NOT TOO SHORT, PLEASE

Have you ever seen the 2002 film Barbershop? It shows a day in the life of a South Side Chicago barbershop, a loud but warm place where everybody knows everybody. It's full of spirited, likable characters and you can't resist the feeling that it is much more than just a hairdresser's, it's a lifestyle. Well, I watched this film seven years ago, when it was first released, liked it very much and forgot about it completely. Until yesterday.

It so happens that life in Libreville doesn't stop and we are struggling to keep up. We have established a more or less normal routine of work - cooking - gym - eating out - beach, with an occasional party or outing of a different type in the middle. But there are many other things to be taken care of. Thus we've been to the dentist's, we've visited a GP and we even started decorating our flat. Not long ago we were surprised to notice that it's been two months since we got back from our holidays and we were in serious need of a haircut. We thus set off in search of a hairdresser's whose price and quality of service would be somewhere between the very expensive European-style beauty salons ("American beauty products") and Chinese consulting-rooms, where you can get an amazing 3in1 deal (haircut + gynaecological revision + acupuncture) for no money.

In the end we opted for a central African-style beauty salon, frequented by African and Libanese ladies, where Jandro had already had his hair cut once before. And there we were, crammed with ten other people in a rather small room full of things and smells, looking out of place (as usual), me quite reluctant to throw my thin Polish hair on the mercy of a big Gabonese Mamma. This was the movie barbershop, where the music was loud and the hairdo was as important as the conversation. There were women sitting under big hairdryers chatting, women having their nails done and hair washed, while they spoke on the phone about successful sauce recipies... My hair stylist was awfully nice and proceeded with her task rather energetically, while still chatting to her colleague on the other side of the room, thus informing the whole party that she would become the Minister for Beauty in the new government. She was very into the coversation and I ended up with very very short hair (see picture).

All in all, the hair will grow back as it always does and I can add another African experience to my growing inventory. Of course, this was still not the kind of place where regular African women go. But I don't think I'm ready for the cabinet chinois just yet...

A BIT OFF BALANCE

In case you are wondering how our adventure with the police ended, I must tell you it hasn't. However, after two visits to the insurance company ("Don't change your drawing, you're tampering with evidence!" and "Even if he hit you from behind it could've been your fault... did you leave enough space for the taxi?") and one visit to the police station ("You must fill in this form. However, we do not have a copy. We do not have a copying machine either."), we decided to just abandon the matter. Nobody will notice anyway.

And so, we work, we go to the gym and we go to the beach. We attend parties, have lunches, go for walks, see films and concerts and the French Cultural Centre and also try to decorate the flat. Everything's back to normal, I suppose, and the life is good. Gabon is a beautiful place and we are really lucky to be here. In spite of all this, I do have my blue moments. They are mostly due to two reasons:

1) French. I have reached a point where I can communicate my basic needs, have a conversation at a party and make small-talk with the guardians of my building. It's still not enough, of course. Many times I'm simply mute in this country. The frustration related to this is beyond description and I'm pretty sure I'm driving the people surrounding me absolutely nuts. For which I venture to hereby apologise in public.

2) I miss Poland. And Galicia. And when I leave Gabon, I will miss Poland and Galicia and Gabon. I miss Polish, too. A lot. But most of all, I miss the people. Here yet again, for the third time in two years, I must struggle to meet new friends and, fascinating as it always is, I feel a bit tired by the constant changing of milieu.

I sometimes get overwhelmed and forget about all the positive aspects of being here. I stay in bed, sulking. It's easy, it requires no effort. There are many people here who want to leave, who are very unhappy and frustrated. But it's not my intention to become one of them, no sir! This is a valuable, amazing experience and I will not let it become anything else. So let this post be my anti-sulking device. I promise to myself and my five faithful readers that I will do my best to stay positive. I will learn French, enjoy the beach, eat cookies, go to parties, have all the brochettes my organism can absorb and always remember that I have no real reason not to be happy. The life here is not exactly simple but that was what I signed up for and, after all, I have always been consequent. The promise has thus been made. I'm sending you a big smile.

WELCOME TO AFRICA

For the past week I've been feeling tired. Climate. Season change from dry to wet. Plus a bit of sore throat, slightly running nose... all in all I considered myself lucky to be suffering from such a mild cold instead of malaria. Little did I know. Friday night we were invited to dinner at our friends' house. The food looked great but I was somehow unable to eat. I felt sick and after a while my stomach started to ache. Something I'd eaten during the day? By the time the lovely apple pie appeared on the table, I could hardly sit up, so we decided it was time to leave.

Convinced I was suffering from indigestion, I went to bed. Three hours later both Jandro and I were woken up by my loud moaning and I found myself feeling awfully sick and suffering from a dreadful stomachache. I will spare you a detailed description of bouts of diarrhea interspersed with uncontrolled vomiting. Let's just say that when, 5 hours later, I started throwing up water, we thought it was time to act.

At 5:45 am we got into the car and drove to a private clinic, founded by Omar Bongo's second wife. The doctor examined me with his sleepy eyes and decided hospitalisation was the best solution. Frantically repeating "non non! maison!", I let him know that I was not going to stay in hospital. He frowned at my rejecting his institution's comfortable facilities but prescribed some drugs and let me go (apparently, they try to hospitalise as many people as possible because it's money). He also ordered blood tests to see if it was really just indigestion.

We decided not to buy the antibiotic until we knew what my results were. I thus only took the anti-vomiting syrop. I was sick, tired, in great pain and practically unconscious. I couldn't lie down (made me feel even more sick) and I was extremely week. Around 11:30, as we were entering the hospital grounds to pick up my results, a taxi driver tried to overtake and ended up hitting us. A car accident was all we needed at the time.

Immediately, there were around eight Gabonese people around us, some of them taking our side, the others taking the side of the furious taxi-driver, who insisted it was our fault. They were arguing loudly and we left them in the street and went into the hospital. While we were waiting for my results in the freezing lab (they are crazy about the air-conditioning), a couple of men who witnessed our accident came looking for us with the owner of the taxi (the driver had already disappeared). He seemed to accept that it wasn't our fault but insisted on calling the police. In our innocence, we said yes.

The police arrived at the very same time as my doctor so I had to go into the doctor's office on my own. I managed to talk to him in French and would've felt quite successful but I was too busy trying not to throw up at the time (I've heard about a person who did throw up on the hospital floor and was consequently given a mop to clean up). I was rather surprised to find out that I was suffering from a mild version (mild version?!) of typhoid fever, which only affected me a little due to my vaccination. I exclaimed that it was indeed very serious (or something to that effect) and the doctor laughed. I was taken home by our helpful neighbour, as Jandro was still with the police.

Only when he got home did I find out how the police incident ended. I was not expecting problems - I mean, come on!, typhoid fever and car accident seemed kind of enough for one day. Little did I know. The policeman's first words to my boyfriend were: "You French colonizers can't drive!". In spite of the witnesses' statements, he put us down as the ones who'd caused the accident. As Jandro had forgotten his driving licence, they told him to come back to the police station in the evening.

He did not, however, go back. Apart from being exhausted himself, he decided that it would be better not to go alone. Around 8 pm he received a phone call: "This is the police. We had an appointment". He explained that I was sick and he had 48 hours to come back, which he would on Monday. This time the policeman was very polite and told Jandro to take care of me.

How will the story end? I'll let you know. But it sure was a day to remember... "Welcome to Africa", our neighbour said.

FRANÇAIS

Zimbabwe, São Tomé, South Africa, Mozambique, Angola or Mexico, Brasil, Nigeria, Russia... What do they have in common? Well, for starters, they are countries where I can (with some necessary adjustments) quite successfully communicate with other people. Gabon, on the other hand, together with Congo, Benin, Togo or Cameroon, is a completely different story.

Before I came here I'd had some French classes but I had never had time to study properly. In Santiago I had work, in Poland - work and my thesis, and thus, even though I had a couple of months to prepare myself for the linguistic shock, I hardly studied. I'm still suffering the consequences.

After a month of intense yet fruitless searching, we've found a French teacher for me. She's energetic, she speaks fast and she knows her stuff. And waits patiently for several minutes until in great pain I finish one of my brilliant sentences ("Today I am wearing a black dress and a bra."), which come out in some kind of strange Spanish anyway. I also do a German (!) - French tandem with a French guy once a week, I try to study a bit on my own and I acquire quite a lot by just being here. Supermarkets are a great linguistic opportunity, as are friendly taxi-drivers or other teachers at my school.

How did my friends learn this language, though? (Not a rhetorical question - friends, answer!) And, above all, why did I choose German at school? I mean, honestly, how can you not become frustrated with French? All those letters that magically disappear in pronunciation! Argh. But I am making some progress. After a month I suppose I've reached a level which allows me to get fruit on my own, to talk to the cleaning ladies outside of my building (and they are African! the accent is different!) or to understand what children say to me at school. The other day I actually managed to haggle in French and even though we probably overpaid I was terribly proud of myself.

Of course, I still have so much studying ahead of me. I often become irritated because a) I'm a perfectionist and consequently b) I don't feel I'm moving quickly enough. Like yesterday, when I couldn't explain to the taxi driver that he was going the wrong way and he ended up shouting at me. But then again, I managed to talk to the air-conditioning technicians who encountered an unexpected problem and I told them to come back in the afternoon (and they got it, since they are here right now).

Step by step (and they are small and painful and slow steps; and they are steps and not leaps; and I have weights attached to my ankles), I get closer to feeling a bit more comfortable in this strange country where five minutes last an hour, where everything costs a fortune, where I've seen the most beautiful sunsets ever.

IN THE JUNGLE, THE MIGHTY JUNGLE...

Ever since we went to the Lope National Park I've wanted to write a post on the jungle. It's so much more than just a forest - it's a living organism and it deserves a great deal of respect. Because if left alone in the jungle, let's face it, we die.

Although it sounds kind of dramatic, it's simply true. During one of our outings in Mikongo, I imagined the following situation: our perfectly camouflaged guides suddenly disappear. We start looking around but they are nowhere to be found. What do we do? Which way to go? No sir!, there is no way we can get back to the camp, the jungle is full of little paths made by animals, we can't tell one from another. Yes, we die.

The trips are made in small groups, four people maximum. There are two guides, one leading the group, the other one behind the tourists. They are our ears and eyes, as we truly are blind and deaf in the jungle. They can see the most invisible things: a frog that looks like a leaf or a gorilla's nest. Every few metres they stop and listen - which path should we take? They can hear gorillas banging on their chests, they can hear an ape moving behind a curtain of green. And they themselves are completely invisible (see picture on the right). Very carefully they led us into the forest, walking slowly and silently, talking in whisper. Impressive.

Even though we saw very few animals (dry season!), the jungle experience compensated for that fully: the plants were simply awesome. Tree of adultery with ants living inside. In the old days women were punished for adultery by being tied to that very tree (see picture on the left). The healing tree, its resin red as blood. Desinfects wounds, helps the healing process. Lianas strangling trees. Grass that cuts your skin. Enormous trees.

Our guides turned out to be gentlemen, too. They informed Jandro that I should walk in front of him in case we spotted animals (like this I would've seen them first). They also asked my boyfriend if he wanted to accompany me behind a tree so that I could pee. And when I decided to do it (on my own, mind you!), they, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, turned round and, very determined, looked up, so that they would see nothing. They wouldn't turn back until they were absolutely sure I was fully dressed (why would I emerge from behind the tree anything but fully dressed I don't know).

We thus walked and walked and tracked gorillas, thinking how far away we were from everything. And even though we looked and felt quite out of place in this forest of which we know and understand so little, we loved the experience and are determined to come back; in the end it's not difficult: I can see the forest out of the living-room window...

Photos: Jandro