I PRONOUNCE YOU BOSS AND TENDERNESS

Last Saturday two of our friends got married (congratulations yet again!) and we had the pleasure of sharing this special moment with them. It was touching and the scenery couldn't have been better: a tropical beach at sunset. She was wearing a lovely African frock, while he sported a very cool African jacket. I was moved and thought it very romantic but the reason for my describing it here is different: they were married by the Mayor of Libreville, according to the Gabonese law. And this is what I want to tell you about.

The Mayor kept us waiting. It must have been quarter to five when he finally started the ceremony, originally scheduled for four o'clock. He was wearing an official uniform and arrived with a rather intimidating bodyguard. Bonsoir, he said, insisting on using the Gabonese form and stressing that he would not use the French Bonjour instead (the Gabonese use "Good evening" for both evening and afternoon, while the French say "Good morning" all day long).

He started the ceremony by reading out the adequate passages from the Gabonese law. We therefore found out that it is the man who is the head of the family and makes decisions, the chef, the leader. The woman is to follow him, live with him, take care of him and listen to him. There you go.

Having read this, the Mayor informed us that both bride and groom had opted for monogamy. You see, in Gabon, before he gets married, the man chooses "the family book", which can be either monogamous or polygamous. Whatever his choice, he must stick to it in the future, it cannot be changed. We were told nowadays many couples go for monogamy; however, some men choose the polygamous "family book" even if they are not keen on marrying more than once: it's so that they can threaten their wives if they are not obedient ("I'll take another wife! I'm allowed to!"). The Mayor thus posed the question few European people have a chance to answer: "Do you confirm your choice and opt for monogamy? Or are you willing to change it?" Both said monogamy was just fine.

In every decent romantic comedy the real lover has very little time to get to church and save his girl from marrying the villain by shouting out "NO!" when the priest asks whether anybody opposes the marriage (it usually does happen in church in films, doesn't it?). Here in Gabon he would have no problem. The Mayor asked this question and, to our great surprise, did not carry on. He waited. He insisted. "Nobody is saying anything. Why? Do not be shy! Nobody opposes the marriage? Are you sure? Not even a little finger in the air! Why?". I felt like somebody was going to say "Yes, yes, I oppose, I oppose strenously!" in order to get the man to move on.

And then it happened. He married them. And then... decided to give them advice. He congratulated them on taking the step so many people fear nowadays and I thought that quite nice. Afterwards he talked for what seemed like ten to fifteen minutes about the importance of roles in their relationship. He is the boss. She follows him. He tells her what to do. She takes care of the house. The importance of saying "I'm sorry". And how it's her who should normally say it. You know, the usual stuff. Only that he was dead serious.

A couple of unmarried guys told us later that it would be rather cool to get married in Gabon: it puts the woman in her place and it's all legal.

What followed was a lovely religious ceremony and a very nice party. We wish Vania and Thomas all the best - and thanks for letting us be a part of your special day!

THE ONE WITH THE BLACKOUT

Last Wednesday, while we were having dinner, all the lights suddenly went off. This is nothing extraordinary in Gabon. You can depend on power cuts more than on planes leaving as scheduled. We thus took our glasses of wine and positioned ourselved on the terrace to assess the situation. It was the usual: around a hundred metres on the one side and fifty on the other all the street lamps were off. Our location is quite unhappy - if anybody is to have a blackout, it's going to be us, just the tiny square of land occupied by our building and little more.

We were sipping our wine, rather relaxed, as we knew what was going to happen: in about twenty minutes the lights would be back on. We were thus very surprised when, after about twenty minutes, all the lights within our sight went... off. Now that was new. We observed the city buried in complete darkness. Spooky. We went to bed thinking the electricity would come back in the morning.

It didn't. The entire Thursday and the following night the whole city had no power. Most of the food in our fridge went bad in the heat. Computer and mobile batteries were uncharged. No light, no air-conditioning, no lift. For 36 hours.

The lack of electricity is uncomfortable but bearable. The real problem was of different nature: we live on the eighth floor, provided with water by an electric pump. When there is no power, we have no water. In this case, for 36 hours. It also means we must get down eight floors (on foot), fill whatever bottles we have with water and go up eight floors again. During this blackout we only did it once, luckily.

Positive sides? Well, romantic, candle-light suppers and a perfect excuse to read a book all day as no computer work could be done (I don't work at the school on Thursdays and Friday was a day off). Oh, and the fact that they fixed it before Saturday night, as we were originally told they would.

TIA.

PS. I wrote this entry at midday and the very moment I clicked "Publish Post", there was another blackout. African irony, I suppose.

For those of you who are not Friends fans (like us): sorry about the incomprehensible title.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

More often than not our conversations focus on a subject which fills me with, well yes, excitement, but also a great deal of anxiety: our future. And I do not mean our future as a couple in the sense of babies and such, I mean our post-Gabon life.

Until recently I was mainly preoccupied with my moving here, starting to work, getting used to African life... I didn't think about the next stage, the present was too big and overwhelming. On the other hand, it was rather clear to us that at the end of 2010 we would get back to Europe or at least leave Gabon - we don't see ourselves as the Kapuscinskis of Libreville, who decide to devote their lives to the exploration of the Black Continent. Ok then. Leave Africa. And do what?

I feel I want to study. I want to be at university again and re-discover the excitement of a new pen and a fresh notebook. You see, I've always been a bit nerdy that way and I used to immensely enjoy the academic life. Used to, before Spain, before the thesis breakdown, before the university became a burden. I'm ready to get back now and give it another try. I'm consdering cultural management and recycling myself professionally - I think I've done enough teaching.

For Jandro it's also quite complicated. What can you do after working for the EU in Africa? Entering the EU structures is anything but simple and for him, for technical reasons, it proves to be impossible within the next two years. As far as his plans and ideas are concerned, I don't feel entitled to discuss them. I will only say that finding his professional way in a post-Gabon world might be a tad difficult.

To sum up, we're trying to go step by step. First: choose a country. Galicia is not an option: there is no work and the universities are mediocre. Poland? We'd like to spend some time there but not just yet: I think it's easier to study abroad and find work in Poland than the other way round. At the moment we are considering Madrid (big city, work options for Jandro and a renowned MA in cultural management) or Brussels (that means studying in French for me but I'm boldly hoping I'll be fit for it by the end of next year).

Our future remains in the shape of a question mark, then. It's been this way for me for over two years now, ever since I left Poland. At first it used to scare me a lot - if there is no perspective of another academic year, what do I do? Then I thought it was a passing stage and things would get sorted out at some point, the anxiety would go away. Now I realise that it is nothing unusual. The insecurity and uncertainty are part of something extremely natural, upon which we all stumble in the end. The inevitable transformation of caterpillar into butterfly - adulthood.

ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES KASIA... HAPPY

I've been looking through my entries on this blog and I realised that I told you hardly anything about what I really do in Libreville. That is, apart from buying African fabrics and eating porcupines. I haven't written anything about my job.

As you can see in the picture (which now seems a tad creepy but I'll leave it for the lack of a better one), I work with children. I am the English teacher at Courte Echelle, a private elementary school in one of the better quartiers of Libreville. My students are mainly French, Gabonese and Libanese, aged from 3 to 10. I teach all the classes and consequently know all the children at school. This results in thousands of hellos every day and constant mind-breaking doubts when it comes to kids' names.

As you are perfectly aware, I'd never taught at a real school. I've done private lessons and language academies but this here, my friends, is something different. Here the children fall down and hurt themselves, they cry and fight and tell on their friends - and the teacher needs to react. Here you teach black children to respect white children and white chilren to respect black children. You're a role-model. Whatever you say or do might be copied and learned. Constant awareness, ladies and gentlemen!

Teaching "the little blonde heads" (as they were once referred to by someone) is not at all easy. They very often misbehave because they don't consider English a legitimate class. Even though now I speak enough French to communicate my anger (Je suis triste! Je suis fâché! Arrête!), I never use it (keeping them under the illusion that I speak no French seems to be working quite well) and thus it takes me hours to get through with my message. Any message, for that matter. But it's cute to hear them shout in shock Ha! Teacherrr! Vous parlez francais! whenever they accidentaly hear me say a word in their language.

My experience tells me children can be divided into several categories:
- smart and ambitious: they sit quietly, listen, know everything and want to learn; my favourite kind!
- smart and naughty: they misbehave but then answer any question with a huge smile and always know the answer; fantastic at distracting the less talented ones!
- smart and lazy: you know they could advance quickly but they just do nothing; frustrating!
- silly but motivated: they really want to impress but learn slowly; I also like these.
- troubled: learning disabilites, diseases, hyperactivity... you name it; they will drive you nuts but have an excuse.
- stupid and lazy: the worst kind; they do nothing in class, they don't study, they have attitude problems and, above all, they are simply stupid. Do I sound harsh and unfair? Spend a week at my school before you judge me.

I'm trying different things I'd never tried before. I teach songs. I tell stories. I try to reduce the amount of time spent on crafts (which with the very little ones is still considerable... but with twenty 5-year-olds can you blame me?). I prepare hundreds of flashcards and bingos. I do tests. I shout. I punish. I get depressed. I get elated. I get pictures and hugs and hellos and mynamesisjuliettes.

Every now and then I feel like quitting. Every now and then I feel quite proud of myself. Ups and downs, as in any job. I like most of the children and I get a lot of satisfaction when I see them advance. All in all, the balance is positive, although it is definitely not a job for life.

Today I've started English classes at the European Commission. For the record, it was not Jandro who recommended me, it was a former student. I'm very thrilled to work with adults again. They probably won't draw pictures for me but it's a relief to be understood without repeating everything five thousand times. And they don't share bathroom details with me. And they won't cry. Or hurt their knees.

All this put together plus my French classes (twice a week) plus a private Spanish class I give (once a week) keeps me pretty busy. A teacher full time. Better this than the gym-supermarket-lunch-dinner routine, I'm sure.

FRANCEVILLE

The city of Franceville turned out to be rather pleasant. It is spread on green hills, which is enough to make the place quite pretty. It has little to do with Libreville’s European air and white people are practically invisible (Roger told us that they didn’t mix). Here are a few things we thought were worth noting about the city.

Family ties

Franceville is the capital of the Haut-Ogooué province, and in its vicinity lies Bongoville, president Bongo’s native town. No wonder the president (both old and new) took a special liking to the area. Liking, it must be said, which is in every way mutual. The Bongo presidents, father and son, are omnipresent.

While the previous president took care of the city and roads (we were shocked as the roads were better than in Poland), the people did not hesitate to return the favour. This was the province which supported Ali Bongo in nearly 100%. Huge billboards still say Thank you Papa Omar and lament his death. Images of the late president are everywhere: hotels, restaurants, shops, T-shirts… Not to mention the huge statue we've seen somewhere in the city. It seems he was very much loved. Ali Bongo is slowly winning himself a similar place in peoples’ hearts. The village of Kessala was fully equipped in Ali’9 gadgets and displayed them quite proudly. The receptionist at our hotel had Ali on the screen of her mobile. Stickers and pictures are everywhere. Franceville is there for the Bongo family, no doubt about that.

Libanese steak

We found the city a bit more African than Libreville. The shops were completely different, the market beautiful and the restaurants shabby, cheap and good. Our last day we went to a place with a very wide choice of dishes and settled for chicken with fried banana (me) and steak with rice (Jandro). Jandro inquired about the type of meat and the young waiter stared at us blankly. What kind of meat is it?, Jandro repeated patiently and the boy finally answered: Libanese steak, sir. My persistent boyfriend did not, however, give up: Yes, but what kind of meat? Pork? Beef? The boy looked cornered: I do not know, sir. Libanese steak. I smiled because in my mind, having read too much Roald Dahl, I could already picture the waiter capturing a Libanese in order to make him into a steak. No worries, though. It was beef.

Down to the river
There was a river behind our hotel and on our last afternoon, given that we had nothing better to do, we sat on its green bank, reading. There were some benches (all of them occupied) and quite a lot of people around. At first they gave us strange looks but after a little while they just let us be. We observed them a little bit (being careful not to stare) and saw how many different activities can be carried out by the river. Some little boys were playing football (later, when it started to rain, they kept playing, covered in mud from head to toe). A man and a woman were taking a bath, their dark skin shiny from the soap. A girl was washing the dishes, dressed in tight shorts and a bikini top, flirting with a bunch of boys who were watching her. A guy was playing with his puppy (very uncommon sight in Africa, few people keep dogs). And then the rain came. The heavy, tropical rain. We took shelter in a little cafe on the river bank and were served by a waitress with real man-like chest hair. The children kept playing football. The girl kept washing the dishes. They all seemed rather happy.