One of these things is not like the other

I'm not in Kansas anymore.

This is made especially obvious to me this morning as I walk to work.  It's a flat, dusty stroll of approximately two city blocks, but the measure of a 'city block' is about as foreign to this place as I am.  In the semi-coolness of a rising sun, people are wedging in tasks, visits, and accomplishments before the oppressive heat drives everyone into the shade.

A disturbance breaks the calm routine of my morning stroll, with a hooting, hollering cacophony coming my way.  I glance around to make sure I'm not going to be caught in a riot (how many people are shouting and making a fuss?), and see three teenage boys inciting their oxen to an ambling trot.

They must have been given a bit extra to get their delivery done quickly, because they're the only one within eyesight (a far-see?) who is hurrying.  Their two oxen are hitched haphazardly to the cart, which is loaded with locally fired bricks.  The three teenagers scream, shout, and wave switches at the disinterested oxen, occasionally working them up to a jerking jog.  All of this expending of energy makes quite a bit of noise, and some of their oral goading of the oxen is quite disturbing.  I normally equate those noises with large birds in distress, but these boys have it down pat.

As the ox cart and its wailing attendants pass me, I am reminded of how foreign I am to this culture, this town, and these people.  A screeching juggernaut of oxen, bricks and teenager ambles by not one meter from the walkway where a dozen schoolchildren make their way to school, and every eye is on me.

Everyone is staring at me.

I'm the center of attention, as always, despite a disturbance--that would have my entire city talking--passing an arm's length away.

Bonjour.  Lalee.  Bonjour.  Salut.

I make my way past the schoolchildren, not even stopping as I shake the hands of every small child in the town of Moissala.  I've gotten good at greeting people on the fly, and I have places to be.  I hope I'm being friendly, but the thought crosses my mind that I'll never know if I'm well-received or not.  

Everyone is staring, no matter what I do.  No matter how many oxcarts pass by.