NOT SO HIGH FIDELITY

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.

PEOPLE WITH PEOPLE SKILLS

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!

MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE AND KASIA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The picture comes from here.

MBOLO TO ALL!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abora for reading.

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

The map comes from here.

THE ART OF HAGGLING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LA VIANDE DE BROUSSE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More photos of viande the brousse are here.

THE ONE WITH THE MONKEY OR MUSINGS ON POVERTY

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?

RELATIVELY ON TIME

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.

WHITE CAT, BLACK CAT AND THE AFRICAN PARROT

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.

1000 FRANCS FOR A COKE

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.

WHERE COLD IS A CONCEPT

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.

INTO THE LABYRINTH

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.

12 HOURS A DAY, 7 DAYS A WEEK

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

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.

IN THE TAXI

With time I got used to taking taxis. I hardly ever take one for myself now – and if I do, it is only because my destination would be hard to reach otherwise. Sharing a cab is much more fun: you might get stuck between two huge African mammas (at such moments I always wish somebody would take a picture of me), there might be a cute baby staring at you with its enormous eyes, or you might hear or, better still, get involved in an interesting conversation. It is the latter I want to quote today.

7 a.m., the driver complains to a lady passenger:

Driver: …and the one that’s in France! He always says: I have exams! I need money!

Lady: Yeah…

Driver: So I sent him fifty thousand francs last month. Fifty thousand! And you know what he said?

Lady: Uh-huh.

Driver: Fifty thousand is not enough! How is fifty thousand not enough?! Fifty thousand I sent!

Fifty thousand francs CFA is seventy-five euro.

On my way home, the price for the trip is basic, 100 CFA (0,15 euro):

Me: Lycée León M’ba, 100 francs.

Driver: Ok.

(I get in.)

Driver: You can’t pay 100 CFA! It’s too little!

Me: That’s the price for this trip and we both know it. You said it was ok.

Driver: Of course it’s not ok! You white people must pay more! You’re rich!

Me (patiently): If it’s not ok, I’ll get off here. You said it was ok.

Driver: You white people with all your money! You do the same work as the African and you get paid so much more! You get your European contracts! You must pay more!

Me: I am not rich, I have a local contract, I earn the same as my Gabonese colleagues and I will not pay you more than 100 CFA. If it’s not ok, I’ll get off here.

Driver: You earn so much more! You are rich! You white people are rich and you get your expatriation benefit!

We got to my place. I paid 100 francs. I’ve had this conversation countless times.

Going to my French class, I took the taxi for myself for 1000 CFA (1,5 euro):

Driver: So it’s cold in France, yes?

Me: Wouldn’t know, never been there.

Driver: ??!?

Me: I’m Polish. You will notice I don’t speak good French.

Driver: I’m from Ivory Coast. Are there black people working in Poland?

Me: Yes, of course.

Driver: You must take me then. We get married?

Me: I’m afraid I already have a husband.

Driver: Not a problem. We get married and you take me to your country.

Me: Thanks but no thanks.

Driver: Oh, come on… I work hard, I’ll be good for you.

I kept saying no so he wished me a good day.

The taxi driver stopped twenty metres away from the place indicated by the lady passenger:

Lady: What are you doing?! Are you stupid?! I told you to stop and you didn’t stop!

Driver: I couldn’t stop where you told me to stop.

Lady: Are you stupid?!

Driver: I would’ve caused an accident!

Lady: I don’t care! You’re stupid!

The lady had told him to stop on a roundabout.

The taxi drivers are not Gabonese. The Gabonese are far too proud to take such a demeaning job. They are from all over Western Africa: Ivory Coast, Benin, Togo, Cameroon, Senegal, Nigeria… They drive around the city for hours on end – you often see them eat or take a nap in their taxi. They do not make much money and they very rarely own the questionable vehicle they drive; they must pay its owner a daily fee. They are very much looked down on by the Gabonese, who insult them for no reason at all. Do not take for granted, however, that they are all uneducated immigrants. We once met a Nigerian driver, who came to Gabon as an engineer and lost his job. He needed money and he took whatever job there was available. I’m convinced he’s not an exception. Life’s tough for a taxi-man in Gabon. Which maybe justifies a little why they want to make as much money as possible off a white girl.