Don’t Feed the Fish
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: Bonaire. I have found an octopus den, so I snorkel by most days to say hello. Sadly, the den’s occupant does not wish to be my teacher (if you’ve seen the movie, you know what I mean—My Octopus Teacher). That’s okay; I watch from a distance.
Don’t feed the fish
Yesterday, I heard a woman say that she sometimes tosses a bit of bread off the back of her boat, even though she knows she’s not supposed to. As a result, every time she jumps in the water, she’s surrounded by fish looking for a snack. I just smiled and nodded when she said it (this good southern girl can smile and nod at pretty much anything, no matter how appalling) and peered down at the angelfish that was swimming around my feet. The water here is really that clear.
But later I got to thinking about her comment—it really surprised me. In my experience, the people who come here on boats generally seem to be pretty respectful of the ocean, the reefs, the sea life, and the local rules. You don’t see local people standing on the boardwalk feeding the fish; I suspect you would, in other places. You know those machines, where you can put in a quarter and get a little handful of fish food? Yeah, they don’t have those here.
I turned it over in my head for a while, trying to understand what might make that person feel comfortable breaking the rule that is so clearly valued and respected by this community. Then I realized: it’s the boat. She doesn’t live here. She has been moored here for a couple of months, but fundamentally, she’s just passing through. She’s not even staying on the island proper; she’s living on her own boat, just offshore. I can at least pretend to be part of the community—I’ve learned the names of the children who live next door to us, and when I see them out for their afternoon walk, or at the ice cream shop, I wave and say hello and jump around like a crazy person trying to make a baby laugh. But the woman who lives on the boat is even further outside of the community than I am.
Lee and I have been thinking and talking about this idea of community—what it is, how to create it, how to be part of it—ever since we started traveling. One of the very weirdest things about being a nomad is the physical distance from our various communities. One day when we were out for a walk, having one of these sort of philosophical conversations about the importance of being part of a community, Lee said something completely outlandish, but it made me laugh.
I could start a meth lab in our hotel room, and no one would notice.
Okay, maybe that’s only funny if you know Lee—he wouldn’t know what to do with meth if he had it. Plus, don’t people call that ‘cooking’ meth? The man can barely boil water, never mind cook.
But his point was valid: if you’re not part of a community, where or how do you feel pressure to do the right thing? It seems that part of our human character comes from the complex bonds and responsibilities that come with belonging to a group.
The pandemic, obviously, has slowed our movement, but we have continued to move, and we’ve now seen the government/community response in six countries. All are different—and the comparison has made it easy for us to see the relative effectiveness of those responses. Those cross-border differences have kind of forced us to analyze the situation for ourselves and develop our own sense of what is and isn’t safe, what risks we’re willing to take, and how we’re going to mitigate those risks.
As much as I love this island, and as many times as I’ve visited, it’s not mine—I am not a member of the community. Obviously, we follow whatever the local guidelines are, even if they seem illogical. Here, for instance, I am required to use a shopping cart in the grocery store, even if I only want one item, so I use a cart. Disobeying the rules, when I am a guest, seems both unwise and disrespectful. At the same time, I’m not required to wear a mask in the grocery store—but I do. Our experiences in Tokyo and Seoul (both very densely populated cities) showed us that masks make a huge difference in slowing the spread of the virus.
Historically, I have always just assumed that if the government allows a particular behavior, it must be fine. If the speed limit is 75 mph, that road must be engineered in a way that makes it safe to drive 75 mph. If it’s unsafe to dive in this swimming pool, there will be a sign telling me not to dive.
But if our travels have taught me anything, it’s that different governments have different priorities and perspectives, just like individuals. One country allows drinking on the street; another doesn’t. One country puts safety rails over hotel room windows; another puts a fire emergency ladder in every hotel room.
In some countries, people cross the street wherever and whenever there’s a lull in traffic. In other countries, people only cross at corners, but they’re willing to go whenever, as long as there are no cars. In Germany? No one jaywalks. Ever. You wait at the crosswalk, and you only go when the little walkie signal says walk. Deviate from that, and people will give you dirty looks. You will know you have violated the community standards.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned while traveling, it’s that you can never be too careful crossing the street. Also, don’t feed the fish.
From my writer’s notebook:
Apparently the British are dealing with the pandemic by gardening (can’t really blame them). The British Museum reports a significant increase in the number of people digging up valuable artifacts in their backyards. A hoard of Tudor coins, a stash of gold Krugerrands—can you imagine finding a coin with Anne Boleyn’s stamp on it? Funny, I never found anything like that in my back garden. Just rocks.
Take care,
Lisa
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