American Lady

Arriving into Tofo Beach was a blur due to fighting off jet lag and constantly worrying if my 3mm wetsuit that I lugged all the way to Mozambique would be sufficient for the water temperatures here. The answer is an astounding no. It is “winter” here and though the water is a nice 74 degrees, it is way too cold for a 3mm (packing fail #1). My first day wandering around Tofo felt oddly familiar yet absolutely nothing like any place I had ever been. The streets are pure sand thereby rendering all of the shoes I brought completely useless except for my one pair of flip flops (packing fail #2). Tofo is a small town that consists of a few restaurants, hotels, and a central vegetable market with stalls selling everything from bras and cheap sunglasses to handmade bowls and random items such as sarongs and elephant pants from Bali. Needless to say, I get a serious calf workout every day as I make my way across the beach to Liquid dive center for what have thus far been two weeks of fantastic diving complete with dolphin, whale and manta ray sightings. I have never been happier to wear dive leggings under a 5mm wetsuit in all my life (packing win!). Tofo Beach, deep underwater, is a place where all of my marine biology fabunerd dreams are coming true and I have had an incredible start to my sabbatical.

A boy and his new kite on Tofo Beach, Mozambique. 10 June, 2019

The other night at a local restaurant here in Tofo, I was chatting away with a few fellow travelers when all of a sudden, I heard from across the table, “American, hey American, American!” I looked up to find Johnny, a local guy who hangs out at the market, and who earlier that day correctly identified me as an American as I passed him on my way to go diving. “American lady!!”, he yelled from across the way. Was I giving off a distinctly American vibe wandering around in my sustainable Patagonia travel wear? I waved to him in a very guarded, US, northeastern kind of way and offered only a quick up and down wafting of my hand with no eye contact. I am learning quickly that a wave here is an open invitation for a full-on conversation which directly challenges my New York City and Bostonian travel attitude of ‘I see you Mr. Stranger, but I really don’t need to talk to you at the moment’. Johnny, as I would soon learn his name is, hurriedly darted across the sandy street waving at me while I quickly averted my eyes in an effort to keep a low profile. He was now very close, and I had no choice but to interact with this very eager stranger. He was curious to know what part of the US I was from and for how long I was going to stay in Tofo. He bobbed alongside me as I walked until we reached the market boundary. It is sometimes hard as a woman traveling alone to know what men’s intentions are, especially when they are overly friendly. I let my guard down a little and waved him a proper goodbye as I pondered whether or not I had just come across as a rude American.

Later, at the restaurant, my new friend Johnny spotted me from across the room. He was clearly drunk but seemed excited to say hello. Staring right at me, he approached the picnic table where I was sitting with some new acquaintances and pushed aside Zed, a guy of Ugandan and Ghanaian decent from the UK, to the left and my friend Matt from the Netherlands to the right, in order to make room for himself between them at the table. "You and me, we are the same. Same color,” he said as he compared his arm to Zed’s. Zed looked perplexed and immediately made eye contact with me as if to say, “not sure where this is going, but whatever he says, I’m not on board.” Johnny then pointed at me from across the table and said, “She is not black." Everyone at the table fell silent and I said curiously, "I am not black? Then what am I?" He looked at me and said, "You are chocolate light. You are not black like us. You are not real black." First of all, what in the world does “chocolate light” mean and who was Johnny to tell me anything at all about who I am? The white South African next to me who also told me a few days prior that I was not black watched with fascination as I told Johnny that I indeed was black. She chimed in agreeing with Johnny and said, “You see, you are not black. You are more like coloured.” Needless to say, this entire conversation, albeit ridiculous, was news to me and it got me thinking about how race is weighted and used to drive divisiveness in different countries around the world.

I asked my South African friend to explain further why I am not considered black since for my entire life in the US I have been classified and categorized as black. I am certainly not naive to the fact that colorism in the US and in other countries, such as Panamá, is alive and well, but I was curious to know why she viewed me as non-black. She said that I would most likely be considered in the "couloured" category in South Africa and went on to say that most people like her would maybe even think I was Portuguese of African ancestry. All of this was quite revelatory to me considering that in the US if you have even a slight appearance or skin color with a drop of melanin you are black. In trying to write about this, it took me a few days to figure out how to interpret my new identity in the context of the US where the very term, “black” is immediately associated with negative connotations; to the point where we have to remind ourselves that we are beautiful (sad state of affairs people!). I am used to being lumped together with my fellow black folks even if we all have different ancestry that the idea that I would be classified otherwise was actually startling and somewhat unsettling. Though there may be many more categories of skin color to speak of or choose from in other countries, one aspect remains the same; the way in which you are categorized has serious economic and social consequences.

Traveling in Africa as a black American is both thrilling and perplexing at the same time. Recently, a white South African and I were talking about the term “African-American” and she said, “What is this term you all use? I mean, I am more African than you are. I am actually African.” I somehow could not disagree with her with regard to semantics. However, as I stared at her white skin, I thought about how categories of race and organized systems of oppression have made it such that she felt free and emboldened to tell me that I should not claim the term African as I was not born in Africa. Yet there I was sitting in front of her with my brown skin clearly on display. I strangely began to feel a slight sense of sadness as I clearly have black African ancestry. Whatever sadness I felt quickly turned to defensiveness, not because of what she said, but because of the lack of her ability to acknowledge and understand why the majority of African-Americans do not know their own histories and heritage (a little thing called slavery); something that has been denied to us, even in the age of DNA testing. How then, I wondered, should I acknowledge my African ancestry as an American who is not considered “black” by actual Africans; both white and black?  

 Looking at Johnny from across the table, though we have different shades of skin, as a black American, I consider us the same, whereas he clearly does not. As human beings we are equal, but skin color is so heavily associated with economics and social standing that Johnny wasn’t just telling me I wasn’t black, he was alluding to the fact that I was more economically privileged perhaps due to my lighter skin color, and therefore perhaps not privy to the struggles he has faced. As a person from the US with more economic privilege, Johnny was not wrong in this regard. The trauma that many black people of all shades experience throughout the world varies depending on where you are from and has never been more readily evident than in the moment when Johnny announced my non-blackness. Was there any part of my life that I could compare to Johnny’s in a show of solidarity? I could not think of one. Whatever struggles I think I have experienced, including racism and sexism, likely have no comparison to his everyday reality.

 I have never felt more naked in front of someone while fully clothed. Johnny may never agree that I am black and likely does not remember our conversation due to his inebriated state, but I thank him for challenging my very comfortable US understanding of what it means to be a person of color.

The simplest and most unassuming interactions that occur while traveling have been some of the most life changing and thought-provoking moments of my life. Though the diving and underwater world in Tofo is excellent, at the surface, it seems that I have much to learn.