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......

Congo kid

I still find myself missing Kinshasa with the deep longing that is generally reserved for people. I will be somewhere, or even passing through a place and something about the energy there will transport me back in my memories. I remember a street corner or a path I walked or a favorite drive. It all comes rushing back, enveloping me in the sights, the sounds, the smells and the rhythms. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with a physical ache and an intense nostalgia for that other space in Africa that feels like home.

The boys don't often talk about it. At most they remember friends from school with fondness, but I don't get a sense they miss the country in the same way I sometimes think I do. (I'm still trying to determine if I really miss it or if it is all part of the settling into a new city phase.)

In the last few months, however, Nabih has shared his thoughts in a way that makes me proud. On more than one occasion his responses to an activity in school have resulted in him presenting a sort of mini-history of Congo to the class. I am impressed when I hear him speak so knowledgeably about the past political scene and the present implications. I am impressed with his ability to make connections and use his past experiences to inform his present learning. Maybe I did something right after all.

This past Friday we went out with a few of his friends to celebrate his birthday. Although our first intention was to go karting, when we arrived they were in the midst of remodeling. We took our cake and our carful of boys and headed over to the bowling alley.

It was a first for Nabih and he had a lot of fun. We had the place to ourselves, which often seems to be the case in terms of African entertainment. There was no customary changing of the shoes (what fun is bowling if you don't have the inconvenience of wearing someone else's ill fitting shoes!!??) and the bumpers were up, but none of that took away the pleasure of hefting a heavy ball down the lane and watching it knock over a bunch of pins with crashing success.

A real bowling alley...complete with chain smoking
Lebanese grandma running the place

When it came time for cake, Nabih insisted his friends sing happy birthday first in Lingala. He taught them the words and then listened with a satisfied smile as 3 eleven year old voices sang slightly off tune. Next came the French version, followed by the English. Not to be outdone, one of his friends insisted on singing the Dutch version. It was all topped off by the completely bizzare, "Attieke, poulet, frite" version which I have never heard. Maybe it was their on the spot tribute to Ivorian food favorites.

Nabih had also insisted at Mbalia's birthday that we sing the Lingala version first and  he is always ready to speak to her in whatever Lingala he knows, sometimes asking for the right way to say something.  Often he reverts to this when he feels like she is not listening to his command in French or English. As if she has some deeper understanding of Lingala that will inspire her to obey his command.

It's quite heartwarming to me and leaves behind a bit of hope that maybe those Kinshasa years weren't as hard on him as he'd led me to believe.
 

A Curious Course

Nazali yekola na Lingala. I am studying Lingala.

I have happened upon a (rather ancient) book and so begin my studies. It is, amazingly, a translation from English to Lingala, which is ever helpful. I have no doubt I could continue with one from French to Lingala but this version serves as a great beginning. I can spend my time trying to remember the Lingala and not worrying if I've gotten the right French translation.

The words and phrases have begun to make sense to me. I was even able to construct a few of my own sentences. It is like a a great mystery becoming revealed. What fun to try out my sentences on whoever is closest and watch their face light up in surprise. Everyone is great help, laughing at my mangled pronunciation and offering advice. For now, it is easiest for me to begin with the book, to see it in writing and understand the construct.

Most challenging is the conjugation (of all words, not just verbs.) There is a prefix that changes the word at the beginning and also one at the end. It really seemed confusing at first, to start out with a verb - loba (to speak) and end up with- nalobaka (I {always} speak...). Its like the word is buried in the middle and you have to find it. It is a different habit to change the beginning of the word, but I think many African languages do this. The word for child, mwana, becomes 'bana' in the plural children. This, while completely and endlessly fascinating to a language hound like me, is the least of the curiosities.

The manual I have borrowed is from 1963. It is called a basic course, and was put out by the department of state. The key to understanding both cultures lies in the translations and selected phrases.

For example, I am perplexed about the included phrase:
Atutani na nzete - He walked into a tree.

I haven't heard of this happening since I've been here, perhaps it is a local affliction occurring in a different part of the city? Perhaps the mondele, unaccustomed to the frequent power outages, needed some time to learn the intricate landscape?

More intriguing,
Alongolaki bilamba na yo ntango nazalaki kolia.
He undressed while I was eating.


I've never had need for a statement of this sort, but perhaps in Kinshasa, all things are possible.

Finally, and most telling are the words appearing in Lingala followed by a near paragraph of possible translations. There are always more English possibilities. It leaves me with a myriad of questions I am compiling for an unfortunate tutor once I am ready.

Mbanda appears initially as the word for 'co-wife, a brother-in law on the wife's side or sister-in-law on the husband's side,' but then expands to include 'people who don't like each other.'

I should think the definition alone would be a strong argument against the practice of multiple wives. And I wonder what is the word for the odd situation when 2 co-wives might actually get along..... Should they continue calling each other mbanda? Or can they get away with moninga (friend?)

There are comic entries on how to handle a run in with the police and also many phrases to do with the military. They seem placed in random order so that when reading through you will find something like:

The soldiers surrounded the village.
The soldiers are polishing their shoes.
This soldier shined his uniform buttons.

From the dramatic to the mundane. There are sections on auto mechanics, buying food, talking to servants and road work. Interspersed are necessary sections about doctors, illness, death, soldiers and natural disasters. The formality and politeness of the time is evident throughout, but especially so:

Just a minute, I'd like to tell you how we used to suffer.

As if such a discussion might occur in passing, while pricing fruit at the market.
More forceful language is 'scene' in the description of a run-in with police.

Apparently, you (the learner) have been pulled over. You don't begin the conversation well, asking the officer if you've killed someone. (Somehow, I imagine the manual taking on a sarcastic tone.) The officer responds that you must not have seen the light (back when there traffic lights in Kinshasa, I assume.)You progress to make the situation worse by stating that you don't see very well, you don't have your license because you've only just begun to drive and the car doesn't belong to you. Finally, you ask how much of a 'fine' you should pay. The officer asks if you have 1,000 francs in your pocket right now (clearly inflation has hit Kinshasa.) Unfortunately, you don't have the money but offer to make a deposit. This lesson ends with the police officer making a grand statement:

Boy, if you don't want to go to jail, shut up and follow me. And that's final!

The meek reply: I understand you, Officer.

The boys and I have had great fun trying to wrap our tongues around all ng's and zali loka's. There seems to be an abundance of n's, g's and k's. For now, many of the words seem strikingly similar. I imagine that will all clear up with time and practice. Though I'm not sure exactly when I might have cause for:

Soko simsi na ngai eyaki mbindu te, kana nakei kotala monganga
If my shirt hadn't gotten dirty, I would go see the doctor.

Maybe it wouldn't have happened if he'd undressed while I was eating.


I have, intentionally but without malice, left all the accent marks off the Lingala.