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

AMÉRICAINE?

Last week I started working as an English teacher at a Gabonese (French?) elementary school. I teach ages 5 - 11 and, well, it's not easy but the kids (contrary to what I expected) are mostly great. I don't want to write about the school today, though; this blog is not about teaching in the end. The beginning of term brought about more concerns than just ESL methodology. I had to start moving around the city on my own - Jandro did not want to leave his job and become my full-time driver (the post is still free, interested?).

So, taxis. And, above all, speaking. French. Clearly. It is stressful, this taxi business. I described them in detail in April and, sadly, nothing's changed since then. The first time is always the most difficult but then, remember?, my first taxi was in April. Thus, this experience safely behind me, with new energy I started talking to the taxi drivers. With most of them it's easy: you say how much, you say where, they nod or drive away. Done. Of course, you have to get over the initial shock - the car, falling apart, is usually driven by some kind of NY gangsta imitation. But the rule is still Nike: Just Do It!

Consequently, many people have the pleasure of seeing my struggle with French. I have had quite a few successful conversations in that language, though: cleaning lady at the school (will switch off the air-conditioning), cheese lady at the supermaket (has three children, sister will get married soon), Senegalese taxi-driver (doesn't like Libreville but the job is good)... All of my interlocutors asked me immediately: "Américaine?" There must be something inevitably American about my accent and looks, I guess. I do always say I'm Polish and to that the reactions are many and diverse:
- Ahh, Poland! The Pope!
- Ahh, Poland! There was this football-player in 1970s., what's his name?
- Ahh, Poland! Close to Russia?
- Ahh, Poland! You speak English there?
- Ahh, Poland! Are you finally independent?

I wonder what people from Warsaw would say to a Gabonese person...? Ahh, Gabon! Where the hell is that?!

CARTE DE SEJOUR

Taaadaaaa! Pretty cool, huh? We went to the office and we got it, just like that! I'm official and nobody will deport me unless I go really bad. Big success, yes sir!

Oh, and just so you know - if I can't prove I'm a teacher or whatever, I have no profession. Obviously.