I’ve Faked 30+ Nationalities: Here’s How People React to Each

Over the summer of 2017, I learned to stop being American.

I was on a year-long trip hitchhiking trip across Eurasia and quickly learning that being American abroad can be annoying, expensive, and dangerous for someone as reliant on strangers’ good will as myself.

The most immediate and universal reaction to my nationality that year was that people of all walks of life who I encountered literally anywhere thought an appropriate way to continue the conversation was to shout “Trump!” It was funny until it was annoying until it was maddening. 

Then, there is the fact that American in the popular imagination means: “charge me a premium, I can afford anything.” Or worse: “if you rob me, it’ll be worth it.”

The more politically inclined, meanwhile, spoke to me in a hostile, patronizing way as if I was a patriotic brainwashed war hawk, regardless of what my actual views were.

These matters may seem trivial, but if you don’t hitchhike, then you don’t know what a difference it makes to be Albanian, Armenian or Argentine instead of American. I know I will never see or interact with my driver again, so donning a false nationality is an effective and reasonable defense strategy to deflect unwelcome prospecting.

My false nationalities exposed me to new stereotypes, prejudices, and assumptions that I never would encounter while traveling as an American. Below I recount my experiences traveling under different guises.

Being South American

I often assume South American nationalities because I speak the language and look the part and do not wish to be stereotyped as a wealthy gringo.

When I would say I am Colombian, many people like to immediately crack jokes about cocaine, Narcos, or Pablo Escobar, which I find annoying and distasteful. People in Southern Africa would typically mutter something like “oh, so your country is very dangerous, also,” an advantageous impression in certain unsafe townships where I did not want to appear vulnerable or clueless.

Being Venezuelan carries even heavier connotations. In South Africa, a police woman stereotyped me as an illegal migrant when she heard that I am Venezuelan and asked to check my passport to ensure I was not an illegal migrant. I also somehow passed for Venezuelan a couple times in Latin America, though my accent should have been a giveaway. Taxi drivers in the region are less inclined to rob a Venezuelan – who are unfortunately stereotyped as desperate and dangerous – than an American.

Posing as Brazilian in the Andean countries also protected me from some of the unfortunate connotations of being gringo (rich, vulnerable, etc.) while giving me an excuse for not sounding quite native. At one point in Bolivia my conversation partner was a real Brazilian. He got excited and started speaking in Portuguese (which I did not comprehend at the time). I just smiled and nodded.

Later, in Malawi and Tanzania, my travel buddy and I posed as Brazilians so that we could use Portuguese as a code language when we didn’t want to be understood by locals.

I was hitchhiking as a Venezuelan when the guy on my right picked me up. He dropped me off at a police station 400 km down the road for safekeeping. He told the police that I was Venezuelan, at which they prompted my passport to check my immigration status.

Being Middle Eastern

A hobo in Serbia suggested I was from Afghanistan because I looked unkempt and desperate walking down the highway to Niš around the same time waves of Afghan migrants were pouring across the Balkans. I went along with it but stopped being Afghan after a driver in Bulgaria almost kicked me out of his car for fear of being complicit in transporting an illegal migrant.

I posed as Syrian mostly at moments of acute vulnerability in Latin America, South Asia, and Africa to discourage certain doubtful characters from taking advantage of me or viewing me as a lucrative target. It made little difference, nonetheless, because virtually nobody knew anything about Syria. Many in South America even asked whether the people in my country “speak Castillano” (Spanish) and one driver in Ecuador conned me anyways.

I was sporadically Israeli while in India. Upon hearing this, one rickshaw driver stopped driving and turned around to look at me and said, “I am Muslim.” He then extended his hand and said “Salam Alaikum” as a gesture of good will, which I appreciated (though I stopped being Israeli after that).

Hitchhiking in Africa and Central Asia is generally not free. Some drivers charge different prices depending on where you say you are from. Being an American, of course, means you can afford to pay whatever they ask.

Being North African 

Africa was tricky. I cannot pass as black, and I do not wish to pass as a white African (there are lots of them, trust me) for fear of touching upon nativist resentment. I started off Colombian or Venezuelan but either claim was counterproductive because it meant I came on an expensive flight from another continent and therefore had money.

By the time I reached the Namibian border, I settled on being Moroccan. All of the security personnel crowded around me in curiosity asking what sorts of animals and resources and crops and tribes were to be found in Morocco. Strangely, nobody picked up on my true nationality even after examining my passport.

I soon switched to being Egyptian because it fit better with my Cape to Cairo Africa route.One driver asked me questions about the rights of women in my country stubbornly fishing for sexist responses that would confirm his own biases about Arab culture. 

I began feeling it was wrong to pose as Egyptian given I had never visited the place, so I became Tunisian. One man wanted to talk about the current Tunisian president (yikes!) before going on a long rant about how wicked Americans are for assassinating Gadaffi and meddling in African politics. 

I pose as Tunisian while a Namibian Pan-Africanist (right) lectures me on the evil misdeeds of the US. Little did we know the driver (left) would later swindle me out of quadruple what the ride was worth. Oh, how I wish I could go back and do justice!

Strong anti-American was a pervasive theme throughout my hitchhiking trips, but luckily I was immune to it as a North African. The African intelligentsia (which actually  includes most truck drivers lol) has a strong sense of Pan-African solidarity, and I watched many schemers drop their sly plots against me when they realized I was a fellow African.

Being North African became unsustainable, however, once I reached the Swahili Coast because people there spoke enough Arabic to challenge me. At that point I transitioned to being Mustafa from Turkey.

Being European

I was Bosnian briefly in Varanasi, India. A fellow rickshaw driver made warm statements about Muslim solidarity before leveraging our shared religion in an aggressive attempt to kidnap and swindle me. 

I was once Slovenian in Bali. A little Balinese girl urged me in fluent Slovenian to buy her postcards (wtf?). That was the last time I was Slovenian.

I am Spanish when I am in Portugal and Portuguese when I am in Spain, but people readily assume this because I mix both accents when I speak either language. I’ve lived and worked in both countries and am legally acquiring both nationalities soon.

The Wild Cards

Sometimes I throw out entirely improbable countries like India, China, Indonesia, Pakistan, or Bangladesh just to get a reaction. Some people question it but most do not either out of ignorance or politeness. The more astute may even place me within the minority ethnic groups of these countries who actually do resemble me, like China’s Uighers or Pakistan’s Balochis.

No Questions, No Lies

Pretending to be another nationality is tiring. When I returned to Europe in 2019 and to America shortly thereafter, I was very relieved that I could finally drop the act (and not pay dearly for doing so). If I learned anything from cycling through dozens of nationalities on my travels, it is only that the expectations carried with nationality are onerous and limiting (and certainly not just for Americans). When I am home, as I am now, my origin is rarely in question and for that I am thankful.

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