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.