The nuances of Language

I love the fact that language is pragmatic. That I can say “gosh, is the window open?” and the person would know that I’m cold and offer to close it.  Or the fact that when you want to end a conversation, especially with a stranger- you can say, “Nice talking to you, see you around,” and we both know to say our goodbyes.  

Sometimes I think it’s the people who read a lot are the ones who understand the nuances of language. Or maybe just those with common sense. Or perhaps it’s the fact that we have been raised in the stiff upper lip culture of not saying what we really mean that makes us so adept at distorting and playing around with meaning.

So there I am on the beach in my favourite country. I’d been walking up toward the far end when I see a man from yesterday hailing me down. Then, I had deliberately ignored him and kept walking, but this time he is running down towards me.  That’s fine though. It’s early, my belly is full and I am happy in my little world. Plus it’s so gorgeous out here. The sun is delightful and we are hours away from the relentless heat of the mid afternoon.
It’s mostly the tourists who have this time to swish their feet at the water’s edge, squealing and springing up on their toes when the ocean comes lapping in. We have the time to meander with a novel, or notebook in hand, sandals flung over our shoulder.  It's we who marvel at the ornament and bead stalls, at the long fishing boats with the green and red paint flaking off the sides. The locals do all the hard work. Sometimes their work is to watch the ones with the time to meander.  

Being on my own means I am at the mercy of the Ghanaians. I have to make friends. The gorgeous, personally developed Martha is hoping to shine out and attract all of those wonderful, like-minded people who are here. In Africa.  Just waiting to meet me.

The man from yesterday catches up. His arms are all loose beside him. I tilt my eyes downward to see him properly. His face is round and dark purple. Am thinking it probably feels like the sand I am in. His mouth goes down at one of the corners.
      “Hello, hello.”
       “Hello.”
      “My name is Champion.”
       “Hi Champion. I’m Martha. “
       “Marta?”
       “MarTHa.“
       “Marta?”
       “Martha- like Mary and Martha in the Bible,” (that’s assuming his book is The Holy Bible and not the Holy Koran.)
       “Marta?”
        “Yes. Marta.”
He has a wide set of cream teeth.
       There was only a moment of mild irritation before I was prepared to listen to what he had to say. He is a fisherman, but doesn’t fish so much now as he is recovering from illness. For three years he was sick and even scared of the water. And him- who used to be the best.  That’s where he got his name: Champion. Of the waves, the fish, of the other men. “But someone done ju ju on me,” he explained. “They were jealous. I am only now started to get back in the water again small small.”  He has a daughter and a mother who live in the next village, but even so he would rather when I travel I take him with me. 
Okeydokey. My cue to leave.
      “Nice talking to you Champion. I’ll be off now.”
But he doesn’t go and a minute later...
      “See you then. I’m going to take the rest of my walk now.”
And there he stays. Talking about why he should travel with me- heh heh heh, and I am welcome in his country.
     “OK Champion. I’m going now,” I would not choose to be rude. Of course not. I have travelled on my own with a view of meeting new people and making new friends. I want the stories. I want to laugh and get on with the people who live here. But the flipping man is still looking up in my face telling me all sorts of nonsense.

Maybe it’s me. There is something in me that draws the ones who do not read books or understand the subtleties of language.  I explain again to Champion, but I would be louder now, a tad hotter now.
      “If I was in England and I say, OK see you later, the man would go. But you? You are still here.”
He looks at me. “Have some pride. I want to be by myself now OK." (I love Ghana, I love Ghana) “When a woman says bye, see you around- it means she wants you to go now. Be a man. Please don’t let me have to run you away from me on this beach.”
He grins or does something pathetic with his face. “Shall I go?”
        “Yes please.” And this time I start to walk off.  
       “So can I meet you lata?”  I don’t know what I must look like to this man. Is there an off-centred Martha that he has spotted, or a Martha who is just plain slow? Or is there one that is so desperate for companionship that she would take a five foot fisherman back from Ghana with her to England? Are these the ‘Marthas’ he sees?
      “No you can’t see me later.” I am walking in the other direction now.
      “If I see you later I will say hello.”
      “if you must.” I’m talking in the other direction now.
      “And I can come and talk?”
Should I turn around and kick this fisherman or would that not be good?  I don’t know if I would have been nicer had I been met at the airport last week. Or the man hadn’t said my room was ‘no more than twenty cidis' when really it was thirty nine. I love Ghana? I love Ghana?

I am sure the English language has nice words to help you get rid of people. Shakespeare would have preferred if thy maketh room. But me? I am a passive aggressive tourist, who wants to speak the language, but not in the way they say it.  I want to stroll along without doing any of the work. I want to write notes in my book and hear only the stories from the ones who are tall enough and smooth enough. I am a bad and horrible person. And I need to read some more books.