He prefers a shadow to spotlight.
He often likes to be alone but does like the crowds.
Being deemed insignificant. Cannot be noticed.
He feels a small amount of paranoia when more than one stranger has noticed him.
Fear of being bothered with having to give explanations about who he is, why here, where going.
There is also an innate, paranoid fear of being assaulted, or even arrested. As the wrong guy of course. This feeling could happen anywhere in Middle America or the middle of Africa, in a small town, suburb or out in the country, in a poor village or a decrepit city.
Prior to leaving for Lusaka, he purchased several items of clothing for different purposes. He wanted to be dressed for field work in the dusty agricultural and industrial areas he was to visit, and wanted to play down any form of luxury while in the city. But he also wanted to be ready for any potential business development meetings for future work, since his assignment in Africa would only be six to nine months, and he would need to find his future from there. So he went shopping in a few department stores and in an Army/Navy store. He also needed clothes for working out, so that he would not get so out of shape by sitting in a hotel room typing away and putting away all that beer, wine and scotch that would be consumed in the hotel bar.
For exercise, he used a gym in the hotel, if it had one. Or he ran outside while exploring the neighborhood surrounding the hotel where, in a safe manner. As a runner back then, he could move quickly through Lusaka neighborhoods largely unnoticed - or so he thought. That would be American thinking. He would always be noticed. A friend who once lived in Paris told him that Americans were always noticed jogging in Paris principally because they were jogging, especially early in the morning, often with baggy sweats, rather than the French or other Europeans, who would be dressed in the latest tight fitting, shiny athletic gear. Later, Americans caught on. And now no one can be seen exercising without Nike approved fashion.
But Zambia in 1995 or any other year was neither America nor France. It was and is, southern Africa. He would be noticed no matter what was worn. It became immediately obvious that any new and trendy fashion would stick out, with American or European, and unless he had the right 4 x 4 and attitude, accent and ability to speak local languages, he was not going to be confused with a white-descended African.
Although he wore old t-shirts and shorts to put off any notion of wealth, to almost anyone living in Lusaka or elsewhere in Zambia, wealth was relative in comparison. He could be sweaty coming back from a run and the prostitutes in the hotel would still follow him if the security guards did not stop them.
Before leaving the States, he had purchased a pair of black running shoes, thinking that they would not appear so dirty as quickly. Zambians had not seen these black sneakers yet. Everywhere he went, the men and boys stared at the shoes as if they had rockets attached to them.
Running did not reduce his visibility or anonymity. People just didn’t run very much, especially foreigners. Maybe local distance runners training as athletes could be seen running, but they would be in a track, well identified. They would not be a white man with an an un-athletic body running in shabby rags around the diplomatic neighborhood and government center. Neither did many of the foreigners walk around much. They were always driving around in 4x4’s or cars or being driven. So instead of being left alone while running or walking, taxis followed him and tried to solicit my business, “no need to run, my friend, I will take you”, “where are you going, boss, get in?”, “it’s too hot for you Mister, I have a comfortable car, which hotel do you stay?”.
He rarely took a taxi except when he went to the Lusaka jazz club. He would walk out there when the sun was still out, and come back a bit drunk after drinking local beer and dancing and sweating with the local girls. He would get away alone and would jump into a taxi, sometimes finding the driver just as drunk as him or passed out.
When he returned to the States, he got what he needed in New York. So many people who couldn't care less me and he loved it. It was the mid-90’s.
Years later he still doesn't like being noticed on his Brooklyn balcony.
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