Mzungu Dreams

Mzungu Dreams

The gentle wind whistling through the savannah grass was punctuated only by the grunting of rutting impala. Young bucks fought over who got to lead the small harem of does. They’d do this all day, and the leadership, or rather ownership, of the herd changed hands every hour. Such is the nature of life in Uganda’s Lake Mburo safari park.  

“Look, Quincy! I made the Buffalo!” Meren, our local Bugandan safari guide, proudly displayed her clay buffalo skull to my seven year old. They had torn apart a termite mound and used the sticky clay to craft different objects. Quincy, ever the artist, had molded herself an elephant head that actually looked like an elephant head. Meren’s creation looked like…well, not like a buffalo skull.

I stood over them, mesmerized that my 7 year old was living a life I had always dreamed of. Here I am, a late-40’s middle school teacher whose blistered feet hurt in his hiking boots and who’s been swollen with painful mosquito bites since we got here on Tuesday. Quincy on the other hand was born and raised on African safari, and makes a hiking trek through the safari park look easy. She makes living in the bush look natural.

How wonderful it is to be growing up as the child of diplomats. Bouncing from country to country without a care in the world, going from one amazing safari to the next. The child is totally displaced and could care less about it. She’s what’s called a Third Culture Kid, a child who isn’t from the parents’ culture, but isn’t from the current country’s culture either. The Third Culture then is a blend of all the cultures they’ve experienced. These kids are unique world travelers. Flexibility and adaptability rule their lives.

But I’m different. I grew up in the mountains outside Boulder Colorado and didn’t even see the ocean until I was 19. I traveled abroad my first time when I was 30. I’m realizing that what I really want out of life is to be the cattle herder I can see about fifty meters into the bush. He’s got a stick and a trained dog, about 40 long-horned Ankole cows, and an all-day shift moving his cows across the grasslands. Bitterness thinking I’ve squandered my life burns through me. Idealism keeps me dreaming, but nightmares say I have to wake up by the end of the weekend.

My frustrations center mostly on the fact that life feels so complicated. It’s so damn busy, and honestly moments like this sprinkled through the occasional school vacation are what make it tolerable. Teaching middle school is drudgery, and dealing with surly teenagers all day is less fun than a root canal. Goddamn it. 

“Jimmy,” I hear Meren quizzically inquire, “are you ok?” 

I glance down and see a look of concern on her face. I wonder if all her bush treks leaves dads wistfully admiring the simplicity of the African savannah. Time doesn’t mean anything out here. Days blend into each other in a never ending march. It’s been the same for thousands of years, with the only contemporary difference being the random safari vehicle that slowly grinds its way around the mud puddles dotting the dirt track that passes for a road.

“I’ll be ok.” I must be presenting a face of dejection, as Meren’s expression says she’s more concerned with my answer than she was before she asked about my mental state. 

“Are you from around here, Meren?”

“Yes. I come from the community just over the hill.” She points to a rise not far away, but squarely inside the park. “I live at the lodge though. I’ve been here five years."

I hesitate to ask too many more questions for fear of sounding like an ignorant mzungu. That’s what black Ugandans call white people. It’s not meant to be derogatory, rather just an easy identifier of who’s who. But it’s loaded with meaning, especially the layered resentment of colonialism. I’m not one of Uganda’s British colonizers, but my white skin lumps me in with them nonetheless. 

I marvel at this tall dark beauty. Meren is lovely, with dark black skin and immaculate braids. She’s friendly as can be, and has led Quincy’s kids-oriented safari trek. Meren took us out on foot to learn tracking skills, and they’ve led us to the nearby herd of impala. Her and Quincy also built a small fire and grilled bananas. Locals call bananas matoke, and they are fabulous roasted over a fire, skewered on a stick. The clay art was impromptu, based on Quincy’s interest in the two-meter termite mound a few feet away. Next on our agenda was making a bow and arrow. 

What a life. “Meren, do you ever intend on leaving here?” 

“I’ve thought about it. I’ve dreamed about going to college, but that would probably make me move away. I’m not sure I want to leave though. My people have been here forever.”

“I don’t want to leave either.”

Meren chuckled. “You like the little bonfire so much?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Here I’ve fought to educate myself and make a meaningful career out of teaching, having nice houses and safari trucks, and yet I daydream about living in a mud hut and herding cows for the rest of my days. 

“Meren, I’d be happy living the rest of my days building little campfires with you and grilling bananas.”

She smiled at that. “But here comes your wife.” She flipped her chin in the direction of the cow herd, and just beyond the cattle herder I had admired came my wife and our family friends walking back from their day trek. 

Oh well, an idyllic life with Meren would have to wait. But I guarantee that I’ll think about her every time I build a fire. From now on, bonfires will make me dream of being an African cattle herder, with a tall, beautiful wife. Life with a woman who grills bananas on a stick, makes bows and arrows out of local plants, and does all this wearing flip flops. Perhaps Quincy could follow in those meager shoes. But I fear it’s too late for me. My life is the grind, and I wonder in disgust at how Westerners think a successful grind is the ideal. Apparently the mzungus who came up those qualifiers never went on safari. They never daydreamed around a bonfire, grilling bananas on sticks.