Paradise News

NEW LIFE, NEW BLOG

2011-02-14T09:22:00.003+01:00

We have already agreed that my adventures in Belgium cannot be described here, even less under a heading which says Paradise News. I thus invite you to join me on

La Nouvelle Vie,

where I will tell you all about my new life. I hope we will all enjoy it!

LA NOUVELLE VIE

2011-02-09T17:23:00.005+01:00

I wish I could keep looking back. I still enjoy imagining that I come back to our safe old African life, in a comfy flat, knowing what I'm going to do not only tomorrow, but also next week, next month. But no, I can't live in the past, and so, as the last proof of my moving on, I took my Gabonese residence permit out of my wallet. I am ready for my new life.

Or nearly ready. First, one more part of the skin shedding process. Saying goodbye to you and my blog, that is. As much as I don't want to do this, it is clear to me that I cannot write about Brussels here. It just wouldn't be right. Right?

The chapter of my life called La Nouvelle Vie begins on Monday, 14th February. Please do not miss the daunting romanticism of the date: after a month of separation, Kasia and Jandro will skip towards each other at the Charleroi airport, only to settle down and create a home together, starting on no other than Valentine's Day. Is this charming or what?

And so, before La Nouvelle Vie takes place, I must say goodbye. I had a great time writing this blog and it certainly let me discover that I enjoy telling stories. Thank you for letting me share them with you.

Nothing else is left to say. Only, maybe... Goodnight and good luck!

And after the official part do allow me to make two announcements (no, I'm not getting married and no, I'm not pregnant, for now it's just me, Jandro and Brussels, just as in the picture!):

1) Check this blog for still one more update. I will give you the link to the new Brussels blog, where you will be able to follow my exciting Belgian adventures. I'm not giving up on blogging, no sir. It's too much fun!

2) I have never asked you to leave comments here; however, this is my last opportunity to get to know my regular readers. If you are one of those, please leave a comment now. Even if it's your first one. Thanks.

THE BLACK KASIA

2011-02-01T11:57:00.008+01:00

The time for summing up has definitely come. The good, the bad and the in-between. The wrapping up of my African life. I feel a need for closure. I feel that, in order to start something new, I must inevitably say goodbye to the thing that ends. Up till now, I've been living in a post-Gabon bubble. Not so much looking ahead of me, I kept glancing back, reliving the last days in Africa, almost feeling the sunrays on my neck. I continued writing this blog. I struggled to keep every single memory. But these past few days something changed. I feel I'm ready to look ahead now, confident I cannot lose what has become an integral part of me. Things are to be gained, not lost. And so, with my suntan fading a little bit more every single day, I try to move on. Yes, the time for summing up has definitely come. Here we go then - the lists.

ONE: Among other things, I have learned...

to be around African people and feel comfortable
to be around kids and enjoy myself more than I had ever thought possible
to accept even though I can't understand
French
what racism is and why you shouldn't stare
to make a pizza
to teach kids
to wait, to look for alternative solutions, to anticipate all kinds of problems

TWO: I'm going to miss... or rather: I'm already missing...

the interminable, stunning, deserted beaches of Gabon, its nature, its sun
the Arc En Ciel kids, so much
our friends
our flat and the view from the terrace
not having to worry about what to wear
having clothes made to measure with the African pagne
eating out at the cheap maquis... oh, the poisson grillé!
travelling into the brousse
writing this blog

THREE: The things I'm not going to miss...

the constant sweating
being called la white in the street
malaria (and other diseases) threat
not ever being able to make plans until the very last minute
big huge ugly cockroaches
public administration
traffic in Libreville

These lists could probably go on and on. The point is, I have changed. I understand more and adapt better. Gabon is under my skin, just like Poland, just like Galicia. It has shaped me to be a better person.

My friends have shown me that it's possible to live on the move and that you can be happy everywhere, as long as the ones you love are with you. Travelling opened me to the ultimate way of experiencing nature. The African people, and especially the kids, taught me how happy you can be with very little. My job made me work on my creativity and improvising skills. Learning French made new things possible.

I managed to do something which I considered beyond my possibilities. Not giving up on Gabon when things got difficult was the best decision I could've made. And I got something priceless in return: a new facet of me, of whose existence I had no idea. The African me, the black Kasia.

This amazing portrait is the work of Fran - again, thanks so much!

I MISS CEDOC

2011-01-23T20:35:00.009+01:00

I know that I'm not in Gabon anymore and that I should be saying goodbye, if not to blogging, to this particular blog. I have already planned my last entry, and I promise you it will be as touching and inspiring as only my writing can be. Before it sees the light, however, I will still tell you a couple of stories.

The first one concerns our good old friend, the temple of African administrative hell, - have you guessed already? - yes, CEDOC! Do not get too excited, though. I have not (yet) received a call from Gabon telling me to give back the original of my carte de séjour, which I managed to smuggle out of the country. But I did lose an administrative battle today and, believe it or not, it made me remember CEDOC warmly. It turns out Polish bureaucratic world might even be worse than the Gabonese one. Judge for yourself.

Crucial information: in February Kasia and Jandro will be conquerring Brussels.

And now the story. It all started with an epiphanic moment of clarity:
"I won't have insurance in Belgium!", I exclaimed one beautiful morning.
"Do not be distressed, my daughter", replied my Father, "for you are in Europe, where life is easier and public offices less corrupt."
"You speak the truth", I said. "Let us google the Social Security webpage".

We thus googled. After a quick visit to the office in question (and I will not call it the SS Office due to my Polish prudence), I found out that all I had to do was register at the Employment Office (fill in registration form, show ID, university diploma, all contracts, and possibly several baby pictures), get the U2 form from them (and no, ladies who work at the Employment Office do not appreciate Bono jokes so you can stick them up the body part often displayed in the baby pictures), take the U2 form to the Social Security, fill in another form and show ID. You will get your insurance card in a day!

It all sounded extremely simple and I decided to follow the advice of the chirpy Social Security lady. First obstacle: the Office is about 700 kilometres away from my parents' place. Undeterred, I boarded a bus, the underground and another bus - the trip rounding up to an even hour and a half - only to find out that the number of people queuing was a charming 136. The security guard told me I had no chance of getting in that day. No worries, I'll come back tomorrow, I thanked him and trotted away to catch a bus, the underground and another bus home.

I'm tough. I'd defeated CEDOC. I'd defeated Trésor. I was ready to stand up against The Queue. I came back the next day, much earlier, at 8:30 am. There were 55 people ahead of me. I sat down and started reading. Do I have to tell you how depressing the Employment Office in Warsaw is? Sad, grey people, sit in apathy; they don't even bring anything to help them pass the hours they must spend there: no books, no mp3 players, only staring into space. The air is charged with frustration and, in some cases, with the stench of alcohol or unshowered male bodies. I felt blue ten minutes into the experience. Three and a half hours later, when my turn finally came, I was desperate to get out.

952! My number is finally called! I pick up my bag, I put a CEDOC/Trésor smile on my face and I enter the magical Room 9. I quickly localize the counter which called me and direct my CEDOC/Trésor smile accordingly. At this very moment Man sits on my chair, opposite my civil servant, who rudely informs me that Man was there before and was asked to come back. She thus blocks me, as no other lady will attend to my registration needs, because my number was already called. I have no choice but to wait for the monstrous Man to finish his buisness. He finishes. Nothing can stop me now! Courage!

Well? What happens next? It's Europe, n'est-ce pas?

Yes, it's Europe. Which, as of today, means absolutely nothing to me. You see, my conversation with the civil servant lady was full of contradictory statements, which left absolutely nothing clear, apart from the fact that I was not in the correct office altogether, as I was locally assigned to a different one.

Conclusions: I don't know if I should register. I don't know if I can get insurance free of charge. I don't know where I can get the U2 form. I don't know how to get to the correct Employment Office. More conclusions: administration works badly everywhere in the world. Only in some countries it's corrupt and/or messy enough for you to stand a chance.

And, while Jandro is trying to convince Galician authorities that he has indeed left Gabon and is now in Spain, there is only one thing I can say: I miss CEDOC.

The image comes from here.

BECAUSE ALL NORMAL PEOPLE HAVE A CONTAINER

2011-01-18T13:17:00.006+01:00

Thursday, 13 January 2011, was the worst day of my life. At least that's what I thought at the time. Reasons... Moving? Leaving Gabon? Leaving the kids? Separating from Jandro for some time? No job? No flat? Wow, I could really get depressed, right? But no, it was not any of the above that made me sit down in the middle of my living room and cry like a baby. The monster that made me do it was the scariest one of all - and its name is Packing.

Let's face it, I had never been fond of packing. But this time was different. This time, the plan was daunting: to gather all of our earthly possessions and fit them into six suitcases, twenty-three kilogrammes (and God forbid half a kilo more!) each. We were to pack up our whole huge flat, give or throw away whatever we weren't taking with us, so that by the end of the day the big white flat were clean and tidy and big and white.

Right.

About three hours into packing, my crisis began. First, I felt anxious. I didn't know where to start from and I could not evisage the end of the whole process. It seemed to me that we would never leave Gabon, because we would simply not manage to pack.

Consequently, I decided it was time for some damage control. I thus sat down on the big white floor of the big white living room and gave way to the packer's rage. This having no effect on Jandro or the suitcase, which stubbornly refused to pack on its own, I moved on to the second stage: despair. A lot of crying followed, during which I requested a container (like all normal people... since when do I believe that all normal people are in a possession of a container anyway?). Finally, I stated firmly that I wasn't leaving. The statement was closely followed by stage three - resignation, or thoughless staring into the big white wall.

And then Jandro, the most peaceful, the most rational packer in the world (have you any idea how annoying this felt back then?), ignoring my blaming him for the lack of container that all normal people have, picked me up from the floor and took me out to buy an additional suitcase.

Slowly, the packing continued. By 5:30 pm we were nearly done and the world did not end. Six bags were filled with exactly 23 kilos of stuff each. The flat was as big and white as ever. That was it. We moved out.

And if I don't say it enough, here comes: my boyfriend rules! Totally.

IT'S EASIER TO LEAVE THAN TO BE LEFT BEHIND

2011-01-16T13:25:00.006+01:00

At this very moment, I'm having hot tea with raspberry syrup. This can only mean one thing: I'm not in Africa anymore. This chapter of my life is slowly coming to its natural end. Clearly, so is this blog. But not just yet. I still have some things to tell, the last entries to write. I'm determined not to forget. You see, now I know - I have left a part of my soul in Africa. And, as it happens, a part of my heart in Arc En Ciel. So, one more time, please let me write about my boys.

It's easier to leave than to be left behind, people say. I desperately hope it's not true. I want the sadness to be all mine, so that the kids can only remember the good things. I want them to think about our trips to the beach, how we swam in the sea and how they kept diving to catch my legs, so that I would get indignant. I want them to remember the joy of opening the Christmas gifts, sitting on the sand in the shade of a huge badamier, wrapped in towels. Or how we made Christmas decorations. I prefer to believe that during the months (because they were only 4,5 months!) we spent together, they did not have enough time to get really attached. Because for me, giving up AEC was the hardest thing I had to do in Gabon. It's easier to leave than to be left behind... Is it really?

Only last Tuesday - although now it seems weeks away - the Arc En Ciel sisters organised a goodbye party for me. I provided drinks and biscuits, they took care of the entertainment bit. For the first time in my life, children sang and recited poems for me. I received a gift (a coconut bag), a copy of the poem and the most valuable present of all: a card where they all wrote their goodbyes. I hugged everybody several times and then... I left. They watched me go and they seemed sad. I was on the verge of crying. How do you leave someone for ever? I have yet to find an answer to this question.

I miss my boys. I want to keep seeing them. I want to help raise them. I want to discipline them. I want to teach them and play with them and put smiles on their faces. I want to know what's going to happen to them. And yes, I'm the one who's the most surprised by such a turn of events when it comes to my feelings.

Does this entry seem sad to you? Well, it shouldn't, really. I'm beyond happy to have met the Arc En Ciel lot. If you're still in Gabon, why don't you go and sign up as a volunteer? On my part, no regrets. Well, maybe one: that I hadn't started earlier.

FAREWELL DIARY

2011-01-12T12:00:00.004+01:00

Saying goodbye is never easy. And neither is leaving. When I first came to Libreville it was full of strange, new places. With time, they have become familiar and comfortable, and, without even knowing when, I started feeling that I was really chez moi in Gabon. Sadly, the time has come to leave, to do everything for the last time, and, above all, to say au revoir to all the amazing people we've met.

Right about now you're thinking that I'm getting sentimental. That I will write a long whiny entry on how sad I am to leave. What great people I've met and how I'm going to miss them. But no, fear not! Even though I feel extremely whiny, I will stop myself from sharing - this is my great parting gift to you. Instead, I will tell you about the logistics of our last week in Gabon.

Behold, here comes the tight schedule of goodbying aka the Farewell Diary:

Friday, 7th January
- Prepare the Goodbye Gabon Party
- Host the Goodbye Gabon Party
- Make sure a certain Polish person gets to Ntoum (obscure as it seems, it is a secret message for those who actually got to attend the party!).

Saturday, 8th January
- Take the kids from Arc En Ciel to the beach for one last time
- Attend a galette de rois party hosted by E & J

Sunday, 9th January
- Go to the beach for one last time
- Play Scrabble
- Do nothing

Monday, 10th January
- Try to assess if our stuff enters our suitcases
- Face the obvious truth that our stuff does not enter our suitcases
- Decide how many extra suitcases we need and start throwing away some of our stuff
- Have dinner with M & G

Tuesday, 11th January
- Prepare the goodbye party at Jandro's office
- Have the goodbye party at Jandro's office
- Say goodbye to the cleaning lady
- Have a goodbye party at Arc En Ciel
- Have dinner with Jandro's colleagues

Wednesday, 12th January
- Have morning tea with N & C
- Have coffee with J
- Bye a gift for Kasia's parents
- Say goodbye to N's kids
- Have dinner with E & J and E & E

Thursday, 13th January
- Pack up the flat
- Get exasperated while packing up the flat
- Overcome the crisis
- Buy extra luggage
- Get a massage (yes, really!)
- Have dinner with N & G and S & T

Friday, 14th January
- Relax
- Take a walk at the beach
- Say goodbye to everyone yet again
- Catch a very big plane

As you can see, we are a tad busy. It is physically challenging, above all for our stomachs, because it seems that all we do is eat. However, I'm far from complaining. I am touched and greatful that I have so many fantastic people to say goodbye to. I guess what I'm really trying to say is thank you. Also for the great presents!

Oops, getting sentimental again. I'll go then. Let me just check what's next on my to-do list for Wednesday...

NOT SO HIGH FIDELITY

2011-01-10T16:34:00.015+01:00

People often ask me about the cultural shocks I've suffered in Gabon. I must say, I always have trouble thinking of something shocking enough... I suppose we have a tendency not to notice certain little things and as we get used to them, they cease to be differences to our eyes. However, there is one cultural difference which I find hard to understand and impossible to accept: the Central African concept of fidelity.

In Europe, being faithful to your life partner is the essential condition for a relationship to work. In Africa, being faithful to your life partner is not an option. The general belief is that all men - no exceptions! - cheat on their wives. Sadly, the more I talk to my African friends and acquaintances, the more true to life it seems. Clearly, the social permission to have as many lovers as you want works only for men. Women are supposed to tolerate their spouses' behaviour, and forgive, of course. Forgiveness and tolerance form a solid ground for a relationship, the Gabonese law teaches us. If, however, all women remained faithful to their partners, and all men cheated on their wives, who would the cheaters cheat with? But that's just a reflection of a silly European.

How did I arrive at the horrifying conclusion that all men cheat, though? Do not doubt me, my friends, for I have sufficient proof to support my case! Let me introduce you to several of the men I've met during my stay in Gabon. Read and judge for yourselves.

Jean is nearly thirty years old. He is still looking for his one and only. For now, he regularly sees two girls, claiming that he's in a relationship with a still different one. When asked about his bizarre relationship status, he tells me that men need their options, variety is a good thing and no man was made for only one woman. Does he intend to continue in this way for a long time? Of course. That's what it means to be a man.

Patrick is recently separated and has two kids. He continues living with his wife but they are both seeing other people. He doesn't like the fact that his ex-wife has a boyfriend. He intimates that all men cheat, they just hide it better than he did. At first he stayed faithful but in the end he succumbed to the laws of nature. His wife should understand and forgive him, for this is what it means to be a man. He hopes to get back together with his spouse.

Monsieur Mba is closing up on the noble age of seventy. Children? Yes, he has children. How many? Oh, well... With my legitimate wife, I have eight children. These are my house children (les enfants de la maison). Now, outside of marriage, I have... well, it's seventeen in total, so it means I must have nine. These are the outside children (les enfants de dehors). He stopped counting his grandchildren some time ago. You think Monsieur Mba is an extremely active exception? Think again.

Landry is a young professional. He adores pubs, discos and dancing. He pays a lot of attention to his appearance and likes to look at his reflection in the mirror. He has no trouble attracting female attention in the disco, and often ends up with a pretty girl on his lap. At such moments, he's greatful that his religious girlfriend - with whom he's in a steady relationship - doesn't like going out as much as he does.

And what about the female point of view? Meet Julienne, Jean's official girlfriend. She will inform you that she knows perfectly well about his affairs, so don't you dare take her for an ignorant idiot! And you can leave your shocked face at home, she will tell you. Life is what it is, and I love my boyfriend. He cheats on me, yes, but I know he loves me, too. What if I break up with him, and find another man? He will also cheat on me - they all do; but he might not be as nice as this one. So I would be much worse off than with Jean, can't you see?

For more information on how to deal with unfaithful husbands, I refer you to Amina, a popular magazine for women. Let me quote the opinion of Valerie, who sees eye to eye with many African women:

Forgiveness is the cement of your home. Of course I'm ready to forgive my unfaithful spouse! Yes, it's difficult but not impossible. Actually, I've already done it, and I'm ready to do it again. Where can we find a faithful man? We should ask ourselves this: if we leave our man, will we be able to find a better one? I think not. It is thus better to stay with the one we already know, the one we have kids with, and not hope to find a faithful man, a rare bird. I try to communicate with my husband. I ask him what went wrong, why did he end up in his lover's arms. I ask him to promise that he won't do it again, even though in my heart I know he will. And the most important thing is that he uses protection, especially against AIDS, so that he doesn't pass it on to me (Amina, issue 484, p.22).

When I tell African men that my boyfriend is faithful to me, they laugh and wink at Jandro. Clearly, they think he's doing a fantastic job lying to me. And how trained I am to protect him, too! They seriously don't believe me. Instead, they offer Jandro to present him to their many female friends, if he ever feels lonely.

So, dear male readers of this blog, do be honest! Are you or are you not big huge cheaters to remain thus forever and ever? The time for answers has come. I am waiting.

PARADISE NEWS' GUIDEBOOK: MAYUMBA

2011-01-06T17:15:00.017+01:00

A trip to Mayumba is not the easiest one to plan. Getting there from Libreville is complicated enough (although Mayumba airport is supposed to re-open soon), but organising activities which will let you see more than just the stunning Mayumba beach - that's a real challenge. There is no tourist base in the Park of Mayumba and you can only try contacting the park itself or WCS, who work within its grounds. We were lucky to have contacted the local boss of the latter, who was awfully nice and agreed to organise our stay. Here's what happened.

A day in Gabon profond
We arrived in Mayumba by taxi-brousse, which had left Tchibanga three hours before, making just one brief stop for palm wine, which we dutifully drank. We left our luggage in the Mbidia Kou-Kou hotel, which consists of bungalows located practically on the beach. The place is recommendable, in spite of the obnoxious receptionist, and so are the lobsters, a local specialty, cheap, delicious and abundant. We also took a turn around the town, which proved to be extremely calm. As we walked to the city centre, having been slighted by one of what seemed to be three town's taxi drivers, we felt as if we'd been transported to a different country. This was not the Gabon we knew, where even small towns like Fougamou aspired to something more than a village made up of wooden huts. Mayumba seemed more like São Tomé... peaceful, slow, with sheep trotting down the main street. This really was as far as you could get from Libreville.

Luxury camping
From the town of Mayumba, we were taken to the National Park in a boat belonging to one of the local guides, who works with WCS. In about two hours we reached our destination: a turtle-technicians' camp, consisting of a sleeping bungalow and a kitchen (with a gas stove!), set between a lagoon and the ocean. The bungalow was of course taken by the technicians themselves, but we boldly camped on their terrace, which gave us excellent protection in the case of rain. Having set up our humble abodes, we headed for the beach, the magnificent beach of Mayumba, which goes on and on for miles. Four people in the middle of nowhere, enormous waves and golden sand. Bliss.

Tourist's nightlife
Clearly, however, it was not for the beach that we came to Mayumba. We were after exciting hikes and that's exactly what we got, the excitement increased by the guide's rapid pace: it was so difficult to keep up with him that we were constantly wondering whether he was trying to lose us. Luckily, he did slow down after our third remark on how unbelievably fit African bodies move much faster than only humanly fit European ones.

During our first trip, in the afternoon, we marched - fast - through savanna, swamps, swamps and more swamps, and finally we stumbled upon the beach. Result: one sitatunga and a huge varan, who was peacefully devouring turtle eggs when we disturbed him and made him run away towards the sunset, taking a dip in the ocean. Romantic.

After dinner and attempted rest (too hot to sleep in the tent!), around midnight, we set off for our turtle trip. We walked along the beach for an hour or so and there it was, our first turtle! We saw a huge Maman luth digging her nest. Fascinated, we watched her in the moonlight, a stunning, graceful animal. Soon enough, three more turtles appeared nearby. We strolled from one animal to another, observing the whole process of laying eggs: the struggle when the tortoise leaves the ocean, the digging of the nest, the actual laying of eggs (50% real ones, 50% empty), the covering the nest with sand... the huge effort of reproduction, which takes about two hours. Accompanied by the turtle technicians, we even got to touch the turtles and let me just say that their skin is surprisingly soft.

Enchanted, we continued along the beach. We walked until around 3:30 am, and then we simply slept on the sand - something I'd never done before. Two hours later, at the break of dawn, our guide woke us up, pointing towards two buffaloes which were strolling at the beach, quite close to our improvised campsite. We followed them onto the savanna, where we saw the most beautiful sunrise ever. The walk back was exhausting, I admit. We'd had hardly any sleep and many kilometres ahead of us. But it was worth it, even though I might not have fully agreed at the time!

Back at the camp, we sunk onto our brand new inflatable mattresses and slept soundly for three hours, waking up just in time for our scheduled afternoon visit to the Senegalese village. We'd seen many of these before but here, thanks to the kindness of the village chief, we could take photos to our hearts' content.

At night, we were promised to go and see the crocodiles. That means hours of wading in knee-high waters, surrounded by the musty smell of swamps and complete darkness. The turtle technicians were kind enough to supply us with wellington boots - while our guide walked barefoot - but we soon found out that in each pair one boot had a big hole. Not at all discouraged, we continued, and were rewarded: after spotting a few pairs of eyes, which belonged to gazelles, hypnotized by the light of our torches, the guide told us to wait, only to emerge from the swamp a minute later holding a small crocodile. We got to touch it, photograph it and hold it, before we released it into the swamp. For a moment there I thought: very well then, we are now strolling through swamps full of crocodiles in the middle of the night. Instantly, I made the thought go away. From such silly considerations the road to a very real panic attack is short enough.

Balance sheet
Even though we only spent two nights in the park, the trip turned out to be full of things we'd never done before: We witnessed the actual process of luth egg laying and touched the turtles. We spent the whole night at the beach. We saw the sun rise over the savanna. We were shown the hallucinogenic iboga plant. We saw and held crocodiles. We walked in the jungle at night. We followed a varan. We nearly died of heat and exhaustion. We could not have asked for a better way to say goodbye to Gabon!

Pictures from Mayumba are here.

PEOPLE WITH PEOPLE SKILLS

2011-01-03T20:03:00.008+01:00

As a rule, it is said that people from the capital are more haughty and mean and obnoxious - and about ten more negative adjectives - than your regular citizen. Being a capital-city girl myself, I always used to say that it was a big fat lie. Here in Gabon, however, this old superstition gains a new meaning. And I can only say that it is absolutely, utterly and completely... well, true.

Whenever we travelled outside of Libreville, we noticed that the people changed. They would smile, they would be cordial and helpful, and the racist comments where almost non-existent. While the usual librevillois response to Hello tends to be Mhm, the country people are very fond of talking to you. And this was the case in Tchibanga and Mayumba as well.

We had been warned by a Gabonese friend: People in the south are completely different. They are famous for their hospitality! And I must say that we were not disappointed. In Tchibanga, and above all in Mayumba, nearly every passer-by would say Bonjour. The Mauritanian hotel owner (we do recommend Hotel Golfe in Tchibanga) was adorable. Always smiling, he recommended an excellent restaurant and even offered to call and book us a table. To those of you who live in Europe, this might be the most natural behaviour in the case of a person who runs a hotel but do not be deceived - in Gabon in it extraordinary. We politely declined his offer to make the call but we did follow his suggestion and ended up in Les Palmiers (again, we recommend!) for a lovely dinner.

In the restaurant, we were confronted with even more surprises. Namely, the service was excellent. The waiter was quick, smiling and efficient. When we expressed the wish to change our order, he did not frown, he did not complain and just did what he was asked to do. When we were done with our meal, the chef himself appeared to have a chat with us, and he also called us a taxi (again, let me stress that very few people out here will spend their own money for somebody else's benefit). Finally, yet another person came to greet us. We were shocked to find out that we had just shaken hands with the governor of the province, who was dining in the same restaurant. Seeing a group of white people, he decided to welcome them to Nyanga.

We received the same warm treatment from the taxi driver who took us to Mayumba, and his bosses, based in Tchibanga, with whom we had a drink in the Consensus bar (Nous sommes ensemble jour et nuit) before leaving for Libreville. After only a short conversation we became intimate friends, which does not usually happen in the capital.

The only grumpy person we met throughout the trip was the lady who ran the hotel in Mayumba. She was almost caricaturally arrogant, which did not, however, prevent her from openly listening in on the conversation we had with the other hotel guests (she would actually stare and lean on a table to hear better). She was also kind enough to inform us that she had no idea whether there were any turtles in Mayumba, for she'd never went to see them. Here I must tell you that Mayumba is the third most popular place in the world for the majestic luth turtles, and everyone in Gabon knows that. Moreover, the hotel had a little area surrounded by a low fence, which, as we later found out, served as a little incubator for turtles (eggs from destroyed nests were transported there by eco-guards). How could the hotel lady have missed that?

But here I am, telling you about luth turtles... and that's a story for a completely different post. For now, let me just assure you that, if you decide to visit the Nyanga province, you will receive excellent treatment. Moreover, as long as you ask for permission, you may take as many photos as you please. The result of which you will find here (Tchibanga) and here (Mayumba). Enjoy!

TWO PEOPLE, THREE SEATS AND 600 KILOMETRES OR HOW WE WENT TO TCHIBANGA

2011-01-02T09:42:00.008+01:00

The trip to Mayumba started a bit earlier than planned. Initially, we were going to fly to Tchibanga and continue to Mayumba by taxi. Our flight to Tchibanga was scheduled for Monday, 27th December, but on Christmas Eve La Nationale politely informed us that it had been cancelled but we were welcome to fly as early as Wednesday, 29th December. We had thus two options left: either looking for an alternative means of transport or staying home.

As far as an alternative means of transport was concerned, again we were presented with two appealing choices: 1) taxi-brousse (bush taxi) and 2) teleportation. Not being skilled teleporters (am I making up words again?), we opted for the former. Now the new plan was ready, all we had to do was to get our money back for the airlines, find out how the taxi-brousse business worked, get a phone number, book ourselves one of these babies, and we were all set! Lucky us that travelling is so simple in Gabon.

After a few phone-calls, we managed to lay our hands on the number of a transport company. We were assured that a comfortable pick-up truck would leave on Sunday, 26th December, at 7 am, heading for Tchibanga, and we were welcome to get on board. We booked our seats and tried not to think about the fact the trip would take ten to twelve hours - if everything went as planned, that is.

On Sunday, we left our house at 6:15 am. We took a taxi to PK8 (or Point kilométrique 8), where all the transport companies and a large number of pickpockets are based, and proceeded to find the man we'd spoken to on the phone. Needless to say, we were the only white people in the vicinity, carefully scrutinized by tens of curious eyes. We paid for our three seats and sat down, prepared for a long wait (of course we weren't going to leave at 7 sharp!).

Yes, you've read correctly and I did not make a mistake when I wrote that we'd paid for three seats. To find out why, you need to ask yourself a simple question: how many seats are there in a regular car? Let's see... The driver. The co-pilot. Three people in the back. Wrong! In Africa, the co-pilot's seat is deux places (yes, two people in the front!), while in the back you can easily squeeze four. There also additional places in the back of the truck, where you can stand holding on to the piles of luggage and get covered in dust and mud for twelve hours. Consequently, we bought three seats out of four, which ensured a comfortable trip not only for us, but also for the gentleman who bought the fourth place.

Now all that was left was to build up the incredible pyramid of luggage. The loading of everything from garlic and manioc sacks to our backpacks took an hour. Then, the six unlucky souls loaded themselves next to the luggage, while we took our luxury seats inside the air-conditioned truck. The third passenger positioned strategically between us (no seatbelt in the middle), we began our 12-hour long journey to Tchibanga.

It was more comfortable than expected. The air-conditioning turned out to be a blessing. We often stopped to stretch our legs. The driver knew the road inside out and drove surely, safely and quickly. Only two things stood between me and full happiness; one was the extremely loud African music that the driver would play incessantly during the whole trip (hits such as Chanter à Libreville and Doucement, vas-y doucement will stay in my mind forever); the other was a horrible cramp in my thigh, which would stay with me till the very next day.

Nevertheless, as I've already said, we were lucky to have many thigh-stretching stops. Some of them, however, were not a mere whim of the driver. During the twelve hours of our trip, the police stopped us around twelve times. Each and every time the driver had to pay a little bribe (between 1000 and 5000 CFA), in order to continue without problems. Otherwise, the policemen might stop us for as long as they pleased, controlling our papers, luggage, the state of the car, etc. If you want to arrive on time, pay up my friend! We were appalled.

We thus arrived in Tchibanga - backs hurting, thighs cramped, mouthing the lyrics of unknown songs - around 6:30 pm, exhausted but satisfied with the trip. The driver was nice enough to take us to our hotel, where we discovered that our bags sported distinct smells. Mine, which spent the whole trip on top a frozen smoked fish sack, was now wet and smelled of - can you guess? - frozen smoked fish. Jandro was even less fortunate, as his backpack had been placed upon a garlic sack. One smelly hotel room that was!

To wrap up, two pieces of advice: 1) Always buy an extra seat in a taxi-brousse! No European back is made for travelling the African way! 2) Put your backpack in a plastic bag if possible. I'm pretty sure my parents will recognise me by the smell of smoked fish when I land in Warsaw two weeks from now!

The first picture shows our Libreville - Tchibanga taxi. The second - the taxi we took to get from Mayumba back to Tchibanga.

HAD MYSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS

2010-12-25T17:21:00.009+01:00

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

2010-12-21T12:09:00.009+01:00

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

2010-12-12T17:06:00.007+01:00

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:

I get to spend Christmas with my boyfriend. For the first time.
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.
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.
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...

2010-12-07T15:46:00.007+01:00

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.

2010-12-06T12:55:00.007+01:00

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

2010-12-05T21:33:00.002+01:00

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!

2010-12-02T09:37:00.010+01:00

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

2010-11-22T10:59:00.009+01:00

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!

2010-11-16T14:54:00.011+01:00

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

2010-11-08T08:25:00.011+01:00

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

2010-11-06T17:37:00.005+01:00

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

2010-11-05T11:08:00.011+01:00

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

2010-11-03T11:41:00.010+01:00

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

2010-11-02T20:28:00.004+01:00

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

2010-11-02T10:17:00.010+01:00

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.

THE ODYSSEY CONTINUES

2010-10-28T15:59:00.009+01:00

It ain't over till it's over! In the name of this rule and driven by the strong motivation of giving our budget a boost of over 1000 euro, we decided not to give up in our struggle for the carte de séjour deposit, which we had deposited at CEDOC last year. The deposited deposit we now want back. And so the Odyssey continues.

Yesterday, after our Kafkian visit to the Visa de Sortie department of CEDOC (see previous post), we decided to go straight to the highest rank official we knew: the Secretary of Monsieur le General (also known as The Big Boss). Jandro had called her before, when we were applying for my residence permit, and he now decided to repeat the procedure. He bravely made the call and informed her that he, the European Union, had correspondence which he would like to pass on to Monsieur le General. He was told to come by the following morning, that is - today.

The said correspondence, which is actually our application for the reimbursement of the deposited deposit, amounts to quite a dossier. To be precise, it consists of: 1) my letter, in which I kindly ask to be reimbursed the deposited deposit; 2) Jandro's letter in which he kindly asks for me to be reimbursed the deposited deposit; 3) Jandro's boss's letter in which he kindly asks for me to be reimbursed the deposited deposit; 4) the photocopy of the receipt we were given after depositing the deposit; 5) photocopy of my carte de séjour, obtained as a direct result of depositing the deposit; 6) photocopy of Jandro's semi-diplomatic papers; 7) photocopy of my passport.

Armed in all these papers and their copies we'd made just in case, we went to see the Secretary. This time we did not park our car in front of the entrance for regular mortal people. We drove straight into the internal parking lot, were stopped by nobody and entered a building which turned out to be much fancier than the regular CEDOC offices. It had red velvet carpets (with a sign that asked you to kindly wipe your shoes), doors opened with special buttons and men in tight suits who opened these special button doors for you, therefore questioning the point of having installed the buttons in the first place.

The Madame Secretary herself proved to be extremely nice. She smiled a lot, accepted our papers, filed them and even gave us a certified copy. Clearly, we kept introducing ourselves as European Union, otherwise we wouldn't have been granted the right to step on the delicate carpets. We are now awaiting an answer from the Monsieur le General, which is supposed to come next week.

And so, I would like to invite you to gamble with me a little bit: what do you think the answer is going to be? I give you three options:

We will be reimbursed our money without further ado.
We will be denied the reimbursement (if so, on what grounds?).
We will be granted the money but on the condition of delivering more and more papers, and thus the procedure will be stalled until the date of our departure.

What do you vote for? Let me know! Whoever wins gets a coffee as soon as we are in the same country!

The picture comes from here.

OUT OF THE TERRITORY

2010-10-27T15:05:00.008+01:00

So, remember my carte de séjour? Inevitably, in view of our departure, The Merry Offices soap opera resumes. This time Kasia and Jandro go to CEDOC in order to fight for the 1000 euro deposit which they had to pay for her residence permit. They are still under the silly impression that if it's a deposit they can actually get it back. I am thus glad to present you with Episode 1 of the new season, entitled Out Of The Territory, which was originally broadcast today at 11 am, live from the offices of CEDOC.

Man (Jandro) and woman (Kasia) park their car in front of CEDOC buildings. She's wearing an elegant light green dress, he - a brown suit. She steps out of the car directly into mud, which substantially lowers the attractiveness of her delicate sandals. They cross the street and pass the security control.

Jandro: Uff, at least we got in.
Kasia: That only proves our clothes are fancy enough. And that they missed my muddy foot.

The couple enter a random building, as they know that, whichever building they initially choose, they will be sent to a different one. The air-conditioning set to -5 degrees, they wrap themselves up in their respective shawls and jackets, and begin their inquiries. As predicted, they are sent to the Visa de sortie building, where they ignore the long queue and seat themselves in the front.

Jandro: Let's talk to that guy.
Kasia: smiles sweetly, the way white women should to African civil servants.
CEDOC Officer: How can I help you?
Jandro: explains the problem.
Kasia: smiles sweetly.
CEDOC Officer: Oh la la, monsieur. Getting your deposit back is a very very long process.
Jandro: That is quite all right. We have a couple of months.
CEDOC Officer: But it is a very very very long process.
Jandro (not at all discouraged): Lucky we started getting about it as early as this.
Kasia: smiles sweetly.
CEDOC Officer: OK then. First of all, you need to get an exit visa. Then you have 15 days to leave the country. And during this time you can apply for the return of your deposit. But, as I said, it is a very long process and you will never make it in 15 days. Besides, you can only get your deposit back after you leave the Gabonese territory.
Jandro: So... how can she get her money back, if she's not in Gabon?
CEDOC Officer: You can get it back for her, sir!
Jandro: But we are leaving together!
Kasia: nods encouragingly.
CEDOC Officer: Well, then the European Union must shoulder the responsibility of getting the deposit back, as long as you are out of the territory.
As neither of them knows how to respond to that:
Jandro: smiles sweetly.
Kasia: smiles sweetly.

The couple leave CEDOC and go get some mangoes. End of episode.

Don't miss Episode 2, entitled: The Secretary Knows Best! Tomorrow at 10 am live from Monsieur General's Secretary's office!

The picture comes from here.

THE ONE WITH THE MONKEY OR MUSINGS ON POVERTY

2010-10-25T09:26:00.008+01:00

Heading for Donguila, as we passed through yet another Gabonese village, we saw a monkey (a skinny mandrill, to be specific) tied to a tree next to one of the houses. We are tourists, in the end, and an unexpected possibility of taking a cool monkey picture is always more then welcome. On our way home we thus stopped, got out of the car - camera all set in my bag - and approached the three men sitting in front of the house, in order to be issued an official photo permission. Here's what happened.

Three villagers in their thirties, forties or maybe fifties (in the case of African people it's impossible to tell!) were sitting in the yard of what we assumed was the house of at least one of them. They were chatting and drinking palm wine, which they merrily poured into tall glasses from a 10-litre canister they'd placed in the middle. After the usual hellos and howareyous, straightforward as we are, we asked if we could take a picture of their monkey. They laughed good-naturedly, said they had absolutely no problem with the plan but insisted that we sat down and at least had a chat with them, if not a glass of palm wine. Eager to get the photo, we sat.

They told us the story of Eulalie, the mandrill. She's been with us for six years, they said. She's nice if you give her a treat. Right. Poor monkey, I thought, and suddenly, as if reading my thoughts (or rather, sensing the word poor had passed through them), one of the men asked the last question we would have expected: What is poverty, my sister? (for some reason, he directed his philosophical problem at me). Luckily, it turned out to be a rhetorical question, for he soon started answering it himself.

His reasoning was not far from what I had discussed with Jandro a couple of days before, inspired by an article in the Polish magazine Polityka. The article, discussing the situation in the poorest countries of the world, featured a picture of an African man sitting in front of his wooden hut. This scene, so easily spotted in Gabon, was supposed to illustrate poverty and the resulting misery of those who live in similar conditions. And here we were, in the middle of such a gathering, sitting in front of a wooden hut, drinking palm wine from a canister - well, all right, we weren't exactly drinking - and it seemed we were among the happiest people on Earth.

What is poverty?, the man continued. In the media, they constantly talk about poverty. Am I poor, though? No! I have my house, which I like. I have a small plantation, where I work. I love nature, and I've taught myself to work and live on nature. I have palm wine with my friends on Sunday. I'm very happy. He explained how God had given all these goods to man, and how man must learn to profit from whatever God had given him. Because man had received so much from God! Surely, palm wine does make you much more grateful for whatever God has given you, but I suppose that the gist of what he said would not have changed under different circumstances.

This man, mind you, probably has one decent pair of shoes and his wooden hut has no floor. He lives on what his plantation brings him and makes the palm wine himself. Considering his living conditions, income and whatnot, any European would say he's poor. But... what is poverty? And why do we need all those statistics and spreadsheets to define it?

THIEVES AND BAD PEOPLE

2010-10-25T08:00:00.005+01:00

Yesterday we visited the Mission of Saint-Paul de Donguila, built in 1878 by French missionaries. Accompanied by Mr Placide Kombila, the catechism teacher and responsible of the Mission, we took a tour around the place and were even allowed to see the school from the inside. We also admired the views, as the Mission is superbly located on a hill overlooking the vast waters of the Estuary. A spirited trip, this one.

Saint-Paul de Donguila rests around 70 kilometres from Libreville (just take a right turn in Ntoum) and is definitely worth a quick visit, which amounts to a half-day trip. We drove for 1,5 hours (the last 28 kilometres are at times tricky but you see lots of nice villages on the way), and arrived at the Mission at 10 am sharp, just in time for the Mass. Villagers were already slowly climbing the hill on which the lovely church stands, looking at us with unconcealed interest, smiling politely and answering all of our bonjours. Most parishioners were the kids from the Mission's boarding school, wearing their best clothes, and taking up the three front rows. As we entered, and were inevitably noticed by the whole congregation, the singing was already in full swing.

The original idea was to listen to a few songs and silently sneak out in the middle of the Mass to take a look at the Mission. However, the church was hardly full (maybe 30 people, counting several toddlers who kept glancing in our direction), and our leaving would certainly have been noticed by all. We thus stayed the whole Mass, and took part it all the proceedings apart from the Holy Communion (that would've been too much, we thought, but were surprised to see that only two people actually took the Communion).

Trapped as we were in the church, we thought we might as well listen. I tuned in just as the priest was starting his sermon, a simple and straightforward one, directed at simple people with good hearts. He talked about a man who new the Bible by heart, and who was self-confident enough to sit in the front of the church and talk to God. He boldly pointed to another man, sitting at the back, who did not know the Bible, and called him a thief and a bad man. (Inevitably, at this point, the whole congregation followed the priest's hand pointing to his imaginary man, and looked at us, sitting at the back. I almost smiled at waved.) The man sitting at the back, was - surprise! - a fisherman, a humble uneducated fisherman, who did not deem himself worthy to look at God. The Lord, in his love and goodness and fondness of simple fishermen, preferred him to the man who new the whole Bible. End of sermon.

And no, I'm not mocking. I have great respect for all believers and I thought this particular sermon suited the context very well, giving people hope and joy. And after a few more lovely songs in Fang, the Mass was over and we were able to wander around the Mission. I'm not sure, though, how many people (kids, especially) kept seeing us as thieves and bad people, pointed out in church by the priest!

Note: there is not much to do in Donguila, so be careful to arrive in time for Mass, which is definitely a cultural experience. Otherwise, here's what you can see and visit.

THE CHEAP, THE EXPENSIVE AND THE MORE EXPENSIVE

2010-10-17T10:04:00.011+01:00

According to an article from the French Libération, Libreville occupies a respectable 13th position on the list of the most expensive cities in the world (which evaluates the cost of life for expatriates). It is worth noting, that it is also the second most pricey ville in Africa, with only the notorious Luanda surpassing it, classified on position number 3. Believe it or not, this means that Libreville is more expensive than Paris, Helsinki or London. Today I will give you an idea of what it means.

Eat up!
Every week we spend more or less 100 000 CFA (around 150 euro) on... food. And no, we don't usually have caviar for starters and lobster for main course. Here is more or less what we buy:

yoghurts: I must admit I go a bit over the line here; I insist on getting real brand European yoghurts, as I find the local ones inedible; price: 4000 CFA (6 euro) for a pack of four;
meat: two steaks cost around 5000 CFA (7,5 euro);
wine: usually a couple of bottles, a bit under 6000 CFA (9 euro) each;
Spanish ham (oh yes, you can find your jamón serrano - if you know where to look!): 15000 CFA (22,5 euro) per kilo, we tend to buy 300 grams every week;
cheese: there is a wide selection of French cheese available in two of the three supermarkets, and we might spend 5000 - 6000 CFA (7,5 - 9 euro) on our luxury fromage;
bread: we buy three loaves a week and freeze them (note: very difficult to find bread made of anything more that air...); price: 1500 CFA ( per 2,25 euro) per loaf;
fruit and vegetables: we buy from our favourite fruit stands and we generally spend around 12000 CFA (18 euro) a week;
biscuits and other things to nibble: maybe around 4000 CFA (6 euro);

Not to mention what you don't buy every week: jam, nutella, pasta, rice, olive oil, juice, etc. On the other hand, we drink tap water, which makes things slightly cheaper for us.

Stay fit!
Detached as we are from our cultures and previous lives, we must be very careful to stay fit, both in our heads and physically - although I strongly believe that the two are related. To drive away mood swings and sullen thoughts, you do sports, lots of sports (are you appreciating who this is coming from? The girl who would always skip her P.E. classes?), which also helps you keep malaria and other nasty stuff at bay. The cheapest way to stay fit is to go running at the beach, which is always full of happy joggers, Gabonese and whites (the former tend to wear raincoats - hood included - in order to sweat better!). Unfortunately, due to my asthma I can't really jog: after a few minutes I'm out of breath (even though I'm in really good shape) and that always results in a small asthma crisis. Instead, I take classes. Step, tae bo, bosu and other funny words have come to structure my week. However, to enjoy all these fabulous activities, I have no choice but to pay a monthly fee of... 50000 CFA, which amounts to no less than 75 euro (swimming pool not included and costing 20000 CFA or 30 euro). And this is the cheapest gym in town.

Voyage, voyage...
Yes, being in Africa makes you want to travel the whole time. There is always somebody recommending a new amazing place to go, and no matter how much you travel, you constantly feel that you're missing out. As I have already told you, visiting places in Gabon is anything but cheap and simple. Most of our trips cost between 200000 and 300000 CFA (300 to 450 euro) per person for 3 to 5 days, of which you usually spend two in a plane/train/boat. Luckily, the boat trip to Pointe Denis on the other side of the Estuary is only 10000 CFA (15 euro), which is a decent European price.

Cheaper
Luckily, not everything is extremely expensive in Gabon. Here's a quick list of my favourite cheap pleasures:

having clothes made to measure: fabric for three shirts costs 4000 CFA (6 euros) and a shirt is 5000 CFA (7,5 euro);
a coconut bought at the beach: 300 CFA (0,45 euro);
Gabonese lunch at a local restaurant: 2500 CFA (3,75 euro) per person, including drinks;
basic fare for a taxi ride: 100 CFA (0,15 euro);
tickets to CCF: if it's not free, you might pay between 2000 and 4000 CFA (3 to 4,5 euro) for a concert/film/spectacle;

And then the cheapest and most rewarding thing of all: the closeness of nature, the possibility to spend the day hiking in the jungle or swimming in the ocean, the picnics and deserted beaches, the sounds of the forest... An amazing, relaxing package, available all year long, and free.

The picture comes from here.

RELATIVELY ON TIME

2010-10-15T17:49:00.011+01:00

When I first came to Spain, I was shocked and scandalized at Spanish punctuality. It became clear from the very beginning that me and my Galician friends have a completely different way of perceiving time, punctuality and the resulting (im)politeness.

For instance, we differed significantly when interpreting utterances such as "Meet me at 5 pm". Namely, I was under the impression that "five pm" meant "five pm on the dot" and I would thus show up a little bit early in order not to miss my appointment. Jandro, however, would happily turn up between quarter and half past, explaining that, obviously, it wasn't a big deal, as it was customary to arrive up to thirty minutes (!) late. To me, however, it meant at least fifteen minutes of waiting, during which time I would restlessly check my watch, wonder if I'd got the time wrong, feel silly and check my watch again. After a while, I managed to get through with my message. Jandro started arriving more or less on time, while I made the necessary adjustment in the form of showing up slightly late. My punctuality problems are over, I thought, relieved. I have finally figured this out! Cultural problem solved, big success.

And then I came to Gabon.

Here in Gabon punctuality is even less valued. A Gabonese is bound to arrive late, and when I say "late", I mean Late, capital L. Our own experience shows that it is not uncommon for a Gabonese to respond: Oh, you're already there?, if you call him to ask whether s/he remembers that s/he's supposed to meet you at a certain place. When you, at first surprised, then resigned, answer that yes, indeed, you are already waiting at the agreed cafe, they will usually respond that they're in the taxi, getting there, or, worse still, you will be assured that they'll be there in no time, as they're leaving home at the very moment. I have heard many stories (backed up by personal experience) of Gabonese friends arriving one hour (or more!) late for dinner, which, clearly, would get seriously overcooked in the meantime.

The situation is not at all better in the case of business relations. Your mechanic / cleaning lady / driver / guide will only give you an estimated time of their arrival. If a mechanic assures you that he'll be there at 3 pm, expect him between 3 and 5 pm (that if he decides to show up at all!); there is no point in calling to ask if he's on his way, as he will always say: I'll be there in five minutes!, regardless of whether he's at the other end of the city or just turning onto your driveway. There's more: at an African restaurant you're always in for a long wait: first, for a waiter to take your order; then, for the food; finally, for the bill and the change. And don't even try to get restless and nervous: it will only make matters worse!

To finish up, let me tell you the story which inspired this whole entry: Every Friday I have an English class with a Gabonese student (an adult). Usually punctual, today, sadly, he did not show up at our meeting point. I waited for five minutes and called him. The conversation went like this:

Me: Hello! It's your English teacher. Forgot about me?
Student: Oh, no, I did not forget. I'm still at the bank (as if I knew he was going to the bank).
Me: Oh. OK. Shall I wait for you? Are you getting here soon?
Student: Oh, no. I'm not coming.
Me: Yes, right. Are you coming next week?
Student: Of course (why would you even ask, silly girl?).
Me: Next time when you can't come, can you send me a message?
Student: All right, no problem (as if I were insisting on doing me a big favour).

I sighed and took a taxi home. The funny thing is, I wasn't surprised or angry. C'est le Gabon. Cultural problem solved. Big success.

TELL ME MORE

2010-10-09T10:12:00.006+01:00

This week I have re-discovered a magical world whose existence I had forgotten long ago - as most of us do when we become adults. A world where anything can happen, which allows you to travel as far as you wish, where the impossible becomes possible, and where you can be whoever you want. A world where imagination and words are all you really need: the ancient world of story-telling, equally entertaining as most of its modern substitutes, such as the cinema and TV, and yet so much simpler, so much more charming.

On Thursdays I have a morning off, which I dedicate to my French class. This week, however, a fellow teacher invited me to come to school and take part in a storytelling event for kids that she'd arranged. I was curious to see how the I-want-another-laptop generation would react when confronted with a Gabonese tale, so I decided that, within the framework of practicing my French, I would come and see what one Chyc Polhit Mamfoumbi had prepared for the students.

A barefoot man, tall and hairy, walks into the room. He is wearing shorts and an African rattle-bracelet on his ankle. He speaks loudly, clearly, shouts, whispers, dances... He's an African woman, an ugly child, a Michael Jackson wannabe, a greedy king, a malicious doctor, a man who ends up swallowing himself. The (usually exteremely chatty) children look up at him hypnotised, they participate in the story, they are hungry for more. The first question at the final Q&A session is: Can you come back tomorrow, Mister?, followed closely by: Another story, please! Well, to be honest, I was thinking the exact same thing.

Luckily, it turned out that Mr Mamfoumbi, along with two other professional storytellers, Toumani Kouyaté (from Burkina Faso/France) and Mathias Ndembet (from Gabon), were performing at CCF (Centre Culturel Français) the following night (last night, as it happens). This show was directed at adult audience and I was even more curious to see how you tell stories to adults in the XXI century. And in spite of the modern surroundings, I had the impression that the effect was pretty much the same as in the old days, when people would gather around the fireplace to listen to a wise person tell a story. We were all dragged into the imaginative worlds, we participated and laughed, and it was fun, a relaxing pastime, a long-forgotten pleasure. How long has it been since someone told you a story of a young man marrying a princess? Yesterday I realised that the answer to this question was simple: way too long!

Both Mr Mamfoumbi and Mr Kouyaté live and perform in France. If you have a chance to see them, do not hesitate. In the end, it's not that common to see such natural talents, and in their case storytelling is in their blood: In my country, Gabon, the profession of storyteller does not exist, says Mr Mamfoumbi on his website. And this is because EVERYBODY tells stories. Luckily, some of them decided to show the world how it's done.

The picture comes from here.

KASIA'S BOOK OF DEEP KNOWLEDGE: ESL TIPS, PART 1

2010-10-04T17:50:00.007+01:00

I have been officially working as ESL teacher for nearly four years. The little French school I teach at, Courte Echelle, has become an important part of my daily routine and I can't believe I've told you so little about it! Today's post might be a bit off topic if what you're interested in are exotic African stories. However, I have been thinking about what I've learned while teaching small children (clearly, still so much learning to be done!) and I really feel like putting it in writing. So today's special is a bit different from all the other ones: ESL tips for those who must confront a bunch of scary 6-year-olds on a daily basis.

Routine is not always a bad thing
Actually, kids happen to love it. They need a sense of continuity and they like the safety of knowing what to do. Of course, I am not suggesting that you do the same thing every time! However, I keep the framework of my class pretty much unchanged throughout the year. This means that we start by singing a hello song (and I must admit that we dance a little bit, too) and waving at one another. Then, I take my little magic ball and throw it to one of the kids, asking the question I want to drill (usually two questions, always starting with What's your name?, as this is a relaxing easy English they all know). The first child throws the ball to whoever s/he chooses and now it's her/his turn to ask the question. While all the kids have a go (and, even though it might seem boring, they just love throwing the ball!), I stick the name tags they had made in their first class on the board. Now that all the students' names are up on the board, the class can officially start. And it will always finish in the same way: with a bye-bye song and praising/scolding.

Discipline is a must
English classes are special. We sing, we dance, we play games and the teacher, who speaks in a funny way, is always a bit of a clown. It's not difficult to forget that we're still at school and appropriate behaviour is still a requirement. Believe me, even good children can get extremely naughty if you let them. I still occasionally have discipline problems and I do get exasperated at times. My method is probably the oldest one known to mankind: carrot and stick. I know, I know, there surely exist new fashionable methods to deal with the little monsters, but praising and punishing seems to be working best. At the beginning of the class, all students get a little plus next to their name tag. If they keep it until the end of the lesson, they will get a prize (five minutes for playing a game, singing their favourite song, or simply a sticker). If they lose it (chatting, no homework or no work done in class...), they must watch their diligent friends happily stick their smiley on a behaviour chart, and re-think their strategy for getting one themselves next time. Promising a cool game usually works but remember to be consequent: kids never forget a promise made to them! And when the whole group gets naughty? I punish them by making the next class extremely boring: no songs, no ball, no name tags, no game. Instead, filling out handouts in complete silence. Appropriate behaviour next time guaranteed!

If it's pretty, if it's active, then it's fun!
Kids have to like the materials you bring in. When I started here in Gabon, I had practically nothing when it comes to teaching materials. Internet was my only solution. Surprisingly, it turned out that, if you know where to look, there are thousands of activities available in the web. I downloaded hundreds of colourful flashcards, boardgames, crosswords and ideas. Children love to look at pretty pictures (colourful ones, above all), they want to touch them, they are happy to name the objects and the number of flashcard games is infinite. I let them play with most of the materials (some of which are simply toys, as the mentioned ball or Teddy the teddy bear), and they love it.
Also, don't forget that your little students are, well, little. It's difficult for them to sit calmly in one place and focus on what you're doing. They need to change the activity every ten to fifteen minutes and it's best to include active games - running, jumping and dancing are always a hit - in your lesson. Change the pace as often as you can: after a song do some colouring or writing, then a game including running or hopping, then a quiet activity, and so on... Until the bell rings. Remember not to be in the middle of a game when it does, though - your students will be disappointed!

Important links for desperate teachers
And the not-so-desperate ones, too. I've downloaded tons of wonderful flashcards with matching worksheets from ESL Kids, and MES English was extremely helpful when it comes to all kinds of worksheets (customized ones, too) and games ideas. You can download great ESL songs from DreamEnglish, and Genki English is an amazing source of ingenious games. Oh, and don't forget the downloadable English books that you can print out, colour in and read!

This is only the first load of my ESL conclusions. I will bore you with some more soon. For now, join me in singing the bye-bye song and... I hope I managed to keep my plus!

Top picture: me at school during School's Day. Carrot and stick picture comes from here.

WHITE CAT, BLACK CAT AND THE AFRICAN PARROT

2010-09-27T08:54:00.006+01:00

It is our little tradition to eat out on Fridays. Partly because we don't feel like cooking and partly because we like our little traditions, we end up in L'Embuscade or L'Emir nearly every Friday. However, as L'Embuscade seems to be on holiday and our stomachs felt too delicate to subject them to Libanese sauces, last week we were made to look for a tasty alternative. A friend recommended Perroquet (in English: parrot), a charming Gabonese restaurant in the city centre (not far away from the Grande Mosquée).

The place is simple but nice, with certain attemps at decoration clearly visible, not to mention the immortal flowery tablemats, omnipresent in African restaurants. Of course, they serve typically Gabonese dishes, so you might expect grilled chicken, boiled fish, gazelle, cow's tail, folon (mashed green stuff) with smoked fish and so on... all this accompanied by boiled banana, fried banana and manioc.

By now you're probably thinking that this post is supposed to introduce you to my new culinary discoveries, but no, today's topic is different if related: today I want to talk about the - sometimes complete - lack of integration between the Gabonese and the expatriate community. And our first visit to Perroquet showed me that, indeed, most of the time there is no integration at all. Here's what happened.

As I was happily chewing on my manioc and smoked fish folon (gotta love the green mushy stuff!), I heard the gentleman at the table next to us talk to the waitress. The only words I caught were la blanche (the white girl) and manioc, so I looked the man straight in the eye, ready for battle, convinced that he was mocking me. Are you talking to me?, I asked defyingly in French. To my surprise, the gentleman smiled, gave me the thumbs up and answered in fluent Spanish that yes, he was looking at me and appreciating what I was doing. Apparently, I was sitting there all white, indulging myself in a typically Gabonese meal, which is not at all a common picture in Libreville. We don't see many Europeans in this restaurant, he said, tactfully changing white to European.

This extremely polite exchange left me pondering two things:
Question 1: Why did I assume he was going to attack me? Answer: Previous experience. And - let's face it - my slightly prejudiced attitude. As much as I hate to admit it, I am not immune to judging people the moment I lay my eyes on them.
Question 2: Why was he surprised at our visit to Perroquet? Answer: Easy. Hardly any white people go there, which is inevitably true for other African restaurants, too.

A large part of white people in Libreville lock themselves in their own expat world. They meet at expensive restaurants, which the Gabonese simply can't afford, they only move around in cars, never taxis, they play tennis and they despise Gabon as a Third World country. Other people, like us, do what they can to live a bit of Africa every day but let's be fair: we also go to the European supermarkets and to the gym, and we don't have as many Gabonese friends as we'd like to. We do, however, venture to typically African places (like Jean Paul II or the market), enjoy ourselves, and are either given the thumbs up or frowned upon by the Africans. In spite of our huge bord-de-mer flat, I think we've seen more of African food than some Europeans who have been here for twenty years.

It is not easy to touch upon this subject, and even more difficult to exhaust it. It would be unfair to say that the integration problem lies only on the European side, as if the Africans were waiting for us with open arms. There is little confidence and willingness on both sides, which makes me doubt if any real integration is even possible. On a lighter note, however, we try. And I've met many other white people who try. And many black people who try. And certain mixed couples who beautifully succeeded. Don't give up hope, then, and keep trying!

The picture comes from here.

THE RAINBOW KIDS

2010-09-22T16:01:00.004+01:00

For a while now I've had a feeling that Africa should be something more than private schools, safari trips and going to the beach. Up till now, my challenges were personal, private: I had to learn French, I had to work with kids, I had to get used to the new way of living and to being white. Above all, I had to find a way to feel happy and fullfilled in my new situation. Before our summer holiday, it had struck me that, all modesty apart, I actually managed to achieve all these goals: my French is not perfect but fluent (whose French is perfect, anyway?), my classes are going well and both parents and children are happy, I am less vulnerable to being called la white in the street, I take regular exercise, I know my way around the city and I'm actually pretty glad to be here. Ok then, I thought, it's really time I gave something back. Enough of being selfish. About time I did something useful.

Instantly, I set my mind on L'Arc-En-Ciel (in English, rainbow), a street children's centre, run by Spanish nuns. I've heard a lot about it, I even know people who volunteer, and so I decided to see for myself what it was all about. I paid my first visit to the centre with a friend who is a regular volunteer. I had a chat with Sister Cova (and don't you imagine a nun in a habit! African trousers and African accent she had!) and we decided that I would come by, initially once a week, to spend an hour or so with the kids on Tuesday afternoons.

The place itself is very basic. I have visited the boys' building (the girls dormitory is two minutes away), where they sleep, eat, have classes and play football. The classroom/dining room/common room is furnished with wooden tables and benches, with two small blackboards on one of the walls, right next to the kitchen door. There is a tiny room with two computers, a large, dark dormitory, and a small office. The building is surrounded with a fence and the entrance is locked with a padlock. The person in charge decides who gets in or out.

In these simple surroundings about seven boys and seven girls live (during the school year, more). These kids, aged from 11 to 16, have no other place to go and difficult past to confront every day. There are stories of abuse, violence and slave work. Some of them escaped their families in search of better lives. However, I don't know the details and I don't feel I need to. If anybody wants to share such private things, they should be able to do it at their pace.

Inevitably, there came the day of my first visit (yesterday afternoon, that is). I was nervous. I had never worked with difficult kids before, and suddenly I had to gain their confidence in French. I figured I would offer them an exchange: I would teach them some English but only if they they taught me some French. The idea came off as a success: they must have thought I was a bit ridiculous but were rather happy to be my teachers for while.

Here's how it went. First, I just chatted with them, got to know their names, told them a bit about myself. Then we learned some English words and played charades with feelings (happy, sad, etc.), which accidentally turned out to be a blast for them (as was my magnificent game of sit down/stand up/sit down/stand up/stand up, where everybody, everybody eventually gets confused). Finally, I told them to teach me some French words, which they had to write on the board for me, at the same time explaining their meaning, which I think is a good language exercise for both parties. Then we played a round of Connect4, which I badly lost, and that was it, an hour had passed.

And you know what the funny thing is? They were no difficult kids at all. They were just kids, some of them more interested than others, some of them exteremly attentive, kids who were happy to be spared somebody's attention, just as all the other students of mine.

I'm coming back next week. And I'm bringing flashcards.

The rainbow picture I found here.

LONG LEGS, HIGH HEELS AND GINFIZZ

2010-09-15T16:23:00.007+01:00

In the corner, taking up two tables, a white man, nearing sixty, sits alone. A bottle of champagne is cooling in a bucket in front of him, next to a bottle of wine and several snacks he doesn't even touch. The man calls one of the waitresses and gently strokes her arm while he orders a beer. She doesn't seem bothered by his forward behaviour. On the contrary, she flirts back. She'd better, too - he's one of the regulars, he comes a few nights a week and leaves a lot of money in Casino Croisette.

The Casino is a very strange place. You'd think I'd be more surprised at the African restaurants, markets or customs but no - I think it's safe to say that the weirdest place in Libreville is precisely Casino Croisette. It is an attempt at recreating Las Vegas in a completely inadequate environment, which makes it rather ridiculous. Let me walk you through the experience.

First of all, the door boasts an official note that elegant attire is obligatory to enter the Casino. I've been there three times (all three I consider a cultural experiment) and each time I was wearing trainers and jeans, my sophisticated white skin giving me an unquestionable - apparently - right to enter. Once inside, you pass all the blackjack machines and roulette tables, mostly occupied by the Chinese, and you look for a place to sit. If you're lucky, a long-haired Gabonese entertainer, who happens to be my neighbour, will play his keyboard and sing a French serenade, while you sip your whisky and coke. Many short-skirted girls come here to find a sponsor for the evening and the waitresses... well, they deserve a whole new paragraph.

It must not be easy to become a waitress at the Casino. First of all, you must be at least 180 centimetres tall, half of which should be your legs. You should weigh around 50 kilos and one third of the weight should be your hair and eyelashes. If you satisfy these harsh criteria, you will get a tiny leopard-skin dress and you are all set to take your compulsory training on how to walk on incredibly high heels. The preparatory stage completed, you can start serving drinks, inevitably tied to the constant stroking and patting, which you must bear with a smile.

Casino Croisette is a parallel universe, a world apart. It does not fit Libreville at all, and yet it exists - a heaven for all sorts of funny individuals. Yes, we feel completely out of place in the Casino. But I think you should try a bit of everything when experiencing a different country, and this place definitely reflects certain social tendencies visible in Gabon, which makes it - honestly - interesting from the anthropological point of view. And, accidentally, GinFizz is actually an excellent drink!

PS. Happy anniversary to all of you! This is my 100th post! Thanks for reading me!

A QUICK GUIDE FOR A NEWCOMER: LIBREVILLE

2010-09-08T15:09:00.008+01:00

I've been telling you quite a lot about our travels around the country and by now you should definitely know where to go if you happen to visit Gabon. But what about Libreville, the very city in which we spend most of our time? You can definitely have fun here, too. Let me guide you through my favourite, unmissable places in the ville.

Go for a walk!
As in any city, there are places where you shouldn't wander, especially if you're white and on your own. But Libreville is rather safe and you should definitely explore parts of it on foot. It is a bit intimidating at first but don't get discouraged! The Luis neighbourhood with its small shops and restaurants is very recommendable. On your way to the centre you will be stunned by the huge Presidential Palace (remember not to take pictures!) and the strange statue in front of it. You might also find interesting the huge ministry buildings. Sablière will give you an insight to what the posh part of the city is like, while in the city centre, always full of life and traffic, you can have nice coffee and walk around undisturbed.

Go to church!
Oh yes, excellent idea, not only from the spiritual point of view. But not just any church! You should definitely take a trip to Saint Michel de N'kembo, probably the only example of interesting architecture in the city. It has dozens of beautifully sculpted columns, which represent scenes from the Bible. The mosaic with a black Christ is also worth noting. And the mass itself with its singing and dancing is a must! Even if going to church isn't usually your thing.

Go shopping!
Libreville offers a wide range of places to do just that. Personally, I would suggest Petit Paris and the Mount Buet market. The former is the place if what you're looking for is pagne, the typical African-style material, which, by the way, you should totally get and then go straight to a good tailor and have some clothes made to measure. It's an amazing souvenir and it can be done in a couple of days! Straight from Petit Paris you should head for Mount Buet and just take a walk: fruit, shoes, pagne, meat, clothes, soap, make-up, hairdressers, plates, machetes... and more. Everything can be found in Mount Buet. Trust me. If, however, you're looking for a less extreme shopping experience, take a taxi to the Village Artesanal and haggle to buy souvenirs, or to one of the three supermarkets: M'bolo (which is actually a French Casino), Geant CKdo or the Libanese Prix Import. It will give you an idea of what you can get in Libreville and for how much. Be ready for a real price shock!

Go out!
Libreville, unlike any other African capital, is full of restaurants and clubs. The choice is stunning. You can start by having coffee at Pelisson, a bakery and coffee house, which serves horrible coffee on an absolutely lovely colonial terrace (the fresh pineapple juice is to die for, though!). If you feel like decent coffee in less appealing surroundings, you might choose the Libanese La Genoise, which also has fantastic cakes. And don't forget the Tropicana, located at the beach, definitely worth a visit. For lunch, we usually choose a cheap Libanese restaurant (Les Arcades or L'Emir are equally good) or the absolute king of African kebabs, l'Embuscade. And for dinner... take a walk around Montée de Luis, which is absolutely full of restaurants and discos. Chinese, Italian, European (you might forget you're in Africa altogether), Libanese, African but posh, African but cheap... your call! I personally recommend Mississipi or L'Odika for a pleasant African experience nicely packaged for tourists (it has its price, though), or the famous Jean Paul II, for those of you who are more resistant to the general lack of hygiene in the kitchen.

Go to the beach!
Libreville's location couldn't be better. The whole province is actually called l'Estuaire, and the city is right at the seaside. You might want to take a walk on the urban beach and end up having a drink at Tropicana. You could also go to the very end of the Sablière neighbourhood, and have a Coke on the beach at the SunSetBeach hotel. Here the water is clean enough to have a quick bath and as a special bonus you might see fishermen selling their catch in the morning. For a real beach experience you should take a 30-minute boat ride from Port Môle and relax at the lovely beaches of Pointe Denis, where you can also spend the night in one of the luxurious hotels (Wingombe, Phare de Gombe or La Baie des Tortues to name a few).

Go cultural!
If you're extremely lucky, you might actually find the notoriously closed Museum of Arts and Traditions... open. Don't put it off, then, go right in! It's your only chance to see their - usually extremely well hidden - collection of masks. For more cultural experiences, get La Lettre or an event programme of the French Cultural Centre. Every Tuesday at 20:30 there is a film but that's not all - the Centre is actually very active, so don't miss any of their concerts, theatre plays or dance festivals. Not to mention the library, cafeteria and cheap Internet access.

Well, I hope you're ready to explore the city now. And to those of you who actually live in Libreville: what are your favourite places? What did I miss?

BRACELET IN THE FREEZER OR HOW TO FIGHT EQUATORIAL HUMIDITY

2010-09-02T16:49:00.006+01:00

As I've already explained, Gabon is an extraordinarily humid place. Even during dry season, humidity reaches levels hardly acceptable for a European, while during wet season it might rise up to 80% or more. Clearly, you sweat as you've never sweated before, which accidentally, seems to be good for your skin. However, not all side-effects of equatorial humidity are equally beneficial. Let me tell you a story of how humid air can set you back 100 euro. Or more.

Three months last only a week
The first thing we've noticed was that our wardrobe had a funny... smell. Clothes that we don't wear often enough have a stale, musty odour of your grandma's attic, and, worse still, they tend to cover with mould. You thus have to wash all the contents of your wardrobe quite regularly (another argument for a reduced number of clothes!). We have, however, decided to take certain measures - we would not let our clothes rot away in the closet. Consequently, we have found and purchased a French device which was supposed to keep a space of 40 square metres nice and dry for up to three months. It consists of a plastic recipient, on top of which you place a bag with special crystals, which magically gather all the humidity they are in contact with, and change it into water, which slowly fills the mentioned container. I think it worked rather well, only that the crystal baggy thing lasted a week in our 1 square metre wardrobe. Alas, as the price of such a baggy is nearly 10 euro, we decided to revert to the good old washing machine.

Modern jewellery box
Before leaving Spain (a year and a half ago! can you believe it?) I got a lovely good-luck-in-Africa bracelet from one of my friends. It was made of exotic seeds and I happily brought it with me to Gabon, as part of my new ethnic look. Little did I know that this would be the death and complete destruction of my cherished bracelet. Soon enough, it was eaten by mould and I had no choice but to throw it away. As a result of all this, I was very careful when presented with another ecological bracelet for my birthday this year. I watched it closely and as soon as I saw first signs of mould, I put the bracelet in the... freezer. I only take it out when I want to put it on and the strategy has been working very well. Maybe I should buy a portable freezer and put it in the bedroom?

A movie from a rice bag
Before coming to Gabon, we invested in an external hard drive (the 100 euro I've mentioned) to store our data and, above all, pictures and films. Short before the holidays, the device suddenly stopped working. An IT guy told us it was due to humidity and nothing could be done. And he gave us a recipe for storing electronic devices in extreme weather conditions. Here goes: 1) buy a new hard drive; 2) get a plastic bag with a zip; 3) put some rice in the bag; 4) put the hard drive into the bag and zip it, and finally 5) put the bag in another plastic bag and close it carefully. You think I'm kidding? You think we didn't actually do it? Think again! Also, we're contemplating getting a considerably larger bag filled with some sizable beans, which would fit Jandro's I-only-work-when-I-want laptop and all its attitude.

The above are, of course, only a few examples from our "Gotta Love That Humidity" file. All in all, I must admit that I do prefer finding mould on our clothes to discovering fungus on our heads and... toes. Knees have been spared, for now, thank goodness.

THE WHALE TALE

2010-08-30T09:26:00.004+01:00

July and August are the whale season. Whales come to the Gulf of Guinea to mate and, as their mating ritual includes plenty of jumping, it's easy to spot them. We've heard so many stories from people who went on whale trips (we were right next to it! it dived under the boat! it jumped so high!), that we decided it was worth any price. After all, you only live once and who wouldn't want to almost touch a whale? We signed up for the trip.

We set off at 7 am (practical info: the boat leaves from Michel Marine, twice a day) last Saturday. The day was extremely grey and the sea was rather rough but that was nothing in the face of the adventure that was awaiting us. The trip was going to take five whole hours, during which we were bound to see these amazing animals. Or so we thought.

The waves were huge. It was very difficult to stay seated on the little motorboat, which looked rather unimpressive when on the open sea. We were struggling to stay seated, clinging to the benches with all our might, which resulted in blisters on our hands and bruises on our calves. There were also some pretty scary moments when, on leaving the estuary behind, we were surrounded by huge waves, which were throwing the boat around like a toy... But still, we were optimistic: at the very beginning we saw two whales jumping out of the water on the horizon and it was only a matter of finding them. Or so we thought.

We spent five hours looking for the whales, soaked through with the sea water entering the boat but also with rain, suffering from seasickness and with our bottoms painfully hitting the benches on every wave. Five hours without seeing any animal whatsoever, apart from a stray seagull which was looking at with - I swear! - pure malice. The whales were probably right below us, laughing their heads off (or whatever it is that the whales laugh off) at our bad luck.

The most painful part, however, was not the boat ride, believe me. The trip cost us 50000 francs per person (mere 75 euro), which we had to pay for what proved to be an extremely uncomfortable morning.

Epilogue: The same day we went to visit some friends, who were shocked at our bad luck, as apparently they had seen so many whales it was boring. In the middle of the conversation our friends' little girl came up to me and presented her dummy. It had a cartoon whale on it - yes, the only one we saw that day.

The lovely picture I found here.

1000 FRANCS FOR A COKE

2010-08-29T17:35:00.004+01:00

In order to fully appreciate today's post, you need to know two things about Gabon:

1) There are four types of number plates in Gabon: yellow ones, which mean "I'm just a regular citizen"; blue ones, used by government officials; green ones, used by diplomats and the like; and finally red ones, whose meaning we're not really sure about. It is not customary for the police to stop people with blue or green plates.

2) Gabonese police is extremely corrupt. They organise regular blockades on the roads, where you have no choice but to slow down and, if they wave at you, stop. And then they will do whatever it takes to get money from you, even if it is, as they put it, 1000 francs for a coke.

Right, now I can get to the point. As Jandro works for the EU, we are lucky to have the right to use the green plate. This way, we are hardly ever stopped by the police and when it happens, they are very polite and do not demand money if we present all the papers they ask for. I am, therefore, not very much used to dealing with the police.

It so happens that, Jandro being away for a few days, I went on a little trip with two friends, using a yellow-plate car belonging to one of them. We were thus stopped by the police at the very first opportunity, which made the driver swear: Oops, I have lost the car's papers, actually, she told us. I was rather curious to see how the situation was going to develop. Here's what happened.

The policeman comes up to the driver's window. He puts his head in the car (literally), looks around and begins:
- Good morning, ladies and gentleman. Are you going to Congo?
- No, not as far as that. - we explain (we were just outside Libreville). The policeman asks for all possible papers. Our friend the driver starts looking for them, even though she knows perfectly well she doesn't have them.
- I would like to see your residence permit. - the official asks our friend, sitting at the back. - Are you a soldier?
- No. Here's the permit.
- Uh la la, monsieur, you will get out of the car. Your permit is valid till the end of August.
- So?
- So, it's not valid anymore. - the policeman comes up to the other side of the car, to speak to my friend, who would not get out.
- But it's still August. It's valid till Tuesday, actually. - my friend insists.
- No, no, it's not valid. - he keeps the permit. He looks at me. - Tourist?
- No, I live here. - I say, showing my carte de sejour.
- I'm still waiting for those papers, madame. - he addresses the driver again. She opens the glove compartment, where the policeman spots three 5000 franc banknotes. He suddenly becomes extremely excited and nearly shouts. - Oh, no, that's fine, it's all fine. - he gives my friend his residence permit back. - It's good, all good. Just give me 5000 francs and I'll have some palm wine. It's all good.

5000 francs is 7,5 euro and rather a lot of money. None of us is used to paying the police, but it this case we quickly consented. Having no papers, we could have been in real trouble.

It does scare me, however, how helpless most people are when stopped by policemen absolutely drunk with power (and less figurative alcohols), whose only job seems to be to extort money from the citizens. Nearly everyone has a story of how they were made to pay for some idiotic flaw in their car (e.g. it was dirty) or for the lack of certain paperwork (Can I see a medical certificate stating that you are fit to drive? Otherwise how am I supposed to know that you're not epileptic?).

Luckily, we have managed to stay away from the police up till now. We hide behind our green plate and try to deal with them as little as possible. Especially those who get drunk on palm wine while on duty.

THE LITTLE PURPLE MONSIEUR DACRYODES

2010-08-23T14:01:00.008+01:00

I've been blogging and blogging about Gabon (five posts away from an even hundred!) but I haven't really filled you in on a really essential part of living in a foreign country - the food. I've told you how to make faworki, pierogi and the like, but there were very few posts devoted specifically to African cuisine. I do not know how I could've neglected something as vital as la nourriture! I do hereby promise, however, to make up for this grave error, and I start right away by introducing the fruit/vegetable of the season, the ideal starter dish, the easiest thing to cook in the world... ladies and gentlemen: the atanga!

After my mini-research on the net, I concluded that the scientific name of the thing is Dacryodes edulis and it actually boasts six different English names, in addition to the French atanga. Our friend Dacryodes can, therefore, be referred to as african pear, african plum, bush butter, butter fruit tree, eben tree or simply native pear. I have seen it, I have tried it, and consequently I can assure you that the atanga is not a pear, nor is it a plum, and it tastes nothing like butter whatsoever. On the other hand, it's creamy, with a huge pit, and a completely undefinable taste. It's somewhere between avocado and olive maybe, savoury, for sure, not sweet.

Cooking a Dacryodes (now I have discovered the name I use it with relish) is the easiest procedure ever, which even I grasped after only one explanation. You simply boil them until they become completely soft, and you serve them with a bit of salt. You eat them with your hands, dipping them in salt - or not, your call. They are wonderful as a starter, and simply perfect if you are surprised by unexpected guests (I can think of no simpler dish).

So if you ever see the little purple Monsieur Dacryodes in a European supermarket, don't hesitate to buy it. A Central African experience guaranteed!

PS. Five posts away from 100! Any ideas on how I should celebrate?

MY LAND, MY FUTURE

2010-08-22T18:06:00.011+01:00

Recovering from a welcome- back- hope- you- enjoyed- your- illnessless- holiday gastroenteritis, we decided to take it easy and not venture out of Libreville. It was Saturday, and a potentially boring one, but this time we were in luck: celebrating its 50th anniversary of independence, Libreville decided to finally offer a cultural event - yesterday we visited the grand exhibition under an even grand-er title Gabon: Ma Terre, Mon Futur (Gabon: My Land, My Future). And, contrary to what you might suspect from the slightly ironic tone of this introduction, we were not disappointed. Quite the contrary, actually - we were rather impressed.

The exhibition is divided into six thematic rooms: Le Jardin des Origines (The Garden of Origins), Le Patrimoine des Cultures (The Heritage of Cultures), Designed by Nature (believe it or not, in English it stands), Regards sur le Passé (Looking at the Past), La République Ciquantenaire (The Fifty-Year-Old Republic) and La Nouvelle Ere (The New Era). Each of these spaces was professionally designed and equipped on a European level.

There is a large room with a flat screen, where you can watch a film on the origins of the Earth. Prehistoric tools are displayed and, more importantly, provided with exhaustive explanations (very rare in Gabon). Several museum exhibits, such as masks and traditional tools, were brought in, together with touchscreens, which show films of traditional dances. Pictures of the colonial era are displayed as a kind of installation - much more interesting than just hanging them on the walls. And the nature room is just lovely: all three Gabonese ecosystems are presented, together with a lot of information and still more touchscreens. A nice gentleman, the boss of the nature space, was very helpful and explained a lot. Only the Independence part, where the government boasts of its dubious achievements, made us want to press a "dislike" button.

All this is packaged in a really superb way: colourful, diverse, touchable... Istead of a guestbook - an ingenious pink plastic tree, on which you stick yellow post-its with your impressions. And right next to the exhibition - a handicraft market. All in all - well done Gabon! We loved the exhibition and are really looking forward to more events of the kind!

Technical info: the exhibition is located on the Gabon Expo grounds, right next to Port Môle, and it's free. The handicraft market is not your regular Village Artesanal, and it's definitely worth taking a look at. Of course, pictures strictly forbidden.

BONNE ARIVEE, MADAME!

2010-08-17T18:20:00.009+01:00

The trip takes a bit over thirteen hours. I got on the plane in Warsaw at 6:30 am and I got off in Libreville at 6:30 pm Libreville time, which is 7:30 pm Warsaw time. It only takes thirteen hours for your world to go upside-down-inside-out-and-all-African again.

As you get off the plane the humidity envelops you instantly. You become all sticky, just as every single person around you. And then the noise, and the music, and the taximen fighting for your attention. Your car is higher than in Europe and the other drivers are aggressive. The president looks down on you from almost every street lamp. And you feel excruciatingly white all over again.

And then you get to your flat and are greeted by the security men. The flat has a smell, all together a very pleasant smell, the smell of Africa and adventure, the smell you only feel the very first day. You shower in cold water because it's warm anyway. Your hair and skin and nose and eyes are finally less dry.

The internet is slow. You skype your family and you get cut off in the middle of The flight was all right. There's no TV but that's ok. The socket next to your bed doesn't work for a reason only known to itself.

It gets dark at 6:15 pm. You can hear the ocean at night, when there's less traffic. And you hunt mosquitoes before you go to bed - you really don't want to get bitten (which you do, in the end).

You have papaya for breakfast. And the expensive yoghurt.

And then you realise that, on entering the building, you'd heard your last Bonne arivée, madame! And you contemplate the very last time you arrived in Gabon.

PITYRIASIS VERSICOLOR EXPLAINS A LOT

2010-08-12T08:53:00.004+01:00

Even when in Europe, it is not easy to forget where we live. Gabon is always there - in my mind, mostly, it would seem, but I have just discovered that also in my... skin.

A few months ago I discovered little white spots on the back of my neck. I thought they might be a reaction to the strong African sun, maybe mixed with this horrible constant sweating. They didn't look too dangerous, so I just let them be - I had work to do and trips to organise. Moreover, several people told me: Oh yeah, I've had the same thing, so I just forgot about them, waiting for them to go away.

They didn't. Instead, they started multiplying. Ooops. Yesterday I finally managed to visit a dermatologist. She took a very quick glance of my back and gave me a diagnosis: the spots are a manifestation of a mycosis - chromophytosis to be specific, scientifically known as pityriasis versicolor (in Polish: łupież pstry). It's a fungus which lives on your head, so that its spores can land on your neck, back and chest - hence the white spots. Apparently, it's rather nasty and difficult to get rid of. Also, I simply waited too long and let it get really comfortable on my silly head.

Treatment: every other day use a special shampoo. Put some of the shampoo foam onto my back and let it work for five minutes. On shampoo-free days, I should use either a special liquid or an ointment on my back. All these medicines cost ten euros per box.

Epilogue: you can get this kind of mycosis everywhere, as long as you're susceptible to this kind of stuff. However, equatorial humidity helps the fungus a great deal... Oh dear, I really do get it all, don't I?

UP! OR BATTERIES CHARGED

2010-08-10T10:27:00.005+01:00

During our holidays we finally managed to visit the Polish mountains, my very favourite place in the whole world. The Tatra mountains are situated right in the south of Poland and we generously share them with Slovakia. They are rather high: up to 2500 metres above sea level, and - have I already mentioned it? - they are absolutely stunning.

Hiking in the mountains lets me clear my head. The strenous physical exercie makes me focus. Suddenly the choices are binary: I can go on or I can't, I'm too tired or I'm not, I'm too scared or I can continue. This helps you get perspective and see your problems from a different angle. Black or white. It's not so hard to choose anymore - after all, we do not make much difference anyway. You breathe in the clear mountain air, you let the views envelop you and you know that at that instant nothing else exists.

This was the break I needed. After all my time in Gabon and Spain, I needed to visit a place where I felt utterly and completely comfortable. Where everything is blissfully predictable: either I will get to the top or I won't. Not too much room for surprises. Things in my head fall into place and I feel a strange kind of harmony. Maybe that's how you feel after meditating?

I've been charging my positive energy batteries before returning to Gabon next Monday. I've been meeting friends, spending time with family (both mine and Jandro's), eating lots of good stuff and speaking plenty of Polish. Our last months in Africa will be full of this positive energy. Before a new adventure starts.

Pictures from the Tatras here.

NO MAN'S LAND

2010-08-07T11:19:00.009+01:00

I really didn't mean to be silent for such a long time! It turns out, however, that holidays can keep you very busy. We left Gabon on 8th July and spent two weeks in Poland and two weeks in Galicia. Europe surprised us. Suddenly, we could melt into the crowd, unnoticed. So many products to choose from. Such low prices. Everything was comfortable again, the context so well known. But being away from our two countries for a long time also made us see how different they are from each other: we spent two weeks in a typically Polish home, followed directly by two more weeks in a very Galician environment. And we jotted down several differences we'd used to pay little attention to before. Turns out you don't need to travel as far as Africa to talk about cultural shocks!

Early Bird or Night Owl?
In Gabon we sort of follow the Polish timetable - a great adjustment on Jandro's part for which I will be eternally greatful. We get up at 6 am (for work, of course) and go to sleep between 10 and 11 pm (sometimes - in my case - as early as 9:30 pm!). That is more or less what we did when staying with my parents. In Galicia, however, in the summer the sun sets after 10 pm. It is customary to dine after this hour and meet people even later; a friend might ask you to join him for a drink at 11 or midnight. It is virtually impossible to go to sleep before 1 am and most people go to bed much later. As I'm no night owl, we would compromise and try to get home around 1. Result: we would always get home earlier than Jandro's parents.

The art of eating

In Libreville we start our day with a big breakfast, we have hot lunch at 1 pm and a light dinner around 7 or 8 pm. As my parents don't have lunch at home on workdays, we could follow this framework without a problem, spending as much time at the table as we wanted. Anyway, in Poland having meals together is not such a big deal during the working week: every family member has a different timetable and we simply eat when we get home. On the other hand, we tend to gather for a family Sunday lunch, which includes a soup, a main course and a dessert (during the week there is only one course and the dessert is nearly always skipped). On such occasions we spend some time together at the table, chatting and enjoying one another's company. In Galicia, however, every meal is a celebration. It always consists of two courses, bread, wine, coffee, dessert(s) and spirits. You spend the average of two hours (up to three) at the table, which is a special family time. It is crucial to be home in time for lunch, this being the central point of the day. The food is delicious but you always eat too much. And the hours spent sitting at the table, talking, do not help you burn all these calories. Result: two kilogramms more in two weeks.

My cousin's mother-in-law's daughter is pregnant again
In other words: family. Family is important in Poland. You visit them a few times a year and spend holidays with them. They stick up for you and help you. You like your family. In Galicia family bonds go beyond what you can imagine. Family members visit one another sometimes more than once a day (!) and you often hear gossip as the one in the heading. They meet up socially or go out together several times a week. Jandro has more first cousins than my entire family put together and during our stay in Galicia we must visit them all at least once. And, Jandro's town being as small as it is, you meet everybody anyway by simply going to the fish market. Result: Jandro's aunt made us a delicious empanada de xoubas to take to Poland.

Of course, we had already made note of all this before. Nevertheless, being away made us realise how much we both adjusted: we are neither typically Galician nor typically Polish anymore. We created a sort of a new space - no man's land - in which we share our respective cultures, taking from them the things we both accept and like. And as much as I like being at home, it will also be fun to get back to that special space of ours.

Pictures from here and here.

Photos from Poland and Galicia here.

A VIRTUAL TOUR OF THE MUSEUM - PART 2

2010-07-06T11:32:00.009+01:00

Not long ago, we took our visiting friend German to the notorious Museum of Arts and Traditions. The gate was open and so we entered the museum grounds, hardly believing our luck. The establishement itself, however, proved to be closed. We knocked on the door several times and, just as we were leaving, a gentleman in a smart suit appeared and opened the door. He told us it was indeed after opening hours but he, the director of the museum, would make an exception for us. And he did - he gave us a guided tour of the exhibition and played a film about Pygmies, whom he, an anthropologist, generously called the link between animals and civilised man. I jumped at my chance for more illegal photos and I proudly present the results below.

Ngon'Ntang, the White Girl (from Estuaire)

It is a Fang mask, of anthropomorphic shape and four female faces. It is made of raffia, wood and eagle feathers, with coffee grains for eyes. It is used at the end of mourning, to bring the spirits of the dead home and thus avoid their getting lost.

Lekoka or Kidumu or Mvri, the Moonlight or the Terror (from Haut-Ogooué)

A Téké initiation mask, which above all symbolises moonlight that illuminates the society. Made of light osongo wood and toucan or eagle feathers, as well as raffia. This mask lets a boy become a real man. It is present during ceremonies held at the end of mourning, fortune-telling and it protects the village from evil.

Nzambe Kana, God Creator or the First Ancestor of Man (from Ngounié)

An anthropomorphic Tsogho mask made of wood and raffia. It is an initiation mask usually called Moghondzi, the spirit of the dead. It is used in various rites of passage, as well as in the event of death and in mourning. It promotes fertility.

Mukudji or Mbwand or Ngondji, the Tallest One or the Extreme Beauty (from Ngounié)

An anthropomorphic initiation mask from the Bapunu tribe has a face of a young girl, which has several scars: nine on the forehead, and nine on each temple. These scars are signs of beauty. The hair-do is typical of women in mourning and the eyes are made of almonds. The figure is elevated on stilts and its costume is made of raffia. It is used to appease the spirits of beautiful girls who died. Also, it is used in the celebrations at the end of mourning.

All the information is a direct translation from the museum's information panels. If you can spot any mistakes, please let me know!

PARC NATIONAL THE GABONESE WAY

2010-07-05T17:41:00.008+01:00

Yesterday we went on a boat trip to the nearby National Park of Akanda. We'd already visited it a few months before and so we called up the same Nigerian fishermen who took us there in April. Of course, it would be easier and maybe more legal to enter the park through some kind of "official" body, associated with park authorities, such as the Akanda hotel. However, the price proposed by the hotel was a daunting 40 000 francs (60 euros) per person, while the fishermen we found in the port of Charbonnages offer the same services for 70 000 francs (105 euros) per boat, which seats up to eight people. Even if there were only four of us, the final price per person amounted to 26 euros.

The first stop on our way to the Île aux oiseaux (French for Bird Island) was a place we hadn't visited back in April: a tiny little island, entirely occupied by a Nigerian village. We disembarked among the traditional pirogues, and were welcomed by excited kids springing to view from every direction and huge poster saying: Parc National d'Akanda. Accès strictement réglementé. As soon as we touched ground, a big man, dressed in a European way, appeared out of nowhere, brandishing a large Canon camera. He presented himself as le conservateur du parc and officially welcomed us to the little island, scrutinising our fisherman guides. Afterwards, a conversation followed, which held us scandalised throughout the rest of the day.

- So, as you can see the tourism is not yet developed. We are, however, thinking of building a hotel to receive tourists. Of course, we will not bring them here from Charbonnages, its too dirty (meaningfully pointing to the villagers with his head).
- Oh, but we like the Charbonnages market. Where are you going to build the hotel?
- Right next to the Île aux oiseaux. You will be able to book it through the park and we will offer real guides (again, looking in the direction of the Nigerians who were accompanying us).
- But isn't there a village there?
- Well, yes. We will remove it and build a hotel.
- Oh... But it is interesting to visit the villages. We enjoy that. Tourists enjoy that.
- Well, yes... If they were Gabonese we might understand. But Nigerians...

We were at a loss for words. Of course, we knew that the Gabonese looked down on other Africans. But to remove a whole village in order to build another expensive hotel? How will they handle the people? Where are they going to be removed to? And all this coming from a person responsible for one of the national parks. Suddenly I felt strange loyalty towards our Nigerian guides. The conservateur had an obvious air of a bully and I felt sorry for the villagers who had to put up with him on a daily basis. Before saying goodbye, he took a picture of us, which will probably be included in some kind of a useless report. We left hoping that the hotel would end up as so many other Gabonese projects: in the phase of planning.

Pictures from the trip here.

PARADISE NEWS' GUIDEBOOK: IVINDO

2010-07-02T12:23:00.020+01:00

The trip to the Ivindo National Park was long and exhausting but yes, we managed to reach the Kongou camp in one piece. Accompanied by three guides and a France-based Gabonese tourism student (gladly displaying her bikini to anyone who would look), we arrived at the three little huts the camp consists of. We were excited, embarking on yet another jungle adventure, looking forward to being compensated for the nightmarish journey. Details and tips concerning the trip coming right up!

Transport
A boat from Makokou takes you down the Ivindo river and to the Kangou camp (address: in the middle of nowhere). It takes over three hours to get there, so remember to put on a lot of sunscreen. A raincoat won't be a bad idea, as water enters the boat easily, especially while crossing the wilder parts of the river. The wooden benches are not very comfy but if you're lucky you might see, as we did, a python having a siesta on the river bank, or an elephant feasting on the rich green plants.

Accomodation
Basic but located right next to the waterfalls, so that you can hear their humming at all times. The camp consists of a couple of wooden huts, containing beds and mosquito nets. Clean sheets are also provided. We used a spray which supposedly kills anything that moves on/in your mattress, just in case. No electricity, no running water - instead, romantic oil lamps and a crazy shower in the natural waterfall jacuzzi. You can also view the waterfalls from a wooden terrace overlooking them, and enjoy your meals in the wooden dining-room gazebo, listening to jungle sounds mixing with the splashing river. Food is simple but tasty, abundant in the morning and evening. Lunches are rather monotonous (bread and canned tuna), so it's good to bring some snacks. And the two bottles of wine we'd brought proved to be an excellent idea!

Guides
Finding a good guide in Gabon is never simple. The ones we met in Invindo were average and let me explain why. Of course, they knew the forest and all the plants very well, they could see a python where we saw nothing but branches, and they could hear a monkey from an incredible distance. They would, however, take this knowledge for granted and seemed surprised to know that, apart from seeing the elephants, we wanted to learn about plants, traditions and the like. Getting them to share what they knew proved to be a mission nearly impossible. Morever, they showed little flexibility. No options are offered, as the guides follow the same plan they have been following for years. Finally, they wouldn't eat with us or spend time with us unless specifically asked to. This, however, probably results from the attitudes of most tourists, for which the Gabonese are not to blame. Consequently, you can imagine the surprised gaze of one of the guides when we accompanied him to the river bank to assist him while he cleaned the day's catch of fish!

Trips
We spent two nights in the camp and I think it is the perfect amount. The first morning is entirely taken up by the boat ride and then you go for a short hike in the afternoon. The guides take you through the forest to a spot on the river bank which allows you to see the nearby waterfalls in all their beauty. We got extra-lucky: for half an hour or so we watched an elephant peacefully chewing on the plants by the waterfalls, just to go up them afterwards. A magnificent spectacle!

On the second day, you take a walk through the forest, you cross the river in a little boat and, after another jungle hike, you reach a place right at the top of the huge twin waterfalls called Buya Na Gonde. In Kata, the local language, it means Sun and Moon, and reflects the tradition of giving twins complementary names. Standing on the very edge of the water, just a couple of metres away from the great force of the waterfall, is an unforgettable experience... For a few moments nothing else exists, only you and nature - you can hardly avoid feeling grateful for being one of the few lucky people who get to see it.

After such an eventful morning, we were taken to see the abandoned Chinese camp; you see, a few years ago the Chinese cut through the forest to build a road, all this in preparation to building a dam on Ivindo. Who gave them permission to destroy this place and how much they paid for it remains a mystery to me, but we were relieved to know that the go ahead had been withdrawn before more damage was done. If only Gabon cared more about its natural heritage! If only they bet on tourism instead of ridiculous buisness schemes!

On our third day, another hike through the forest finished our visit of the park. We admired enormous trees and learned something about their role in the traditional medicine. Tired, dirty and extremely happy we got on the boat and went back to Makokou.

Conclusion
Yet again, Gabon managed to stun us with its natural, unspoilt beauty. The whole trip was remarkable and I have hundreds of pictures to prove it. The moment we got on that boat we forgot about the train ordeal and it just got better and better as time passed by. Ivindo is an absolute must for residents in Gabon - it makes you realise what on Earth you are doing so far away from home.

TRAIN TALES

2010-07-01T10:04:00.004+01:00

Travelling in Gabon is not easy. Of course, we were perfectly aware of that when planning our trip to Makokou. But we were also very determined to see the Kongou waterfalls, located in the heart of Ivindo National Park. The plan was daunting but simple: seven hours on a train (travelling by night, Libreville - Booué), three hours in the pick-up truck generously provided by a friend based in Makokou (Booué - Makokou), and finally three to four hours by boat (Makokou - Kongou camp). Using three different means of transport implies that a lot things can go wrong. What is more, depending on any other driver than yourself is in general not a very good idea. But here we were, bags packed, Friday night, getting on the train, even though we had promised ourselves that we would never ever repeat the Franceville train experience. Surprises were in stock for us, of course. Nothing is simple in Africa.

Getting on a train in Gabon is a complicated business. Some people (I have yet to discover who and why) must check in their luggage, as at the airport. Then you pass three different control points, where your ID and ticket are carefully scrutinized. Then you are allowed on board. We shared our first-class compartment (six seats) with a big Gabonese lady and a man with VIP airs, holding tight onto his laptop. The train left the Owendo station relatively on time and we put on three sweaters each to fight the air-conditioning. So far so good.

Around 11 pm we reached N'Toum. Falling asleep, I heard a strange noise. The train stopped. Struggling for a comfortable position, I opened my eyes. It must have been a few hours later, the train was suddenly quiet and all the lights were off. Are we moving?, I asked myself and I realised that indeed, we were, very slowly and in the direction of Libreville. Strange, I thought drowsily and closed my eyes again. I was just pulling my shawl over my head when the air-conditioning went off, too. Strange, I thought and sighed with relief. At least I won't freeze my toes off.

I opened my eyes again and pulled the shawl off my face. Everything was perfectly still - the train was definitely not moving, my friends were peacefully asleep... Feeling for my backpack and some water, I realised that the big Gabonese lady was now on the floor, taking up the little space we had, snoring loudly and criticising Setrag (the train company) at the same time (a real mystery to us all). I closed my eyes, hoping that this bizarre picture would be gone when I opened them again.

I dreamed about reaching Booué and was rather disappointed when I woke up at 6 am to find out we were still in N'Toum, fifty kilometres away from Libreville. People on the train were getting restless and started to threaten the train crew. The latter, however, completely unmoved, would only state the obvious: I'm protected and you will go to jail. Go on, stab me in the back. Apparently, there was a problem with the engine and some passengers actually blocked a cargo train that pulled up in N'Toum and demanded its engine to be given up. I do not know how this story ended.

We started moving again around 7 am The air-conditioning was not working, which first made us feel really greatful and then gave me an asthma crisis, as the windows are sealed forever. The gentleman from our compartment spent most of the way to Booué writing a complaint letter to Setrag. When we left him, he was on page four. We reached our destination ten hours late, which obviously must have made the driver waiting for us extremely happy. The pick-up ride was a nightmare, as we were absolutely exhausted and were unable to keep our heads from bumping around as if we had no spine. Finally, around 5 pm we arrived in Makokou. It took us twenty-one hours to get there. Hungry and tired beyond description we found a peaceful heaven at our friend Sophie's. Clutching my cup of tea, I was seriously starting to wonder if those waterfalls were worth it. Were they?, you'll ask. Stay tuned, I'll keep writing.

SOMETHING IS BUGGING MY LEG

2010-06-22T08:08:00.007+01:00

On Sunday we took our visiting friend German for a nice long walk in the Forêt Mondah. It's so close to Libreville and yet so magical: a two-hour hike in the forest, which ends with a beautiful, deserted beach, perfect for rest and picnic before going back. Giggling silently at German's doubts about what to apply first - sunscreen or anti-mosquito spray - I packed my backpack, an experienced tropical hiker myself, grabbed the usual shorts, T-shirt and headscarf, and off we went.

We enjoyed the walk and got home safely. When I was getting out of the car, however, I noticed that I had a mysterious bite on the inner side of my thigh, right above the knee. It was rather big (five centimetres in diameter easily), red and swollen but, apart from taking my usual anti-histamine Zyrtec, I ignored it, as there was not much I could do.

On checking my leg the following morning, I was shocked to see that the bite had grown twice its original size overnight. It was now huge, red, swollen and amputation seemed the only solution. Wondering how I would teach Head Shoulders Knees and Toes next term with only one leg, I made our poor friend (who, by the way, having rightly ignored my giggling, came home without a single bite!) examine my thigh every twenty minutes, thus intimating much more than was appropriate and dangerously stretching the limits of our friendly relationship. When Jandro got home for lunch, the boys decided it was time to show the thing to a doctor. Especially as it wouldn't stop growing!

I dutifully went chez le medecin, who gave me a tired You again? look. I explained my problem and he told me to show him the thing, the sight of which instantly made him abandon the usual apathy. Wow, that's huge!, he said animatedly. Huge! Impressionnant! He gave me an injection which hurt a lot, and two other strong anti-histamine drugs to take at home. I am supposed to rest.

What bit me? Funny thing is, I've no idea, as I didn't feel a thing. Probably a spider, and a vicious one, too. Venomous bite, the somewhat vague diagnose was. And again a useful conclusion: Always, always put on long trousers in the forest. Even this close to Libreville.

A HELICOPTER WOULD BE NICE

2010-06-16T13:39:00.003+01:00

I am a CEDOC veteran. Last September I fought for my carte de séjour. Then I managed to get a visa de sortie. Twice. I've spent several hours queuing on a hard wooden bench, I've been patronized, proposed to and then patronized some more. I left enourmous amounts of money there. So nothing will surprise me about the place anymore. Or will it? Last week we went over to the magnificent offices to apply for another visa the sortie and to find out that I was wrong - I should never have taken success at CEDOC for granted. My arrogance was punished once more.

To get out of the country you need a visa. To get the visa you need the application form, two photos, a copy of your passport, a copy of your residence permit and proof that you paid the fee (60 000 CFA, 90 euros), which is issued by the CEDOC cash register lady, who always seems to be on the phone. I had my documents, I had my money, I was expecting nothing but big success. Cocky, far too cocky.

On entering the office, we noticed that all the employees were sucking on lollipops. So far so good, I thought, it must be somebody's birthday. As soon as I said down to talk to one of the gentlemen, a lollipop sticking out of his mouth, sucky noises instead of Bonjour, I was confronted with a question I could not understand. I asked him to repeat several times and finally it dawned upon me that I'm one document short. The gentleman was kind enough to explain that I needed to run (quickly) to the Trésor Public office and pay an additional fee of 2000 CFA (3 euros!), where I would get a receipt, vital for the issuing of the visa. Of course, the Trésor is right on the other side of the city, and, quick as I am, all running within the opening hours of both institutions was out of the question. We left the place as most people do, sulking. Once again, CEDOC had won the battle.

Luckily, the story has a happy ending. Three days after the fiasco, I managed to pay a visit at the Trésor. Armed in the receipt and determination, I came back to the visa office and, unless they lose my passport, I will be able to visit my Mom and Dad this summer. What did I learn? A helicopter would be nice.

Picture downloaded here.

A VIRTUAL TOUR OF THE MUSEUM - PART 1

2010-06-15T16:34:00.017+01:00

As you know, some time ago we visited Libreville's only museum, the museum of arts and traditions, which has just re-opened. Today, using my illegal photos which I stubbornly refused to erase, I would like to take you on a tour around the exhibition of Gabonese masks.

Ezengi or Jengi, the Spirit of the Forest (from Woleu-Ntem)

It is made of branches and covered in dry raffia. This abstract mask represents good luck. It has a propitiatory function and is used in such circumstances as the ritual before elephant hunt or the ritual of blessing before going hunting.

Mungala or Mongondo, the Alert (from Ogooué-Ivindo)

The mask is shaped as a turtle or sky. It is made of branches, covered with raffia fabric and genet skin; it is painted in red and black. This mask is used in the male initiation ritual, in the circumsicion ritual or after twins' birth. Moreover, it has the function of warning women and children of social danger in which improper conduct might result.

Bodi or Pove (from Ogooué-Lolo)

The mask is made of branches, dry raffia, fabric and eagle feathers. It is an initiation mask, used for funeral ceremonies or at the end of mourning. It protects the little ones and so women offer their children to Bodi, in order to ensure they have enough energy and livelihood.

Emboli, the Burden (from Ogooué-Ivindo)

It is half-human half-animal, made of wood and raffia, and painted in red, white and black. It protects the village against evil spirits and is used when twins are born or die and during circumcision rituals.

Mbudi, Mvudi or Mukuyi, the Ghost (from Ogooué-Lolo)

This anthropomorphic mask is made of wood, animal skin and raffia fabric. It represents the spirit of an ancestor who comes back to the world of the living. Mbudi comes out from Likogha, the sacred part of the forest, when twins are born or die, when there is a trial (to dispense justice) and during the blessing of the village.

Okuyi or Okukwe, the Big Boss (from Moyen Ogooué)

It is made of painted wood, raffia, genet skin and badamier branches. It is an anthropomorphic mask used in the rite of passage from boyhood to manhood. Also, it may be seen during the funeral of an important person, rituals related to birth or death of twins and problems of justice.

All the information is a direct translation from the museum's information panels. If you can spot any mistakes, please let me know!

WHERE COLD IS A CONCEPT

2010-06-14T12:36:00.006+01:00

Not long ago, we took part in a boys' night out with some Gabonese friends. Of course, the initial idea was to go out for a drink with just one of them, but we ended up meeting a dozen and, more importantly, all of them men. I inquired if we were expecting female company, but, apparently, the ones who had girlfriends had left them at home in order to have some real guy fun. I was allowed to tag along because I was accompanied by my boyfriend and also because they simply couldn't tell me to leave. Ok then, I thought, used to unexpected twists by now. Boys' night out it is.

The undeniable advantage of such an arrangement was that we would visit typically Gabonese places, where, if unaccompanied by the African troop, we might be looked at in a strange way. On entering the first bar we did turn a few heads, but were quickly left to ourselves. There was nothing particular about the palce. As in any Gabonese club, music was louder than loud, which reduced my comprehension skills to the very basic. Unabashed, we ventured further in. We sat down at a table in the back and ordered a round of beers. The gentlemen were already discussing their lady problems (girlfriend away, Catholic girlfriend, no girlfriend at all) but I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Is it the conversation?, I asked myself. No. Is it being the only whites in the place? No. Am I tired? Still no. My eyes wandered up and momentarily focused on the air-conditioning unit hanging on wall. Eighteen degrees. I realised instantly, that I was freezing cold, frantically wrapping myself in the only warm garment I had on me - the shawl I'd brought for decoration more than anything else (God bless female vanity!).

Soon enough it turned out that our friend knew the owner of the fridge - er, bar - and we even got introduced. Here's my chance at making things right!, I thought and asked him why it was so cold. I frankly told him I was freezing and if he didn't start serving hot chocolate and distributing blankets, we would leave very soon. The answer was unexpected. This is the coldest bar in Libreville, said the proud owner, grinning. The cold is a concept. I cannot raise the temperature. As if his reputation depended on it.

Clearly, we left as soon as we'd finished our beers, more certain than ever that the Gabonese are crazy about cold. They make sure they set the air-conditioning to ridiculously low temperatures, of which they are apparently proud. They wear sweaters throughout dry season (twenty-five degrees!). They jog covered from head to toe in waterproof suits to sweat better. And me? I keep forgetting to grab a sweater when I head for a public institution.

THE END OF AN ERA

2010-06-09T16:04:00.006+01:00

A year and a day ago, on 8th June 2009, Omar Bongo Ondimba, the former president of Gabon, died in Barcelona. Some people say that he had died up to a month before that day, others gossip that while he was dying, his family was on a shopping spree in the most expensive boutiques in the city. Regardless of the details, it was this date, 8th June 2009, that marked the history of modern Gabon. On this day the country lost its Papa Omar, who had ruled for 41 subsequent years. Things were about to change for ever.

Today the city is covered in posters. There is hardly a hoarding board or a street lamp which is not decorated with a picture of Omar. Omar shaking hands with Jaques Chirac, Omar patting Kofi Annan on the back, Omar being patted by the Pope, Omar sitting sheepishly next to Michael Jackson... The minute president (he was indeed incredibly short!) is everywhere, and so are his overpowering quotes (L'inérêt de la nation passera toujours avant celui de tel ou tel, quelle que soit sa place...). Gabon remembers. We half-expected yesterday would be a holiday.

On every step we are thus reminded that Omar is no longer with us. The inevitable question comes to mind: And..? What has changed? Not much, it seems. Following some skirmish with the opposition, Ali Bongo was elected president - just as planned, no surprises (I must admit it seems slightly less ridiculous now that Poland has a twin running for president after his brother's death). After he became the country's new democratic leader, Ali'9, as he was called throughout his campaign, introduced some small popular adjustments, such as the continous work day or cuts in the number of civil servants. However, normal people have felt no difference. The roads still need some serious travaux. The Gabonese are in great need of decent hospitals. Schools are still terribly crowded (apparently, there may be even 100 students in class!). There are still more civil servants' salaries paid every month than there are civil servants (which simply means some salaries are doubled... or tripled). Some people still have champagne while others make do with palm wine. And I still need a visa de sortie to go home in July (90 euros). Same old, same old.

Papa Omar's death definitely spelled the end of an era. Too bad we are still waiting for the new era to begin.

More pictures here.

ARTS AND TRADITIONS

2010-06-07T08:35:00.009+01:00

Saturday was a grey rainy day. Bored, we decided to get some bad coffee downtown. On our way out of the café we noticed something infinitely puzzling. Apparently, the Museum of Arts and Traditions, closed for the past three years, has re-opened! We rushed towards it and saw at least a dozen people wearing identical T-shirts with a collection of Gabonese masks. They must have been museum employees and their number suggested a very promising visit: the museum, located in a huge modern building, looked grand indeed. We were not stopped by anyone. On the contrary, we were actually encouraged to go in and, our curiousity rising, we did.

On entering the museum, we realised it consisted of a single room, and not a very big one, either. There was a big poster with some information on Gabonese masks and eight (eight!) masks described in more detail. This was accompanied by a few musical instruments, brief info on the materials masks are made of and a video presentation of a traditional dance with the use of masks (all chairs taken by some tired Gabonese who seemed to have spent their whole afternoon watching the video).

Despite the obvious scarcity of exhibits, we were not discouraged. As no catalogue was available, and by happy conincidence I had my camera with me, I started taking pictures of the masks and the information posters, to give you a blog tour of them later. When I was about to take my last picture, a big lady sporting the above mentioned T-shirt came running and, with anger worth a better cause, started shouting at me.

- It is strictly forbidden!
- Oh, I'm sorry, Madam, there is no sign informing that I can't take pictures.
- It is strictly forbidden! C'est pas bon!
- But why, Madam? I was not using flash.
- It is strictly forbidden! C'est pas bon! You must erase them!
I started "erasing" my illegal pictures, as she kept repeating I had to do it. Of course, I didn't really get rid of them, as I saw no real need for that. In the meantime, Jandro joined the conversation.
- Can we get a catalogue, then, Madam?
- No! It will come out! But we sell these T-shirts (she proudly pointed to her chest).

The conversation with the helpful lady did not end there, however. I was too curious to let go now. Pointing to one of the posters, I asked why it said that the exhibition had been open since 29th January if the museum had only opened a few days before. She managed to confuse me by the following answer: It was open but not to the public and now it's open to everybody so they can see our exhibition. This made me drop the subject. Nevertheless, as the poster informed that the exhibition would end on 30th June, I asked if they had an idea for the next one. Oh... We've just opened. We'll leave this exhibition till September, October... No, no idea yet. But we have a lot of good exhibits. I said nothing but I couldn't help thinking that yes, they had had a lot of great exhibits, before the French took them away to save them because they were rotting in Gabonese warehouses.

On our way out we were told that in a quarter of an hour, at 6, there would be a traditional dance performance. We hanged around until 6:25, when we saw a technician slowly starting to set the lights. We watched his deliberate, studied moves and thought we'd had enough for one afternoon. We went home, bitterly telling ourselves that we had to visit that African museum in Paris.

INTO THE LABYRINTH

2010-06-04T17:38:00.008+01:00

Even though most people say that Gabon is lost between Europe (France) and Africa and that it has little to do with real African life, it does not cease to surprise us. Usually it works like this: you see something, you ask yourself: what on earth...?, and then you start looking for an explanation. Sometimes there are more experienced expatriates to help you, sometimes you must figure it out on your own. Here are some of the Gabonese mysteries that we managed to solve.

Problem 1 - Why do most Gabonese people have two mobile phones?
Description: I don't just mean the rich. The majority of Libreville boasts two mobiles! The European solution is simple: one mobile for professional and the other for private contacts. But then you look around and a very relevant question comes to mind: why would a waitress or a coconut vendor need two mobiles?
Solution: There are two main mobile phone networks in Gabon: Zain and Libertis. It is very expensive to make phone calls from one network to another. For this reason, most Gabonese people use two numbers and two mobiles: they call their Zain friends from their Zain card, while they have another card for their Libertis contacts. Note: if you have some money and you find the idea of two mobiles uncomfortable, you can invest in a phone which allows two SIM cards simultaneously and has two sets of "call" buttons, so that you can use both cards at the same time. Most likely, these phones only exist in Africa.

Problem 2 - Why do Gabonese women hit themselves on their heads with their palms?
Description: At the restaurant, waiting for a taxi or chatting with a friend, many women suddenly start hitting themselves on the head with an open palm. This act of self-directed violence had us puzzled for a very long time. At first, we thought that it might have been some kind of ethnic social behaviour; in the end, some Gabonese men greet each other by banging their temples together several times. However, women kept acting in this bizzare way even when they were alone. Worse still, it seemed they were applying a lot of force. Were they thinking hard? Were they punishing themselves? For all we knew, they could've been praying!
Solution: When I was told the actual reason for all this, I couldn't stop laughing at its simplicity. There is nothing mystical about it, either. As you probably know, African women wear elaborate hairdos, consisting of dozens of plaits and the like. The plaits are very tight and so the skin on the head might itch or ache. To ease the itching without ruining their plaits, they hit themselves on the head rather than scratch it. Mind you, this only proves that we are equally vain about our looks all over the world!

Problem 3 - Why does every person seem to have a different wrist action for stopping a taxi?
Description: All right, so maybe this is not the most interesting anthropological investigation topic but for some a long time we were really puzzled. In order to stop a passing taxi, some people keep their fists close to their heads and, pointing their thumb left or right, energetically move their wrists. Others will extend their arms and with the index fingers pointing down, move the whole arm. Others still will perform a completely different action. Consequently, we kept wondering if there was a secret code behind all this. And guess what...?, there is.
Solution: Again, the explanation (which I discovered on my own, experimenting) is surprisingly simple. With their thumbs and index fingers people show the taxi driver the direction in which they are going. For example, if I'm standing in front of my house, and want to go to Jandro's office, I should point down with my index finger, which means "straight". In this way, only the taxis that are going my way will stop (saves my time and theirs). If, however, I want to take the first right and go to the gym, I should raise my arm and point right with my thumb, which sends the relevant message to the taximen. Can you believe it took me eight months to figure it out?

Problem 4 - Why are there shoes hanging from cables all over the city?
Description: In many parts of Libreville (especially the quartiers populaires), as well as in villages, we've seen shoes hanging from electric or telephone cables. Sometimes more than just one pair. It instantly made me think of Big Fish; in this film there was a villgage, where the inhabitants' shoes were hanging from cables in the exact same way, preventing them from leaving the place.
Solution: None. I've asked several people and nobody knows. Can you help?

Discovering these little things about Gabon is both fascinating and exhausting. With every new solution new questions appear, a great labyrinth of questions, really. Living in a different culture lets you enter the labyrinth and wonder around it, always knowing, however, that you will never find the exit. You might make a little map and understand parts of it, but you will never see it as a whole. You will keep trying, though, it's the only right thing to do.

Picture downloaded here.

RAINY SEASON IS SUNNY AND DRY SEASON IS COOL

2010-06-02T15:01:00.005+01:00

The sun is shining, although it tends to be cloudy, my windows are wide open and I'm sitting on the sofa wearing a T-shirt and shorts. Having one glass of ice water after another, I wonder if you'd guess that here in Libreville the winter has just started.

Equatorial climate is still a bit tricky for me. First of all, to my European eyes, hardly anything changes, which leaves me with the impression that time stands still. To a Polish girl, who's been experiencing four well-defined seasons her whole life, the subtle changes between African dry and wet seasons might easily pass unnoticed. I am, however, doing my best to keep track of them. Today I'd like to give you an idea of what the Gabonese climate is like.

According to what I've read, tropical countries have one dry and one wet season. When it doesn't rain north of the Equator, it rains heavily in the south, and vice versa. Apparently, it depends on the circulation of the atmosphere, but if anybody can provide a more mundane (and accessible) explanation, please do. Right on the Equator, due to the masses of air passing from the southern hemisphere to the north, there are two dry and two wet seasons.

Consequently, it rains from October to December (little wet season) and from February to April (long wet season). During these months the air is terribly humid (nearly 80%), it is hot (average temperature might exceed 30 degrees) and it rains regularly, usually in the evening and at night, with lots of tropical storms. During the rest of the year, Gabon experiences dry season. It lasts from December to January (little dry season, which did not come this year) and from May to September (long dry season, which has just started).

As the only reference I have is Europe, I tend to make funny comparisons. You see, to me dry season feels a bit like autumn. When I see the dead leaves on the ground I want to wrap myself in a shawl. But it's too hot for that. Also, dry season feels a tad like Polish summer. The water in the ocean is cooler, the grass is rather dry and you might have to wear a sweater at night because the temperature will oscillate around 20 degrees. The nearly always grey sky, however, feels like early spring. You wait for the rain to come. Only it never does. Finally, at the end of the long dry season the Gabonese burn their savannah. The burned land looks menacing and deserted. And that feels like winter.

I think it's impossible for me to see the season change through African eyes. I will inevitably look for similarities between my new reality and Europe. Subconsciously, I instantly label what I cannot name. I enjoy the cool spring breeze when I go out, I look at the red autumn leaves on the ground, I take a summer plunge into the ocean and I wonder: how can all this be happening at the same time?

THE OTHER JEAN PAUL II

2010-05-31T14:10:00.010+01:00

In Poland, the words Jean Paul II (John Paul II) have only one connotation. On hearing them, you inevitably think of Jan Pawel II, the dead Pope (and a much loved Pole), and the so-called JP2 Generation, a movement of young Catholics who claim to continue John Paul's mission on Earth. In Libreville, however, though Jean Paul II may well refer to the Polish Pope (whose face kindly looks upon the faithful from a billboard in the city centre), it is also the name of a very special place: a street full of maquis, tiny African bars, where you can taste the best grilled fish in town.

The Jean Paul II area is right in the city centre. By day it looks like a very long row of abandoned wooden huts, which in the evening transform like a restaurant Cinderella. They are no longer empty but quite the contrary: full of life and energy, thriving businesses, which look unpromising but smell like decent dinner.

All maquis include: a few wooden tables, some plastic chairs, a big mamma tending to the grill and her slow, unpleasant daughter serving the drinks. You personally choose your fish and haggle (yes, here too!) in order not to pay a ridiculous price. As side dish you may ask for rice, fried banana or the typically African manioc. The fish is served with a savoury sauce with onions and green peppers and maybe some mayonnaise, so make sure to stress you don't want any while you order. It is not just a matter of taste (I personally hate mayonnaise) - uncooked eggs (as well as vegetables) are a rich source of salmonella and the like. Our motto is "The prudent one does not get typhoid fever". Maybe not the noblest of mottos but works for us.

Jean Paul II is not just about the fish, though. If it were, we wouldn't like it so much. It is a typically African part of Libreville - frequented by the actual Africans - which is, at the same time, perfectly accessible to whites. It has all the marks of the African atmosphere: shabby wooden huts, each one with its own bad-quality loudspeakers playing music as loudly as possible (as if to beat the others), grilled fish prepared outdoors, the cooks violating every single health department's rule there is, the Gabonese and their loud discussions, people dancing, people arguing, people having one Règab after another... C'est chaud at Jean Paul II. And yet we're not unwelcome there, even if not exactly welcome either.

Yes, it's dirty, loud and most of the waitresses are unpleasant. But it's also colourful and real and lively. Full of contradictions, tiring, and yet fascinating. Just like Gabon.

Photo by Giulia.

AWAY FROM LIBREVILLE IS CLOSER THAN YOU THINK

2010-05-27T09:10:00.013+01:00

After the Nyonié debacle, we were left with considerably less money and a still unsatisfied need to get away. I wanted to forget about my adorable little students for a while (and it's impossible not to meet them all the time when in town) and Jandro also needed some serious relaxing after weeks of hard work. All we longed for was nature, exercise and peace. It turned out easier than we'd imagined: we got what we wanted for 10000 CFA (15 euros), which is the cost of the boat that takes you to Pointe Denis.

Backpacks: 4,5 litres of water each, tent, sleeping bags, inflatable pillows, raincoats, food, first aid kit, Aspivenin (a complex machine which is supposed to save your life in the case of snakebite), bottle of wine (yes, we did!), book, photo camera, swimsuit, towel and toothbrush.

The navette was packed with people. This included several of my students with their families and a lot of subsequent HelloKasias. We got to Maringa, the part of Pointe Denis which is on the very pointe between the bay and the ocean, and were greeted by three of my students who must have arrived the day before. Fellow Librevillians (I feel linguistically creative today, sorry in advance) were already sunbathing and having relaxing beers - the beach day was in full swing. We adjusted our backpacks and walked away quickly.

The route: cross the savannah behind the restaurant, enter the forest, go through Wingombe (or, better still, around it, as you might be stopped by Ecoguards there), through the forest, arrive at Phare de Gombe, continue until you get to an abandoned Ecocamp and one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. On the way animal tracks: gazelle, elephant, buffalo and chimpanzee.

The wooden huts of the camp were not completely abandoned this time, though. Our arrival disturbed a young man, whose main occupation turned out to be sitting on a chair, reading. Upon mutual questioning, he found out we wanted to camp there and we were informed that he was a "turtle technician" from Gabon Environment. When we remarked that it was not turtle season, he stoically replied that c'est pas grave. He let us stay there and even made fire for us, while we wondered if the job of a turtle technician was to fix turtles when they stop working.

Evening: dinner, wine, silence, ocean, a sunset rewarding the long trek, a deserted beach at night, sitting by the fire, quiet conversations... followed by a terribly uncomfortable night in the tent.

The next day we woke up early and went down to the beach for a swim. We read our books and lay on the sand and listened to the ocean. When we got back to Pointe Denis in the afternoon, exhausted but really happy, it was still full of people and beer and my students. I felt as if I had discovered my own secret garden. And it made me understand why the little girl would not let just anybody on her secret.

A happy epilogue: in the afternoon of day two, one of the best showers we've ever had!

Pictures from the weekend here.

NYONIÉ: A WEEKEND IN THE MERDE

2010-05-16T17:48:00.007+01:00

We really felt like going away - after all, Jandro had been working too much and I'd been sick all the time; it had been a tough month. In short, we needed to take a break from the daily grind. For our destination we chose Nyonié: just above three hours away from Libreville, known for its wonderful savannahs, easily spotted animals and a paradise beach. Expensive, clearly, but what isn't in Gabon. We set off last Friday and were supposed to enjoy the wildlife until Sunday afternoon. Three days, two nights and a deep breath outside of Libreville. Or so we'd thought.

The reality, however, decided to hit us right between the eyes: from the very beginning we felt that something was wrong. Namely, the boat that was supposed to carry us to the village was occupied not only by us and three other tourists but also by a group of sixteen French soldiers and their wives, all of whom showed inexplicable liking of cigarettes, tiny shorts and shouting.

It shocked us a little that so many people were heading for the place, as we were used to calm bungalow villages which could take up to fifteen people at a time. When we got to Nyonié our worst fears were confirmed: it was a huge holiday resort, providing accomodation for fifty/sixty (or maybe more) and, given that it was a four-day L'Ascension weekend, it was absolutely packed (with more French soldiers and also several of my students, but the latter I had expected).

Fine, we thought, we'll just get away from these people during the trips and we'll still have a good time, right? Wrong! But to understand why, you need to know how Nyonié works. The first night costs 150 euros (price to go up 15 euros next month) and this includes: transport (boat and 4x4), accomodation (wooden bungalow - no lock - containing two beds, two pictures, four hangers and a window), food (three meals a day), drinks (water, coke, beer available all day with no limits, open bar with all kinds of alcohol starting before lunch) and trips (trekking with a guide in the morning, 4x4 safari in the afternoon). Every following night costs 60 euros.

Upon our arrival, we were greeted by the young Belgian responsible for the place. He addressed us as Konjee... Konjee (damn-what do I do with this C before the K-I'd better skip it-problem solved)... Konjee-ka, which he later adopted as a general group noun, which meant Ms Kasia Koniecka and Mr Alexandre Giráldez Soage (Ahh, Konjeka, there you are, your lunch is ready! or Konjeka, you go in the white pick-up.). He told us that only one 4x4 trip will be available for us, as there were too many guests on the premises. And that the morning trekking started at six am.

Our first Nyonié experience was lunch. Open bar. French soldiers. French soldiers. Open bar. Can you imagine what it adds up to? The military men, together with their ladies, occupied a large table. The talking was loud, the laughing was loud, but all this I consider normal in large groups of friends. They did, however, go way over the line when they thought it appropriate to sing, shout and bang their fists on the table, making it impossible for anyone to have a conversation.

It is with them that we went on our 4x4 safari (What is a termite mound? Is it made of wood? Is it edible?), during which we found an elephant and molested it brutally by cutting off the poor thing's way with our big truck. I must admit that the views were lovely: the picturesque savannah, the undulating terrain, the forest, the birds... Of course, we didn't get to properly enjoy any of this, because the driver would never stop and let us admire the nature. Instead, he was driving like crazy in order to deliver what people had paid for: at least one elephant.

At dinner we decided we were going to leave the next day (a day early, that is): it was impossible to stand the shouting of the merry group, who kept drinking green things and singing idiotic songs, led by some kind of cultural animator, who seemed to have taken it upon himself to organise games and passtimes. It was then that we found out from my boss (who, accidentally, was also there) that it is nearly impossible to enjoy a tranquil weekend at Nyonié, as it is always full of French military men, whose main objective is to win their money back by drinking as much as they can.

Our last hope was the morning trek: we knew that getting up at five am may be discouraging. We had hiked in the jungle many times and we knew the procedures: you leave early, two guides, up to five tourists, you walk silently, you follow the elephant paths... Not this time, however. We left the village a happy group of twenty-one (!) with one (!) guide. From the very beginning we knew we would not see any animals. We did not even enter the jungle properly, we simply took the forest roads. A bunch of people were ahead of the guide, who didn't bother to check if anybody was missing anyway. Oh sweet Lord.

The Belgian guy never asked why we left early or if we had enjoyed our stay. He just took the money. Conclusion: Nyonié is your place if what you're looking for are free drinks, the beach and an extension of Libreville nightlife. If, however, you want to spend a quiet weekend enjoying the nature, hiking and tracking animals, you will be highly disappointed. As were we.

The pictures from our trip are here.

12 HOURS A DAY, 7 DAYS A WEEK

2010-05-12T17:21:00.004+01:00

One evening, when we were out with our Italian friend, who was here for a short visit, we heard her make the following comment: I think it's so nice that people go out at night just to chat and enjoy the fresh air... At first, I didn't know what she meant but then it slowly dawned upon me: of course, in front of every building you see African people stretched out on their deckchairs, usually with a couple of pals, talking or reading newspapers. And yes, if you look at them from the European perspective, you might think they're just socialising in the open air. However, if you pass the same building three times on the same day, you will notice that they are always there. Moreover, it is their job to be there. They are the security guards and every house in the European part of Libreville employs them.

Obviously, our huge block of flats is also protected. There is a guard in the booth at the edge of our premises, who lets the cars in and out by means of a metal chain (see picture). He has a lovely smile and always waves at you. There are three or four more guards bravely securing the entrance. They work from six to six, seven days a week. They thus live either by day or by night, day off completely absent from their vocabulary. Personally, I find the day shift nicer for two reasons: 1) one of the guards has worked with some Poles and he greets me with a loud Siema! whenever he sees me (I've once also got a l'ascenseur niedobry, madame); 2) the night shift is usually asleep when I see them, their heads falling on their chests, which makes me feel extra-protected, clearly.

The jobs of our security guards are various. They are supposed to keep the terrain clean, find out when the energy will be back on and, most of all, get rid of any suspicious elements. I must say they seem to be doing their job most of the time. Whenever a new face appears downstairs, they come up with them to see if you are really expecting them (especially if the guests are Gabonese), for which I'm grateful when the air-conditioning technicians drop by and I'm home alone. For as little as three euros they will wash your car inside and out. They will push your car when it needs pushing. They will help you carry heavy stuff (like my suitcase the size of wardrobe... up eight floors when the lift was broken). Sometimes we tip them, sometimes we don't, and we still haven't worked out how to go about that tactfully. Ça va aller, I hope.

How terribly boring must their job me? Watching people go in and out, cars pulling over and starting...? Always the same, never a rest from the unbearable routine? You finish l'Union, the couple from the eighth floor is heading for the beach, you have a coke, the man from the third floor is walking his dog, you have your sandwich, the cleaning lady who works on the first floor has just arrived... that English couple's baby has just spilt her milk on the ground, you clean it and get back to your day of sitting. And yet they cling to this job because maybe it's a good one. Maybe it's the best they can count for. It scares me to think that this young man with a Clark Gable smile might end up doing this for twenty years. And I keep hoping that it's just my European nature which makes me rebel against such predestination. Hopefully, the Gabonese see it from a different perspective.

On a lighter note, a couple of days ago I was in the lift with one of the guards (they have a changing room on the first floor and almost religiously take the lift to get there), and I saw him use his Blackberry (Blueberry? Strawberry? I know it's a berry!). So maybe life's not so tough after all.

THE WHITER THE COOLER

2010-05-02T18:20:00.003+01:00

For some time now I’ve been paying attention to the advertising campaigns in the streets of Libreville. As any other city, it is full of hoarding boards, sporting colourful advertisements for anything ranging from soap to wireless internet. These posters, I’ve noticed, have one thing in common: namely, the skin colour of the models.

Quick question: should African ads use black or white models? Is your answer black? Good, you are not wrong, it’s only natural. Nevertheless, you are not completely in the right, either. The models are never really black, they are never as dark as your regular Gabonese citizen, and their features are not typically African. No wide nose. No big lips. No African hairdos. No African clothes. The models are typically of mixed race, with café au lait coloured skin and, most commonly, very European faces. They are dressed in smart European clothes (sometimes sweaters!) and they do their hair in a European fashion. They are the rare stylish type you see in the French cafés of Libreville.

I am no sociologist but I suppose it’s another proof for the simple truth: the whiter you are, the higher your social status. If it takes a mixed model to sell a product, it means that most people strive to be like the mixed model, yes? They are not white, they are still Gabonese, but not the same, not quite your ordinary African mammas. It goes in line with the commonly known fact that African women do whatever they can to have a baby with a white man, because a mixed race baby will have an easier life - might even marry a white person! On the other hand, I’ve read in l’Union that secondary school girls frantically spend their pocket money on creams that are meant to whiten their lovely dark skin.

Before Gabon, my colour had never been an issue. I grew up in a nearly exclusively white country and it had never crossed my mind that the colour of your skin might define you. Here in Central Africa it’s your business card. You are judged and classified on this arbitrary basis. I have never seen a mulatto cleaning lady. I have never seen a white taxi driver. I have never seen a rough African face on a hoarding board.