The Fifth Post

“Hey, white man!” a random guy said to me as I got off a minibus one day in Kisumu. He didn’t mean it rudely; in fact he seemed quite happy to see me. It’s unusual to see white people walking around and the locals tend to remark on it freely. I reflected that this was the first time in my life that someone had referred to me as ‘white man’. I’ve never really thought of myself as a white man either – never really needed any adjective before. In Kenya, though, I’m very definitely a white man – I stick out like the dog's proverbials and there’s no way you can avoid it. I’ve never been part of a minority before and I think that, while at times it can be uncomfortable, it’s a really valuable learning experience. I’d recommend it to everyone (well, to all white people anyway). Of course, it only goes part the way toward replicating the situation of, say, a refugee in Australia, because the power dynamic is totally different. While I certainly stand out here, I also have the freedom that comes from having money. I’m not a PhD who’s forced to work as a cleaner or a taxi driver, either. Most importantly, I can go back to my own country when I want to.

Mzungu is the Swahili word for a white person (spelling courtesy of the Lonely Planet, but it sounds like ‘moozoongu’) and you come to learn this word very quickly upon arrival in Kenya. A simple walk down the road is always an experience – every ten metres someone is calling this word out, or just saying hello or waving. The kids are the most enthusiastic. It’s always the same thing: either “mzunguuuuuuu” or “how are yoooooooooou?”, to which the only answer they understand is ‘I’m fine’ (I learnt this quite quickly too, after noticing all the blank stares I was getting when I answered ‘good’ or said ‘hello’ back). Interestingly, the local language, Luo, does not have a word for ‘hello’ – the greeting amosi means ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ at the same time. Even when speaking English the following exchange is quite common:

Mzungu: Hello.
Kenyan: Fine.

The kids will call at you no matter how far away. Often you just hear these disembodied little voices emanating from bushes and corn fields, and you end up blindly waving and calling out “Fine! Fine! I’m fine!” in all directions. Now I know how Brad Pitt must feel when he walks down the street (except he probably doesn’t walk through too many corn fields).

Unfortunately quite a few of the kids have learnt a follow-up line, ‘give me money’, which kinda takes away from the fun of the exchange. It’s illuminating in what it says about how white people are perceived here, that even very young children will instinctively make this demand. In Luo culture visitors are treated with great respect, and a lot of emphasis is placed on making visitors feel welcome. So we certainly get plenty of that (at times to embarrassing levels – like when an old lady tries to give up her seat for you on the minibus), but at the same time some people seem to have this expectation that white people should just hand out money to everyone they meet. It’s not that people are lazy or that they aren’t working to provide better lives for themselves and their families, because they certainly are doing that, but there is sometimes a sense of “I’m poor, you’re rich, so you should give me what you have”. People don’t think of that as a demand or even a request; it’s simply a statement of fact, as logical as night follows day. It’s a strange mix.

In some ways it’s a difficult thing to respond to, because we are here to help, we are here because we’re rich and they’re poor. The question is, what is it that we’re doing to help? It’s not even as simple as saying “I’m here to help you make your own money, not to give you my money”, because for the most part giving money is the way people in rich countries help those in poor countries. Make your monthly donation and you’ve done your bit. Of course there is a line somewhere – we generally expect those donations to be more than just cash grants. We expect that those donations will in some way help countries ‘develop’. Finding that line is the challenge – both for us and for the locals.