As soon as I saw the police, I knew we were fucked. It was a cool night--the kind where the breeze climbs off of the ocean’s crests and slaloms the alleys like an echo. The kind that slows your heart rate--softens the edges of evening shadows. It was the kind of night where you take a walk. So Sasha and I--bored, lonely, and sweating our asses off in the apartment--followed the breeze to the sea. During the day, Old Town swells with the family. My street is a collage of painted hijabs and tattered kangas. Children, too young for school, chase their mother’s calves, burning calluses into their heels, as they retrace the cracks in the gravel. Yet, at night, when the children are sleeping and the women are tending, it is the men who own the streets. With eyes filled with curiosity and skepticism, we were ushered through the back-alleys of Old Town. It was not until we reached the head of the path that curls behind Fort Jesus and ends at the brick wall overlooking the Indian Ocean that I saw the police. And it was then that I knew we were fucked.
There is, debatably, a law in Kenya that states that foreigners must carry identification at all times. I was having this particular debate with myself, while the cop, for the eighth time questioned our purpose for being out so late without a passport. My tactic was a conciliatory plea of naivety. Sasha, on the other hand, was stone quiet. Not the type to suppress basic emotion for calculated diplomacy, she had long ago reached her limit, and I was grateful that she knew to bite her tongue. It was on this eighth time, almost ten minutes into his questioning, that the cop informed us that he had the right to take us to the police station. But no one was going to jail that night. This was a mazungu shake-down, but we, both prideful and penniless, weren’t paying shit.
Kenyan police are notorious thieves. You hear the stories of foreigners stopped for visa concerns, or matatus taxed on dubious traffic violations. Here, if you have enough money, you can buy your way out of any crime. You hear these stories often and you become comfortable with it--there are some things you have to let go if you ever want to breathe normally here.
Things were going downhill. At first, I had assumed we would be able to talk our way home. Yet as the questioning drew on, and with the officer, no longer simply hinting, but outright threatening a night in jail, I was becoming increasingly concerned with the outcome of our conversation. I have seen the inside of the Central Mombasa Jailhouse. It is not a good place for two fragile and soft-spoken mazungus. So as the cop, yet again, threatened to take us to the courthouse, I became increasingly consumed with the implications of such an action for my psychological state and white blood cell count.
Luckily, the drunk man saved us.
He was a small Swahili man, with a receding hair line and a gut full of rum. You could smell him from Zanzibar. He wore a big toothy grin and a ripped, gray sleeveless T-shirt. “How is everything here? Is there a problem?” he questioned, as he approached us from behind. Unexpectedly, the cop seemed to recoil. His voice shrank--his tone, less direct. The cop, instead of shooing him away, explained the situation. Then, unexpectedly, the drunk staged a vociferous, if only moderately coherent, advocacy on our behalf. With the cop engaged in discussion, I grabbing Sasha by the arm, politely told them that “we are going to go now,” and left the two men to hash it out themselves.
Late one October evening, two officers pulled a friend of mine into an alley and tried to place two joints into his pocket. This petty abuse of power is indicative of a larger story—the crumbling institutions of governance, which not only fail to curb, but in fact promote, a culture of opportunistic corruption. It is jolting to look it in the eyes—nothing makes you feel more exposed than losing trust in something that you take for granted. Angry and bare we trudged back to our apartment. But there are some things you have to let go if ever want to breathe normally. And the monthly rent for our flat is more than a cop's starting salary.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Street Kids
This is a familiar sight, his outstretched hand and wanting eyes. Joseph is about 14 years old and he is filthy. His cupped palm reveals the dirt under his fingernails. His clothes are caked in mud and oil. A severe overbite masks the gap where two bottom teeth used to be. I hand him a cup of water, which he quickly devours. Sam leans over to whisper in my ear, “last week, that kid tried to pick my pocket.” Today he is dancing. With music in his heels, he strolls away. His frail knees bang together as callused toes meet red, dry earth.
I have gotten used to the beggars. There are the mothers wrapped in tattered kangas, holding infants in one hand and a change cup in the other. There are the old men with prosthetic legs. There are lepers, and the blind, and the woman in a wheel chair with three fingers on her left hand. And there are the children.
“He wants glue.” My friend’s host organization had planned a fun-day for street children and I had volunteered to man the water station. I had just arrived and I was confused. I had spent the last three minutes engaged in a wordless exchange with a boy no older than thirteen. There were a lot of hand movements and blank stares, and I, as is often the case in these situations, must have looked like an idiot. “Glue," repeated Sam, a fellow volunteer, "like the stuff they use to fix your shoes." I hadn’t yet noticed the water bottles bearing the milky goo. The way the kids suctioned the opening to hang on their upper lip. Or the way their mouths dropped and their eyes glazed over when they had their fill. It was not long before I realized every single one of the street kids had a bottle in their hand. They say they need it to beg.
Refusing to help a hungry child should never be this easy. Yet it has become part of my daily routine, like walking to work in the morning or buying three bananas at the fruit stand. At first the disregard is forced—-a learned response after you realize that apologizing profusely only yields more hands. Now, my apathy comes naturally. I have convinced myself that they are not really homeless, that they are being used by their family or exploited by strangers. I convince myself that they are only going to use the money for more glue. On some level this is all true, one should never stop questioning how hungry children will find a meal. They tug on my sleeve and I push them away like flies.
A week later I see Joseph curled up on the corner of Haille Selaisse and Digo. He turns over as I walk by and, spotting me, shoots out of his bed. He remembers me from the fun-day and we exchange animated greetings. We briefly discuss his Wu-Tang Clan T-shirt, arguing over the best Clan member (I said Ghostface, he preferred ODB), before he asks me for money. With empty eyes and slurring speech, he puts his finger to his mouth, and asks for “just a little something.” A week ago we were two friends sharing the soccer pitch and dancing through the mid-day heat; our relationship, for one afternoon, set aside the power dynamics inherent in our circumstances. Yet today, he is begging for money, and I, despite the wallet in my pocket, am walking past. I tell him “sina pesa”--no money. He is too fucked up to be disappointed. He walks back to his corner and, despite the cold, hard cement and music blaring from matatus, falls quickly asleep. I guess you just get used to it. Like Joseph, I will sleep fine tonight.
I have gotten used to the beggars. There are the mothers wrapped in tattered kangas, holding infants in one hand and a change cup in the other. There are the old men with prosthetic legs. There are lepers, and the blind, and the woman in a wheel chair with three fingers on her left hand. And there are the children.
“He wants glue.” My friend’s host organization had planned a fun-day for street children and I had volunteered to man the water station. I had just arrived and I was confused. I had spent the last three minutes engaged in a wordless exchange with a boy no older than thirteen. There were a lot of hand movements and blank stares, and I, as is often the case in these situations, must have looked like an idiot. “Glue," repeated Sam, a fellow volunteer, "like the stuff they use to fix your shoes." I hadn’t yet noticed the water bottles bearing the milky goo. The way the kids suctioned the opening to hang on their upper lip. Or the way their mouths dropped and their eyes glazed over when they had their fill. It was not long before I realized every single one of the street kids had a bottle in their hand. They say they need it to beg.
Refusing to help a hungry child should never be this easy. Yet it has become part of my daily routine, like walking to work in the morning or buying three bananas at the fruit stand. At first the disregard is forced—-a learned response after you realize that apologizing profusely only yields more hands. Now, my apathy comes naturally. I have convinced myself that they are not really homeless, that they are being used by their family or exploited by strangers. I convince myself that they are only going to use the money for more glue. On some level this is all true, one should never stop questioning how hungry children will find a meal. They tug on my sleeve and I push them away like flies.
A week later I see Joseph curled up on the corner of Haille Selaisse and Digo. He turns over as I walk by and, spotting me, shoots out of his bed. He remembers me from the fun-day and we exchange animated greetings. We briefly discuss his Wu-Tang Clan T-shirt, arguing over the best Clan member (I said Ghostface, he preferred ODB), before he asks me for money. With empty eyes and slurring speech, he puts his finger to his mouth, and asks for “just a little something.” A week ago we were two friends sharing the soccer pitch and dancing through the mid-day heat; our relationship, for one afternoon, set aside the power dynamics inherent in our circumstances. Yet today, he is begging for money, and I, despite the wallet in my pocket, am walking past. I tell him “sina pesa”--no money. He is too fucked up to be disappointed. He walks back to his corner and, despite the cold, hard cement and music blaring from matatus, falls quickly asleep. I guess you just get used to it. Like Joseph, I will sleep fine tonight.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Last Tuesday
On Tuesday evening my bag was stolen from beside me. With it--my laptop, journal, two dusty postcards, a flash drive, and a novel entitled, “The Inheritance of Loss”--were lost to the alleys at dusk.
Tuesday is half-off pizza night at Tusky’s, the commercial supermarket across the street from my loft. The pizza is shit. Yet, for Mombasa's young Westerners, suffering under the constant burden of ugali and fish stew, pizza Tuesday is something of a tradition. I claimed a table with a few Brit friends. We ate, as the sun drew angles on our foreheads. The city was dark when I finally reached at my feet, grasping for a bag that was no longer there.
Last week, I read a fascinating article about the scale of globalization. The common picture of globalization, the author argued—uninhibited flow of capital, new communication networks and cultural media, deterritorialization and global transnational governance—must be retranslated. Not simply a monolithic process, a network of corporations and mega-power brokers, globalization is inherently local, constantly reproduced in the individual faces of labor and consumption. This is not Thomas Friedman’s homogenizing Flat World. This is a Bangladeshi girl stitching Adidas with swollen fingers. This is the boy in Soweto reciting Lil Wayne lyrics on his way to school. This is an American volunteer in Kenya, eating a pizza his host family cannot afford.
I leaned against the railing trying to circulate blood to my fists. Next to me, my friend was describing to the security guard what had happened. We were just sitting there and when we went to leave we saw that the bag was gone. No we didn’t see who took it. No, we are not drunk! I gazed into the street, the flow of traffic helping to steady my breathing. I was paralyzed. My laptop was stolen and I could not understand what people were saying. Yet, as my eyes scanned the shadows, it was not isolation I felt in that moment, but rather the intense intimacy of the encounter.
In my six weeks in Mombasa I have eaten cow intestines. I have bowed my head with the whispers of Swahili psalms. I have waded the flooded streets of Magongo, retracing the footprints of my host-brother's youth. Yet, I had always felt the discomfort and unquestionable security of being a foreigner—the cultural differences that kept these two worlds distinct. Safely orbiting, but like the moon, never breaking the plane of the atmosphere. When the faceless stranger grabbed my bag, I was fully present in this new place, woven like Kanga silk, into the teeth of Mombasa.
I went to the police station with my friend. They filed a police report, but cautioned that there was little they could do. Mombasa is glowing with bag-less mazungus and faceless thieves.
The individual faces of labor and consumption. I am a white American carrying a laptop home from work. He is a stranger, but I know him. I see him every day. He wears sandals made of rubber. His teeth are stained from tobacco and neglect. He lives in Bamburi and he can make more money reselling American electronics than he can selling mangos. In that moment, it was not simply the ownership of my belongings that was contested, but also the autonomy of our two stories. The bag exchanged between our palms, shrinking the void between our histories. Like a Thomas Friedman column, except that I see him every day, all musk and bloodshot eyes. In that moment, I knew what the author meant. Me and the stranger, an eclipse of the sun and moon. Two distant bodies, aligned--the vast space between our cores undetectable as we trace each other’s curves in darkness.
Two days later I buy a new laptop. I hope he has a family to feed. Mombasa is still glowing.
Tuesday is half-off pizza night at Tusky’s, the commercial supermarket across the street from my loft. The pizza is shit. Yet, for Mombasa's young Westerners, suffering under the constant burden of ugali and fish stew, pizza Tuesday is something of a tradition. I claimed a table with a few Brit friends. We ate, as the sun drew angles on our foreheads. The city was dark when I finally reached at my feet, grasping for a bag that was no longer there.
Last week, I read a fascinating article about the scale of globalization. The common picture of globalization, the author argued—uninhibited flow of capital, new communication networks and cultural media, deterritorialization and global transnational governance—must be retranslated. Not simply a monolithic process, a network of corporations and mega-power brokers, globalization is inherently local, constantly reproduced in the individual faces of labor and consumption. This is not Thomas Friedman’s homogenizing Flat World. This is a Bangladeshi girl stitching Adidas with swollen fingers. This is the boy in Soweto reciting Lil Wayne lyrics on his way to school. This is an American volunteer in Kenya, eating a pizza his host family cannot afford.
I leaned against the railing trying to circulate blood to my fists. Next to me, my friend was describing to the security guard what had happened. We were just sitting there and when we went to leave we saw that the bag was gone. No we didn’t see who took it. No, we are not drunk! I gazed into the street, the flow of traffic helping to steady my breathing. I was paralyzed. My laptop was stolen and I could not understand what people were saying. Yet, as my eyes scanned the shadows, it was not isolation I felt in that moment, but rather the intense intimacy of the encounter.
In my six weeks in Mombasa I have eaten cow intestines. I have bowed my head with the whispers of Swahili psalms. I have waded the flooded streets of Magongo, retracing the footprints of my host-brother's youth. Yet, I had always felt the discomfort and unquestionable security of being a foreigner—the cultural differences that kept these two worlds distinct. Safely orbiting, but like the moon, never breaking the plane of the atmosphere. When the faceless stranger grabbed my bag, I was fully present in this new place, woven like Kanga silk, into the teeth of Mombasa.
I went to the police station with my friend. They filed a police report, but cautioned that there was little they could do. Mombasa is glowing with bag-less mazungus and faceless thieves.
The individual faces of labor and consumption. I am a white American carrying a laptop home from work. He is a stranger, but I know him. I see him every day. He wears sandals made of rubber. His teeth are stained from tobacco and neglect. He lives in Bamburi and he can make more money reselling American electronics than he can selling mangos. In that moment, it was not simply the ownership of my belongings that was contested, but also the autonomy of our two stories. The bag exchanged between our palms, shrinking the void between our histories. Like a Thomas Friedman column, except that I see him every day, all musk and bloodshot eyes. In that moment, I knew what the author meant. Me and the stranger, an eclipse of the sun and moon. Two distant bodies, aligned--the vast space between our cores undetectable as we trace each other’s curves in darkness.
Two days later I buy a new laptop. I hope he has a family to feed. Mombasa is still glowing.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Karaoke and Gay Marriage
Wednesday evening at the Bella Vista is Karaoke Night. A two-story sports bar with flat screen TV’s and speakers pulsing American Top 40 tunes, the Bella Vista could be anywhere. I find Mary and Jerusa, my FSD program coordinators and karoake partners for the night, sitting on the deck overlooking Moi Avenue. The street is uncomfortably calm, restless and exposed without the intimate chaos of the day. I grab a seat, order a beer, and decide that this evening, I will sing Gladys Knight.
This past week, it was reported that two Kenyan men were married. The story itself was a relatively fair account--the men were married in UK, the first Kenyan couple to take advantage of the Civil Partnership Act. Yet, the piece carried a self-conscious, almost eager tone, unapologetically aware of potency of its words. The national press ran it as the front-page feature, and it rang through the streets like a siren.
When my name is called, I bound to the tail end of the bar and grab the microphone. As the first notes of ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’ fill the space between awkward lovers, I close my eyes, crick my neck, and slide into the first ooooh LA with the necessary swagger to counter my questionable voice. I nail the first verse. Yet, as I move to Gladys’ refrain, I would rather live in his world/then live without him in mine, I become acutely aware of my surroundings--the whispers of Swahili, questioning eyes passing across tables, and my sudden isolation, as I sing a love song to a man.
In a land that values the family unit above all else--the right of a man to work and then rest, and the responsibility of a woman to honor through servitude--homosexuality is the worst kind of other. It is a non-starter, existing only in hushed whispers or child-like cruelty. An unnatural phenomenon, homosexuality is derided with a fervor that can only be cultivated by the fear of something that one cannot understand. There are only so many things that make a mother abandon her son. Of course there is a vibrant gay scene, yet it is one that must grow, like root vegetables, beneath the surface to survive. Parties are planned in secrecy. The location is never publicly disclosed; individuals in the know are told where to be and whom to be with. Shepherded, like illegal immigrants, just to dance, and flirt, and fuck.
In that moment, I could not have been more ashamed. I have always taken pride, and often great pleasure, in subverting normative gender roles. I have worn a dress, kissed a man, and in general, never much cared how others perceived my sexuality. With that spirit in mind, I gently chided myself and continued to belt the greatest love song ever written.
That morning, my host mom asked me if I had seen the article. I answered that I had. She asked me if I had any gay friends at home. I told her that I did. Then she asked me, with a tone more curious than accusatory, what they were like? I told her that, like my straight acquaintances, there was an equal distribution of wonderful and unbearable individuals. She looked down, scanning the paper with puzzled eyes, looking for something that would explain what she herself could not reconcile. “Its not that I hate them, I just don’t think it is natural.” There have been many moments in these first few weeks when I have felt the need to bite my tongue. Like when my host father discounts the content of an entire newspaper based on its popular Kikuyu following. Or when my host mom espouses the intellectual benefits of eating a certain type of fish. Yet, never before had my cultural reticence collided with such a sense of disgust. I wanted to tell her about those who walk to work with the fear that the sway of their hips will expose their deepest secrets. I wanted to tell her that I was not going to church on Sunday. I wanted to tell her about violence, and fear, and the people I love. I wanted to tell her so much, but feeling powerless to put those words into a language she would understand, I dropped my head down and let the hot tea extinguish the fire inside.
After my song ended, I bounded back to our table, welcomed with the obligatory nods of support. I leaned over to Mary and, seeking some sort of western world solidarity, forced a joke about my song choice and the state of gender politics in Kenya. She gave a quick chuckle and whispered back, “yeah, but you are a mazungu, you can do whatever you want.” I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of beer, feeling safe and uncomfortable in my privilege. Staring out into the vacant street, I thought about how shadows move, and about how, while Gladys may rather live in someone else’s world, too many people don’t have the benefit of a choice.
This past week, it was reported that two Kenyan men were married. The story itself was a relatively fair account--the men were married in UK, the first Kenyan couple to take advantage of the Civil Partnership Act. Yet, the piece carried a self-conscious, almost eager tone, unapologetically aware of potency of its words. The national press ran it as the front-page feature, and it rang through the streets like a siren.
When my name is called, I bound to the tail end of the bar and grab the microphone. As the first notes of ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’ fill the space between awkward lovers, I close my eyes, crick my neck, and slide into the first ooooh LA with the necessary swagger to counter my questionable voice. I nail the first verse. Yet, as I move to Gladys’ refrain, I would rather live in his world/then live without him in mine, I become acutely aware of my surroundings--the whispers of Swahili, questioning eyes passing across tables, and my sudden isolation, as I sing a love song to a man.
In a land that values the family unit above all else--the right of a man to work and then rest, and the responsibility of a woman to honor through servitude--homosexuality is the worst kind of other. It is a non-starter, existing only in hushed whispers or child-like cruelty. An unnatural phenomenon, homosexuality is derided with a fervor that can only be cultivated by the fear of something that one cannot understand. There are only so many things that make a mother abandon her son. Of course there is a vibrant gay scene, yet it is one that must grow, like root vegetables, beneath the surface to survive. Parties are planned in secrecy. The location is never publicly disclosed; individuals in the know are told where to be and whom to be with. Shepherded, like illegal immigrants, just to dance, and flirt, and fuck.
In that moment, I could not have been more ashamed. I have always taken pride, and often great pleasure, in subverting normative gender roles. I have worn a dress, kissed a man, and in general, never much cared how others perceived my sexuality. With that spirit in mind, I gently chided myself and continued to belt the greatest love song ever written.
That morning, my host mom asked me if I had seen the article. I answered that I had. She asked me if I had any gay friends at home. I told her that I did. Then she asked me, with a tone more curious than accusatory, what they were like? I told her that, like my straight acquaintances, there was an equal distribution of wonderful and unbearable individuals. She looked down, scanning the paper with puzzled eyes, looking for something that would explain what she herself could not reconcile. “Its not that I hate them, I just don’t think it is natural.” There have been many moments in these first few weeks when I have felt the need to bite my tongue. Like when my host father discounts the content of an entire newspaper based on its popular Kikuyu following. Or when my host mom espouses the intellectual benefits of eating a certain type of fish. Yet, never before had my cultural reticence collided with such a sense of disgust. I wanted to tell her about those who walk to work with the fear that the sway of their hips will expose their deepest secrets. I wanted to tell her that I was not going to church on Sunday. I wanted to tell her about violence, and fear, and the people I love. I wanted to tell her so much, but feeling powerless to put those words into a language she would understand, I dropped my head down and let the hot tea extinguish the fire inside.
After my song ended, I bounded back to our table, welcomed with the obligatory nods of support. I leaned over to Mary and, seeking some sort of western world solidarity, forced a joke about my song choice and the state of gender politics in Kenya. She gave a quick chuckle and whispered back, “yeah, but you are a mazungu, you can do whatever you want.” I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of beer, feeling safe and uncomfortable in my privilege. Staring out into the vacant street, I thought about how shadows move, and about how, while Gladys may rather live in someone else’s world, too many people don’t have the benefit of a choice.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Mzungu in Mombasa
I am walking through the oldest neighborhood in Mombasa and everyone knows it. The alleys of Old Town, still pulsing with the memories of the Arabic spice trade, bend and tangle like reeds against the Indian Ocean breeze. Old men with sad eyes prop themselves against the curb, chewing Swahili candies and chasing the fleeting shade. Muslim girls return from the market with a dinner’s worth of rice. And young boys wrestle in the street, raising clouds of dust off the swollen cobblestone. They all stare, herding me along. The arches of my feet are sore, and I have been lost for some time.
My name in Kenya is mazungu. To a tribal people, racial identity occupies a space of lesser concern. It carries neither the brutal history, nor the hegemonic social conventions that it does in the States. It is a descriptor, somehow detached from the discursive weight a colonial legacy would suggest. Yet, a closer look reveals something different. Engage a Kenyan about the growing Indian immigrant population, the roots of Swahili peoples, or the culture of European tourism, and you learn about a complex set of histories that are constantly overlapping and fighting for air. You see the tension between the peoples of the coast and the inland, underscored by their divergent claims to property ownership. You see the strange blend of resentment and emulation, cultivated through years of colonial subjugation, and now, economic dependence, that Kenyans harbor towards the Western world. You see a society equally engaged in a dialogue about race, yet one using a different set of phonetic roots. These are roots that, as a white man, garner a specific set of social responses from the people of Mombasa, and fundamentally structure almost every interaction I have.
My favorite spot in this city is a concrete terrace that overlooks the Indian Ocean. There is an old Muslim man, skin leathered by the equatorial sun, selling tea and spicy Arabic coffee. I smile and ask for Chai, he offers back a mouthful of yellow teeth and a ceramic cup filled to the brim. I take a seat next to a young African couple. Their hearts are beating fast, I can tell from the pace of their voices. On the far side of the channel, a group of naked children play in a small beach hidden beneath a ridge of cliffs. This is just one of the many beaches that line the North Coast, a stretch of land running from Mombasa up to the Lamu archipelago. Luxury resorts, serving a primarily wealthy European clientele, dot the Kenyan coastline and provide the backbone of the national economy. The tourists lounge by the pool. Or travel to Tsavo East to see the elephants. Or watch young actors, with cheap face paint, dance like "Kenyans". I finish my tea and trudge back up the concrete steps toward the road. I hand my cup to the leathery man. He tells me 40 shillings. The price, I know, is 20.
Kenyans are far more hospitable than Americans. In Swahili culture it is customary to welcome someone with multiple greetings before beginning a conversation. It is impossible to enter a Kenyan home without being given tea, or cookies, or new shirt. As a guest from a foreign land, these advances are particularly inescapable. I return home every day with new invitations for family dinners and city tours. And while I am always grateful for a home-cooked meal or a new friend, the line between hospitality and manipulation sometimes feels murky. I have met some wonderful people. People like my host family, who genuinely want to know about me. Who want to know about my culture and make me feel comfortable and empowered in their own. Other times, I am approached by jovial streetwalkers selling necklaces or safaris. Shown off, like a new puppy, to friends of friends. These people know nothing about me besides the color of my skin. Their interest and overtures, while benevolent, often seem rooted in something less sincere--if I befriend a mazungu, good things will happen.
I peer into a corner market to check the price of shampoo. With my head turned away from the road, I feel a quick prick in the back of my head. I turn to see a young boy bolting down the street, straw and spitball in hand. After twenty yards he wheels around with a look of curiosity and fear. I shoot him a soft smile, recognition that his assault was taken in good taste and will go without retribution. He bursts into laughter. Scurrying towards his group of friends, he returns triumphant—he has hit the mazungu! I have long since given up hope of being inconspicuous in this strange place. I will excavate this old city, but it will be with one million eyes following me as I go.
My name in Kenya is mazungu. To a tribal people, racial identity occupies a space of lesser concern. It carries neither the brutal history, nor the hegemonic social conventions that it does in the States. It is a descriptor, somehow detached from the discursive weight a colonial legacy would suggest. Yet, a closer look reveals something different. Engage a Kenyan about the growing Indian immigrant population, the roots of Swahili peoples, or the culture of European tourism, and you learn about a complex set of histories that are constantly overlapping and fighting for air. You see the tension between the peoples of the coast and the inland, underscored by their divergent claims to property ownership. You see the strange blend of resentment and emulation, cultivated through years of colonial subjugation, and now, economic dependence, that Kenyans harbor towards the Western world. You see a society equally engaged in a dialogue about race, yet one using a different set of phonetic roots. These are roots that, as a white man, garner a specific set of social responses from the people of Mombasa, and fundamentally structure almost every interaction I have.
My favorite spot in this city is a concrete terrace that overlooks the Indian Ocean. There is an old Muslim man, skin leathered by the equatorial sun, selling tea and spicy Arabic coffee. I smile and ask for Chai, he offers back a mouthful of yellow teeth and a ceramic cup filled to the brim. I take a seat next to a young African couple. Their hearts are beating fast, I can tell from the pace of their voices. On the far side of the channel, a group of naked children play in a small beach hidden beneath a ridge of cliffs. This is just one of the many beaches that line the North Coast, a stretch of land running from Mombasa up to the Lamu archipelago. Luxury resorts, serving a primarily wealthy European clientele, dot the Kenyan coastline and provide the backbone of the national economy. The tourists lounge by the pool. Or travel to Tsavo East to see the elephants. Or watch young actors, with cheap face paint, dance like "Kenyans". I finish my tea and trudge back up the concrete steps toward the road. I hand my cup to the leathery man. He tells me 40 shillings. The price, I know, is 20.
Kenyans are far more hospitable than Americans. In Swahili culture it is customary to welcome someone with multiple greetings before beginning a conversation. It is impossible to enter a Kenyan home without being given tea, or cookies, or new shirt. As a guest from a foreign land, these advances are particularly inescapable. I return home every day with new invitations for family dinners and city tours. And while I am always grateful for a home-cooked meal or a new friend, the line between hospitality and manipulation sometimes feels murky. I have met some wonderful people. People like my host family, who genuinely want to know about me. Who want to know about my culture and make me feel comfortable and empowered in their own. Other times, I am approached by jovial streetwalkers selling necklaces or safaris. Shown off, like a new puppy, to friends of friends. These people know nothing about me besides the color of my skin. Their interest and overtures, while benevolent, often seem rooted in something less sincere--if I befriend a mazungu, good things will happen.
I peer into a corner market to check the price of shampoo. With my head turned away from the road, I feel a quick prick in the back of my head. I turn to see a young boy bolting down the street, straw and spitball in hand. After twenty yards he wheels around with a look of curiosity and fear. I shoot him a soft smile, recognition that his assault was taken in good taste and will go without retribution. He bursts into laughter. Scurrying towards his group of friends, he returns triumphant—he has hit the mazungu! I have long since given up hope of being inconspicuous in this strange place. I will excavate this old city, but it will be with one million eyes following me as I go.
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