I spent from 10:00 to 4:30 Saturday on Île de Gorée, once the largest slave trade departure port in Africa, being harassed by street vendors. One woman stalked me, introducing herself while we were traveling by boat to the island before ever so coincidentally running into me twice more, the second time actually following me to the bathroom and cornering me when I came out. (Zach, if you’re reading this, please don’t call this karma.) When I finally told her that I didn’t want to visit her shop, she pouted because I broke a promise I supposedly gave her on the boat and then, when that didn’t work, shouted at me that Americans were always changing their minds (because obviously yelling at potential customers is a superb way to entice them to your store), at which point I walked off (still apologizing, I must add, because I have no spine). And yes, I know I messed with her mind and wasted her time by attempting politeness rather than brushing her off, but really, is it necessary to guilt trip people just so that one out of every maybe thirty will feel bad enough to make a purchase? I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, but my imagination is limited, but from unfortunate memories of trying to get people to sign petitions for Amnesty, I can just barely begin to piece together how degraded she must feel having to hassle people if she’s to have any hope of earning income that day, but I hope she understands that in doing so she’s not just demeaning herself, she’s also making (pick one: some, many, most) of those who shoo her away or ignore her or sadly say ‘no’ feel like they’re terrible, terrible people. And I hope that’s something she’s ok with.
Then there were the vendors wearing hundreds of red and green and yellow beaded necklaces who’d follow you up the pathways to the scenic overlooks, asking your name and calling you ‘sister,’ which is a sweet reminder of global unity and the fact that we are all sisters and brothers and all those lovey-dovey notions, but once your sister is a woman whose sole aim in entering your life is to get your 1000 CFA ($2), then that term loses all possible significance.
Which reminds me. My host sister, Marie Sophie, who calls me her big sister, asked me yesterday if I was lonely being an only child and if I wished I had sisters and brothers and I lied and said ‘yes’.
But I digress. Back to the thought of overuse of a term of intimacy rendering it meaningless. I haven’t called my host mother “Maman” since my first day at the house (when I was emotionally compromised and desperately wanted her to be my mom) because the fact is that she’s not my mom and I don’t love her and I worry that to call her ‘mom’ would be to debase what the word for me connotes. (Sometimes German sentence structure just sounds better than English.)
I feel the same about calling the other Americans here friends. I love that German distinguishes between a Freund, a true, potentially lifelong friend, and Bekannte, an acquaintance, but without the slightly derogatory connotation. Because my friends here aren’t my friends. I’ve known them for seven days, and much as they’re a refuge from the madness of street vendors and host families and French, it’s also takes significant effort to be around them and try to get to know them. Which is not to say that they won’t become my friends. I certainly hope that they will. But what we have now isn’t friendship. Yet.
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