Dar es Salaam Diary

Warning: the following post contains quasi-existential musings and academic buzzwords!!

As noted in my previous post, mzungu (plural: wazungu) is the catch-all term used to refer to any white person in Tanzania. In general it is not meant to be derogatory, but the constant reminder of one’s obvious difference can get a bit tiresome. And it really is constant. Children are fond of chanting “mzungumzungumzungu!!” when you pass by; dala-dala drivers will brag loudly should they have an mzungu passenger; and if someone doesn’t know your name, they’ll just call you “mzungu”. (As in, “Mzungu! Habari gani?” which roughly translates to “Hey, whitey! What’s up?” And actually, after my run on Saturday morning, someone did just shout, “WHITEY!!” as I passed by.)

In general I don’t really mind it, perhaps because I’m still enjoying the fact that I’m something of a novelty here in Tanzania. However, there are certainly days when I would prefer to be anonymous, and that’s not really ever an option here. Moreover, I’ve been struggling with the place in society where my “mzungu-ness” necessarily locates me. Basically, the history of wazungu in Africa is a rather sordid one, and while I don’t have any personal links to colonialism, it is difficult to ignore the fact that many of the privileges and comforts that I am afforded here are owed to its legacy. Perhaps more to the point, these comforts and privileges result from the fact that I am a person from one of the richest countries in the world currently living in one of the poorest countries in the world.

Tanzania is one of the biggest recipients of international aid in Africa, since its relative political stability and low level of corruption make Western governments feel good about giving the country money. While I don’t doubt that there are genuine altruistic urges behind these funds, the manifestation of donor money into a profusion of ex-pat “technical advisors” and “experts” creates a scenario that bears an unsettling resemblance to colonialism – that is, a bunch of white folks coming into a country and presuming they know better than the native inhabitants.

Locating myself in this landscape can be tricky, especially as I find myself wondering what tangible skills I really have to offer (or to use the cringe-worthy lingo of the international NGO world, what my “value-add” is…) I mean, I know I’m an Excel maven, but sometimes I’m jealous of people like doctors who can help in more direct, concrete ways.

It’s also just kind of weird to be living in Dar, since the fact that all the embassies, U.N. agencies, and a number of international NGOs are located here means that the ex-pat community is very large, and has the potential for being very self-contained. Indeed the majority of ex-pats in Dar live, work and play exclusively in the mzungu ghetto that is the Msasani Peninsula (though it is far from “ghetto,” with sprawling beach-front estates outfitted with satellite televisions, tennis courts and kitchens stocked with American groceries). My salary – as well as my squishily-defined reasons for being here – precludes my living on the Peninsula, however I do find myself socializing primarily with other wazungu. My (white, American) roommate and I have lamented our lack of Tanzanian friends, and wondered if we might be having a more “genuine” experience if we were rather living in some remote village where ours were the only white faces for miles around.

But anyway, enough self-flagellating over-analysis. Suffice it to say that I am having a “genuine” experience as an mzungu living and working in Dar es Salaam! I may not know what the hell I’m doing here, but hopefully attempting to figure it out will be part of the adventure…