In the summer of 2000, I patiently listened to jokes about me, made with a racial overtone, at the pool, in Amboselli Park, in Kenya.
They were shared by a group of people who did not know I spoke French. They thought I was one of the Kenyan field guides, and not the sole Black among all the safari thrill-seeker tourists lodging in the compound. The outcome of this one was rather funny.
You should see the eyes of my torturers, when I walked toward them, and announced to them in perfect Voltaire?s language, with a fake Paris accent, and a large, secure, sadistic smile, that I was offended by their remarks. They were caught red-handed!
I handed them my business card, and made clear that I was an American physician outraged by their attitude toward Africans on the soil of Africa. As such, I felt compelled to file an official complaint against them with the hotel management, which I immediately did.
I finally let them expect to hear from lawyer in New Jersey through the French mission in New York. My lawyer, I let them guess, is some kind of international specialist in mental anguish.
They literally made pee in their pants. They got lost in the midst of one thousand explanations, excuses, backtrackings, and apologies. That was funny, funny, funny?
(The Traveller, Sunday, February 17, 2002)