Roaming Mzungu

One of the first functions I attended in Uganda, after traveling by road and rail by myself from Cape Town up through half of Africa, was a village mass with a priest I was staying with, Father Kizito.
The turnoff to the village wasn’t visible from the highway, so I was surprised when Kizito suddenly drove off the road into the bush. A narrow and bumpy dirt path appeared, practically impassable.
We drove deep into the bush, surrounded by jungle, and stopped in a grassy clearing. Rows of wooden benches were covered by a yellow tarp held up by wooden poles, and about 200 villagers were waiting for mass to begin. They stared at me with fascination, having never seen a mzungu (white person) attending mass in their village.
When it was over we said goodbye and got in the car. After 20 feet the car broke down. About 30 kids watched the men try to fix it, completely bored.
I had to inject some fun into the hopeless situation, but the kids were too scared to even touch me. Some of them cried and ran away from me. But they kept staring at me, curious, confused, frightened.
I asked the adults if there was anything I could make a ball out of. A man grabbed his machete and hiked through the bush towards a grove of banana trees. He hacked off dried leaves and showed me how to make the core of the ball. He had me chop off several long banana leaves, which he ripped into thick shredded pieces of fiber and wrapped them around the core until we had two makeshift soccer balls. They were far from World Cup regulation balls, but they would do. I walked back to the clearing, where the kids were milling about bored to death.
As soon as I started kicking the balls into the crowd of kids they instantly got the idea and their faces lit up with excitement. I was now their friend. We played for two hours as the men worked on the car, me against 30 kids.
When I took a break the kids gathered around me, waiting for me to continue playing. They wanted it to go on forever. I was drenched with sweat, my chest hurt, and my feet were getting blisters. But I kept on going. What choice did I have? I was bringing a little joy to this small corner of the world, to this group of impoverished children, and showed them that I am the same as them. It was one of the most beautifully humbling experiences of my life.
When the car was fixed I waved goodbye to the kids, and as we sped away they ran after the car yelling and cheering, “Bye, mzungu!”
I watched them disappear in the dust we left behind.