The Art of Subtlety

I'll be the first to admit I like visiting orphans. Who doesn't? But even I was shocked to see a group of Americans (who I am going to distance as much as possible from myself by stereotyping them as Southern evangelicals) clustered in a group in the transit terminal of the Entebbe airport wearing matching shirts that said, "VISITING ORPHANS Uganda 2011" in bright orange letters across their backs. On the front was the word "Love" with the African continent where the letter "o" should have been, and a few scriptures thrown in for good measure. The whole group was laughing and hugging as if they had actually saved the entire continent during their visit. Never - not even when my mom tried to convince me I faced possible beheading during my overnight layover in Qatar - have I been so afraid someone would identify me as an American.

Danielle and I happened to notice the brazen message at the same time. I had been absorbed in my book for most of the morning, but slowly became conscious of a growing group of muzungus on the chairs in front of me. At first I was excited. After 2 months in Kenya and Rwanda it was a shock to see so many fair faces in one place, and when I heard their American accents I felt a certain kinship towards them. But as I looked from one to the other and realized they were all conforming to some bizarre dress code, the tunnel vision set in. My eyes moved in slow motion down the back of the girl standing nearest to me, to the assaulting orange letters and my jaw literally dropped.

I looked over at Danielle to be sure my eyes weren't deceiving me and saw the same look mirrored in her face. We immediately agreed that our only goal for the remaining 6 hours of our layover was to capture photographic evidence that shirts like that (and people willing to wear them in public) actually exist. This was a rare moment of solidarity for us, considering Danielle and I have nearly opposite ideals regarding the definition of socially acceptable behavior. But somehow that hideous shirt seemed universally inappropriate. I would have payed money to see a group of Rwanda young people wearing the same one on a mission trip to the deep South.

We started by pretending to skip through our photos while holding the camera out in front of us, but without the flash it was useless. So we followed them as they walked around, trying to get a close up. The only thing tackier than their shirts was our attempt at stalking them through the airport with our camera continuously casting a red focusing light on their backs. They eventually became uncomfortable with our cackling and started avoiding us. But not before we got these gems: