LIFE AS A MZUNGU IN AFRICA

Despite the fact that I had been in Australia for seven years, or that I had Australian citizenship, I was always different. I was Irish and aside from the Irish jokes, no matter how long I stayed there I would always be different for the simple reason that my accent set me apart (unless I tried to adopt one of those fake pseudo-Australian accents – I gave up on that long ago).

Being a Mzungu (white person) in Africa is a far more intense experience of “otherness”. Here I need not open my mouth to be identified as foreign. It’s perfectly obvious from a hundred paces. In fact, I’ve even been in the mountains without no-one apparent around and heard “Mzungu” from the bushes… Being a Mzungu is a privileged position. It’s like being a doctor or lawyer in the Western world – it mostly commands respect. In fact, being a Mzungu is kind of like being a bit of a celebrity at times. Children want to hold your hand or shout Good Morning (at any time of day) from a distance, if they’re a bit scared. Only every so often does a child cry at the whiteness of my skin.

As a Mzungu, it is automatically assumed that you are rich. And to be honest, by African standards, we are. The average wage here is around US$100 a month. To have electricity or running water is highly unusual. So, when we Wasungu (pl. of mzungu) rock up with our cameras, MP3players and laptops, we own more than most people here will ever dream of owning. And let’s face it, most of us are here through choice. I could go back to the Western world at any time. Many of those who live here don’t have that luxury.

Someone told me that one of the reasons many Africans want to be near Wazungu is because they believe that just by being close to someone who is (perceived to be) rich, a bit of it might rub off on them. And hey, if that doesn’t work, they can pickpocket you – only joking (though it’s certainly not out of the question in some cases).

I could lie and say that everyone here is nice just because they are kind people. Many of those I meet want to be your friend because you might be able to give them something, whether it be a little food or a passport to Europe. Mind you, it was nice little ego-boost to have so many men whistle and smile at me in my first few weeks here. I quickly realized that they’re pretty indiscriminate and the only pre-requisite for receiving attention (or the odd marriage proposal) is a pale complexion! Many friends here have regaled me with stories of being friends with someone here only to be told a story of a sick mother, child, University fee that has to be paid within a matter of days. But I can’t say that were in their position, I wouldn’t try the same thing.
So being a Muzungu is all at once a joy and exhausting. Some days it’s tiring being different. Some days I just want to be normal… yes, yes, I know, those of you know know me are saying it’ll take more than leaving Africa to feel that way
: )
Anyhow, after I had been here around a month, we went to a local bar that is mostly frequented by Westerners. The next day I realized something. It was the first time since I had been in Africa that I didn’t feel like I stood out. And to be honest, it was nice for a few hours. I felt like I was in one of those tourist bars Bali or Thailand! In fact, I was pretty invisible in this bar because we were surrounded by a hundred 18 year old “gap year” kids in skimpy tops, with size 8 figures – I felt like a grandmother. Talk about going from celebrity status to invisible! What a transition. But really, it was a nice break. It’s not the kind of place I would choose to go to often but it was nice not being ‘different’ for a few hours.

And yet, despite my little whinge, I think it would be a LOT harder to be an African in the Western world. Sad as it is, I know that the star-treatment and welcome we are given here might not be reciprocated, were the locals here to visit my country. It’s amazing the way that the colour of skin can determine so very much in this world.