beaute parfait

I don't speak Lingala. It's a pretty essential skill for living in Gemena. I've been taking lessons forever, but it was too easy to mix in some French in Kinshasa. It was fun to think I was making progress there with little phrases and random words. But I was  never under any delusions. I do not speak the language and it is very apparent here. 

Moving someplace where no one understands you is complicated. Isolating. Frustrating. Some days are better, some are just plain bad. A friend told me I should give it 6 months to really get in the groove. Another acquaintance told me six months to learn the language. People say Lingala is easy. Anything is easy once you know how. 

Communication is more than just language. People's expectations often get in the way as well. I am pretty sure my whole life has been complicated with effective communication, but it's taken on new dimensions here. When people are faced with a stranger, they make assumptions that override reality.

When I say Congo Voice, the name of the building where I work, moto taxi driver's hear Congo Airways, because that's what they know and seeing a white woman means travel and expense. When I say batiment Sanguma (building Sanguma, which is what the building where I work is commonly known as) they want to take me to the Sanguma orphanage. White people go to orphanages. After two months in such a small town, they mostly know where I am going now. And those who don't get a lot of chiding from other taxi drivers when they see us turning around. People know everything here.  

Questions are also complicated. If I ask a 'how much' question, the answer doesn't usually come out as a number. It starts with a story. There are a lot of stories, which can be entertaining, but it leads to hanging conversations. Something like, how much is the flour? Leads to...well, the baker said we should buy this brand because it's better quality and when we buy the other brand.......If I am not careful I can get caught up in what the lady down the road said last time we used only X brand and how it affected her sales and then her children were hungry and one of them got sick and is now in the hospital....what were we talking about again? The conversations get layered with one connection after another until I know all about somebody's uncle who crossed the border into Central African Republic. It's only after I've returned to other tasks that I realize I still don't know the price of the flour. 

I've been implementing some strategies, but nothing has proven consistently effective. I tried a new nanny/housekeeper today and although we talked about corn, and made nibbling on the cobb motions, and used the Lingala word for corn, I came home to a vat of fufu made with maize. I guess she couldn't find corn and this seemed like a reasonable substitute. 

It was that kind of day- one communication failure after another. I brought folders over to the medical clinic to help organize the records, which are currently in piles. I'd hoped to get them all into their own folder and maybe eventually into plastic tubs to keep the dust off. I even imagined labelling the tubs A-D and E-H. Such a system could be good. But it would take more than an afternoon- not just to organize but to get the idea across. 

I brought the files, as promised, and was prepared to spend the afternoon putting papers in and labeling with a sharp black marker. Organization can be so satisfying. I'd been promising to come help with this task for weeks. I intended to listen first, to get a good grasp of the current organization method- I know some people can have that messy desk and still pull out exactly what they're looking for. I was not trying to upset a system like that. We couldn't really get to the part where I could take the first step though. Somehow, it just didn't translate. Or maybe they weren't really expecting me to sit down and stuff files. Or maybe they didn't want my help. Or didn't want to complete the task. There are so many possibilities about why we couldn't land at common understanding. I finally left the folders, and the intention, for another day. 

The biggest communication snafu came just hours before that. Since my first trip to Gemena back in September I have been deeply disturbed by this sign. Now that I go by it everyday, it's unbearable.

rond-point sage fils

It is a large billboard on one of the main roads advertising beauty cream- or skin lightening cream- which is a whole conversation of it's own, and has been a controversy in Africa for years. What I hate most about this advertisement is that it depicts a white woman with the title "perfect beauty." I think there might be 4 white women in Gemena. And this board certainly does not show the ideal African beauty. My first response was graffiti, or some creative art overtop of the sign. Being such a small town, however, does not lend well to anonymous defamation of such a public space. I took a more diplomatic approach. I went to the mayor.

He directed me to the Chief of Arts and Culture who suggested I write a letter requesting permission to put up my sign. I have an idea for replacing this board with images of real women from here- two girls, in fact, who are stunning and intelligent and symbolic of the potential for youth and young girls in particular to be the future of Gemena. I wrote a letter, in French, with all the French frills and distinguished salutations and margins that begin to the right of the middle. It was a good letter. I had my Lingala teacher look it over. We added some more fancy French thoughts. He was really impressed with the concept. We were both impressed with the final request.

I brought the masterpiece to the printer, hoping to get the required three copies to deliver, and while I was waiting, there was another French professor there. Everyone got involved in this letter, making corrections and discussing the idea. It all seemed so clear. Get rid of the "beaute parfait" and replace it with the real beauty of Gemena. 

The Chief of Arts and Culture called me with an appointment this morning so he could deliver the official response. No problem, he said. He had a formal permission letter from the mayor himself, complete with all the stamps and signatures. (Actually getting the stamp required two trips, because nothing happens without a little hiccough here.) All that was left was payment. While I was waiting for the receipt (the Chief appears blind in one eye, so he called in someone else to write the receipt, which was printed on red paper and hard to see- we had to step outside into the daylight, only the guy he called didn't really have a steady hand. Every time he put pen to paper, his hand shook so much, he had to call another guy to write the receipt, and there was a lot of discussion about what to put where... which left time for some stories.) Stories turned out to be revealing because I guess no one really paid attention to the part where I wanted to replace the existing advertisement. They thought I was going to put up my own board. Huh. 

I did not have plans for that. So now I am faced with two alternatives. Put up my own board exactly the same height and directly in front of the other board, or appeal directly to the advertiser. With the way my communication skills have been going lately, I am not sure how effective that will be. 

I am also trying to determine the best approach. What could be a win-win situation? Putting their company logo on the board? Not for the cream but just for the distribution house which offers a variety of products. Or maybe just offering to buy the space from them? While I recognized the importance of revisiting the medical filing idea at another time, this is one idea I am not prepared to let go. Maybe I just need to go back to my original solution...I think Gemena is probably pretty quiet around 1 am......

lessons from a language

Spies. Intrigue. The decimation of a culture. My first official lesson in Lingala played something like an action adventure movie, without the stunts of course. The spies and intrigue part I am less inclined to write about just yet, still suffering from the uncomfortableness that comes from knowing people may not be who they seem...and intently so. What I have agreed to do is exchange English lessons for Lingala with a group of young university students. It seems like the perfect exchange. They can gain the ability to spread their message about the truths of Congo beyond the borders of French speaking countries and I can learn a bit of the local language in order to converse with shopkeepers or soldiers, whichever I might have need of.

My first lesson seemed to prove the difficulty of learning this language, though I've been told it's actually quite easy and can be learned and spoken well in mere months. I have my doubts. I've heard a lot about Lingala, from it being a military language, brusque and even brutal in it's form, to the fact that it has been just as slaughtered and mangled as the citizens of Congo. Lingala is spoken in the capital, Kinshasa, in a form that is mixed highly with French and has morphed with the youth (slang versions abound.) During my lesson, I had to confront my image of 'Africa,' as Congo is forever forcing me to do.

I came with my knowledge of Soussou, a language spoken in Guinea. I came with my understanding of African patterns in greeting and conversation. I assumed it would carry over. "Isn't it polite to first ask about the family, the work, the people at home before I get down to business?" I ask my teacher. He has begun with greetings and name presentation but I was expecting the ritual call and response that signals a typical exchange. "How are you?"-response- "How is the family?"-response- "How are the affairs in your village/town?-response- AND then I could get around to introducing myself or talking about why it is I came along. Maybe. After I had answered all of those same questions and threw in an emotional, "ehh" or two. And had something to eat.

Not so here in brisk and busy Kin. Here, I am told, they will scorn me for asking all of those "old-fashioned" questions, though of course, it is up to me if I choose to persist. Even the typical Lingala greeting, Mbote, is met with denial. That is the old way. It is harsh and stark to hear my teacher tell me in such a clear voice that people have long carried shame of their culture and are quick and eager to adopt European ways. I know this. I've read this as an effect of the horrors of history but to actually hear it from the mouth of a young, intelligent Congolese is stunning. I feel how it is affecting my language lesson (there are at least 3 ways to say everything depending upon the age and gender of the person I am talking to and that is only here in Kinshasa. If I am to travel to an equatorial region where they speak a more 'pure' form of  Lingala, there will be a host of words I simply don't know.) It's daunting as I fight my natural urge to want to learn the original form, though it will do me no good in Kinshasa to have these Lingala words no one really understands. I remember Lubumbashi and Nairobi with the bustling streets and the strong proud, "Jambo" greeting me everywhere. I never hear Mbote except from the mouth of another mondele or a few of the older atelier on campus.

But mostly I am struggling to accept the words I hear from my instructor. 'We've lost our culture, our identity and many people reject what is left in favor of European ideals."  It's one thing to read about the deaths of over 10 million people and to comprehend the brutalities suffered at the hands of colonial masters. But to have a vibrant, beautiful, young Congolese man sit before me some 50 years later and utter his regret at having no identity to cling to and being rebuffed by his fellow brothers as he strives to ignite the flame of pride in nationality is more than astonishing. It's decimating. I don't even know how to respond. There are no words strong enough to express my sorrow and sympathy. I am reminded of an article I read by a BBC journalist who made his home in Ivory Coast. With a marriage, recent citizenship and new house just behind him, he is facing the troubles there from the perspetive of one watching his home crumble before him. John James writes that the anguish he feels cannot be summed up in English and so he reaches for a word in  Baoulé... Yako.....meaning deep sorrow and regret. But it's only my first official Lingala lesson. I haven't had the time to acquire this kind of linguistic compassion. The chasm of my horror slowly opening, I just nod and stare. I understand, is all I can manage to utter. An understatement to say the least. I have no concept to help me understand this rejection of self; unexpected lessons from a language.