An Alien: A Black Woman Living in Cambodia

What a strange world we live in. We have white people spending money to look darker while my fellow dark-skinned people are spending even more money trying to look white. But the fixation that Cambodian (and SE Asia) women have with white skin is quite unparalleled. Tales of women slathering on all sorts of creams to bleach their skins did not exactly quieten my fears when I decided to venture far from home and come to Cambodia. And true to the stories, sightings of women swathed with shoulder-length white gloves, thick polyester stockings, masks, scarves, jackets and hats to keep the sun away in the sweltering heat are quite common. You should see some of the women in the rural areas. Their faces look like they have been roasted in an oven; their skin is bleached so raw that they look red rather than white, and the skin so thinned you can see spider webs of broken capillaries on their cheeks. Skin whitening has become so entrenched that buying toiletries requires a strategic plan; soaps, shower gels, lotions, face creams, all have whitening agents. Apparently the colour of your armpits and nipples matter too, so if you look hard enough you can find, whitening deodorants, pink nipple lotions and bleachers for other places that would make any conventional woman recoil with horror.

So, as some of you have asked me, rather nervously, what is it like living in Cambodia as a black person, I thought I should give an account of my experience living in a society where women are blatantly at odds with their own skin colour. Well, let’s just say that I feel blacker in Cambodia than I have ever felt anywhere else. In the West, the novelty of seeing black people is all gone; well almost. Nobody really pays attention to them, except perhaps the police. In Cambodia, where one can find people as dark as I am, the police eye you and so does everybody else. Watching a skinny black girl with strange hair eat, talk, walk, laugh, and do all the normal things human race is supposed to is actually entertainment. Even here in Phnom Penh, I attract all sorts of reactions. Like the day I made the mistake of carrying toilet paper rolls in a clear plastic bag. All the way from the supermarket, people were gesturing to each other and pointing to my plastic bag with knowing smiles. Never doing that again!

There aren’t exactly many black girls with dreadlocks, so being black in Cambodia means you can kiss goodbye to the word ‘privacy’. The city knows you and remembers you. Everybody knows where I live, where I work, whom I hang out with, and now that they have figured out that I go to the toilet too, probably when I visit it. Talking of the toilets, being black in a non-black community also means that you are prone to start displaying some really bizarre behaviour; like standing before the toilet bowl trying to decided what to do with the mutinous, lone, curly pubic hair glaring at you from the white ceramic. Everybody does that, right?

Being black means you have no nationality. Forget about being Malawian, Kenyan, Angolan or Zambian, well, except Nigerian. We can’t really escape Nigerians can we? To Cambodians, and Americans, Africa is just one big country. It really doesn’t help that I am from a country that only makes world news when the only out-of-closet gay couple decides to get married. It’s not just being simply categorised as “African”; it’s also being associated with anything black. If news on TV is about black people, then I should know something about it. Thankfully Haiti is no longer on every TV channel; I don’t have to answer endless annoying questions of how far my country is from Haiti and if my parents survived the earthquake!! Trying to explain to the office guard the other day why I could not buy his Central Africa Republic Francs - probably worthless- was just a waste of time. As far as he was concerned I am African so I should have use for the francs.

A black person in Cambodia is an expert on Africa. When we go to a Nigerian Restaurant, being African, the selection of food from the menu is left to me by default; regardless of the fact that I have never set my foot in West Africa. And you are asked stupid questions like “is the food genuine African food?” - as if the whole of Africa eats fufu and egusi everyday. The stereotyping is not only limited to non-blacks: Africans too compartmentalise each other. I periodically meet a Somali guy who’s got it in his head that I am Kenyan. I got rather tired of explaining that I would rather be Malawian, so we now just greet each other in Swahili, though probably both of us speak better Khmer.

Being black in Cambodia can also mean that you are guilty of your brother’s transgressions. Thanks to our too-clever Nigerian brothers, I had the most uncomfortable encounter with a very angry Cambodian army guy who demanded an explanation as to why he lost all his money to some Nigerians through Internet spam. ‘Greed’ would have been the right answer, but I didn’t want to have my residence permit mysteriously cancelled. And so, despite Nigeria being thousand of miles from home, I almost found myself apologising on behalf of these inept brothers.

Life for a black woman in Phnom Penh is actually not that bad. The countryside, however, is another story. The Cambodian countryside in the rainy season epitomises my mental picture of what S.E Asia should look like; lush green fields of rice that go on and on for miles, broken by a scanty forest of sugar palm trees. But don’t be fooled, the countryside can be brutal to a black girl. Trying to explore the rural setting without bringing a little town to a standstill is next to impossible. And the stares! Before coming to Cambodia, I never fully appreciated why my white friends made a big deal of being stared at by zillions of Malawian children in remote rural areas. “Relax” I would always say. “They have never seen a white person before”. Now I know better. Flying limbs of screaming kids, chickens, dogs and rats running for cover are a common sight when I appear on the village scene. And when they finally realise that I will not cut them up and serve them in the famous Cambodian sour soup, skinny kids slowly emerge from behind their mothers’ legs, to stare. Hundreds of pairs of saucer-sized, solemn, staring eyes watching your every move is anything but relaxing. Sometimes the excitement of seeing a black woman spreads. Children huddled together, a clump that cannot be separated child into child; they resemble a composite monster with multiple thin arms and spindly legs squealing with glee; hundreds of hands held over the little horrors’ hundreds of giggling mouths!!

I have also noticed that in the countryside I often serve the same purpose as the ‘mzungu’ does back home; choopsezera ana (the bogeyman). In Malawi, it’s quite common to hear mothers say to their crying kids ‘siya kulira, ukumuona mzunguyo? Akulumatu'! I don’t need to know Khmer to understand what’s going on; a crying kid bends and twists around on his mothers lap; the mother whispers something to the child, her bony finger pointing at me; the kid turns to me with alarmed eyes and the gaping mouth clamps shut. You just don’t know what to do in such circumstances; try to smile away the charge, frown and cement the accusation or just look away……

Being black in Cambodia also means that you get to be asked some really awkward questions. I have had the pleasure of being given a private exhibition of Khmer breasts, not because there is anything particularly wrong with my sexual orientation, but rather the chief’s daughter was more interested in seeing what black breasts look like. And since communication between us was a problem, it was easier for her to lift up her blouse and show me her tiny Khmer breasts and firmly point to my flat chest that I do the same.

But Cambodians can also be full of surprises. I never would have expected to receive compliments here, but I do, strange as they may sound. Naturally it’s not the colour of my skin, but apparently I have a good ‘barang’ (white man) nose, which is highly valued next to the white skin. And to think that as a child I was mercilessly teased for having a Chimphuno ngati M’bhuno (white South African nose). They don’t know what to make of my hair though, but that’s ok. My own mother can’t figure it out either. She asked me the other day when was I going to take out the hair. But the hair is a major attraction here. I am still trying to get used to the sensation of heavy breathing down on my neck as people try to get a closer look, without touching the hair. The head in sacred in Cambodian culture and is never touched. I did contemplate cutting it off but I would rather endure the stares than expose all the proliferating white hairs beneath that seem to have suddenly taken a life of their own.

I realise that being black in Cambodia means I am a lot of things to different people, a black person, a friend, an alien, an African, a miser who prefers walking to tuk tuk taxis, a rich expat, a poor expat, a Malawian, a Kenyan, the list goes on. People will stereotype me without getting to know me, but as you noted my comments about Nigerians and my accommodating hosts, I am guilty of the same crime. Except, I don't let society dictate to me what I should be. Instead I just wake in the morning and get on with life; along with the hundred pairs of eyes watching my every move.

To everything there is a season

This week, I lost a friend. The pain was immense and it took me completely by surprise. I didn’t just lose a friend; he was my confidante, my mentor, my best friend. I didn’t lose my friend to death; he is very much a live. He is just no longer my best friend. He has become something else; what? I do not yet know. Although we assure each other that we will always be best friends, I know this is fallacy. For I will never talk to him freely again, I can never walk the streets in a warm summer evenings with him again, I can never cry in his arms again, I will never call his home my home again, I will never see the world through his eyes again.

He has been a true friend; he has shared my best moments and seen me through my worst. He has been loyal, kind, generous and he accepted who I am. I took it for granted that he would always be there, that he will always be my best friend. Now, my best friend and I will settle into polite friends with polite smiles and engage in polite conversations; too scared to dig deeper, too restrained to say what we really mean, too afraid of being misunderstood; we will share polite news of the weather, our jobs, new family additions, but never about our pains, our meaningless lives, our newly found hopes, yearnings, happiness, loneliness and disappointments; instead we will exchange scanty impersonal emails and awkward embraces.

I wonder if he will walk the cool tropical forests and remember me, if he will travel the world and think of me. Will I ever cross his mind, will he ever miss me? I know I will. Someday I will go through the fields where we once walked together, the birds will still sing, but they won't sound as sweet as they did before. I will stare at the moon and think of the day everything changed.

But the wise king of Israel once said that there is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven.

A time to kill and a time to heal
A time to tear down, a time to build

A time to weep and a time to laugh
A time to mourn and time to dance

A time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones together
A time for embrace, a time to refrain from embracing

A time for search and a time to give up
A time to keep and a time to throw away

A time has come to part, to walk away, a time has come to pursue new dreams and callings. I have nothing to reproach him with and he will live in my memory as the best friend I have ever had.

Farewell friend. I have been truly blessed, honoured and proud to have known you in the appointed time. May your new life be a blessing to others the same way your old one was to me.

Malawian Names

Last week, a colleague asked me the meaning of Cecilia. I have never hesitated before to say what Cecilia means, but this time I did. “Blind” I said. As I expected, he was completely shocked, as were the rest of the Cambodians around the table. You see, names here are normally Khmer and tend to refer to more pleasant things. Malawian names on the other hand seem to be an eclectic mixture of native names which have clear, but dark meanings; Anglicised native names that sounds ok to us but totally ridiculous to westerners; and weird names that sound neither native nor western. It got me thinking of why are the names of our grandparents are different from our parents, which are also different from ours and our children.

Before I continue, I have a confession to make. If you were to go through all the medical birth records in Malawi, you would probably come across several babies sired by the sons of Aipira, but none of them would bear the name Cecilia Aipira. That’s because Cecilia is not my original name. No, no, no I am not telling. I am a bit embarrassed by my original name. I am not sure why actually. Maybe it’s because of its ambiguity; it sounds neither English (western) nor Chichewa and I would want it to be one or the other. My name is a bit like one of those Malawian names you often hear in Dowa or Ntchisi. No, not Eneless, Biniwell, Liverson–knowing the difficulty Malawians have in distinguishing Rs from Ls, it could as well be Riverson -or Dickson, Fanuwell, Fackwell…….well, you get my drift. Thankfully these names have pretty much disappeared. It would have been ok if my original name was more along the lines of Malitina (Martina), Patileki (Patrick) Andulu (Andrew) or if you happen to come from the North Godhiwini (Goodwin), Gifuti (Gift) might be more appropriate. But while it is possible to work out the original English name with these examples, I still cannot decipher mine. Worse still, the way it is written and pronounced just doesn’t add up. Maybe it was once a nice exotic name, but the passage of time and ignorance reduced it to what it is today. Believe it or not, I was re-named after Cecilia Tamanda Kadzamira (Google it if you don’t know her). But it was impressed upon me that this was a better name, a prestigious one even, something to be proud of. I guess Cecilia is not that bad, if you can manage to turn a blind eye to its meaning!

But why are we losing our native names in favour of western names? Is it to do with the level of sophistication- so that as we get more ‘exposed’, we aspire to get more western sounding names? I don’t know if people in my village are any more sophisticated than they were 30 years ago. Well, that’s not true really. My uncle in the village now brandishes a fancier mobile phone than the one I have. The only difference of course is that I can charge mine anytime, while his can go dead for weeks because Mr. Nkhweu’s car broke down in Monkey Bay. My other uncle, however, refuses to have a phone. The skills needed to operate one are beyond him. But even this backward uncle displays a remarked progression when it comes to naming his children. I have been able to observe this evolution because thanks to my uncle’s extremely blessed loins, he produced a litter of 10 children, spanning over a period of about three decades. I am counting live children here and yes, with one woman. Although I heard the other day that after a nasty fight with his wife, he declared he was leaving her to look for his long-lost son in Balaka. I guess that makes it 11.

There is a marked difference in the names of his children. The first born is Aleda, don’t ask me what that means. Ok, maybe that’s not the best example, but his second born is Muononga, (you will destroy) while the third is Anthu Akatha, Akatha in short (lamenting the fast depletion of a tribe). Of course Akatha promptly changed her name to Loyce as soon as she became of age and Muononga is now Liverson…errrh Riverson. Then, there is Ndasiya- ndasiya kubeleka (this is my last born) - mind you this a fourth and not last born. The last three however have normal names; Kafereni (Catherine), Joswa (Joshua) and Vincent. Funny enough the ones in the middle have weird names like mine; Faneti, Sefake, Manesi…… I mean, what the hell is Faneti?

Where do these names come from?

I presume that old names like Mun’deranji (why do you hate me), Ulombo (I am not actually sure what that means, but it sounds sinister all the same) or Iphani (kill)-Iphani is a real name by the way. I went to school with one. His father’s name was Monke (monkey), poor thing. As far as I know he hasn’t been exterminated yet -must have come from the perceived witchcraft around the villagers and that if they complained enough, through their children, then witches would leave them alone? The coming of the colonial masters brought with them the confusion of the names we now have in Malawi. Imagine our colonial masters trying to pronounce Khirivava, Chigomezgo, Phwandaphwanda, Dindwase, Liphwithi. So to become employable, our grandfathers either became boy or they had to find English-sounding names quickly. They most likely did not know the first names of their masters, just like some of us did know not our fathers or mothers had first names until the first day of primary school, but they did have the surnames to guide them, hence, the Hastings, Hendersons, Hetherwicks, Nelsons of those days.

The proliferation of names like Marita, Maria, Paulo, etc, came from the rising influence of Christianity. Accompanied by a declining infant mortality -so protection against witchcraft wasn’t necessary anymore- Yamikani (praise), Happiness, Chikondi (love), Mwai (fortune) also emerged, although Mabvuto (trouble/misery) persisted somehow. The more-learned enthusiasts spoiled everything by literally translating these names into English. White people think you are being funny when you say that your name is Beauty, Smart, Loveness, Fortune, Precious, or Happy. Enter Pentecostal churches, the era of Chisomo (Grace of God), Madalitso (God Blessings), Tamanda/Wongani (Praise God), Alinafe (God with us). Of course these wouldn’t be complete without a negative Christian name like Masautso (persecution). But we should not forget the brief period Malawi went through; thank God it was brief, when, if you called out ‘Junior’! in Ndirande, at least five kids would answer to that name.

Somewhere in between the arrival of missionaries and Pentecostals sprouted the types of name that I fell victim to. Nuliyesi, Flone, Elevess, Delina Nelita, Elenesi, Geresom, Elenata, Felita, Binosi are definitely not native, but they don’t quite sound western either. Did we make them up ourselves, as a way of showing that we are quite cultured and could keep up with globalisation? That was my theory until I started to google some of these names just for the heck of it. This is what I found: Elevess is an anti-wrinkle injectable filler, I am sure the Elevess in my village hasn't the foggiest idea what botox is; Faneti, my cousin, is some foot fetish in Turkey, trust me there is no way my uncle would have given this name to his precious daughter if he had know about this. However, I was very surprised to find out Delina, (noble, German) Felita (fortunate, Latin) Nelita (Greek) are real names. Even Aleda, my uncle’s first born means a small-winged girl in German. Flone, Binosi are Italian surnames. Unfortunately Enelesi and Geresom seem to be endemic only to Malawi. I guess you know what’s coming next, I googled my original name. I wasn’t so lucky. My original name was last recorded in Canada in 1852. So where did these names come from? My only guess is that they were probably supplied by the catholic fathers or the early missionaries. Some of them got confused and muddled along the line, hence why there is no record of Nuliyesi on the Internet.

The Chisomos and Alinafes of today are now adults, busy making children of their own. With the Pentecostal era now firmly behind us, they are now looking to the West and East to guide them. Our reference point is no-longer the daily happenings and mishaps of our surroundings; witchcraft, real or perceived; dying names mumbled by Italian fathers and confused missionaries; but the Britneys and the Ashleys on TV. Chrystee, Jasmine, Chantelle, Noreen, Naushad, now rule our Malawi urban world. We are no longer intrigued by our African names, or the history behind them. Thankfully the rural masses haven’t caught up with this frenzy, yet. Jorodanis (Jordan) and Khilisitinas (Christian) are still rampant and if you venture far into Katchele Khwanywa in Ntchisi, you might still come across a child named Fanuwell.

A FAN

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I was thinking last night how facebook and friends on facebook keep on suggesting that I become a fan of this or that. So today first thing in the morning, instead of tackling that growing pile of papers on my desk, I was looking up the meaning of the word ‘fan’ on the Internet. Here is what it says … An ardent devotee; an enthusiast (online Dictionary)…….a person with an intense, occasionally overwhelming liking and enthusiasm for something (Wiki). I refuse to become a fan. This is not to say that there is anything wrong with being a fan. Mind you, I like Obama, Garfield and the others suggested by facebook, but I actually don’t have an ardent devotion for Obama or Garfield for that matter.

I must confess though, I almost subscribed to become a fan of Jesus on facebook, but I didn’t. I really would like to become one, but if I am honest with myself, I am not a fan. Let’s look at the behaviour of a fan first. Let’s take Manchester United fans for example. You can spot Manchester fans by their red shirts, unless of course you happen to be like me who can’t tell a Barcelona Football colour from Manchester Utd- had to look up the red, just to make sure. The Bible says that if we have (wear) love, all men shall know that we are Jesus’ disciplines –Jh 13:35 (and no, I haven’t memorised Jh 13:35, I had to look up that one too). Can people here tell that I am Christian without me informing them? Am I not supposed to be the salt of the earth and a light to the world? Back to Manchester fans, they will do anything, even resort to violence to support their team. I, on the other hand, cannot recall an occasion where I have fiercely sided with God. Too many times, I have been silent when people say all religions are the same and chosen to agree that the crucifixion of Jesus was in vain. To blend in, how many times have I nodded in agreement with things that are contrary to my beliefs? Inside I am sinking, sinking …… saying sorry God but I am out of my depth. Where is the zeal that Paul talks about?

Ok, I have rumbled on for long enough. The point is, I AM a fan of Jesus, sans devotion, enthusiasm, overwhelming liking…… I am like a Manchester fan wearing his red shirt underneath another one……so he can blend in and be accepted. Something is gotta change…..right? But truth is the real fan here is God. He is a fan of me and of us all. Indeed greater love hath no man (fan) than this; that a man lay down his life for his friends.