Rainy Season lunch

The rainy season has come. Finally. We dug out the garden, planted it, and set thorns around it. In the early mornings, the far-off yells of the men plowing the fields can be heard.

Yesterday morning, we noticed an abnormal amount of hawks and kites in the sky. "White ants," someone casually observed.

On my way to lunch, I was hailed by Maria and Josh Tricarico: "Rachel! Want to help us?!?!"

They were catching the many white ants that thickened the air around our mission. Naturally, I ran over and, seizing a kaveera (plastic bag), I joined their frantic attempts at catching the termites. We dashed about, arms and legs flapping, as we tried to snatch, net, and slap the elusive insects. Kipsy joined us after a while, and we each staked out a different termite hole to wait for the ants to fly out.

By the end, we had about 50 or so bugs. We all trooped into the main kitchen, sweaty and dusty, carrying our rustling kaveeras with pride.

Then came the question of how to prepare them. We'd all eaten and cooked white ants before, but couldn't remember how. We settled on frying them - preheating the pan for a quick, painless death. We dumped them into the pan with a little oil and watched them writhe for a split second, then lie still.

"What should we put in them?" someone asked.

We looked at eachother, then I suggested, "Indian termites?"

A little garam masala, some turmeric, ginger, garlic, coriander and cumin. Kipsy "accidentally" dumped in a bunch of thai seasoning as well. The kitchen was filled with the spicy smell, and we all started grinning in anticipation.

I turned off the stove and we lined up at the counter to get our rice and beans. We topped it off with our newfound delicacy and carried our heaped plates into the main room, showing them off to the fairly disgusted members of our mission. The four of us sat down at the table together and raised a spoonful of lunch.

"1....2...3..." We put them into our mouths and began chewing. At first, it was great - salty, spicy, mixing well with the rice and beans. Then I voiced what we were all thinking:

"Oh man....we forgot about the sand...we didn't wash them..."

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

A typical roadside conversation

"Mzungu! I love you!"

"No, you don't!"

"Yes! I want to marry you!"

"Why?"

"Because....you are a white lady..."

Right. Great reason.

A Bit Brown.

The latest question on everyone's mouth - "Whoa! Can she understand Ngakarimojong?"

To which I answer, "Yes, she can."

After the laughter settles, the second question - "Are you a Karimojong?"

"Uh...."

This is where one of my Karimojong friends breaks in : "Yes! Yes she is! See?"

Racism comes in many forms. It can be everything from someone screaming and spitting on you because of your skin color to a sidelong sneer and a clipped comment in the checkout line about how you apparently think you're better than everyone else. Recently I've been noticing it a lot more - perhaps it's because I'm getting older, but I've had more and more interactions where my skin color apparently made a lot of difference.

But then again, I am a Karimojong - or so they tell me. A real Karimojong. One who can grind corn, mud a house, carry a child and keep the wisecracks coming. And one who can laugh at any situation. Yes, I am a Karimojong. That's me. Nakor(u) Naris Nakim Angolere Kokoi Teresa. (I've been given countless names - most of which I can't remember. ) So why is there still so much trouble here? Why do I still get harassed?

Because I am white, I guess. To those that know me, I'm the in-between. They tell me I am not white and not black. And yet I am both. They tell me I am "a bit brown". They tell me that I am a true Karimojong inside, but my outside is white. I am between colors. A bit brown.