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In most Bantu languages, including Swahili, Muzungu is the standard, blanket term for white person. I’m a Muzungu. And self-consciously so - Nairobi is a city with very few whites, most of which are either “exotics” like myself, here working for NGO’s or Multinationals, or the rarer colonial descendants who spend the majority of their time in their sprawling countryside estates, only emerging for rugby games and cricket matches. Although there are a fair number of tourists, the locals rarely see them. Most tourists are here on package tours that are carefully designed to ensure that they never “touch the ground.” The tourists arrive from the States or Europe, check into hotels that are, in essence, separate little worlds, human terrariums that replicate virtually every aspect of American and European culture and comfort. They are then shuttled in air-conditioned buses and land rovers to and from their safaris, accompanied by culturally Anglicized guides. I have a great deal of contempt for them.
Thus, even in a relatively cosmopolitan place like Nairobi, whites are few enough in number to warrant some sense of novelty among the locals. Everywhere I go I’m stared at… by men, by women, by children… everybody. I don’t blame them, though. After spending a month here and getting used to the normal human backdrop and rhythms of daily life, I’ve found myself shocked when I see another white person. It’s not just that the face stands out so clearly, it’s that around every white person there’s a pocket of disruption. I’ve even caught myself staring at them the way the locals stare at me - a stare of curiousity, wondering “what are you doing here?”
Being a Muzungu also means that you’re a huge target. A couple of weeks back I went to Steers, a McDonalds-type fast food place, with a friend. I’d rushed there straight from work, so (stupidly) I had my laptop with me. It was in my backpack, which I was careful to pin between my feet. Sitting next to me was a professional looking middle aged man in a business suit. After my meal, as we prepared to leave, I looked down. My backpack was gone. So was the man.
Theft isn’t the only problem that accompanies being a Muzungu in Kenya. For virtually everything I’ve done, I’ve paid a “white person tax.” This is official in some museums and parks, where foreigners pay a premium to enter (usually about 10x the cost for a Kenyan citizen). Taxi drivers, merchants, and especially people selling souvenirs all try to charge ridiculous prices. And I’ve been ripped off plenty of times - bargaining is extremely difficult when you don’t know the fair market value of the things you buy. Is 200 shillings a fair price for a taxi ride to Ya Ya Center? Who the hell knows… this, along with the difficult-to-shake sense that you’re a guest here and a fear of insulting people by bidding too low, made me particularly vulnerable for my first couple of weeks. Now, however, I’m making breakthroughs. A couple of days ago I bargained a cab ride from downtown to my new apartment to 400 shillings - less than the going rate that Kenyans pay. How did I do it? Well, I was in a really grumpy mood after spending over an hour on hold with the people at Dell trying to report my stolen laptop, and when the Cabbie offered me the normal Muzungu price I started yelling at him, saying that I wouldn’t pay over 400. He quickly agreed. There you have it - the secret to getting good deals in Kenya is to be an enormous asshole.
Being a Muzungu also means having to make some cultural adaptations. Overall, I’ve been amazed by how culturally similar Kenyans and Americans are. Of course, my interactions have mainly been with a very specific demographic - young, college educated Kenyans from the upper-middle and upper classes, many of whom
There are two areas, however, in which Kenyan culture has taken some getting used to. First, I’ve noticed that the entire country operates on “Africa time.” In the U.S., 9:00 generally means exactly 9:00. In Kenya, 9:00 means “probably somewhere around 10 or 10:30-ish.” An illustration: on my first day at ICJ I was told that work starts at 8:00. I woke up at 7, had my cab pick me up at 7:30, and arrived at about 7:45. Then, I spent the next hour sitting in an empty office until my co-workers arrived. Now I don’t even bother getting up until 8:15, and I’m still often one of the first to arrive. Second, nobody makes plans here. In the U.S., I’m one of the least plan-oriented people I know. But in comparison to most Kenyans, I’m a taskmaster.
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