The Daily Double....

A while back, I said I would blog about ‘hoes, in the African socio-economic context, in a future post. Well, today’s the day, but I certainly never expected to be writing about myself.

Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t taken up a sideline of my own. Oh, sure, there’ve been times in my life when freelancing was scarce and the rent was a month or two behind, when I might have gotten desperate enough to give it a whirl. But the prospect of my very first customer asking for change back from a 10 dollar bill would have shattered my self-esteem.

It’s just that I’m in Kampala today, and last night, I was mistaken for a ‘hoe twice. Now, you can’t spend an evening in Kampala without seeing a myriad young women, all dressed and meticulously made up, with their do’s seriously DONE, standing along the side of the road, or clustering in bars and restaurants. Want another example of my mind-boggling naivete? When I first got to Kampala back in June, while walking back to my hotel from a restaurant one night, I passed a group of pretty young women standing on the side of the road chatting. As I walked past, I caught a whiff of perfume that was so intoxicating, I wanted to stop and ask whoever was wearing it where she bought it. The person I was walking with suggested we keep moving.

“They are whores,” he explained.

Oh.

It’s sad, but from that point to this, whenever I see a group of young women standing on the streets of Kampala at night, I just assume they’re hookers. Maybe in some warped way, I should be flattered that people are mistaking ME for a ‘hoe. I mean, at least they think I’m still young enough to shake what my Mama gave me. But yesterday was too weird. After a long day’s drive from Gulu, I was sitting in the hotel lobby with The Intern, trying to get caught up on some e-mails. The Intern stepped away for a minute, and some grizzled old goat in a taupe-colored suit (911 Fashion Emergency!) shuffled over. “You seem all alone,” he leered. “Would you like some company?”

Yes, I thought. I would like a squadron of LRA rebels to swoop in and chop you to pieces, you filthy old coot.

But I chose to keep that thought to myself and politely declined his company. I am ashamed to admit, though, that the last, tattered remnant of my pre-menopausal, emotionally-fragile wreck of an alter-ego was slightly flattered that he’d assumed I was a ‘hoe. I mean, some of these working girls in Kampala are really quite attractive….and they’re about 25 years younger than me.

But that egotistical reverie was shattered about an hour later, when The Intern and I took a cab to dinner. As we were pulling out of the driveway, our Gulu driver returned to park the truck in the hotel lot and leave the keys with me. I had the taxi driver stop and wait a few minutes while I took care of that bit of business.

Later, The Intern told me that the second I stepped out of the cab, the driver asked him, “Did you hire her for the night?” To his credit, The Intern snapped, “No, she’s my boss.” Apparently, the guy groveled his apologies and kept his mouth shut for the rest of the ride.

This time, it wasn’t quite as funny or flattering. I mean, I’ve spent the past 3 and a half months over here being a “Project Director,” the Head Cheese, the Big Boss. I RUN the whole freakin’ show, y’all. And I think I conduct myself in a professional manner, for the most part. Sure, there are days when all I can muster is a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt, make-up be damned, and my hair is standing all over my head like Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons. But I’m trying to work on projecting a consistently professional image.

It’s more than a little frustrating to realize that a lot of people automatically assume I’m a ‘hoe. Even though I’m naïve, I have sense enough to realize it’s happening because The Intern is white and I’m black. And that’s the crux of my take on issue of ‘hoes in the African socio-economic context…..in Africa, wherever there’s a group of white male expats or other foreign businessmen, ‘hoes are sure to follow. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors…but most are in their late teens and early 20’s. At least the ones who ply their trade publicly. Given the whole international sex trade phenomenon, I’m sure plenty of these guys are abusing girls who are much, much younger.

I first noticed it in Addis Ababa, at the Hilton Hotel. I am convinced that the Hilton Addis is the center of the universe for slobbering, pot-bellied 60 year old German businessmen. Every night, you see them drooling over impossibly slim and beautiful young Ethiopian girls, gracious enough to buy them a drink before taking them up to their rooms to commit unspeakable acts.

Maybe it’s because all Ethiopian women have the eyes of a timid young doe, but I was convinced that some of these girls were in their mid-teens. Of course, hotel management has to be aware that half of their occupancy rate comes from prostitution, but it doesn’t seem to be a problem. And many of those young girls are actually sanctioned, even ORDERED to do this kind of work, to help feed and clothe their families.

That’s what I mean about putting an African socio-economic context on this issue. With my American sensibility, all I see are abused and exploited young women at risk of violence, unwanted pregnancy and fatal diseases at the hands of foreign pervs. But it’s such a common activity over here, nobody thinks twice about it.

So I guess I need to just get over the fact that every time I’m seen somewhere with The Intern, people are going to think he’s paying for my company. Though why a 22 year old would pay for a ‘hoe twice his age who battles hot-flashes and PMS at least 15 days out of every month is beyond me.