What I do think is interesting are the patterns that develop for yelling mzungu!--based on hour, location, and the evolution of name-calling across time.
I used to be an evening jogger, since I figured fewer bored children trying to lengthen their walk to school would mean fewer shouters. But actually, as a friend pointed out, early morning is best since school children tend to be too tired to put much effort into yelling. Instead of one out of five people under the age of 14 yelling mzungu! around sunset, in the minutes just after sunrise it's more like one out of ten.
Recently, I've become such a well known sight along this road that people yell out "Jenny!" "Jane!" "Janet!" Once even "Gena!" I rarely answer to the mzungu! call, but when someone shouts my name I always turn my head, sometimes wave, and occasionally even shout back. I wonder if with increased reaction will come more calls. Or if this is a sign that I'm becoming an actual person on my road instead of an oddity to be pointed out. Which might mean my run will become an obstacle course where I must dodge around extended greetings, rush between salaams, and duck under family inquiries.
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Last weekend I ran to a beach on the outskirts of town. The path goes around the central round-about, past the Regional Commissioner's residence, near the local prison and through a village before arriving at a beautiful sandy stretch along the lake. The town drunks and prisoners don't scare me. But the village children--oh, the children. They're terrifying.
During one point of the jog, a group of 25 three-foot-tall villagers swarmed us, arms outstretched, yelling as loudly as their little lungs allowed. We ran through them and they streamed behind us, picking up more and more children along the path who heard the call toddled out. In this village things are a little different. They yell mzungu! true, but that initial call is followed by a series of crescendoing "mpira! mpira! mpiraaa!" This call puzzled me for a long time. Mpira means "ball"--usually a soccer ball. I certainly don't know any mzungu who gives out balls to children. And the call was tightly contained in this area--children from surrounding villages haven't picked up the mpira! cry.
But until the mid-nineties the Norwegian development agency ran a water program out of Kigoma. A series of wazungu, the wives and children of engineers, would pass through this village on their way to play tennis. (I think the court has since disappeared) When their balls deflated too much for tennis-worthiness they tossed them out the window. Mpira! was born. And although no Norwegian tennis players have given out anything in twenty years, the children of children who did get the bouncy balls continue that cry.
In another village, Bitale, road construction has dramatically changed the way people shout at foreigners. From mzungu! children have shifted to mchina! The Chinese construction workers clearly have made an impact--if not on the road itself, well at least on Bitale's shouting culture.
