Black on the road: A trip to Macedonia

I am at the outdoor market, standing at a stall, scanning the fish trucked in, possibly that morning, from the Aegean and the Adriatic seas.

I hear yelling — not hostile — and the clomp-clomp-clomp of someone’s heavy shoes clomp-clomp-clomping in my direction. A large, ruddy man approaches me, still shouting with excitement: “Hey! It’s Condoleezza Rice!”

Well, not really.

Rather, it was a typical day in Skopje, Macedonia, where the locals tugged on the dreadlocks draped behind my back just to get the feel of them; where a young man selling tea at the bazaar commandeered his friend to take a picture of the two of us, and once accomplished, high-fived the Johnny-on-the-spot photographer. He didn’t offer me any tea, though.

This is a place where, as I walked through a park and stopped to watch a dazzling wedding party lined up for the photographer, a bridesmaid stepped out of formation, walked over to me, snapped her fingers at the photographer, put her arm around my shoulder and commanded that he, too, take our picture.

And you get the picture, too, no? Black Americans, for whom being visible, but not necessarily seen, at home — blindness to our presence, to our humanity, to our very existence — can be a way of life, weren’t invisible in Skopje. We just were not seen there, period. There is a difference.

And once in residents’ sights, there was no resentment, no scorn, no sense of “how did you get here?” (a feeling African Americans, at least, know well at home when our presence isn’t expected.)

Rather, the Macedonians I met in the country’s capital were curious, affectionate and welcoming. The attention did become a little wearying, though. (Coming from an only child, that’s really saying something.)

And to be an American of Black African descent can layer on a whole other set of dynamics in this experience. I am not an immigrant from Senegal in search of a better job — and, thus, potentially perceived as a threat. I’ve got U.S. dollars and credit cards, and once I finish exploring streets that are new to me, hiking in the surrounding hills and gorging myself on unfamiliar food and wine, I’m going home.

I’m no Pollyanna, racism is a thing abroad. I was tickled to be called Condoleezza Rice. But, in a 2018 essay in The New York Times, Florida native Nicole Phillip, who spent a semester in Florence, Italy, was less amused to be called Michelle Obama, Rihanna and Beyonce — constantly. She was called less-savory names during her extended stay, too, leaving her rattled and in despair. And in November, a French member of Parliament was suspended for two weeks for shouting “go back to Africa,” while Carlos Martens Bilongo —Black and born in Paris — gave a speech about migrants arriving from the continent.

I know that I am not the only Black traveler who has been the subject of weird, poignant, hilarious, upsetting and thought-provoking encounters around the world — specifically because we were Black.

These are the stories — your stories — that I request you share with me and that I’d love, in turn, to share each month in this column.

I want to uncover the insights we bring home with us after such meet-ups, self-reflections about what it might mean to be Black out of our context, out of our individual comfort — and discomfort — zones at home. I have felt infinitely more “American” in the countries I’ve visited. In Malaysia, I was dismayed, of course, to hear of racial problems — but was secretly, guiltily relieved that Black people were not involved. (Chinese residents, unfortunately, were targets of resentment and discrimination by Indians and Malays.)

Sometimes, it feels like people of Black African descent are the most judged, and misjudged, people in the world. Tell me I’m wrong.

From bananas thrown on European soccer fields where Black players give it their all, to co-opting Black culture then denying its provenance, we are accustomed to others defining us through often-skewed views of an entire demographic, rather than seeing us as individuals.

Sometimes, travel only adds to the burden. But it also graces us with the opportunity to define ourselves.

Please, tell me your tales of traveling while Black. I want to hear what encounters you’ve had, what image some country’s native citizen had of you — and the richer image with which you left them.

In creating the travel site Global Green Book, Lawrence Phillips told Forbes: “Black travelers don’t want to be treated any differently in the travel space. We just want to be treated the same as our white counterparts…”

That is absolutely true. We are individual people, not simply a category.

But when it comes to the reality of Black travel, the devil — and the delight — can manifest itself in the details. Tell me yours.

By the way, I don’t think that guy really thought I was Condoleezza Rice. She was just the only Black woman who came to mind because of her world renown. He could just as well have called me “Diana Ross” or “Oprah.”

At least he didn’t throw a banana at me.

Nancy Ancrum is a Detour columnist. She is the editorial page editor of the Miami Herald.

This story was originally published December 7, 2022 at 1:39 PM.