HAD MYSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS

So, it's not cold. There is no snow. My family is not here. And it doesn't smell like pine tree. Still, this year's Christmas has been, so far, pretty amazing. Yesterday I made pierogi and we had a lovely Christmas dinner chez our friends. Today we celebrated in a slightly different way, though. For the first time in my life, Christmas Day was not about me and my family. We decided to spend this special day with the Arc En Ciel kids. And it turned out to be an excellent idea!

The plan was to take the kids out to the beach, play play play, have a picnic and distribute the presents. The first thing you must know about these kids is that they are absolutely crazy about the beach! Even though they live on the coast, they rarely get an opportunity to get away from the centre. It's a very special treat for them.

First, we splashed around in the water. The old I push you - you fall down - I laugh my head off game was a huge hit. Kids were all over us and, for once, nobody minded. There was hugging and holding hands, and pushing, and climbing on your back. And, careful as I am not to let them get too close to me, I let myself go today. No physical boundaries - Christmas gift for them but, above all, for me.

Then we had a snack. Sandwiches, sweets, biscuits, fruit, juice, Coke... It's an experience to watch these kids eat. They act as if the world was coming to an end, and the only way to save it were by eating as much as you can, as quickly as you can. You can tell them that the food is not going to disappear. They nod and ask for another biscuit, even though they have just stuffed two whole ones in their mouth! Also, here's a useful tip: no quantity of goodies will ever be enough!

Finally, after a professional football match (one of the boys: I'm going to swim. My team has no idea how to play football!), the time for presents came. I'd come up with the following idea: each boy gets a picture of himself, framed and wrapped. As they are crazy about pictures, and I've been taking quite a lot of them during our time together, it was bound to be a success. I thus printed out the photos, put them in the frames that had been brought from Europe by Arc En Ciel volunteer friends, and wrapped them in present paper, with ribbons and name tags - the way it's supposed to be done.

I think for a moment there each and every one of the boys felt special. They got an individual gift each, something that doesn't happen often. Usually, either the centre receives a collective present or each boy gets the same package. This time they were the protagonists, all the pictures were different and, most importantly, they could keep them! Consequently, it seems logical that a few boys wanted to prolong the pleasure. And so some wouldn't open their gifts at the beach, guessing what was inside in spite of the photo-frame-shaped object in their hands. Others still would try to put the wrapping paper back on their frames because the present looked so pretty before.

And the kids would call Jandro Monsieur Kasia.

There are no words that can describe how I felt for the rest of the day. Touched. Happy. Satisfied. Elated. Heart-broken. Too many emotions.

A friend of mine once said she could not do this kind of work. It would be too painful for her. I cannot disagree, in many ways it is painful. However, it is the kind of pain I can deal with, as long as I get to put a smile on those ebony faces.

What a day! Big thanks to the people who made it possible: Su and Tito (who, starting off as the readers of this blog, became its protagonists), Kathleen (who was extremely generous today), and, of course, Jandro, because he's always there. I dedicate my Oscar to... Oh, sorry, got a bit carried away.

I am going to Mayumba tomorrow, and will not have time to upload any photos until after we get back. But this post will have images, I promise!

MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE AND KASIA

Once, a long long time ago, I was not a teacher, I was not an expatriate and I was not even thinking of going abroad. In those days, I was your regular university student, majoring in linguistics, studying hard for her exams and writing term papers. Today's post will only partly be written by yours truly, resident of Gabon. I would rather say it comes from the already-forgotten linguistics student, who is sometimes looking for a comeback. However, do not despair! If you're not interested in forms of address in the various languages I speak, don't give up on this entry. I will tell you a little something about Gabon, too.

You and its many translations
Yes, today I want to talk about forms of address, or, in other words, the familiar and polite ways of addressing other people. The most natural starting point is English, as it's the working language of this blog. However, there's not much to be said about English, because it uses the pronoun you for both formal and informal encounters. Therefore, it is not through the personal pronoun that you mark the difference between a conversation with, say, your future boss, and a chat with a friend. Whatever you say, you it is.

The other languages I speak on a daily basis - Polish, Galician and French - are different as far as forms of address are concerned. All three of them distinguish between the familiar (ty, ti and tu respectively) and the polite (pan/pani, vostede and vous). In theory, polite forms are used between adults who don't know each other or as an expression of respect. Thus, in a Polish cafe, when served by a person my age, I will still be addressed as pani, and I will always refer to my friends' parents as pan/pani, even if I know them very well. On the other hand, the familiar forms are reserved for people of (usually) similar age, with whom you are on the first-name basis, such as friends, colleagues, etc.

In practice, Galician, similarly to Spanish, tends to settle for the familiar ti in most situations. For example, it's not uncommon to use this pronoun when talking to your university professor, which, by the way, came as a great shock to me (consequently, I was the odd exchange student, who would address her teachers as vostede). Only French and Polish really retain the distinction between the formal and the intimate, which means - behold! - that I have actually found a rule in French which came completely naturally to me.

Vous and the Gabonese French
The French are very formal when speaking to people they don't know. The polite vous is omnipresent, and honorifics such as Madame and Monsieur are - even to my Polish ears - overused. So, nothing simpler than to adapt, I thought. Finally something I don't need to learn from scratch! Or is it?

Grasping the whole tu/vous issue in French as spoken by the Gabonese is, sadly, more difficult than it seems. While in theory the rules remain unchanged, most Gabonese address their fellow Africans as tu. This goes in line with the Central-African saying On est ensemble (we are together), which stresses that we are all brothers and sisters. Or, more specifically, that they are all African brothers and sisters, for white people will usually be addressed using the polite vous.

This leaves me in doubt as to how I should speak to the Gabonese: I want to adapt to the African rules, but a tu coming from me may be interpreted as racist, and not as an invitation to a less formal, African-style conversation. It is true that many white people address the Gabonese as tu, while the latter respond with the polite vous. And this, in my view, is indeed an expression of racism. On the other hand, it is sometimes difficult to convince an African (above all of lower social status) to give up vous while talking to you. It took me months of work to have the school's cleaning ladies call me tu, and the security guard still gets confused from time to time and greets me with Bonjour Madame, vous... tu... allez bien?

An equally interesting socio-linguistic phenomenon can be observed in the case of our cleaning lady. She always refers to Jandro as Monsieur Alexandre, as he is the man of the house and her boss. This respectful form is met with a vous-treatment from Jandro as well. However, from the very beginning, I have been addressed as Kasia and tu. Even though I also pay her and tell her what to do, she considers me of little consequence, which is automatically mirrored in her language. I consistently use vous when I talk to her, but the situation is not to be changed, we have been dubbed Monsieur Alexandre and Kasia for all eternity.

Finally, some African people (again, I'm not talking of the emerging middle class and the rich upper class) will employ tu all the time, even when addressing their superiors, but they will stress their respect by the use of a honorific (Madame/Monsieur). This leads to such charming grammatical inconsistencies as Madame, tu as grossi! (Madame, you've put on weight!). This is how I was once greeted by my tailor, and, unfortunately, he was absolutely right. Luckily, gaining a few kilograms is a positive thing in Africa, and my tailor still thinks I'm pretty.

Are you confused yet?
After reading this entry, do you begin to understand what a linguistic mayhem the inside of my head must be? Living in several foreign languages is a huge challenge. The changing cultural frameworks, terms of reference, words you're currently missing, words that you confuse, words, words, words... The two weeks in Poland will definitely do me good.

The picture comes from here.

LOVING AND GIVING, AND SHARING, AND RECEIVING

Christmas is obviously a special time. Last year, I told you about the Christmas tree ritual at my parents' house. I gave you recipes for Christmas food. I insisted on how cold it was in Warsaw. I felt the crunching of snow under my feet. None of this is going to happen this year, though. Christmas 2010 is special in a different way - it is the first Christmas I will spend away from home.

As you grow older, you become more and more detached from your parents - a natural process which I really do not object to. I moved out of my parents' house and went to live abroad over three years ago. We are still very close but, clearly, we don't see each other very often. However, I would always come home for Christmas. Up till now. And of course, I miss my Mom and Dad.

But the things I'm going to miss this year are many. Take the weather, for instance. Is it possible that Christmas is coming, when it's 30 degrees outside? Is it possible to spend Sunday, 12 December, at the beach? It should get dark at 4 pm, it should be white all around, and it should be cold. Freezing, so that you can sit in your cosy living room, lit up by the Christmas lights, and have hot tea.

And then the Christmas decorations around the city. Of course, Libreville is doing its best. There is a Christmas tree made of lights (similar to the one in Warsaw, but it lights up as the Gabonese flag), which has been blocking one of the most important crossroads in the city centre for over a month. Gabonese style, it is still in three parts, waiting patiently to be assembled. The street lamps sport decorations, too. But no, it's not the same.

Moreover, Christmas spirit does not exist. The three supermarkets have been decorated in a dull, sad way, and the black Santa with an extremely fake white beard has been spotted in various places, usually in the process of staring into a TV. Yes, in Europe you are surrounded by annoying pop-adaptations of carols everywhere, but they do the trick. You feel that, as Billy Mack would say, Christmas is indeed all around.

And, finally, the ultimate sign of Christmas: the Christmas tree. Supermarkets are filled with ugly fake trees. I hate ugly fake trees. The Christmas tree is supposed to smell like the forest and gingerbread. It gives you the warm fuzzy feeling, which only lasts a little while but fills you with hope and joy and happiness. A living, scented, fuzzy-feeling-giving joy-bringer, if you will. A fake ugly tree has no such powers. Ergo, I didn't get one.

Instead, I occupied a couple of my lonely evenings (Jandro is still away) with designing and producing my special African Christmas... conical fishing basket (the exact translation of the French word nasse, brought to you by the irreplaceable wordreference). You see, we've had our decorative nasse (please don't make me say conical fishing basket) for a long time and, following the suggestion of my brilliant French teacher, I decided to make it into a Christmas tree. I made balls out of the African fabrics, I used tinsel and some ready-made decorations, partly from Africa (bought locally in a cute yet expensive shop), partly from... the Philippines, the latter generously donated by a Malaysian friend (for which I hereby issue a public thank you). The effect is visible in the photos. I'm rather proud of myself.

So, what is the conclusion? If you are expecting a final wail, I am happy do disappoint you. As I said, the Christmas spirit is mostly absent and my tree happens to be a conical fishing basket. However (and thank goodness for the however!), I still have so many things to be excited about:

1. I get to spend Christmas with my boyfriend. For the first time.
   
2. I have just started our own collection of Christmas decorations. (Again, the boyfriend factor.) I find it romantic. Call me sentimental, see if I care.
3. We have been invited chez our friends for dinner on 24 December, and it makes me very happy to think that we've met people on whom we can count on such a special day.
4. We have decided to spend Christmas Day with the Arc En Ciel kids, and take them to the beach, games and picnic included. I'm looking forward to that, too. I'm suddenly a big fan of sharing, which - careful! - might make me a better person.
   

As Joey would say, Christmas is the time of loving and sharing, and giving, and receiving. And this is exactly what I intend to do, as it applies regardless of the latitude, temperature and availability of fresh pines. Here's my wish for Christmas 2010: may all of us discover the Christmas spirit that lives inside!

AND THE WINNER IS...

I came back to the Treasury today. I was supposed to find out whether the Deposit Saga would finish at last or not. I did, and it is a definite end. Is it a happy end, though? I want to maintain the suspense. To find out, you'll have to read through my story.

After work, I took off my flip-flops (the elegant ones) and put on my new shoes (the flowery ones). I checked my fancy dress for chalk stains and hopped into a taxi. At the Trésor, I asked for my friend Madame la Secretary, and confidently stepped into her office, nearly stumbling upon a huge bag full of money, which she was in the proccess of counting (and when I say a huge bag, I mean thousands and thousands of euros). She recognised me, informed her boss of my presence and told me he would see me tout de suite. Instantly suspicious, I answered that it was her who was supposed to take me to the person who would issue a cheque. I am counting the money, madame. Of course.

The tout de suite lasted forty minutes, during which around ten thousand euros were counted. After I reminded the Secretary that I was still there, blocking the entrance to her cubicle, she sighed, got up and went to see her boss again. He was ready to see me. I was not, however, led to the same cubicle-office as yesterday. Instead, Madame la Secretary took me to a different cubicle and a different boss. Not a great sign, I thought. But I politely sat down in the leather chair.

And then, all of a sudden, everything went smoothly. A person was called to bring my documents. I was asked to sign a form (I did, reluctantly, looking for a catch). And then the money was brought. I left the Treasury with 730 000 CFA, the exact amount we had paid in September 2009. I went out quickly, worried that something might still go wrong. Nothing did, though. We won. It's over.

Impossible is nothing! Luckily - these new shoes turned out to be extremely uncomfortable...

The Complete Deposit Saga consists of six episodes. The previous ones are:
1) Out of the Territory or how we gave it a try at the CEDOC;
2) The Odyssey Continues or how we stumbled upon the right track;
3) Show Must Go On or the neverending wait;
4) ...Et la robe doit dépasser les genoux! or our first time at the Treasury;
5) Call Me Josef K. or how I put on new shoes.

CALL ME JOSEF K.

After our first, slightly unsuccessful on my part, visit to the Trésor, we were asked to call the Secretary of the Director General on the following day. We did and, surprisingly, were asked to come in.

I thus put on my only closed shoes, which happen to be pink trainers, and we set off. I was, of course, stopped at the entrance and asked by a superior security guard if I knew how to read. As Jandro went in, the guard pointed to a specified list of clothes which are allowed at the institution, and instructed me to read it carefully, using the familiar form tu, which is unacceptable in an official conversation. I read, took my usual spot outside the building, and waited.

Jandro emerged not long afterwards, saying that Secretary A directed him to Secretary B, who, in turn, told him to come back on Monday, as her Boss was extremely busy. And this is where today's story begins. Jandro being away, I had to pay a visit to Secretary B on my own.

Dressed in an elegant skirt which modestly covered my knees and the black shoes I had dutifully bought on Friday, I stepped through the threshold of Treasury just before 10 am. The security guards scrutinized my feet and must have been satisfied with the huge flowers on top of my brand new fake-suede shoes. Following Jandro's instructions, I found Secretary B's office. She quickly sent me away to Monsieur C's Secretary. Apparently, it was Monsieur C, the vice director of Treasury, who was in possession of my dossier.

Asking around, I managed to find my second Secretary of the day. She occupied one of the many tiny cubicles, and so did Monsieur C (his was slightly fancier but as cramped as the other ones). I sat down in the Secretary's "office", while she explained to me that Monsieur C was a very busy man. I spent an hour waiting for him to find a minute to see me, meanwhile becoming intimate friends with the Secretary.

Finally, I was called in. I opened the door, hit a huge leather armchair, which was blocking the entrance, and squeezed inside. Even though I had never mentioned my name, Monsieur knew exactly who I was. He was indeed in the possession of the dossier but was missing some mysterious "listing", with which I could not supply him. He called me Madame Kaczynski several times and informed me that issuing a cheque would take 24 hours. I was to come back the next day and ask for my friend the Secretary. She would take me to the person who would hand me the cheque.

Stunned, I thanked him and left. The word "cheque" was still ringing in my ears. Was it possible that things would go smoothly from then on? Would I really receive my money tomorrow? My African experience is suggesting only one possible answer to these questions: I have no idea whatsoever!

BONDING

For a few months now, I've been volunteering for Arc En Ciel, the children's centre I've already told you about. I try to teach some English, using roughly the same methods I use at school. Sometimes I feel successful, sometimes I have an impression that the kids are not very much into it. But I do go there regularly (unless I'm ill, which has been happening a lot lately) and I spend some time with the kids. As I only go once a week, the bonding ritual has been stretching in time. I even came to think that we might not manage to work out a relationship before I have to leave. The latter, by the way, wouldn't be that bad for the kids either, since it means they wouldn't miss me. Nevertheless, yesterday everything changed.

Initially, two other volunteers and I were going to take the kids to the beach. Such outings are organised a couple of times a month, and I think it's an excellent idea. However, the trip was cancelled by the Sister who runs the centre, as the kids had misbehaved in an unacceptable way. The Sister proposed that we came in and did some activities indoors, to which we instantly consented. After a vehement exchange of e-mails, we settled upon the "Christmas Crafts Morning" idea, which included producing various types of Christmas tree ornaments, origamiing and even making the tree itself from a wooden board (or what some might call "macho crafting").

We were surprised at how much enthusiasm was provoked by the crafts atelier. All the kids participated and were very proud of the effects. As you might suspect, I took plenty of pictures, and the children turned out to be fascinated by my camera. Supervising closely, I let them play with it a bit, and we ended up learning how to use the basic options, too. They were extremely careful not to break it, I must admit.

When we were leaving for lunch, the boys asked if we were going to accompany them to the American Embassy's Christmas Party, to which they had been invited. It was supposed to take place that very afternoon, and we were scheduled as chaperons for the event from the beginning. It was lovely to see them smile when we said that yes, indeed, we would go with them. As we came back to pick them up, the boys were already dressed up and beside themselves with excitement. One of them smiled at me and said: Oh, Madame Kasia, you really came back! Why was he surprised? I had promised!

The party was lovely. Lots of tasty food and swings - in short, all you need to give a kid a sugar high! The children were shy, though. They would only get food and drinks when accompanied by one of us, and I did feel a tad moved when R., the youngest boy, put his hand into mine to feel more confident. On our way home they were silent. I knew they felt sad that the day was over.

All in all, the children had a fun day but, to be completely honest, I don't know if it was more fun for them or for me. I felt we really bonded, which is, of course, fantastic. But it also breaks my heart a little. The more I care, the harder it gets, I suppose. And the hardest thing of all is... not to let yourself or the children care too much.

...ET LA ROBE DOIT DEPASSER LES GENOUX!

The Deposit Saga continues. After five weeks and what feels like three thousand phone calls, we managed to obtain the necessary documents from CEDOC. Our dossier is getting thicker and thicker, and it's now inside a fancy yellow CEDOC folder. We have a valuable signature of the Big Boss, and should thus get our money in no time. However, wouldn't you be surprised if things were this simple? Wouldn't you be disappointed? Relax, no disappointment in stock today. Instead, I will tell you a story of incompetence, flip flops and how I have to go shoe shopping.

Stage two
We were informed at CEDOC that now we were ready to take our dossier to the next level, which turned out to be the Treasury. As the name itself suggests a place where money can be obtained, we were fairly optimistic. This morning, just before nine o'clock, we found out that fairly optimistic could easily be substituted with stupid and naive.

We arrived at the Trésor and were confronted by a queue of roughly thirty people. A few security guards (as usual, with their huge guns at the ready) were hovering about, so we asked one of them what one had to do to get inside the building. He, in turn, informed us that the machines were out of order and thus no work could be done. Wondering if the Treasury was employing state-of-the-art robots which did all the work, we asked if we could maybe talk to someone inside. He said yes, but insisted on the fact that no work could be done whatsoever. Robots got broken, yes, we get it. We entered anyway.

Money money money
Inside, there was a number of people queuing in the general direction of a cubicle, where three women were sitting, staring into space. Clearly, as no work could be done, no work was being done. People were just sitting and waiting. We approached the three ladies and politely explained our situation. Shouting from behind the glass pane, they told us that yes, indeed, it was here where we could pay our deposit. Now it was clear to us how unusual our demand was. We patiently explained the whole thing again. Another lady started shouting to us, which quickly evolved into shouting at us. Indignantly, she said she had no idea what we had to do to get the deposit back and that we should go to the Ministry of Home Affairs and ask them for a special document, which later we should take to the second floor in the Treasury.

We left the ladies in the state of extreme agitation, as we had made them work, even though the machines were out of order.

No flip, just a flop
Still full of positive energy, we decided to head straight for the second floor of the Treasury, happily ignoring the whole Ministry recommendation. We thus walked around the building and reached a parking lot. We continued towards the entrance and, of course, as all other obvious terrorists, were stopped by several heavily armed security guards. The one who talked to us was sitting at a desk, on top of which there were several coffee mugs and lots of snacks. Professional that he was, he leaned in his chair and began:

Mr. Big: Yes?
Jandro explains our business.
Mr. Big: The lady cannot come in.
Me: Why is that, exactly?
Mr. Big: The lady is wearing flip flops and they are not allowed.
Me: I wear these flip flops to official cocktails with ambassadors!
Mr. Big: Flip flops are not allowed. The gentleman can go in.

As Jandro disappeared behind the door, I was told to leave the premises. I couldn't even wait outside with the guards, as it was security zone, where accidents happen. I wanted to make things crystal clear though. I insisted:

Me: So, if I'm wearing sandals but not flip flops, can I come in?
Mr. Big: No, you can't. No sandals. Only closed shoes.
Mr. Big 2 (looks me up and down): And your dress should cover you knees!
Me: As in church, got it.

While I was waiting for Jandro outside, it struck me what great satisfaction it was for the guards to send me away. I probably made their day! And just so you know, I had made a special effort that morning, and I wore a fancy dress (which ended right above my knees), a matching necklace and elegant flip flops.

Epilogue
Jandro managed to pass our dossier to the secretary of the chief of Treasury. My charming boyfriend must have flirted away, for she gave him her number and we're supposed to call tomorrow. The experience left me thinking that I had absolutely no closed dress shoes to speak of. Conclusion: in view of the fact that Jandro is leaving for two weeks and I have several visits to Trésor ahead of me... must go shoe shopping! Soon!

The previous episodes of the Deposit Saga are: Out of the Territory, The Odyssey Continues and Show Must Go On.

KASIA'S GREAT COOKBOOK: PIZZA

Have I ever told you about all the things I've learned in Gabon? Well, there's French, of course, and working with kids, and all those enriching experiences that make you a better person, too. But what I've really learned during my stay in Libreville is... how to make a delicious pizza. And so the time has come to share my knowledge with you. Here goes: pizza a la africana.

First make the dough. You will need 0,5 kg of flour, 4 tablespoons of olive oil, a pinch of salt and sugar, some basil or oregano (whichever you prefer), two tablespoons of dry yeast and some warm water. You mix the yeast, four tablespoons of warm water and some salt and sugar. You leave it in a warm place for fifteen minutes. Then you mix all the ingredients until the dough is smooth and soft and you let it rest in warm place for it to double its size.

Now you can prepare your tomato sauce. I use fresh tomatoes (3 medium ones should suffice), which I peel, dice and stew for a few minutes. Once they become soft, I take them out of the pan and I smash them with a fork. Tomatoes back in the pan, I add some fresh garlic, herbs (oregano, fresh basil and whatever you like), white pepper, salt and a bit of sugar. I leave it to simmer until the sauce gets thick. Then I spread it on the dough.


Now it's time to prepare your topping. I like it simple, so I usually use green pepper, ham, mushrooms, olives and mozzarella. Because of the prices in Gabon, I must settle for canned mushrooms, but I'm really looking forward to using the fresh ones in Europe. Also, as you can see in the picture, we are now forced to use black olives, because of the green olive shortage in Libreville, but both types will work, depending on your preferences.

And here we are, almost done. Put some olive oil on your baking dish, spread the dough, the sauce and your ingredients (I cut the mozzarella into thin slices but you could also grate it). You will notice that I only put olives on Jandro's side of the pizza! It's probably not very sophisticated of me, but I do hate olives and there's nothing I can do about it. As a final touch, sprinkle your pizza with some oregano. Remember to pre-heat your oven!


Clearly, to make a real Italian pizza, you must a) have a special oven, b) have all the vital ingredients and c) be Italian. Sadly, none of these points apply in my case. However, my pizza turns out delicious every time, as most of my friends will confirm. Also, it was sampled by a real Italian (and being a real Italian means you are inevitably awfully picky about food) and she was kind enough not to throw it away. Big success, I'm sure! Enjoy!

MBOLO TO ALL!

When I first came to Gabon, I was very preoccupied with my low level of French. Actually, I envisaged Libreville as a kind of African Paris, where everybody would rattle away in French to my utter despair, not paying any attention to the little white girl's trouble with understanding. Even though I was not far from the truth when I imagined all this horror (I've told you about my adventures with French several times before), I must admit that for a long time I didn't really notice a very important thing: although Gabon is a French-speaking country, le français is not the only language present on its rich linguistic map.

The population of Gabon is constituted by an overwhelming number of about 50 ethnic groups. They are all similar but different, with their specific dances, ceremonies and... languages. Yes, we are talking about a country where not two, not three, but fifty languages are spoken daily. To this, you should add the Pygmies and 300 000 immigrants from countries such as Nigeria and Equatorial Guinea, who are also bilingual in French and the something else. What you get is an intimidating number of languages spoken in a relatively small country (Gabon is roughly the size of Italy).

It is important to know that the biggest ethnic group are the Fang (about 30%). Other principal groups include the Myénè, the Tsogo, the Eshira, the Bapounou, the Batéké/Obamba, the Nzébi, the Bakota and the Mdébé. From what I've heard, the Fang tend to look down on the other groups, and, consequently, they are not very much liked by them. They are also said to be the richest and the most influential. The latter might be true: the biggest shopping mall in Libreville is called Mbolo or Hello in Fang.

So, each ethnic group boasts its own language and, you'll have noticed by now, there are plenty. They are officially divided into the following categories:

• the Mazona (Fang) group in the north, which includes: Betsi, Meké, Mvaï, Ntumu, Nzaman and Okak;
• the Meryé group in the south-west, which includes: Lumbu, Punu, Varama, Vili, Vungu, Eshira and Masango;
• the Memberé group in the south-east, which includes: Obamba, Kaningui, Téké, Tsitségé and Mindumu;
• the Myéné group in the north-west, which includes: Orungu, Galwa, Nkomi, Enenga and Adjumba;
• the Membé group in the centre and east, which includes: Apindji, Bavuvi, Evia, Tsogho, Okandé and Simba;
• the Menkona-Menaa group, which includes: Akélé, Bendambomo, Bawumbu, Beseki, Bungom, Mbahouin, Misigu and Shaké;
• the Menkona-Mangoté group, which includes: Kota, Benga, Mahongwé, Mindasa and Samayi.

The next question to ask is: how come is French the official language then? And this is a relevant, if annoying, question, at least for me. Let me explain why. The fact that everybody speaks French (a vast majority of schools are monolingual in this language) is a direct result of colonisation. Hence, one could logically reason, the language should disappear with the rising of independence. However, French has obviously become a lingua franca in both Gabon and the rest of French-speaking Africa. Without it, some Gabonese might have serious problems with communication - even though they usually speak a few national languages (it's true, they are all polyglots!), they will at some point inevitably stumble upon an interlocutor whose mother tongue will be unknown to them. Moreover, as the national languages have mostly oral traditions (and very few, say, grammar books exist), it would be difficult to use them as official, standardized languages. Finally, how do you decide on the official language if there are fifty to choose from? How do you avoid ethnic and political conflicts? Also, imagine the amount of irrelevant translation! Finally something to compete with the bureaucracy of the EU! And so? French is here to stay, minority-language lovers (that's me, by the way) like it or not.

As a result, some of the national languages are on the verge of disappearing. Many people become monolingual in French (mind you, this is the case of Gabon and not other French-speaking countries in Africa). Notably, the president of the International Organisation of Francophonie is African (Senegalese).

As a final test, try asking a Gabonese what languages s/he speaks. The usual answer is: French, some English, a bit of Spanish... Consequently, I insist: What about the national languages? I am then confronted with a dismissive: Oh yes, that too. What can I say? Wake up, Gabon! Your émergence should not forget about the linguistic heritage that was so generously bestowed upon you!

Abora for reading.

PS. Mbolo and abora are Fang words, meaning hello and thank you respectively.

The map comes from here.

THE ART OF HAGGLING

In Central Africa, haggling is more than just a social ritual. It's art. You're expected to haggle in nearly every situation, and you lose face if you don't. All the vendors will give you an impossible price at first, at the same time contradicting themselves by telling you that, mon frère, you have to haggle. You thus negotiate the price of clothes, fabrics, handcraft, fruit, grilled fish, guide's or mechanic's services... At first, it feels awkward and stressful. Why can't they just give you a decent price at the very beginning? What is the decent price anyway? With time, the stress disappears and you might even enjoy the experience. But, no matter what you do, you always have a feeling that you've overpaid.

Last weekend, we went to the Handcraft Market, in search of certain objects that we'd liked for some time and wanted to take to Europe with us. The market is small, and so we decided to make a tour first, and then get back to the things we liked. We thus visited all the stands and were cordially invited to enter and ask questions, as the story of an object costs nothing. We promised most of the vendors that we'd come back (otherwise, they wouldn't have let us go) and, when we ended our tour, we were confronted with anxious eyes, reminding us what we'd promised. Ignoring them - which makes you feel as if you were taking the last bits of manioc away from their children - we chose two stands which did offer interesting things. We came back. Let the games begin!

Object number 1: Traditional tube, used to warn villagers that a stranger was approaching the village. First price: 35000 CFA (52,5 euro).
The tube was something I liked from the very beginning. Clearly, you can't be too eager, your excitement will only increase the price. I pick up the object and Jandro addresses the seller. Why Jandro? Well, I've discovered that he's become absolutely amazing at haggling, and I myself am not great. Also, I have a feeling that Gabonese men prefer to talk to men when it comes to business. And so it begins:

- So, boss, how much is it?
- Oh, my brother, it's not expensive. You are the first client today. I will give you a good price.
- Yes, but how much is it?
- Very very cheap. Weekend price!
- Yes, but how much is it?
- For you... Hmm... It's a special price. Weekend price. First-client price. 35000.
- Oh la la...! (Jandro puts the tube down, the vendor thrusts it back in his hand.)
- No, no. It's only my price. You don't like it? You give your price! You know us Gabonese, we like talking, getting to know our customer, negotiating. How much do you give me?
- 8000.
- No!
- Yes!
- No!
- Yes!
- Oh, my brother! Impossible. Give... 32000.
- 9000.
- No!
- Yes!
- My brother, you're making me lose money! I'm giving you a special price! First-client price! 30000.

We continue like this for ten minutes. We reach the final price of 13000, assuring the vendor of our eternal friendship and brotherhood. We exchange phone numbers and shake hands several times.

Objects number 2 and 3: A beautiful Kota mask. A ritual knife. First price: 100000 (150 euro) and 50000 (75 euro).
Our hearts had set upon the mask a long time before, and Jandro was really excited about the knife, too. We've found both these objects at one stand, which would probably let us get a better deal. We begin with the mask.

- How much?
- Oh, my brother, it's cheap! I'll give you a special price.
- How much?
- And how much do you want to pay?
- How much?
- OK, 90000.
- No, thanks. (Jandro puts the mask down.)
- No, no, you can't put it down. (The vendor gives the mask back to Jandro.) How much do you pay?
- 20000.
- (indignant) Impossible!
- If you give me a ridiculous price, I give you a ridiculous price.
- (laughing) Ah, my brother! Good one! I will lower the price for you, special price! 85000!
- 22000.
- My brother, you don't understand. I have to go to Makokou and visit the villages to buy this.
- Oh, Makokou, it's beautiful out there! You come from Makokou? Amazing place!
- Oh, my friend knows it? Yes, thank you, it's beautiful. 80000.
- 25000.
- My friend, (the vendor puts his arm around Jandro and whispers in his ear), for you and the lady, I will lower the price. But you're making me lose money. 70000. Only for you.

We continue (full conspiracy, low voices, furtive glances to see if anybody's listening), until, after around twenty minutes of putting the mask down and picking it up again, we reach the final price of 42000 CFA (63 euro). Now the time comes to talk about the knife. The vendor's first price is completely ridiculous, especially in view of the situation: we'd just bought an expensive object from him. We can't agree on the price, and so another vendor, who'd been listening in on our conversation, intervenes. He sees himself as a mediator and our spokesman, happily making decisions for us (if I can decide for my friend, the boss,...). Nevertheless, his help is not needed, and, having been assured that we make the vendor and his family lose enormous amounts of money, we get the knife for the final price of 20000 CFA (30 euro). We leave the market, feeling dozens of people's eyes upon our back, blazing with hatred and disappointment, ready to strike with all the ritual knives that we didn't buy.

Epilogue: As we were leaving, the first vendor stopped us and asked about our car, sporting a big FOR SALE ad. As he asked about the price, Jandro smiled, looked him in the eye and said: Oh, my brother, it's not expensive! You're my first client today, I'll give you a special price! The vendor wouldn't stop laughing for a long time.

The first picture is of a gift that we got from the second vendor for being such lovely clients (it's worth around 1000 CFA or 1,5 euro).

SHOW MUST GO ON

You are probably dying to know what the improvements on our dealings with CEDOC are. Today we visited the place once again and, I'm proud to announce, I have news. This means that we have not yet been denied the money. Quite the contrary, actually. If it were Europe, I would already be planning how I would spend it. However, it's not Europe and so I stick to the wise Polish saying: Nie mów "hop!", dopóki nie przeskoczysz (do not say "hop!", until you've jumped, which in English has something to do with counting the chickens, I think). But I'm really getting ahead of the facts here. Let me start from the beginning.

As you know, last week we left our dossier with the Grand Secretary. The dossier consisted of a substantial number of documents, and I must say it looked very serious and important. Upon the Grand Secretary's previous instructions, we called her - several times - on Wednesday and Thursday, and we managed to find out that we were now expected to call a Monsieur A., who happens to be a - and here I really need a dramatic pause - a very important VIP. We called, were informed that he had been instructed to take care of us, and we fixed an appointment for the next morning.

We thus got up today, dressed elegantly, put on some make-up (me) and a tie (Jandro), and called Monsieur A. to let him know we would be in his office in twenty minutes. Apparently, this was all the time he needed to disappear, because, when we got to CEDOC, he had just left. We were, however, encouraged to wait patiently, which we did. Contrary to what we thought, le Monsieur came back around half an hour later. He was a short man, wearing the characteristic African suit (with the short-sleeved shirt/jacket), who kept pressing a tissue onto his huge nose, while he complained about his cold. He was very cordial and invited us into his office, which was what I've always imagined the inside of my head to look like: a gigantic - in a sense impressive - mess.

We sat down and waited. Monsieur A. had a lot of things to deal with but he did find a moment to send somebody to look for our dossier. We chatted about Gabon and the hospitality of its people, often interrupted by phone calls and people popping in and out. Finally, our dossier appeared. We were only to submit the original of our deposit receipt (which we were reluctant to part with but we did get a certified copy) and then I was asked to sign two copies of an official petition to be reimbursed the money.

Of course, this is not the end. The procedure continues as follows: CEDOC will urgently handle our documents as early as Monday. After they commence the reimbursement process, the CFO himself will call us and we will pick up our dossier with all the CEDOC authorisations. All this should happen around Wednesday. Afterwards, we will go to the Trésor Public (Treasury, is it?) and they will give us the money.

Clearly, if you start wondering how many things can still go wrong (our dossier gets conviently lost with the original receipt, le Trésor ignores us, etc.), I am still far from jumping from excitement. And since I'm not jumping, I'm not saying "hop!" as of yet, just to be on the safe side.

The picture comes from here.

FOUGAMOUING

So, it's been already a week since we went Fougamouing, and I still haven't told you how the trip went. Let me now fill in this huge information gap by telling you the story of the lazy receptionist, talkative guide, spirits of the forest and seven thousand mosquitoes, all of whom we met in Fougamou. Brace yourselves, it's going to be long!

Hôtel Ngounié must be Eshira for Hotel Mosquito
A week before our departure, we booked a double room (I even have a room with a bed for three, if you're interested!) at the Hôtel Ngounié, apparently the best (and only) hotel in the ville. Upon informing the receptionist that we'd made a reservation, we were confronted with a high-pitched prolonged Gabonese ooooooh!, which usually means that you're asking for the impossible. She told us that as we hadn't made our booking with her, she did not know about it. However, she would make the effort of finding us a room. And she did. Of course, it had no light in the bathroom, the shower consisted of a hose, it smelled horribly of anti-mosquito spray and it cost thirty euro, but what do you expect if you arrive without reservation?

Luckily, we always travel with a mosquito net, otherwise we would've been in trouble, as the generously used mosquito spray was indeed smelly but not very effective, and the place was swarming with bloodthirsty buzzing crowd. We were of course asked to give our mosquito net to the receptionist, for, well, she had none. We politely refused and it proved to be the right decision, as in the morning we found several mosquitoes literally stuck in the net. I'd never seen such determination.

Les génies de la fôret
We hired two locals to take us hiking in the forest, and, before setting off, we even visited the house of one of them. It was a simple wooden hut, darkish, full of kids and traditional musical instruments. Neighbours came by to look at us or even boldly take pictures with their mobiles. We began our hike by going down to the river and listening to the story of Fougamou waterfalls. The guide didn't even need much encouragement, and, as soon as we left the village, he began his tale in a loud, clear voice:

- The waterfalls of Sindara are the wife. The waterfalls of Fougamou are the husband. We are all their children. In the forest, there are spirits. They are the spirits of the forest (génies de la fôret) and they are good. They help you. If your machete gets broken, you take it down to the river, you ask the spirits for help, and in the morning your machete will be as good as new. But you must respect the spirits.
- What happens if you don't respect them?
- A long long time ago, there was a couple who decided to catch the spirits and make them work for nobody but the two of them. They took a broken hammer to the river. The man hid in the tree and the woman on the river bank. They waited. When the spirits came, they saw the man and the woman, and got very angry. They were disappointed with their greed, and they changed them into huge termite mounds, which are still visible, one on the tree, the other on the river bank.
- When did it happen?
- A long time ago. But it is true. There is also a more recent story. Some years ago, Yugoslavians came to Fougamou to build a dam. They did not ask the spirits for permission and they did not even present themselves. One day, they wanted to cross the river by boat, and seven people drowned. This was the spirits' revenge for their disrespect. The dam was never built.

Better safe than sorry
...was exactly what we thought and were glad to find out that we weren't going to make the same mistake as the unlucky Yugoslavians. Accompanied by the right people, we were going to do things as they should be done. As we reached the river bank, we stopped and were informed that we were now going to take part in a special ceremony, in which the spirits would be let know who we were and that we came in peace. Thus we would be given protection from diseases (no more worrying about malaria!) and a guarantee that our trip would be safe. Nice!

The guide-shaman-storyteller opened his magic bag, from which he took out seven special leaves. On six of them he put: pink candy, honey, a piece of banana, sawdust from a magic box (the perfume of spirits) and our personal sacrifice: a piece of a muesli bar. On the seventh leaf he placed five bananas. We were told that these leaves are like open palms and are used for sacrifice because they say I'm sorry. Having distributed all the treats, the man lit the Okoume tree resin in the middle of the spread, and he put some calcium next to it. The preparation finished, he practiced pronouncing our names, and then sang-prayed-shouted in Eshira, ringing a small bell while he did so. Afterwards, we were all given a banana, of which we had to throw a piece into the river (for the river spirits) and another piece on the forest ground (for the forest spirits). The rest we were allowed to consume, which was good news, as we were getting hungry. Occupied with my banana, I hardly noticed that the man had put a little red and white feather on his forehead, and started chewing on the perfume-sawdust. Before I could react, he grabbed my T-shirt and spat onto my chest and neck, which made it very difficult to remain serious. However, we were now sporting the spirit perfume and were thus safe to wonder further into the forest. The Yugoslavians had no idea what they'd missed!

No crevettes for us!
After the ceremony and a tricky jumping from one stone to another on the river bank, we arrived at a lovely place, where the villagers went fishing for river prawns. We met a girl and a little boy fishing with a simple rod (a stick and fishing line, which proved to be extremely efficient), and we joined them for the crevette catching. It was amazing to see them catch dozens of prawns with their hands, as if it were the simplest thing on Earth. Later on, Jandro, who tried to help, found out that it wasn't as easy as it seemed. As a result, the villagers were in for a lovely dinner and I must say we were rather jealous!

Imparting wisdom
On our way back, we were given several important tips on how to survive in the jungle. My favourite one is about snake bites. Apparently, when bitten by one of the several venomous snakes of Gabon, you must act quickly. You will have no time to get to the hospital but do not despair! Here's what needs to be done: you take some of the liquid from your ear (!), which is also poison, and which can kill a man in no more and no less than five minutes, and you put it on the bite. One poison will neutralise the other, and you can go back to your plantation. To be on the safe side, Jandro and I decided unanimously not to clean our ears the night before a jungle trip.

We were also offered a lot of advice on hunting in general, and specifically on how to catch the huge walking sum of money in the form of an elephant (which is of course illegal in Gabon). I will spare you the cruel details of setting a trap and letting the poor animal starve to death. Let me just tell you that for one kilo of ivory a villager is paid 500 000 CFA, which amounts to 750 euro.

Lifelong learning
Even though we only hung out with the villagers for one day, we could observe a lot of things about their lives. And I think this was the most interesting part of this experience: we saw the village houses from the inside, we could ask all our silly questions, we went fishing, we were introduced to the génies de la fôret... We've been in Gabon for more than a year and we constantly discover new things. Don't you think it's fascinating?

More pictures from Fougamou here and here.

AS MYSTICAL AS IT GETS: THE SINDARA MISSION

On our way to Fougamou we made a little detour and visited the Sindara Mission. Over one hundred years old, semi-abandoned but well taken care of (apparently, these two are not contradictory), it is a lovely complex of buildings, well worth a visit, if only to feel the overwhelming peace which emanates from the place.

We parked our car next to Our Lady of the Equator church, and began exploring. There was nobody around but you could see the presence of people in the trimmed garden and the general cleanliness. After looking around for a while, we found an amazing path, with huge monumental trees on both sides, which led to the other Mission buildings: a school, a library and another church, from which the sound of prayer reached us. Two security guards explained that the school was still running, even though the Mission was indeed less and less frequented by priests and teachers. As we expressed the wish to see the river, one of the guards, saying that he had nothing to do anyway, offered to be our guide.

Heading for the river, we chatted to the guard, who patiently answered our questions. We were about to reach a village, when we ran into an agitated old man, a friend of our guide, who told us the following story:

My wife and I went to the plantation. I stayed a bit longer, while my wife went back to the village. To my surprise, as I came back to the village to pick her up, she was dancing and having fun. I got angry. I broke my wife's basket and left her in the village. I am walking home alone.

Believe it or not, the broken basket was still there, carelessly tossed to the side of the road, when we got to the village, and the wife, most probably full of shame, was nowhere to be seen. There was loud music coming from one of the buildings (the village bar, we assumed) but the dancers must have called it a day.

We reached the river and saw the rapids, misleadingly referred to as waterfalls by the locals. On our way back we made a little stop in the village, to get a cool drink. The drinks, however, turned out to be the very opposite of cool, which bothered us greatly, but had no effect whatsoever on our guide, who could've competed against the world champions in fast beer drinking. As we sipped on our D'jino, all the children gathered in the bar, sucking on their big red lollipops, a selection of at least ten pairs of eyes staring at us almost without blinking. I smiled and waved, and felt I was expected to do something amusing, I just couldn't figure out what.

We left Sindara, slowly walking under the towering trees and following the church choir, who sang and advanced slowly, burning candles in their hands. A truly mystical sight, I thought, and three minutes later I fell down, scratching my hand, and hurting my elbow. As mystical as it gets.

Later on, when we came back to the car, our guide insisted on exchanging phone numbers, so that we could stay in touch. We consented, and were shocked to receive a phone call from him yesterday, asking if we'd got home all right. He's planning to come to Libreville next week, so maybe we could meet up. Well, maybe we could.

More pictures from Sindara here.

LOST AND FOUND

Initially, I planned a series of posts on our eventful trip to Fougamou, but the most extraordinary thing happened to me today, and so I feel inclined to write it up and tell you the story, thus interrupting the travelling theme.

It all starts with me being an excellent housewife, never ceasing to look for opportunities to spoil her little Chouchou (that's Jandro, in case you're wondering). This morning, excellent housewife that I am, I decided to make a pizza for lunch. By now you probably suspect that I excel in pizzas, and, consequently, you can imagine what a wonderful prospect it was for Jandro and myself.

As I needed to pick up a few things from the supermarket, I took a taxi there and back and set to work. The pizza turned out - surprise! - excellent, and we were both in high spirits when Jandro asked me to give him some change, as he had none. I opened my bag to take out my wallet and... well, my wallet was not there. To make matters worse, I quickly established that it was not to be found anywhere in our flat, and the last time I'd seen it was in the taxi. Either it had been stolen from me or I'd simply dropped it - whatever the scenario, the result was that I lost my treasured, my one and only, my precious carte de séjour. The thing I dreaded ever since I came into possession of the invaluable document became reality. I was now illegal. I had no option but to beg for mercy at CEDOC.

We were advised that the best way of going about the begging was to report the robbery and show the report to CEDOC. We were thus on our way to the police station (me having my third heart attack of the day), when Jandro's telephone rang. It was the EU Chief of Administration's secretary, informing us that somebody had called him saying that... they'd found my wallet. They left a phone number and we called back, rendezvousing with the man tout de suite. Heading for the church where we were supposed to meet him, I received a phone call from the receptionist of my gym, who had also been called about my loss. Both my gym card and the Chief of Administration's business card were in the wallet, together with my carte de séjour and around 40000 CFA (60 euros).

It turned out that a young Togolese man saw a wallet in the ditch by the road and picked it up. There was no money in it but he found two phone numbers which he subsequently called. He is not Gabonese, and so he knew what a nightmare it was to obtain a carte de séjour. Because of this, and because he is an honest man, he decided to take the trouble and find the owner of the wallet. He probably knew there was some money in it for him (we reimbursed the money he'd spent on the phone calls with 5000 CFA or 7,5 euro, which will also pay for a good dinner) but I will be eternally grateful that he didn't just give the pretty wallet to his wife, throwing all the unnecessary papers away.

All's well that ends well. And this particular experience makes me believe in people. And a little bit in the spirits of the forest. But that's a whole different story.

The picture comes from here.

LA VIANDE DE BROUSSE

Last weekend we went on a little road trip. Our final destination was Fougamou, well over 300 kilometres from Libreville. Once again, we came to the conclusion that travelling by car can be, well, extremely cool. You get to see lots of things on the way, you meet very nice people and, in my particular case, you take plenty of pictures to torture all you friends with as soon as you come home.

The road to Fougamou is in a surprisingly good condition. Apart from huge holes around Kango and an unasphalted bit between Lambaréné and Fougamou, the quality is absolutely European (leaving Poland far behind, I'm sad to say). All this thanks to the Chinese and a Spanish construction company Acciona, which is based in Fougamou itself (they actually went as far as putting road signs on the bit of the motorway they built!).

The nice, asphalted, holeless road made driving much more relaxing - this coming from the eternal co-pilot - and we could focus on observing our surroundings. All along the road, which is normally rather busy and leads to the very south of the country (Mayumba), there are villages and, consequently, villagers and village life. Merry anthropologists that we are, we were glad to be able to take a look at the Gabonese reality away from Libreville.

The first thing you notice when driving through the countless villages, is that nearly every house has a little wooden stand (or just a metal barrel), where they present whatever it is that they currently want to sell. The goods vary: it may be just fruit, palm wine, a basket or a traditional instrument, but it may also be the very popular viande de brousse, venison also known as the thing I managed to kill last night. This could be a gazelle (8000 CFA = 12 euro), a python (15000 CFA = 22,5 euro), an antelope (40000 CFA = 60 euro), a porcupine (10000 CFA = 15 euro), a crocodile (15000 CFA = 22,5 euro), but also little things, such as turtles, squirrels and dried monkeys, which accidentally look like dried babies. Yum!

Of course, I wouldn't have been myself if I hadn't taken pictures, even if it is of smelly dead animals (the lack of a fridge doesn't help...). Instead of just stopping the car and stealing the photo before anybody could react, we took a different approach: each time we would get out of the car and ask the hunters for their permission. At first, we were slightly uneasy: half of the village is usually sitting outside, extremely fond of any distraction that might make the day different from all the other ones, and there we were, two whites with their camera.

While some villagers were open and laughed good-naturedly at our curiosity, explaining how you hunt for a python and letting us take the pictures, others must have felt our nervousness and were not as kind at first. When we approached a group of men selling a particularly impressive selection of game, they looked defensive. We asked if we could take a photo and they said no. Disappointed, we asked if they were the hunters. They confirmed and their attitude started changing: now it was 1000 CFA for a photo. We told them that we respected the effort that hunting constituted and thus were ready to pay for the pictures. As I turned to the car to get some money, they stopped me and said: You were very polite and talked to us. You didn't just steal the photo. Due to all this, you don't have to pay. Jandro continued chatting with them while I took a few pictures, and they said that it would be their pleasure to take us hunting whenever we felt like it. They made sure I took pictures of all the animals and we exchanged phone numbers in case we felt like hunting one of these days. We parted as friends.

I must say that we really enjoyed breaking the invisible wall between us and the villagers. Both parties distrustful at first, after a short conversation we would all smile at each other. I think they enjoyed our interest, our silly questions about how to cook a crocodile or catch a python, and we definitely had fun talking to everybody.

On our way back, as we passed through the village of Agricole, the hunters who'd offered to be our guides were sitting at the very same table. They eagerly waved at us and I waved back, smiling. Jandro, however, did not notice them and felt guilty. The following exchange of text messages followed:

Hello! I'm sorry I haven't noticed you! But my wife did wave. Have a good day! Alexandre, Union Européenne

No problem, you were concentrated on your driving. Have a good day, too! Etienne, bridge of Agricole

I can only tell you one thing: we are seriously considering going on that hunting trip!

More photos of viande the brousse are here.