I would be remiss if I didn’t at least write a little bit about being a white woman in Nairobi. In Cross Cultural Communications at American University we learn about the white knapsack and how being white distinguishes you and gives you tools that you may not always know that you have but are always there for you to use. I never really believed that theory, but living in Kenya has definitely opened my eyes to what it means to be a white person in another country.
I was spoiled growing up in Southern California- the ethnic diversity was such that the color of your skin really wasn’t the end all be all. I had friends of all different nationalities and it didn’t mean anything besides the fact that sometimes they would have conversations in languages I could not understand and I was lucky enough to try a lot of really good homemade ethnic food. Going to university in Washington D.C. meant that there were a few more white people, but the number of international students was so high that I still had such a high exposure to people of different beliefs and culture and it was not out of the norm to interact with a diverse range of people.
Now to Kenya: 97% of Kenya is black African leaving the other 3% to Asians, Chinese (they get their own category according to Kenyans), expats, and development workers. That leaves the number of people who are blond hair, blue eyed very, very limited. Not including the other girl in my program who is blond, I may see a handful of blond people a week. Standing out to such a degree has been really difficult on me. In one respect, I am naturally a very clumsy person and knowing that every time I trip or stumble on a dirt path or jumping off a matau dozens of eyes will be on me makes me nervous and even clumsier. In another regard, it is difficult to be unable to blend in anywhere that I go. The only place where I can let my guard down is within the gate of my apartment- everywhere else I am pushed and pulled as people ask me for money, signatures, or my hand in marriage. The word “mzungu” (foreigner) is one that I have come to dislike strongly as the word is my greeting from the vendors at the market, people on the street, and children incessantly pointing. Being white is the go ahead to charge double, sometimes triple, for a anything at the market. In matatus they may charge 10 to 20 bob over if we aren’t careful and don’t even get me started on how much they overcharge at souvnier stalls. Lately, I have started asking the vendor whether they will charge me the Kenyan or mzungu price in Kiswahili and they almost always fall over in shock to see that 1) I recognize that I get ripped off 2) I speak their language.
With all of the attention and the ever present belief that I am wealthy and influential (not the poor college student I am), there are benefits that come with being a white person here that I do not ask for but received anyway- my knapsack. When a matatu or bus pulls up, it almost always pulls up in front of me first so that I can get on. I can enter any sophisticated hotel or restaurant to use my computer or their toilet (that for sure will have toilet paper) without getting stopped because most people assume I belong there even if I’m not looking my best. Restaurants will serve me more food because they want me to be impressed so I come back and give them more business. If I’m ever lost, I know there will be dozens of Kenyan men who will not only give me directions but also walk me there (as long as I don’t mind being asked for my phone number over and over again). When going to meetings with local representatives at Sisi ni Amani, my boss or I are often asked to attend because matters will go smoother if someone with white skin is there. In its most basic form, that concept of white privilege is still glaringly there due to misperceptions of the wealth and grandeur of the white world. Even if I don’t ask for it and am ashamed at being treated as such, it is impossible for me to be treated any other way. My white knapsack is firmly in place and short of changing my skin color and hair, there is nothing that I can do to change the perception of random people I meet in the street.
In the beginning of my time here, this attention bothered me a lot- I hated being called mzungu, I hated when a taxi assumed I would want to pay their expensive price rather than walk ten minutes, or when people followed me trying to get money or a visa, ect. Very quickly, however, I realized that there was nothing that I could do to change this misperception and I had to adjust as best as I could. While it is still difficult, and I still at times feel very much like an outsider, it forced me to evaluate who I am and my beliefs about the world and I have found that for the most part being here has strengthened what I think both about the world and about who I am. At times I wanted to change who I was or what I did because I thought that it might make me stand out a bit less, but every time, I found more satisfaction in being the person that I really was- not the person I was trying to pretend to be. And being who you are in a country where you don’t fit in only makes you a stronger person. I have come to realize that being comfortable with who I am, especially here, is one of the best lessons that I can take with me.
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