The Price of a Coca-Cola in Africa

(October 2003: The Beginning)

It’s 10am and I am bored out of my mind. The constant hum of the air conditioning and the smell of fresh paint have combined to jab my senses and provoke my restlessness. Outside, the hot sun glares off of white stucco and the streets teem with people in brightly colored clothing. Inside, here in this sterile cocoon of the United Nations (UN) headquarters for West Africa, the only stimuli is the occasional grand entrance by some well-groomed and pleasant diplomat, who checks in to make sure we’re finding everything “comfortable.” I know we’re supposed to be working and using the fine hospitality of our friend, the Ambassador to the UN for West Africa, but I am at a loss as to what to do. It is wonderful to be treated like diplomats; I have always been a backpacker. It is wonderful and it is boring. No one notices. Across from me Jack, my boss, is dozing in a comfortable chair in our pleasant surroundings.

I have to get outside. I have been in Senegal approximately 14 hours and have only seen the inside of the diplomat’s lounge at the airport, our somewhat dingy hotel room, and the hotel bar/restaurant. This morning we were shuttled in a UN vehicle from our hotel to the headquarters and I have been in captivity ever since. I must go outside. I want to see the people, know the culture, feel the intense heat, test out my fledgling French, and get out of this sterilized room. I want to do anything but sit here trying to think up things to do and trying to keep Jack from dozing so he can entertain me with conversation. “You know that Goree Island was a major slave port, right? President Bush visited here three months ago and went to Goree…we should go,” I chatter. No response. He doesn’t care. It is two hours until lunch, my chance to get outside. I can’t wait that long. Certainly we must be thirsty, I decide. This would necessitate me going outside to the little stand down the street with the Coke banner on it that I observed on the way in and picking up two sodas. I propose my plan to Jack. Fine, he tells me, whatever you want to do. Freedom!

Clutching my Senegalese cedis in hand, I proudly march past the guard who looks at me with lazy curiosity, down the three flights of stairs where various diplomats and other important people ask me if I am finding things pleasant and comfortable, and down to the street.

I have escaped.

I am in Africa and I am on my first mission, I shall procure for us two Coca-colas.
This is my first taste of Africa beyond the hermetically sealed world that they have imposed upon me, and I am eager to hit the streets.

I reach the gate that opens onto the street and begin to stride into the crowd and then, suddenly, I am paralyzed. The heat is gripping; I am immediately bathed in sweat. My feet are lead and they won’t move.

What the hell is this about? I ask myself. I notice that my heart is pounding. “C’mon you fool; it is not like you have never been hot before for Christ’s sake!” my mind barks…

Then it hits me- I am the only one. The ONLY one. I am the only white person in a sea of black skin. I am a 5’3” white woman with sweat running rivets into my bra and underwear standing in the middle of the main road in Dakar and I am surrounded by a sea of black people.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I had never experienced this is all my years at my university in North Philadelphia and I certainly have never thought about it much in my adult life. As a matter of fact, friends have scolded me for not paying enough attention to my surroundings which occasionally leads me to wander into bad neighborhoods or places that I should not be. Have I come to Africa to suddenly become afraid of black people? Am I afraid of them or am I afraid of me?

“Move, feet, move!” I beg.

They don’t respond.

They’re staring at me, they must be, I think. I look around. No one notices the sweaty, immobilized white woman standing in front of UN headquarters obstructing pedestrian traffic and looking like a complete moron. Maybe this is a common sight. Maybe I am the only idiot who has had this experience. Either way, no one seems to care. A Senegalese man approaches me and taps me on the arm and says something in French. I look into his face pleadingly, hoping to find an answer to my hellish dilemma.

“Coke?” I mutter like a toddler testing out a newly learned word in hope of parental assurance. He looks at me strangely, points to the tiny stand twenty feet down the road, and wanders away shaking his head, pausing to throw me a bewildered, slightly amused, glance over his shoulder.

I am so fucking white!! How come I never noticed this before?? The interruption of the Senegalese man breaks my trance and I scramble back into UN headquarters, soaking, humiliated and empty-handed.

And white.

Jack wakes up and takes in the fact that I have been gone for fifteen minutes and returned with no beverage. “What is the problem?” he queries. I stammer for an excuse under his scrutiny. “Umm…well, I couldn’t…I didn’t…they didn’t…well they didn’t have any…and… and…I can’t speak French!” I announce. He looks annoyed as hell.

“They didn’t have any?” he asks. At this he stands up, marches out of the room with me scrambling along in tow, and proceeds to stride down the stairs- the picture of self-confidence- and walks the short distance to the Coke stand. He has no fear. He is God. He doesn’t yet realize that he is white.

“May I have two Cokes, please?” he asks, in English.

The vendor passes them over and I stand huddled next to him, slugging my Coke and feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet.

“So”, he says, “haven’t you traveled all over Eastern Europe and the Balkans, lived in other countries, and that sort of thing…that was what was on your resume if I recall, correct?”

I nodded slowly.

“Right”, he continues, “and in all that time, those times, you have never, ever had a Coke?”

I felt my cheeks blazing and I knew for sure it wasn’t the sun.

I refused to answer, hoping he’d give up. He didn’t. “So they all speak English over there and when you encountered the few natives who didn’t, you avoided Coca-cola at all cost, right?” I hate him. I hate this man who is my boss and is clueless that we are the only two white people in Dakar. I hate that he has seen my much touted travel-savvy and confidence leveled by a soda vendor in Senegal. Surely, I deserve another chance. He just doesn’t realize he is white yet, I comfort myself. Once that happens, he will be reduced to a wreck.

We finish our Cokes and he pries the empty bottle out of my sticky hand, returns both bottles over to the vendor, thanks him in French, and proceeds back to headquarters.

“I hope this is not how you are going to act the entire trip,” he tells me.

Back at headquarters I settle into my chair and find busy work, lulled by the sound of the air conditioner and the smell of the new paint. Me, the white woman paralyzed by the prospect of buying a Coca-cola in Africa.

Travel Tales from the Past Series

So I have decided, after a few months of contemplation, to post some of my travel stories to my blog.

Right off the bat, I need to make a few things clear:

1. These were stories written by yours truly from October 2003 through early 2008 before I decided to start blogging.

2. They mostly reflect experiences I had while traveling the world for my job during that time period although some are more personal and reflect other experiences.

3. I have changed names and details to protect the not-so-innocent but all of the stories are true to the best of my memory.

4. I will endeavor to date the stories so that you know that they are events that happened in the past and not recently or currently.

And...that's about it. Enjoy and apologies to anyone who might be offended or otherwise upset.

I'll be posting two now and a more over the next few weeks.