Feeling Very White

Riding by homes on the twisting dirt road, up and down hills, through valleys, and over wood planked bridges the men and women he passes look up from tilling the fields to stare as the white man on the bike passes their home. If he can do it safely, given the dilapidated, seat-less, borrowed, unloved bicycle he pedals and its single semi-functional brake, he adjusts the habitually starboard leaning helmet his overly concerned organization forces upon his head, and attempts to maintain balance while thrusting one arm in the air, quickly, by way of greeting. Their flock of small children, typically no less than four to a man, but sometimes as many as ten (though in such cases, he would point out that such quantity typically indicates several wives, who may work the same farm), stare in dumbfounded amazement, jaw dropping. If able to recover in time they offer the respectful greeting “Shikamoo” to which he invariably replies, “Marahaba.” And though he begins the word on a high note, by the time he has covered its multisyllabic length, his strength has already waned, his voice takes on a tired quality. Perhaps the oft-spoken word has already lost its novelty. Perhaps he believes that a respectful greeting should not force him to play tired games, repeating the same response to each individual’s “Shikamoo,” no less than four but sometimes as many as ten times.
He greets everyone he passes here, at minimum the lifted arm as he whips down a steep hill with clenched teeth, sometimes even a full wave, if safety permits and the peasants have paused in their work, looking on from rows of crops with particular curiosity. Invariably they wave back. He may truly be the first white person some of the children have seen, and sighting him likely would not put some of the adults in double digits. Sometimes his presence seems unremarkable. Sometimes it causes a bit of a stir. At the first village soccer game he attended in a nearby village, poorly disguised surprise lit his face when, turning around from his position on the sideline, his eyes met no less than 80, gathered in pairs and gazing intently. They were so curious! But what they are thinking, what goes through their minds, remains an intriguing mystery to him.
One afternoon the situation forced him to walk the 10 km (harder it seems, given the landscape) to visit the nearest white person. Passing through one village, the road widened out and was lined by small buildings and shops one deep on both sides. The dusty dirt road, tightly shuttered and shackled shops (most likely the owners were working their land, as such small shops are insufficient in themselves to make a living), flight of children, and their gaze through crevices after reaching fortified positions; the way in which every eye fell to staring at him; made him feel as though he had entered a Western and ought to have had pistols on each hip, ready for a showdown.