The Mzungu

I’ve been privileged to have had the opportunity to travel the world as much as I have. When going to developing countries or countries that are monocultural, it is not uncommon for a foreigner to have pictures of them taken by the locals. 99% of the time it will be like a poparazzi and no one will ask you for your permission. It can be anywhere from flattering,tp annoying, to just plain time consuming.

The first time I experience monoculturalism and found myself as a minority was when I was studying abroad in China. A lot of people took selfies with me, some people would take a picture of me from across the street, sometimes people would get in my face while I was eating so they could take a video of a white girl eating food. There was one time, when visiting the Sun Yat Sen Mausoleum, that our tour group was held up almost an extra hour because there was literally a line forming around one of the blonde women on our trip. After my time in China, I felt like I was much more tolerant of people taking my picture and pointing at me. The following year I went to India with my mom, and there were a few people who pointed at me, but mostly people were very polite and asked to take a photo with me.

Two years after my time in China, I found myself in Tanzania writing my master’s thesis. The word used everywhere I went was “MZUGU!!” which translates to “white person” in Swahlili. I couldn’t get on a bus or go on a walk without people shouting “MZUGU! MZUGU!” everywhere I went. I don’t know why it started to annoy me so quickly, maybe it was because people yelled “Měiguó” at me in China, which translates to “American”. Maybe I’m just racist towards white people, but I would rather have my nationality shouted at me than my skin tone.

Being called a Mzungu was extra rough when random Tanzanian police and security guards ask you to pay a toll to cross the same street you cross every day. When I refused to pay I was told that I had money because I am Mzungu. I would walk around a different path or call the nearest local that I knew to fight them off. Most commonly I was asked to pay a fee when entering one of the schools I was researching at, and they would not let me enter without giving them money. I had to call the school’s headmasters and teachers often come to the gate to get me.

After several weeks of being in Tanzania, I was able to get a traditional outfit tailored to me after a local friend took me there. Once I was dressed up as a local, the locals went nuts for “the Mzungu”. We were nowhere near the compound I was staying at, and we needed to take a long bus ride back. Walking down the dirt road to the bus stop, men were RUNNING towards me with their phones shouting “MZUNGU MZUNGU MZUNGU!!!” I tried to keep calm as a crowd of grown men surrounded me. Suddenly the men were getting out of the way for a motorcyclist “gang” (they weren’t a gang. But a gaggle of motorcyclists) that started to drive around me in circles. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as I was completely surrounded and trapped by bikers in the middle of nowhere in Tanzania. They all stared at me and were asking questions to each other. Trying to stay calm, as I had no protection whatsoever, I pointed at one of the biker’s large bling chain necklaces of a giant gold marijuana leaf. I quickly pointed to the marijuana leaf and made the international hand gesture of smoking weed and flashed them the biggest smile and chill laugh I could crack out of me. Immediately they cheered and one biker scooted over to let me continue walking. As a Coloradan, I know that weed is the international symbol of peace, and thank god I was right.

After waving goodbye to my new biker friends, I made it to the bus at the bus stop. I sat down on the bus and a bunch of men ran into the bus to talk to me and shake my hand. Outside of my bus window was a mob of men trying to shake my hand through the window like I was a world leader. They kept shouting “MZUNGU!” and then one of them asked me for money. I completely snapped. I stood up from my seat and yelled “YES ME MZUNGU OKAY?!! MZUNGO MZUNGO!! ENOUGH!!! ENOUGH!” as I waved my arms in anger they looked very confused. My local friend who was on the other side of the bus, laughed and told me that I was their FIRST Mzungo. This knowledge made me so ashamed of my reactions for the past month that I was there. I had no idea that I was the first white person they’ve ever seen. It changed my entire perspective and I was silent the rest of the trip. A local Tanzanian women saw that the men on the bus were not giving me space, and she sat next to me and pressed me against the window. Every time a man got on the bus and wanted to talk to me, she would turn to me and pretend we were having a conversation. I never got her name, but she squeezed my hand super tight as a goodbye before she got off the bus at her stop.

When I finally made it back to the town I was staying in, the locals I saw everyday waved at me with a thumbs up to my Tanzanian outfit. They were used to seeing me navigate the town so there wasn’t much “MZUNGU” shouting when I was back. It began to start pouring ran and I was trying to cross a busy street, when a tribal Maasai man ran over to me in his loincloth with a spear in one hand and grabbed my hand in the other. He held my hand and walked me across all of the roads in the rain and then waved goodbye to me. It was the sweetest gesture done by a stranger that I’ve ever seen. I eventually found a motorcyclist or a bajaj to take me back to my compound (I can’t remember).

With this new information given to me I felt like I had a responsibility to be the best mzungu that anyone had ever met. I did my best to go the extra mile to smile and say “Jambo!” to everyone I came in contact with.

I took a bus to Dar Es Salaam by myself, and sitting behind me was a four or five year boy. My head had just been freshly shaven in Morogoro, so it was short and fuzzy like his hair was. He sat up in his chair and leaned over to put both of his hands on my head. He brushed his hand across my hair, and then he touched his hair to feel the difference in our textured hairs. I tried not to moved to spook his curiosity. Next he took his finger nail and began scratching at my arm to watch my skin turn colors, then he scratched himself to see how our skin looked different after scratching. I held still like a statue while this child was curiously exploring our similarities and differences. That moment will stay with me forever as a lesson that we are still learning about each other every day.