I walked the world, knowing life only in his shadow.
He’d long been immortalized on the big screen—but these were mere portrayals. The source, the originator of the phenomenon was still out there…
Ever elusive, he seemed to always remain one step ahead; defining the travelers of a nation. I could counter his identity—attempting to establish a friendly, insightful display of my countrymen, but would I always exists in his shadow? Destined to be defined by him, whom I might never meet in the flesh, every time I stepped foot overseas?
Countries and continents added up, with no one resembling the evasive legend. I began to question his very existence… but no, he was palpable—his trail to be read on the faces of the natives he’d encountered before… to be reflected upon my own unassuming person.
And then… one night in Africa… the white whale appeared.
March 4, 2013: The evening was calm. The long and bumpy ride from Kilimanjaro delivered me to love the lively land of Tanzania. The country, the people, the vibrant energy of the air itself instilled the deepest feeling within me: indeed that of home. On that exciting day Shad, my trusty guide, and I had descended the dusty trails of the Ngorongoro crater and spotted the evasive rhino.
But now darkness had fallen and the generators of our hotel kept a lonely beacon in the sea of grass known as the Serengeti. Teeming with violent beasts, one step outside would bring a quick end to any human who dared.
So it was, that trapped on this island of humanity that my search would end, bringing me face to face with the great white whale: the asshole American tourist.
Once confined to the same building he couldn’t be missed. On the way to dinner I stopped at the front desk. I would be waiting. They were occupied. He was irate.
An arrogant prick from the get-go: not explaining—rather complaining and demanding at the same time. Not acknowledging me or any delays caused… yet aware of my presence, relishing an audience in making a scene.
His wife’s vacation was ruined due to sporadic power outages. Ruined! He demanded an immediate cash refund. Both managers apologized, explaining that, in maintaining the raw beauty of the land, power outages were a natural tradeoff for the rustic appeal of the site.
Feeling this could be awhile, I took a seat on the other side of a massive glass table.
Age forgotten as he tapped a lifetime of bullying, white hair contrasted his red puffy face as he towered over our Indian host who again stated: “Sir, we’re sorry for any inconvenience. If you can just provide your information we’ll have your refund processed—“
“You give me my money now!” Stabbing his finger behind the counter, as if cash piles lay behind it.
“Sorry sir but we have to submit paperwork to process refunds—“
“You listen here.” Standing a foot taller than his host he stepped into this face, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Give me my money now. You’ve ruined my wife’s vacation…” [blah blah blah] This went on tediously before saying, “I’m an American. And you know how we do it in America? We’ll give you bad reviews on Google, Yelp… [blah blah blah] Look, I don’t care what you have to do—“
“He already agreed to give you the refund.” I interrupted. “They just have to document it, like any business. It’s not like there’s a big safe behind the counter with cash to hand you—“
“You stay out of this!” whipping his head at me, “You don’t know what you’re talking about—“
“They’re giving you your money back. They just gotta do it through the proper channels—“
“This’s got nothing to do with you. You’d better watch it.”
Leaning forward and locking eyes I responded, “Are you threatening me?” (I’ve always wanted to say that.)
Flustered, he stumbled for a sec before asserting, “Uh—yeah!”
The huge glass table lined with chairs between us, the old man would’ve only hurt himself trying to get to me. Nothing close to conflict, but as a matter of course a manager said, “Let’s not have any escalation here…” Things smoothed over. The tourist appeared more accepting of the refund process and I continued to dinner.
I felt fortunate things didn’t go further; for to truly engage the whale is to be pulled into the depths by it.
Of course he and his wife happened to be seated at the next table. We shook hands and made peace. On my way out I finally had my chance to talk with the manager, starting with: “On behalf of all Americans, I’d like to apologize for that guy.”
