In Nepali there is no word for hello. Instead, they asked what you were doing. Sometimes, when out walking, I would reply “Gumnus.” This translates as to roam. It does not mean to walk or to wander. It means to roam. I always liked this. Perhaps because roaming has no defined point, and yet it still sounds dignified, intentioned, purposeful. This word left me feeling content, as it so often captured exactly what I was doing.
In American Sign Language an open faced palm while wiggling one’s fingers communicates the idea of waiting. I would often flash this sign to Dev as we stood in line at the rec center or library. “We’re waiting,” I would say. He would understand and stop. His ears often struggled to comprehend my words, but his eyes almost always succeeded in reading my signs. A daily life saver.
Here, English is certified official. And yet, I am constantly craving translation. American accent aside, this need manifests itself in an urge to answer with my hands, a reaction to reply in Nepali, an uncanny revert into Spanish. I am fluent in but one language-- a language Kampala shares-- and still my brain disgruntledly needs to put in check her leftbrainded-foreignspeak instinct. Whoever convinced me that translation parallels understanding never came to East Africa.
Understanding lives deep beneath the surface of words. You know him well, no doubt. At home, he often reveals himself in cued off eye contact, folded arms, or a nod of the head. He lives in short glances and tones of voice. A smile. A fiddling hand. A gazed down forehead.
These days, though, he has become a bit mystical. He laughs, as he watches me drown in the unspoken. He is a surname backed with heritage and tribalism, of which I am ignorant. He is a simple greeting, to whom I stare half startled at. He is a phone call ended abruptly, as I am still saying goodbye.
But he lives deeper still.
She grabs my hand and rubs her fingers against the undersides of mine. With laugher in her voice she says, "Oh your hands are so soft. A nice life.” I tease her back-- "Let me see!" I grab her palm as I touch her skin, "Yours are no different!,” I say as I drop it.
But there is a difference here, because in the most obvious way, I would never even think to check. Nor do I know exactly what it is I am feeling for. I am in need of translation. What does this mean? A familiar question that is becoming second nature.
I come from a place far away. I work, without pay, for a company that has money, but no product to sell. What does this mean?
I barter for a ride. The driver keeps a stern face. I know not to walk away too soon. He is charging me 1 dollar too much, but the price is already tripled that of standard rate. I can afford it or it’s absurd? What does this mean?
I dance to Jay-Z and M.J in pubs and bambooed bars. I talk to ex-pats and upper class Ugandans. We sip on beer, cocktails and wine. People stay anywhere from 1 month to life. These answers flow in undertones and currents of an unspoken identity. What does it mean?
It means I am foreign and I come from a nation perceived as Aesop’s pot of gold. It means I speak English, only. My hands are soft, my skin is white, I am thinking I am doing something special... but hasn't everyone always? It means I don’t understand what I represent. My object/person is layered with unfulfilled expectation, memories of colonial/post-colonial history, po-mo politics of aid and international development, a US Passport, the city of sin, the city of angles, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Peace Corps , still can’t quite explain skiing, lost in translation doesn’t quite translate, I am Muzungu, I am female, I am a female Muzungu, I have forgotten my name, it’s not yours to know, I am helping, I am harming, I am working, I am wondering, I am wondering, I am wondering about it all.
After a day on the bus, I find myself sitting next to a woman and her child. Best estimate puts the babe at one year. He reaches out for my hair. He pulls on the long brown curls. He grabs for my finger and rests his head against my arm. Child, I think, beautiful beautiful child. I make eye contact with his mother, searching her eyes for an indication towards approval or dismay. She adjusts and looks away. I pull out my book. She holds her person. We share a bus. Simplicity not even in form.
