and think, but then there is still more than half the day remaining. I can choose to stay in the confines of my room or walk the streets and deal with the stares and laughter. I can no longer practice the openmindedness I preach. I feel as if I've discovered all I can in this place, at least for now. The only question I have remaining is, "Am I a bad person for wanting to get the hell out?"

***

After a few deep breaths and a bit of meditation this afternoon, I concluded that I will look back on this experience and smile someday. I told myself I am here and nowhere else and if I can't enjoy what's right in front of me, I am not living the right way. I have two more weeks and one challenge - to make the most of my time in Africa. Who knows when I'll be back?

As we left the village I was handed another visitors' book out of nowhere. I have no idea what purpose this served, just like all the rest of them. Instead of rolling my eyes, I began smiling. I scribbled my information and closed the book. I'm sure a few people will be curious about why David Beckham was in town.