In 2013, I was studying Psychology at Rutgers University. Then I had a budding interest in public health and community service. So, in the summer, I swapped classes for a plane ticket and traveled with a group of students to the D.R.’s capital city, Santo Domingo.
One of the first things I noticed about our group was that I was the only Black girl. This fact was made more apparent when we walked the streets of Santo Domingo, El Limón, Cabarete, and almost every city we visited. Passers-by would call out “Negrita” “Negra” [meaning black girl] or “Amara La Negra” who you might know if you watch Love and Hip Hop Miami, or are familiar with the music scene in the D.R. Some people would tell me I looked like her but when I finally saw a photo of the artist, I couldn’t see a resemblance.
Having lived 13 years of my life in Nigeria, there was a lot in the D.R. that felt familiar. Busy streets, vendors selling their wares in the middle of traffic, an abundance of fresh fruit to buy, and a majority Black population–the last thing I expected was to stand out because of my dark skin. 
My travel partners were not questioned about their origins; it was assumed they were American, but I was constantly asked, “Where are you from?”. Unsure of whether to answer with the country I lived in or the one I was born in, I would answer by saying I came from the U.S. This didn’t seem to be enough of an answer because another question would follow: “But where are you really from?”. Baffled, I would insist on my initial answer. I had no issues saying that I was born in Nigeria, but the assumption that I had to be from elsewhere, likely due to the color of my skin, was unsettling.
During an in-country history lesson, I learned that Dominican sentiment towards Haitians has not been favorable, even though both countries share the same island. In fact, many Haitians who have never been to Haiti cannot claim citizenship in the D.R. despite being born there. They often face harsh and unfair realities like discrimination and deportation.
It was after this lesson that I gained some insight into why I received so many questions about my nationality. I was told by one of our hosts that because of how dark I was, people likely thought I was Haitian. He then reassured me that I wouldn’t have any problems because I was surrounded by a group of obvious Americans. Then, I didn’t address the comment, but in retrospect, this was also unsettling. Simply because of the color of my skin, I was vulnerable, and my “protection” was my company of White American colleagues.
This experience in the D.R. was surprising for me, mostly because I did not expect it. Traveling in a country with a Black majority, I expected to feel at home, and in many ways I did, but my experiences speak to historic racial and political issues that I was unaware of before visiting.
Outside of these specific instances, my time in the D.R. was wonderful. I got to travel across the country, and learn about beautiful aspects of Dominican culture (like dancing Merengue, which I took home with me), make new friends, and improve my Spanish-speaking proficiency. So this narrative isn’t intended to deter anyone from visiting the D.R. Rather, I wanted to use an aspect of my experience to contribute to a conversation on how being Black can (and often does) influence our travel experiences.
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What have your experiences been as a Black traveler? Please share your stories and thoughts in the comments section.
As always,
Thank you for reading!
All photos shot on an old DSLR and edited on my iPhone 8+
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I enjoyed reading this post, Tiese. It was all very thoughtful and insightful. Thank you. Regarding my travel experience as a black woman: there is a lot to say but what is most striking or surprising to me is the treatment I receive as a dark skinned young woman which differs from the treatment people with lighter skin receive, especially older people. I recall at a hotel in Liberia for instance when I heard staff say “good morning sir/madam” whenever guests who were not Black passed in front of them but never to me. Once, just for kicks, I said “good morning” to a security guard and cleaner who didn’t respond. In Tunisia people called dark skinned people “monkeys” and talked about Africa like it’s a foreign land. In Senegal, when I was out with someone with a lighter complexion than me, the person got all the attention – the speakers faced them when they answered questions, gave directions or explanations. These are just a few examples of situations when I was made aware of my skin tone even on a continent where most people look like me. || http://www.lorikemi.com
I’m glad you enjoyed it! Thank you, girl. Sigh, Colorism is such a pervasive problem & the continent of Africa is not immune. Even if we just want to look at how popular bleaching products are. Being dark-skinned is perceived as less than, and the darker you are, the worse it is in some countries. Soaps and creams promise to lighten for “better” skin which sadly equals better treatment. And I think it’s so important for us to have conversations about it continually so that our experiences bring change rather than become swallowed up by the norm. Thank you so much for sharing your experiences.
Wow, this sucks! The Liberia and Tunisia incidents are just crazy. On a slightly different note, I love how the conversation in this post is focused on the problem itself. Because in an attempt to address colorism (or slightly similar issues), a lot of people actually become perpetrators themselves.
Thank you! & I know right? Loriade’s comment was quite insightful. Yess, I think t can be hard to navigate, write & talk about these issues, one has to be careful not to perpetuate the issue, or be judgemental while trying to address it.