We passed the weekend in Rwanda, and on the way there, I spent Thursday night with Megha’s family in Kampala.  So generous for opening their home to me, they let me eat their delicious food, use plenty of expensive hot water, watch DSTV, and play “bowling” with their 3-year-old daughter.  They were nothing but nice.  Still, the experience didn’t fill me with warmth.  For some reason, I found myself defensive… skeptical of their home and lifestyle.  Why?

First of all, let me explain a few things.  My Ugandan family lives comfortably.  They have the luxury of plenty of time to spend together; wear nice, clean clothes; have a DVD player and TV; and eat a variety of good foods (including meat fairly often).  They have an extra room to offer me!  They are well-off…

But when I went to Megha’s house, my family seemed poor.  Megha’s family lives in a new suburb of Kampala, where many politicians and “big men” also live.  Her house includes a garage because her family owns two cars.  The interior features white walls and spotless white tile floors (no small feat in dusty/muddy Africa); a kitchen with a stocked pantry and oven; fancy cable TV; a big refrigerator; and a bathroom with a sink, bathtub, handheld sprayer, porcelain toilet, and large mirror.  They have a house girl.  They wear gold jewelry and vacation in the United States and Europe.  Both parents are very educated (post-grad).  Their electricity and water are reliable.

My family has/does none of those things.  But like I said, we have more than we need.  Compared to the villagers I’ve met -- people who often can’t afford sugar or school fees or transportation into town -- my family is rich.

But compared to Megha’s homestay in Uganda’s capital city, my family still lives backwoods: no indoor running water, no expensive metal front gate (we use barbed wire covered with some straw-like material), no cars, few condiments, no alcohol.

At first I couldn’t deduce why walking into Megha’s house angered me.  What a lovely home!  It’s great that two people who work very hard can achieve such wonderful things.  How lucky they are to own so many pairs of shoes!

Was it outright jealousy at Megha’s comfort?  She can take warm showers, and rely on electrical hair tools, and brush her teeth with chilled water.  Jealousy alone can’t explain my sentiment, though.  She is one of my best friends in Africa, one of the people I get along with best.  She was assigned her homestay just like me, and what’s more, I’m happy she enjoys it so much, because that’s what matters.

When I stayed there, part of me wanted to defend my family, to tell her Kampala crew that, you know, I actually PREFER not using hot water… and that, you know, growing up in a home with lots of TV means that you spend less time talking to your family… and that even though my Jinja family SEEMS less comfortable in a material sense, we spend lots and lots of time together… and I can help my mom cook and bond because we don’t have any house girl doing that for us.  But why would I say those things?  Megha’s family didn’t insult mine.  I was their guest, anyway… and I’m sure my Ugandan lifestyle was far from their minds.

Another part of me wanted to scold Megha’s family.  What do you do for the community?  How do you give back?  If you don’t, how could you live like this, when so many of your neighbors’ children’s bellies grow fat with hunger?  Spending money on education is a good investment, but why must you wear flashy gold watches?  Do you really need to dig your own well to avoid using the city’s water (which, in their defense, the New Vision Paper reported recently turned green and was discovered to contain feces).

But in America, I come from Megha’s family.  My American family pays for my private university, orders take-out, vacations abroad, wears jewelry, and swims in our backyard pool.  By the standard with which I judge Megha’s family, those are all wastes of money, save education.  Who am I to claim such a thing?!  Nothing but a bloated hypocrite.

What’s more, one of my greatest delights in Rwanda was dining at New Cactus, a pricey French restaurant with brilliant views of Kigali’s nighttime city lights.  I spent $18 USD on my meal – vin blanc, mineral water, veggie potage, salade nicoise, and crepes – and felt nothing but joy doing so.  I justified it (I think we all did) by saying that I deserve such an indulgence after eating mostly starch for a month, by saying that my meals had been so cheap all along (a couple USD), I could afford this meal.  Needless to say, the concentration of non-natives in New Cactus proved significantly higher than almost anywhere else I’ve been in Uganda or Rwanda.

Maybe I reacted to Megha’s family the way I did because I didn’t feel a part of it.  In the U.S. I know I belong to a tiny, elite group.  I feel guilty about my consumerism, and believe in balancing opportunities between the rich and poor.  I believe in the Democratic Party, in volunteerism, in aid (a concept that needs further explanation elsewhere).  Many of my peers who come from similar backgrounds feel the same way.

Wealth is relative.  In America I belong to a privileged group, and I also know there are people much richer than me.  They buy $1000 martinis with real rubies inside and own private islands (we know this! it airs on TV!).  But I don’t normally have access to those people, so I’ve never felt as personally confronted by wealth as I did in Megha’s Kampala home.

Whereas normally I’m the person coming from the sunny side of the street – the one flying to Africa to check things out, to make a hopefully-not-too-misguided attempt at improving something – at Megha’s I felt like I stared myself in the face.  How can I reconcile that?