We just docked in the St. Maarten. The sun is shining bright and there is not a cloud in the sky. Our Monday Morning itinerary gave us a brief description of the island’s history. But I was most excited for the full day excursion of snorkeling we had booked months ago. All the travel books said that we would be missing out if we didn’t take the opportunity to go visit this beautiful reef. We got off the ship, and we were immediately directed over to the staging ground for the group tours. After checking in with the group leader, we made our way to one of those big conversion van taxis. The engine roared and we were on our way. The roads were windy, run down and most likely would not pass code back home, but hey, it all seemed to add to that rustic feeling; the feeling of being away, so far and distant from home that it was a nice change of pace. I took the window seat so that I could have a clear view of the scenery. The first thing we passed was a school. There were some children playing outside. The game was unrecognizable, but there was a ball, and lots of jumping and screaming. They looked like they were enjoying themselves. It all seemed so perfect. Next we passed a shanty looking strip; our taxi driver informed us that it was the center of town. I took note of some of the stores. There was a small grocery store, a bar, and a liquor store among them. Everything seemed so simple and pleasant. It was not built up like back home; there were not strip malls, or big shopping centers.
We arrived at a beach. It was beautiful. It was dotted with chairs and umbrellas. In the distance I saw a tiki bar. I could see the bar tender pouring a frozen drink into a coconut cup. It was glorious, exactly what I had been looking forward to: some much needed rest and relaxation. I looked around and saw that the beach was populated by other white, American tourists like myself. My family and I spent the day swimming and snorkeling through the crystal clear water, gawking over the colorful fish and coral. It was a breath taking experience.
Before heading back t
o the ship, we walked through the straw market, admiring the wonderful hand woven purses, the vibrant hand painted pictures of sun setting over the tranquil beach. My mom walked over to a man at a booth in the corner to take a closer look at a piece of art that caught her eye. After bargaining with him for a minute or so, she walked back over to me, satisfied with her purchase. I walked down the next aisle, and shiny silver ring caught my attention. It was different, tropical and I knew I had to have it. I too entered into negotiations with the woman behind the table and returned to my mother satisfied. Later that evening as we set sail for the next island, I began to think about Kincaid. Her description of the tourist really got me thinking. Did the women behind the counter really think I was an ugly thing, an ugly, empty thing, a stupid thing, a piece of rubbish (17). Did the women behind the counter really think I was strange, did she really laugh at me behind closed doors, did she think I had bad manners did she dislike the way I spoke (17)?
Come to think of it, I did feel a bit uneasy as I pulled my wallet out of my purse to buy the ring. The look in the women’s eyes was envious. Come to think of it, maybe Kincaid’s analysis was right. Upon first read, I felt she was a bit outlandish and attacking with her accusations against me, the tourist, but as I thought more and more about it, it became much clearer. I had no intention of doing it, but it was clear that I had done exactly what she had described, exactly what I had hoped I wouldn’t do. I had become the ugly, empty thing. As I walked through the aisles of the straw market, I realize now how absent minded I was. It was as if my mind was in another place; I was in vacation mode. I was an intruder on her land. I had come to her home to vacation and get away. But for the woman behind the counter, as Kinkaid describes, every native everywhere lives a life of overwhelming and crushing banality and boredom and desperation and depression, and it was clear that she hated ME for it.
So, I became sad and frustrated. I began thinking about the moment in the market when I felt uneasy and why I felt that way. It was unintentional, but it was natural. I felt the division between me and her, us and them. I was a tourist in her home. I was different. My skin color, my language, my clothing. I was the outsider. Berraby would say that I was only an outsider because that’s how I perceived myself, but I think it was more than that. There was a clear division. Our exchange confirmed that no matter how hard I tried to avoid this distinction, the boundaries were clear and not imagined.
But, Kincaid’s rant was attacking and accusing, and made me feel like a bad person. Was I really empty and ugly? Ultimately I came to my own conclusion: this whole us and them thing, it does exist, it is natural. We use our similarities and differences to interact with one another. The lady in the straw market may have hated me, but she was also grateful that I was an outsider, and that I had come to her island, her straw market and her stand and bought her silver ring. Maybe having outsiders isn’t such a bad thing.
