@grisson, whom I admire: I don’t think it’s up to me to decide whether someone drinks or not. They’re strung out, I’m passing by, they ask for help, I give them money. I’m strung out on my own varied thises and thats. Who am I to judge what suffering they’re asking me to alleviate?
I have a long story about taking a beggar to dinner if you ever want to hear it.
Wait, here it is, I know you want it: Cape Verde Islands, stopping over en route S Africa. This was 2005, the week the London tube got bombed. A trinket seller called Momo spoke beautiful French to us. We hated the trinkets. They were awful. We said, No thanks, Momo, want to just come have dinner with us? He was stricken with surprise, apparently no one does this just for the fun of conversing. The next night he said Come on, I’m taking you to dinner. After a long dark walk, we found that was chicken and rice eaten with the fingers of the (right) hand out of a common bowl in a squat at the fringe of town, no sidewalks, streets made of sand, beyond the Chinese section, which was itself very spartan: one lightbulb, twelve very young illegal Senegalese Muslim men living in one unfinished concrete room, two broken plastic chairs (for us), one Koran, one mullah (about twenty years old), two litre bottles of orange Fanta (a huge treat). We ate, we smiled, choice pieces of chicken were pressed into our hands. My husband didn’t speak any French. He smiled, he let guys stroke his ponytail. There was fear of/fascination with Americans/Christians/the infidel. We learned everyone’s name. We helped polish wooden “folk-art” rhinos made in a factory. Watching me, the fat american lady, polishing a rhino horn, they all doubled over with laughter, walked around slapping hands. We grinned little by little and it was at that point that everyone relaxed. The next day we hired a truck, went to the bigger town, bought them a foam mattress so that they could take turns not sleeping on the floor, and delivered it. The mullah said, “Pourqui vous avez fait ca?” I said, “Nous sommes Americains, merci pour votre hospitalite; dormez bien, mon fils.”
I SO advocate Grisson’s approach of taking a guy out for a meal. You DO NOT KNOW what human contact this could lead to. ‘Course, they coulda eaten us. But we knew they wouldn’t.
AGAIN, on the issue of what giving gives the giver. It gave me the most interesting,
startling social event of my life (so far).
I know I talk too much. Hell with it. I’m old. I get to.