French Polynesia Check In

In my previous post, I mentioned some of the places we have been so far. In doing so, I remembered that for school last year, I wrote a narrative essay about our entrance into French Polynesia. Here is that essay:

I am not a shy person. I generally have great self-confidence. However, speaking in French to native French speakers has always terrified me. I worry that, with my poor grasp of the language, I’ll manage to offend someone, and will be hunted down by a mob of angry Frenchmen with pitchforks. As my family and I are currently performing a circumnavigation on our sailboat, this fear is most inconvenient. Recently my mother, who has no problem using elaborate arm gestures to bridge the language gap, decided this had to stop. So, she informed me that I would be translating any questions my parents had for the French speaking customs agent in French Polynesia.

The customs agent was a heavily tattooed gentleman, who seemed very pleased to have something to do. He remained remarkably jolly as he informed us, via google translate, in the voice of a lovely British woman, that any fruit we found on the ground was likely covered in rat urine, and that, while swimming was encouraged, to please bear in mind that there were plenty of sharks. After telling us these facts, he then asked if we had any questions.

My mom turned to me and, with an oblivious smile, said, “Betty, would you please ask the man where we could buy some fruit.”

I looked at her with pleading eyes. “Do not make me do this,” they said. “I know that you don’t understand why, but I really cannot ask this man where to buy fruit.”

My mom gave me a look, and then called me over and whispered a question. “This man has just been telling us about rat urine. Do you really think he will care if you conjugate a verb wrong?”

I realized that he probably would not. That’s not to say all my fear and apprehension disappeared completely. I was still anxious, but I nevertheless went up to the desk and asked, “ou est-que mon famille achete les fruit?”

I need not have worried, as the customs agent seemed to understand. He gestured outside and replied, “avant de la poste,” which I understood to mean “in front of the post office.”

Overall, though this experience did not completely erase my fear, it did greatly lessen it, and I am very grateful for my mother’s encouragement. I am now much more confident in my ability to make myself understood when speaking French, and I no longer tremble at the thought of asking the local French Polynesians for directions.

A market in French Polynesia