Brown Girl, White Man, Black Country

In Brazil people were convinced I was from Ecuador. In Cambodia people admired my big nose and told me that I'd be pretty if only I wasnt so dark-skinned. In India people considered me too American to be truly Indian and too Indian to be truly American. In the U.S. people (especially in Maine) have asked if I'm Mexican, Chinese, Arab, or African. In every country people are preplexed as to how/why a non-white person is carrying an American passport that says she was born in Scotland. But for all this racial confusion, no one has ever mistaken me for a "white man". Yet that's what I'm known as here. Of course, people dont literally think I'm a Caucasian male, but rather that I'm a foreigner. However, I can't walk down the street without a dozencalls of "white man, white man", mostly from kids under the age of eight. Even toddlers barely old enough to speak can squeak out 'wha-maa' and point at me.


Usually we (the other interns and I) can satisfy the kids by returning their calls with a 'hello' or 'good morning', which the kids, who are too dumbfounded by our ability or willingness to speak to them, can't reply to. Some bolder or more curious kids have insisted on rubbing my (above all the others') skin to see if the color rubs off. A few have even put mud on themselves and let it dry to try to match me.


But the biggest attraction has been my hair, especially among grown women. No adult woman here has just her own hair- everyone wears a wig or weave, or braids in fake hair. So the fact that I, a dark-skinned person have straight, relatively shiny, fast-growing, black hair is almost unbelievable, and definitely an eviable trait. More than a few women have offered to pay me to cut off my hair and give it to them to make a wig out of, especially after I described donating to Locks of Love. The rest of the women insist that I should braid it like they do, but I think I'll end up looking like a sorority girl just back from Spring Break in Cancun, and I dont really want that.


All of these behaviors and suggestions are regularly occuring and have become expected. But what I did not expect was the welcome I got in the village of Bakwele. I had gone to Bakwele, a small isolated village about 45 minutes drive away from Mamfe on a crappy dirt/mud road, to visit their health center as part of my research. With me were Sharlotte, a young nurse who is my assistant/translator, and Antoine, our driver. Because Bakwele is a rather unremarkable village, there is no reason for a 'white man' to pass through it, and we knew that I would be the only non-African many people had ever seen, or at least seen recently. Even driving the truck down the main path caused a sensation, as there are no cars and only a few motorbikes in Bakwele. This was all expected. But what the three of us were not ready for were the screams of 'AL-BE-NO! AL-BE-NO!' which erupted as I got out of the truck. Within a few moments what seemed like every kid in the village had gathered around me and taken up the chant, including a girl so young she couldnt walk without falling down every few steps, but who chanted with unparalleled enthusiasm.


Because there are a lot of misconceptions about albinos (who are relatively common here), the kids were quite scared of me. Most people believe that albinos are sub-human/ghosts/immortal/soul-less beigns who are cursed because of the sins of their parents. Several kids would run up to me to get a closer look, and then run away screaming in terror. None of the parents or grandparents sitting around made any move to quell the chaos and in fact seemed to agree with their kids' assessment of me.


Eventually we made our way into the health center, where we had a much more sensible welcome. All three of us were still startled and neither Sharlotte nor Antoine had a good explanation for that reception. (In other places we went a few kids might should 'white man' but most people kept going about the business and greeted me normally.) Even inside the health center we could hear the kids shoulding. During my survey of the clinic and interviews with the providers the kids would hang on the bars of the windows to stare at me (perhaps to determine if I was coming because of some problem derived from lacking a soul) and periodically shout 'Al-be-no' as a reminder to me of my classification.


Our walk back to the truck and departure created similar chaos to our arrival but the kids felt bolder now and would come up and touch me before running away shreiking. They ran after our car for almost a kilometer. Its hard to say if they were driving us out of town or were calling me back so they could examine me. Given that my skin is only slightly lighter than theirs, I wonder what they would have done if one of the real white interns (some of whom are imposingly large) had been with me; perhaps they would be a super-albino or even a phantom. I want to take a trip back to Bakwele just to conduct that experiment.


Outside that village no one has mistaken me for an albino but they have made other inaccurate guesses regarding my background. The chief doctor at the district hospital guessed Puerto Rican, which was unexpected since I doubt anyone else in Cameroon has ever heard of Puerto Rico, much less seen a Puerto Rican. Several people have thought that I was from the Middle East, saying that I look like 'those people America keeps fighting'. The most common guess is that I'm biracial. One guy even told me as part a marriage proposal (each foreign girl here gets at least 3 a day) that he "always wanted to marry a half black, half white", to which I replied I too shared that dream, and thus couldnt accept his offer. Yesterday a kid pointed me out to another one and said "Look, a 'black man' inside a 'white man'.


A couple days ago I had a difficult time convincing the Mayor's secretary that I was not in fact a Native American. Our conversation, which occured while I waited to take a trip to a village health center with the mayor, went as follows:

Him: So you are American?
Me: Yes.
Him: And you are an Indian?
Me: Yes
Him: So you are a red Indian.
Me: No, I'm a brown Indian, from India.
Him: (Silence)...Indians are custodians.
Me: (Shocked and perplexed face)
Him: ...of the land.
Me: Yes, I suppose that's true.
Him: Indians used to fight the cowboys.
Me: Yes, they did.
Him: As a red Indian, how do you feel about having Bush the cowboy as your President?
Me: Umm...(Considering the ways that question is ridiculous)


Luckily I was saved from answering by the mayor's arrival.


Eventually once people realize that my family is from India, they all have the same reaction: "You people make good movies and music." (I never thought there could be music and movies worse than those from Bollywood, but the comically bad products from 'Nollywood'- Nigeria- have proven me wrong.) Then they talk about how Indians are all beautiful and good singers. I have yet to disuade anyone of this notion, even after explaining that in a country of 1.3 billion people its not hard to find enough good-looking, talented people to fill up a movie set. Naturally this love of all things Indian leads the men to ask if I am married (and I always say that yes, I am, for two years to an American soldier- i.e. not someone to mess with) or if I have any available sisters, cousins or friends for them. (At this point I become an unfortunate, friendless orphan.)

So all you Indian women reading, know that there are lots of underemployed Cameroonian men who would love to marry you. And if you are a young biracial woman, there's someone here dying to have your baby. I'd take up these offers if only I wasn't an AL-BE-NO with no soul...:)