Slimed

Last week, right before I left for France, Robert and I got pulled over by the traffic police again for a bribe.

This is the fifth time, in my almost-six-months here, that this has happened. It is not an unusual event in Kampala at all, however, what WAS unusual was my reaction to it.

The first few times it had happened, I was fit to be tied. I was so outraged, so deeply and morally offended, that I scared the shit out of Robert. I ranted and raved, threatened the cop for bribing me, and worked myself into such a lather that Robert looked as though HE wanted to pay the cop to arrest him just to get away from the foaming maniac in the front seat with him.

"Madame Boss, this is normal here," he told me. "They are more likely to pull us over because you are white and they think they can get more money, yes, but they do it to Ugandans too...it's just the way it is here, please don't get so upset."

The fact that it is so obvious, so blatant, infuriated me. Sometimes they don't even bother to make up a fake charge or violation, they just say, "What do you have for me today?"

I tried in vain to explain my reaction to Robert.

"This just does not EVER happen in the U.S., Robert, it is unheard of," I told him. "Yes, our politicians and the CEOs of our banks and financial institutions may spend years subtly raping us of billions until our economy falls into the toilet...but our POLICE DO NOT BRIBE US!!!!"

For some reason, given the two options, he seemed to prefer paying the occasional $3.50 to the traffic police.

These days, however, I just go with the flow.

Sure, it still pisses me off, but I have determined that it is indeed a normal event here and getting upset is a waste of energy on every one's part.

Plus, as I have mentioned before, I seemed to have developed, despite my white skin, a certain "Ugandan-ness" about me that signals how far these things can go.

Last Monday, when the cop stopped us, I cut him short before he could even launch into a spiel on some made-up violation.

"How much?" I asked.

He smiled, "Ah, you live here?"

Yep. Now, how much?

"Twenty thousand?" he tried. ($10)

I laughed. "No way, that's insane!"

"OK, OK, I won't let you go for less than fifteen thousand, then," he declared.

"Then I guess we're going to be sitting here in this intersection in the hot sun for a long time," I told him, "Because I am NOT giving you fifteen thousand."

He tried another approach, "Well, then I am going to arrest you and take you to jail, then."

I pulled out my diplomatic badge from the Embassy.

"OK, OK, then I am going to arrest him!" he pointed at Robert.

I pulled out the letter that I made up and printed that declared that Robert had special dispensation from the U.S. Embassy and could not be arrested while driving with me...signed, "The General of the United States of America." (Yes, I know this is incredibly illegal but, honestly, it does the trick).

The officer, far from being frustrated, was now very much enjoying this game.

Oddly, so was I.

"OK, OK, what will you give me?" he asked.

"I should only give you seven thousand ($3.50) because I know that is what you get from Ugandans but I will give you the muzungu bribe price of ten thousand, deal?" I inquired.

"Yes, OK. Can you also give me your muzungu newspaper, please? My shift is over in another hour and I need something to read on the ride home...and we can't afford the British papers."

I handed him the ten thousand and the Independent and we shook hands. He took another few minutes to ask about my family, whether I had children, and then to congratulate me on Barack Obama.

Driving away, Robert was very congratulatory. "I am so proud of you, Madame Boss," he told me, "so very proud of you."

"Thanks, Robert."

"No, no...really, I am so proud of you! You are like a Ugandan now...only white! Remember how you used to get so upset? Remember? Remember how you used to yell at them and use the f-word and turn bright red and sweat a lot? Remember?"

Yes, Robert, I remember. That's enough, please.

When Connie was visiting last month, we went into a store that caters to mainly foreign clientele and split up to look at different items. Within ten seconds, every clerk in the store descended on her, asking if she needed help and trying to point her in the direction of higher priced items.

Me, they left completely alone.

Same thing happened at dinner a few weeks ago with a newly arrived muzungu from the UK who I took to my favorite restaurant across the street.

Despite the fact that everyone here speaks English, and she speaks, as the Ugandans say, "real English (as opposed to the American version)," the waitstaff kept looking to me for interpretation.

"She said she wants the fish and chips, correct?" my normal waitress, Helen, asked me after my new colleague had placed her order.

"How is your friend finding our restaurant?" the owner, Maurice, asked in front of her.

I pulled Helen and Maurice aside on the way to the ladies' room and said, "You both know she is from the UK and speaks English, "real English," what is going on?" I asked.

"She speaks too fast and doesn't know the slang yet,"Helen said.

Mind you, Ugandans don't use any slang that I am aware of so this was further confusing.

"We're not trying to be rude," Maurice said, "It's just easier to deal with you...you know how things work here and we are trying to be efficient."

THAT made me laugh.

I was relating this all to Robert today as he dropped me off in the middle of the intersection so I could hop over barriers and duck in-and-out of moving traffic so we wouldn't have to get bribed for parking in the lot directly in front of the grocery store.

"I think I am flattered but I am not sure," I confided to him.

"I mean, I guess it is good that no one is really that interested in me anymore because I am white and that I am getting preferential treatment with traffic police and waiters...but how do they know?" I asked.

"I am, after all, still white," I concluded, pointing out the way-too-obvious.

Robert thought on this hard for awhile.

"I don't know how we know, you're just different now. It's your attitude or something, I guess. But it is also something else, it is like something is on your skin..." he said.

(What, besides the dust and exhaustion fumes?)

"We have a word for this in Luganda but I cannot translate it into English..." he told me.

After returning from the store, Robert had found the word, or its nearest equivalent, in his Luganda-English dictionary.

He was very excited.

"Here! Here is the word, this is what has happened to you!" he told me as he pointed to the word in the dictionary.

The word? "Slime."

"'Slime,' Robert? I have been 'slimed?'" I asked, incredulous.

"Yes, yes...you have been slimed!" he declared.

He seemed to particularly like this word, the way it rolls off the tongue and all.

"Slime! Yes, you are covered in invisible slime! Uganda slime!" he laughed. "I LOVE this word, this 'slime' word. Is it an American word or do the English use it too?"

It exists in both versions of English, I told him. These days, however, Americans might have more cause to use it.

So, here I am. Six months into Uganda...

Covered in Slime.