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Out of the country, into the closet: the global gay village still has a long way to go.

Article Excerpt
I am on a gay beach, surrounded by half-naked, toned, tanned, Speedo-sporting gay men. Somewhere a random diva is belting out a dance hit. The tropical sun has ensured all bodies are dripping. At the makeshift beach bar, ice is plunked into orange and incarnadine cocktails, and the bartender screams, "Cheers to queers," kissing each customer on the cheek.

Except for my own, every body on this beach is black. It's definitely not Mykonos, Fort Lauderdale, or even Vancouver's Wreck Beach. It's the annual gay party on Sierra Leone's Black Johnson Beach (yes, fitting name) and everyone on it has trekked tricky rainforest paths in order to find this one strip of private blue coastline where they can openly be pink for the day.

I don't live in Sierra Leone anymore, but when I think back to those days on Black Johnson I can still feel the sand in my toes and the esprit de corps of a group of men who risk their lives in order to be themselves for just...

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