Thoughts From A Hotel Bedroom

I have been mugged.

It wasn’t that bad, I am fine and all they took was my phone, but it has made me reflect on the way I have been feeling the last few days. The only way I can describe it is vulnerable and visible. Cue feminists around the globe rolling their eyes and shaking their heads at me for perpetuating the image of a woman as a quivering, helpless, mess. But, before anyone becomes too indignant, hear me out- that isn’t what I mean.

I have lived away from my parents since I was 16 and have always held a strong ‘you could fall down the stairs in your own house tomorrow, so don’t use fear as an excuse not to do things’ sort of philosophy. Throughout my time living in London, my wonderful adventures through South East Asia, my work with refugees in Malta and my time at university I have always been a ‘dust yourself off’ kind of gal, trying to take experiences in my stride and not have them frighten me off doing something I want in the future.

That is not to say I am naïve and since arriving in Antananarivo I have made a conscious effort to balance my desire to go everywhere and do everything with the reality that I am here alone, I do not speak the language and that I have enough time that those experiences will come later when I am less green. To that end I have not gone out after dark AT ALL since I arrived, with the exception of yesterday when some lovely new friends I met at the hotel who live and work in the city took me out dancing. I have not taken anything of great value outside the confines of my hotel room, I do not get my camera or tourist information out in the street, I wear my backpack on my front and I dress so modestly I might be mistaken for a sister of the holy orders.

However a new sensation has been following me round, one that goes against my philosophies and does not sit well with me. I have been afraid. Even just typing it out makes me feel like a melodramatic, prejudiced child and I have been making efforts to shake it since I arrived by venturing out of the hotel to nearby shops and restaurants during the day and speaking to as many people as possible in and around the hotel so as to add to my list of ‘familiar faces’.

I feel like one of those deer on the African savannah, the ones that are born with their shaky spindly legs and have to go from foetus to fully functioning, running, jumping member of the herd in minutes. And shaky I have been; while in the phone shop buying my SIM card I was shaking so badly I had to have help putting my SIM in my phone. While waiting in a queue outside the bank for an hour I felt feint, clutching my bag and hoping to get to the front before people's stares bore holes in my back. Then last night, while waiting for these new friends to pick me up, I debated whether I should just put my pyjamas back on and curl up under the duvet instead of leaving the hotel.

But while I have felt this way, I have also accomplished a series of goals, such as obtaining a Malagasy phone number, making an effort to meet people, going for walks around the city and I felt like I was becoming steadier on my wobbly legs. So this morning when I left the hotel to go to a nearby café for a tea and a spot of people watching I hadn’t really thought much of it. And then when those boys pushed me and pulled me and took my phone while everyone else stood by and watched I was suddenly that teary, wobbly, vulnerable animal again with all my hard work undone.

I have no doubt that those men were not some criminal gang, rather a couple of young opportunists who saw me and made a spur of the moment decision to make themselves some extra cash this morning, I am also well aware it was not personal and by tomorrow lunch time I will have bought myself a new, cheaper phone and SIM card. But that isn’t the point is it? I could just as easily have dropped my phone in a gutter and waved it goodbye without blinking, but had that been the case I would not be sitting locked in my own hotel room, unsure whether to finish the errands I had on my to do list today, wishing, just this once, that I looked like my boyfriend Brian, or his friend Tom, or any of my uncles instead of looking like little, frightened, easily overcome me.

And make no mistake; the tears that I cried on my way back to the hotel were not ones of sadness, homesickness or grief. They were tears of anger, frustration and shame at my own weakness that one non-incident like this morning can have me heading straight back into my room feeling like just a helpless child. Is it really that just by walking out into the street as a young, foreign woman alone I am pasting a target on my own chest and putting myself in the firing line? And even if that's true, does it matter? Should it change the way I behave and my attitude toward the people around me? I think not.

So no. I will not be staying in the hotel all day. I will be gathering myself together, putting on my shoes and modesty shirt and going to that bloody café for an ice-cream treat. Not because I want to, but because I will be damned if I allow this feeling to entrench itself deeper and undo all the good work I have done trying to shift it in the first place.

But I can’t help wondering if Brian or Tom, my father, uncles or male friends will even understand this blog entry, or if it is just an innate female struggle to reconcile your ambition and determination to function freely as you should, with the knowledge that you are visibly and knowingly an easy target for those one-in-a-million who would do you harm.