Elizabeth Gunstone a.k.a. the mzungu in Mombasa.

"An E.T. figure who has been adopted into the family of Africa"

Africa’s roots have slowly twisted into my existence. The everyday calls of “mzungu” (directly translated from Kiswahili as “white person”, although rumour asserts it originally meant leper) seem like a faint hum that signal both a familiarity as well as my status as an outsider.  Yet, one could argue this is the perfect place to be. I am a guest, looking through a keyhole into an ever-evolving country, with the benefit of having the status of an employee. I like to see the label on my ID - “Kenyan alien” - as a term of endearment. An E.T. figure who has been adopted into the family of Africa, ready to learn about the madness of the continent as someone who was, up to a year ago, totally unfamiliar to the surroundings. At times of frustration the “alien” may morph into a Martian, turning red in anger at the points of corruption or inefficiency, however the opportunity to embrace, and learn from, a foreign culture is a privilege.

A wall on a hotel in the Mozambiquan resort of Bilene

I can already preempt the cynical few of you rolling eyes and suggesting a throw-back to British colonialism: white person enters Kenya with aims to make social commentary. How can this possibly be wise? My thoughts turn to a bright blue painted wall of a South-African resort I visited in Mozambique, which stated “shining a light on a dark continent”. While I’d like to see my writing as an attempt to illuminate a very complex place, I would never use the word “dark” to describe such a vibrant, forgiving and open culture.  I therefore state a very simple proviso to reading this blog. Do it with the knowledge I wish to understand Kenya, and through this process learn about my role within it. As an African proverb states “A guest sees more in an hour than the host does in a year”, and while I am not motivated to criticise the host, I do believe an outside perspective on a situation is often unique.

“What perspective might I tell of the last 12 months?” you may ask. My last year in Kenya seems too enormous to begin to analyse so, contrasting to the stereotype of an English teacher, I have decided to tell that story in numbers.

4 marmite jars consumed

1 police officer bribed

1 Kenyan film starred in

3 marriage proposals received

2 kindles broken

2 kittens adopted

11 beach boys scowled at

1 Kenyan boyfriend found

17kg (approximate) weight of soapstone purchased

1 campsite broken into

5 overnight, 15 hour, buses to Kisii travelled on

96 (approximate) calls of “howareyou?fine” heard

3 headteachers of school employed

5 African countries visited

1 crazy preacher listened to (for a bus journey of 12 hours)

1 surf lesson completed

1 broken shoe lost in a squat toilet

3 African dresses tailored

1353 (approximate) lessons taught

1 wicked witch acted

Now, after returning to my African home of a year, I am reawakening my appreciation of the intricacies of Mombasa life. In the morning the soft ocean waves can be heard outside the school compound as my alarm slowly beeps my day into existence. In the evening the call to prayer often gives a calmness and routine to the quickly-descending sun, beckoning the night’s cloak to envelope the city. Often the days seem to roll by. A flurry of pantomime rehearsals, choir practise and lesson planning speeds forward the weekend, giving endless food for fodder.

This weekend was a weekend of contrast. Saturday marked the life of a settled, British expat. As a mzungu in Mombasa one thing is for certain - we cling together. The invite to a St George’s Society fundraiser popped up on Facebook a few weeks ago, giving me ample opportunity to dismiss the named “paralytic Olympics” as not-my-style. Yet, the spark of food, drink and friends soon lit a fire of interest. Strolling into the luxurious compound of a wealthy acquaintance, I was greeted by an endless array of union jack merchandise and a handful of tipsy mzungu team players. The standard British ploughmans lunch was replaced with Kenyan bitings, consisting of roast beef, tomato salad and eggs. Before long I was hooked! Throughout the last year I have grown to accept the fact I do, at times, crave British company. The knowledge of shared experience, humour and food certainly brings people together. Surrounded by 30 other white people it is obvious I actually fit, for once blending into the scenery, rather than sticking out like a sore thumb. So while I will not be embracing St George’s passion by slaying a dragon or singing “God Save our Queen”, it certainly is a pleasure to reconnect with loose ties from a distant land – afterall I did miss the British Olympics so I might as well relish the opportunity to participate in the Kenyan version!

Solo walk on "school beach"

Sunday was a true day of rest – as it should be. Bright sunshine awoke me, pouring through my windows with an eager persistence, determined to force a start to the morning. The pull of the Mombasa coastline is hard to resist when the sky is a bright, glaring blue and the heat in the apartment is close and oppressive. Strolling along the beach shore I, as always, became the luminous mzungu in the crowd of African faces. The standard greeting of “jambo” rang out occasionally, as a confident beach boy attempted to ensnare another foreign victim.  Nevertheless, there is nothing more magic than being an observer on an African beach, even if you can never hide in anonymity.

My closest beach is an empty, fisherman’s haven, devoid of tourists and peaceful in its silence. A gradual walk along sea-weeded rocks to the tourist hotels uncovers a variety of sights: occasional glimpses of a Kenyan couple hiding from the judging eyes of any passerby; the companionship of a fisherman duo, searching for their next catch; the warm smiles of a family, on an outing to uncover Mombasa’s rockpools. Yet best of all is the excitement which descends as the sun begins to drop. Families, boys, teenagers, lovers and friends spill onto the beach after Sunday worship, taking ownership of the sand with their loud exploits.  Dodging glistening, rippling bodies became my afternoon’s pursuit as endless football games evolved around the ground I walked on - people entrapping the foreigner with shouts of delight.

Home, sweet home

The relief is palpable when returning, knowing I can shut the door on the craziness, shower and unwind in my haven of home. In my small bubble of Mombasa existence I can combine the mzungu luxuries of running water and a cup of builders tea, with the joy of observing the simplicities of true human interaction and energy. I realise that you don’t need a fancy villa and an archaic membership society to enjoy yourself, merely the presence of good company and a beach – I have to admit though, it’s nice to have the best of both worlds!