Race and Rock Stars

Ethiopia is the first place I've traveled to where I have so clearly stood out and been singled out because of my race. Outside of western countries where the Caucasians are used to Asians, I've only traveled to Southeast Asia, where I could sort of blend in. Even when I couldn't, SE Asia sees a lot of East Asian tourists, so I didn't attract that much attention.

Ethiopia was different. There was no way to blend in, no way not to stand out. The Ringleted One and I, we made a memorable pair, and we attracted a lot of attention. "Hello! What's your name?" "Hello! Hello! Where you from?" "Hello, China." "Hello, Japan."

People have been asking me what the hardest part about traveling in Ethiopia was, and it was really this kind of attention that strained me the most. I am not used to being the center of attention -- I shy away from the spotlight, prefer the shadows. But it was impossible to avoid it in Ethiopia. We met a Latin American man who worked in Addis Ababa, and he said that for some reason, the Ethiopians went crazy over Asian faces. Maybe because they are relatively rare (although a lot of construction contracts seem to be with the Chinese).

All I know is that the only time I didn't attract any comments was when I was walking alone in Lalibela, swiftly and purposefully, back to the hotel. I was wearing a hat that went down nearly over my eyes, plus sunglasses, and I looked at no one. Perhaps no one could tell I was Asian.

Have you ever wondered why all celebrities at some point have come out of a restaurant with their heads down, sunglasses on, perhaps a hat or shawl over their head? I knew why by the third or fourth day. It's not that they think they're hiding from the paparazzi. It's just that if you have your head down, your shades on, and a hat on your head, you're less likely to see people staring at you. You're less likely to see heads turn toward you, to see the sidelong or full-on stares that continue past the point of courtesy, to feel the judgment of those who find you a curiosity or a source of entertainment or a novelty. And by pretending that maybe those stares don't exist, you can sort of pretend that you're normal.

I grew very, very tired of all the attention and the attempts to engage us in conversation by the end of the trip. Whenever we went out of doors, a group of young boys and children immediately latched us. Inevitably, they asked, "Hello! How are you?" If you answer, "Fine," they continued, "Where you from? What's your name? Do you remember me?" and in the case of the younger children, maybe "Hello. Money." or "Hello. One birre [Ethiopian currency]." The worst of it happened in Lalibela, which is highly touristed, and at the height, it happened every single time we stepped outside our hotel -- if we went into a store to buy water, a group of teenage boys latched onto us as we stepped out. If we were walking along the road, looking for the ticket office, a group of teenage boys would follow, telling us, "You need guide? Can I practice English with you? Where you from?"

For me, an introvert who is uncomfortable with attention, it was exhausting, and I had a few moments that I'm not proud of, including one 5-minute journey from the store back to the hotel in Lalibela one night, where I pretended not to speak anything but French. "No English!" I declared. "Seulement francais!" After a few minutes, the frustrated boys began to pull at their eyes and say, "Okay, I speak only Chinese! I speak only Japanese!" It was insulting and racist, but I had been insulting to them, refusing to speak English. I was tired and ill, but I could have explained that to them instead of playing games.

On the other hand, attempts to politely demur from conversation often didn't work and sometimes ended in insults; once in Lalibela, The Ringleted One tried to tell a group of boys that I didn't want to talk to them, and got called "stupid" for her troubles. I ended up yelling at the leader that I didn't speak with people who insulted my friends, and they finally shoved off, for whatever reason.

Ah, the roving boy gangs of Lalibela. They weren't violent, and we never felt unsafe, but it wasn't comfortable to feel that we could not deflect attention, and that we would never be left alone unless we hired a guide. Which is what we ended up doing in Lalibela and Harar, and we never regretted it -- our guides were lovely, well-informed young men -- but nevertheless, it was upsetting to think that we simply could not navigate cities alone without harassment.

But no matter how tired or aggravated I was, I could not stop myself from responding from one kind of comment. It was when some boy (and it was always, always young males -- the women were almost uniformly shy and retiring) would say, "Hello, Japan" or "Hello, China." No matter how tired I was, how much I wanted to shut down and ignore everyone, I could never accept those greetings in silence -- I HAD to respond "Not Chinese! Not Japanese! KorEan!"

It surprised me that I was so bothered by people calling me Chinese and Japanese. It surprised me a little less that I immediately said I was Korean. Not American, not Korean-American -- Korean. The one time I said I was from America, the boy looked at me and said, "No." I've had similar responses from boys in Cambodia -- it's hard for non-westerners to grasp the idea that different ethnicities live in the States, and I don't blame them for that, but it rankles nonetheless. It merely echoes many subtle messages from people in the States that I am not seen as truly American either -- the hesitancy when a tourist approaches me on the street because she's not sure I speak English, for example.

In a way, I always responded that I was Korean, not Japanese or Chinese, because I wanted to educate people about Korea, educate them like I want to educate many Americans that Korea is a separate nation with a proud history, that Japan and China and Korea are distinct cultures and lands and that the differences between the three East Asian nations are significant and telling and beautiful. I am not hopeful that many will remember. But I was always conscious of the legacy I might be leaving in the minds of people we encountered. The Ringleted One brought that up a few times -- since there were few Americans traveling in Ethiopia, how much precedent were we setting, and for how long? How much would we impact people's impressions of Americans (or Koreans)? The next year? The next five years? The next ten years?

The trip was not a carefree one, nor was it relaxing. It was exhausting and rewarding. Next time I'll talk about the rewarding part.