A never-tiring game: spotting wazungu*. In a mainly black society, every white skin catches the eye, whether you want to or not. Even my love cannot stop pointing out all fellow-whites to me. And then the guessing game starts: resident or not? Though this is not a very difficult game, as the tourist are easily recognisable, by their clothes (even in the city they manage to wear outfits as if the beach is around the corner), their daypacks and their searching eyes and sometimes uncertain posture.
As a white person in Kenya, it is not always possible to melt into the background. Obviously, there are both advantages and disadvantages to this visibility. On the downside: almost everyone takes you to be a well-filled wallet. This can be derived from the smallest details. Wherever you walk, a taxi is offered to you (because why should you walk when you can afford other transport?). Strangers address you just like that to ask for money – even if they have just left the supermarket with bags full of groceries they request “a few shilling for transport, sister”. And if you dare to come close to a curio shop, you are in for some very sticky company, pushing you to buy souvenirs. From then on, a quiet shopping trip is out of the question.
The hairdresser, another place where it is a disadvantage to be white. When asked if they are capable of cutting European hair in their salon, the answer is always yes. Followed by quoting an extraordinary high price. The service involves a cutting job using normal household scissors (locals never have their hair cut, if anything they allow clippers to create their hairstyles). Which results in a hairdo consisting of strings of hair of diverse length. Fortunately, the Kenyan climate is doing wonders to my hair – even this unusual hairdo looks healthy and full of volume.
Very often though, I do benefit from being noticeable. Crossing the always packed Ngong Road a few times a day can be a real challenge. The trick is to throw yourself fearlessly in between the constant stream of traffic. Usually, this is done in two stages, leaving you waiting in the middle of the road until the tiniest gap to proceed occurs, while the cars, trucks and matatus are skimming all around you. Luckily, many drivers prove to be very understanding when they spot this white lady; they slacken their speed and gesture me to continue – remarkably, it is always the black drivers who are this tolerant, whereas the white ones all stoically accelerate.
That the police sometimes start checking traffic in order to supplement their own wallets instead of the national budget, is a fact that is accepted here with reluctance. To the average Kenyan this is part of daily life; it might be out of order, but there is not much you can do about it as an individual. Nevertheless, it remains striking that once the police discover a white passenger, the car is always waved to continue. Though I expect this attitude to change once I will start driving myself – then they will probably kindly welcome me to their system.
People remembering you after only meeting you once, is a definite advantage of being white. All kiosks in my area know who I am. Not only do I stroll around on a daily basis, I also make sure I am a customer at every kiosk around. This is inspired by social reasons, I want to favour them equally when it comes to turnover, but also by security reasons. Kiosk owners know the area the best and notice even the tiniest change. And that is what I am relying on: today they greet me, tomorrow they might warn me in case something is not right. As I do not have the illusion that here I can judge certain situations all too well, my kiosk ‘friends’ definitely add to my sense of security.
But sometimes I am really ashamed of being white. Or better: of my Western background. Especially of everything I am not used to and will probably never get used to. Like the attitude towards food. Kenyans generally eat anything and consume all that is edible. When it comes to meat, I know how to deal with this, at least, when I am not served intestines. The big chunks of fat (‘white meat’) are considered a sheer delicacy by my companions, so everybody benefits when I pass them on. Usually I eat meat.
But one day in Eldoret meat is not on the menu, it is fish I am served. Once cleaned on both the inside and the outside, a fish is generally fried as a whole, with the sides carved to ensure the whole fish will be well done. This way of preparing allows you to easily scrape pieces of fillet off the bones with a knife. And that is how I eat my fish, during a lunch break of a workshop. The amount of fish thus consumed is more than sufficient to me, as my stomach still is not accustomed to the piles of food that are generally served here.
Meanwhile, the Kenyans around me strip their fish completely with their fingers, eating virtually everything, except for some bones and the head’s carcass. In an environment where a daily meal still is not self-evident, I am painfully aware of the differences. Purely by coincidence, I am seated in a corner of the restaurant, my back facing most of the other guests. I consider this to be a fortunate coincidence, as the others at least do not have to witness my clumsiness.
But I do not get away with my fish that easily. After lunch, the Kenyans approach me. Full of joyful anticipation, they start inquiring about my eating habits. “Did you eat the fish’s head?” “No, I did not eat the head.” “How did you eat the fish, with cutlery?” “Yes, I used a fork and a knife.” “How can you eat a fish with a knife, then you have not been eating. That way you are not eating anything of that fish!”
Laughing with excitement, they continue the discussion amongst themselves. They seem not to be resentful at all, they just share their amazement over my strange way of consuming that fish. But I am well aware that I have left at least half of what is edible to them, consider myself a spoiled brat and feel deeply ashamed.
Touchingly enough, they are all accepting it. They are only fascinated by the differences and do not think I am spoiled at all. Maybe because they still consider me to be an honoured guest in their midst. Maybe because I am doing my utmost to really become one of them, that is, if we are not eating. And at one point I feel that I am succeeding quite well, when I casually overhear a remark from one of my colleagues. “She might be a mzungu*, but she is a mzungu mafrika.” An African white. One day I will be fully integrated, no doubt.
* wazangu = whites (plural)
* mzungu = white (singular)
