The Unavoidable Kindness of Strangers

Last fall, walking down Ninth Ave, the strap of my flip-flop broke-- leaving me with just one functional shoe. Last week, the same thing happened on Kroo Town Road. The first lesson from this should probably be something about investing in better shoes, since they'll last longer (I know, Mom) or my uncanny ability to destroy things in unusual ways (exhibit A: cell phone in washing machine). Leaving that aside, the lesson I took was from the differences in the two experiences.
In New York, my friends offered to get me a cab (for two blocks?), but otherwise nobody on the street blinked an eye. Nobody stopped, nobody offered any assistance, and nobody seemed affected by the fact that I was walking barefoot down the NYC sidewalk, even though it was killing me with every step. Here in Freetown, I know I attract a little more attention than NYC, particularly downtown or wandering among food stalls. However, many people walking down the street do not have shoes, even broken ones. When my shoe broke, I sighed and resolved myself to finding an okada.
Immediately, several women expressed their sympathy from their stalls. One man offered to take me to "his guy" to fix it. His vague illustration of where it was ("Just there", accompanied by a wave of the hand that suggested several side streets) and the fact that my shoes had cost $5 simplified my decision to say no and just abandon the shoes. Then an older woman came and clutched my arm, directing my attention down. She had slipped off her shoes and was indicating I should take them. "Just bring them tomorrow," she told me. Feeling slightly embarrassed that, yet again, things had shifted to address my inconsequential needs, I thanked her and politely declined. She also mentioned "the guy" who could fix them and called her son to take me there. "Just there" was actually just two streets down. (I'm cautious when told distances because of the inconsistencies that arise from a flexible relationship with time and the tendency to walk long distances.) As I made my way, barefoot through the dust, I attracted many looks of sympathy. A man, surrounded by cheap sandals, saw me approach and silently held out his hand for the shoe. Blind in one eye, he inspected it carefully, then selected a needle, pliers, and heavy duty thread, handed to him by an assistant, just like a scrub nurse. Within minutes, my shoe was as good as new-- probably better-- and he declined when I attempted to pay him. Eventually, I convinced him to take Le 2000 (about 50 cents) and headed home.
When you are traveling, you are always dependent on the kindness of strangers- offering directions or explaining the public transit. When my ticket wouldn't let me out of the Paris Metro, a man drew me in front of him and swiped us out together. But in Africa, it goes beyond mere gestures. In both Sierra Leone and Uganda, strangers who have so little have offered what they can, often with no thought of anything in return. The experience makes me feel guilty when I think back on my reaction to tourists in New York, generally avoiding eye contact and getting impatient when they cannot figure out how to swipe their subway pass (though I usually reach over and assist them). This isn't to say I'm completely heartless or that I don't regularly witness random moments of kindness in NYC, but Westerners (I'm extending this to USA, Canada, and Europe) are more likely to turn the other way if you're not a local, whereas the opposite has been true here. The lesson points more to an underlying attitude-- a sense of community and interreliance, mixed with unending hospitality. You do everything in your power to help, because you have and you do and you will rely on the community to get you through another time.