Then I'll go/ I'll go home/ Amsterdam

Come to think of it, I am uncomfortable in my mother tongues. Afrikaans makes me wonder if I am saying things correctly, if the idioms I use actually exist, whether something is spelled with a 'v' or with an 'f' and whether the vowel needs to be doubled or not. German poses similar problems. There is a vast vocabulary and cultural background in both that I have not grown up with because the languages represented my mother or my father, not countries and colloquialisms.

I feel at home in English because I don't need to think about which words fit. I learnt being 'as dead as a door nail' in Grade 4 when my mother sat outside on the patio with me and taught me the words. English took root consciously whereas the others remain at times uncertain to my tongue.

The past weekend however I did feel somewhat of a homecoming upon hearing Dutch in Amsterdam. Reading the billboards and the descriptions of products in the supermarket was easy. Hell, the supermarkets itself felt like going into Woolies and not into Lidl. The fresh produce looked fresh, the home brand's packaging was simplistic but modern, and everything invited you to purchase it.

But the trip to Amsterdam was not about language or consumerism (ok, a little bit of consumerism). All I wanted were fields of flowers. Tulip upon tulip merging into a blanket of colour. Because it was a mild winter the bulbs bloomed earlier and we came upon the last of the flowers. But more on that in a later post.

The trip there already took us 6 trains and 8 hours, so when the first 5 Amsterdammers were really unfriendly I was slightly pessimistic about the next few days. The city was also overrun with tourists who wanted to stand in queues for hours and tick off the Rijksmuseum and Anne Frank house from their lists. The girls I was travelling with also went to the museums, so instead I strolled along alone and simply took in the city.

Charging in the city. 

 

Trying to save on money, I mostly went to places I found when googling "free things to do in Amsterdam". The first was the Begijnhof, a secluded courtyard in the heart of Amsterdam where the Beguines still live. You have to find a wooden door to enter the courtyard, so it felt a bit Alice-in-Wonderland-ish. Right in front of the door is a square called Spui where coincidentally a second-hand book market took place, so basically I walked into heaven right there.

Begijnhof

This guy knows what it's about.

Building at the end of the world. 

Another wonderful thing about Amsterdam was its markets. Here there is a Wochenmarkt that happens on Wednesdays and Saturdays and where you can buy mainly fresh produce, some plants and needlework supplies. At home going to the market meant driving through to Joburg and exploring the delicious delicacies of the Neighbourgoods Market whilst pushing past throngs of hipsters. It entailed chilling with friends, enjoying a cocktail and exploring Braamfontein. In Amsterdam there is the Albert Cuyp market, which takes over an entire street and where vendors sell almost anything. There is fresh produce, bicycles and accessories, waffles, electronics, cheeses, poffertjies, and and and. It was very crowded but the rush of all the smells in the air was worth it. On our last day in the city we further headed to the Sunday Market, which seemed similar. We were there a bit too early, so the vendors were still setting up. But my mouth began to water when simply reading what was on offer: pulled pork sandwiches, tortillas with various fillings, wonderful breads and beautiful little tarts. If it had been a little later in the day I would have gotten a pitcher of Mojitos and had myself a feast.

On our way back to the train station we walked down the Haarlemmerdijk and found the.most.awesome.patisserie.ever. Petit Gâteau prepare all their little pastries in the store and you can also learn how to bake in their atelier. There is this row of 30 little cups with different fillings, ranging from every chocolate kind possible to orange and pistachio, clafoutis filling and the one I chose in the end: a panna cotta filling. Best thing I ate in Amsterdam.

Albert Cuyp Market

Vondelpark

Sunday Market in Westergasfabriek

The most delicious panna cotta pastry.

The asparagus has arrived. Such excitement for a shoot. 

After the last market we took 4 trains and again 8 hours to get back to Flensburg. Nothing like sleepless restlessness to make you appreciate having been elsewhere and having returned to your own bed.

Lucha de gigantes

A friend has come to visit from Mexico, and now it is as though my brain is playing an evil game of  hide and seek with any remnants of Spanish vocabulary. It hides all the correct words behind layers of French; it hands me verbs that sound right when pronounced differently but aren't; it makes me look up a lot in reflection; it forces me to speak slowly, as one does to a small child who has been woken by a nightmare and needs calming down; and it makes me go in search of something deeply buried beneath years of other languages and growing-up. 

I feel old not only because the wine I drank at yesterday's braai propelled me to my bed at 7.30, a time when my mother is still awake and torturing me by a) seeing her daughter drunk as a skunk and b) wanting me to look at photographs whilst all I wanted to do was sleep it off. No, I feel old because Spanish was a language learnt in innocence, when we went on holiday trips in the big grey Buick to find pyramids in jungles whilst listening to Celine Dion for the 100th time because I had only chosen her CDs to bring along. 

Spanish was something that came freely, that did not have to be learnt. Spanish is getting up in the dark to catch the school bus. Spanish is when my Spitzi was still alive, when we had a tiny garden but an enormous house, when my father ripped off his own finger (by accident), when children were dressed as clowns at traffic lights and when we went for horse riding lessons twice a week. Spanish, basically, was the bubble before it burst. 

In hindsight the end of the 'perfect family' was the better thing to have happened. It was not easy to suddenly be left à trois, but it meant no more fighting, no more patriarchy, no more lies, no more betrayal. Lives lived in separation was the right choice. 

And now Spanish is back, with a vengeance, in pursuit of past recollections. 

Come on brain, we don't mind remembering. 

New Coat of Paint

I don't exactly know how these things happen, but I end up going along on trips impulsively. And often the trips are kind of last-minute planning, which to my very-German-Pünktlichkeit (to-be-on-time-ness) is quite disruptive. I like thinking ahead, making lists of things to take along, and am admittedly a bit anal about organisation. So these trips, damn people, you don't realise what you're putting me through with the randomness of it all. Maybe it is time to see a shrink about creating unnecessary anxiety situations, hahaha.

Anyways. In the end the trips are always worth the internalised stress because leaving is always worth it. This time, a friend asked me along to "the mountain". It sounded very LOTR, so hey, who would say no. That, and the fact that I am becoming a lazy hermit who thinks walking around in the same clothes for a few days is fine because no one can see me. To quote the one girl at our graduation: "Sabine, you are really becoming a hobo."

The mountain turns out to be the hilly region around Tzaneen in the Limpopo province, close to Haenertsburg. We stayed in an enormous old farm house and mainly ate a lot, switched between German/French/English, drank a bit of wine and looked at the rain pouring down outside. Lucky for us, the electricity also decided to be very temperamental, so we were never entirely sure if/for how long the power would be on. It was very different, just sitting around doing nothing nothing nothing all day. No books, no series-watching, no driving anywhere.

We tried venturing outside once to explore the area and walk with the two dogs, but as soon as we came near the river Thor thought we deserved some punishment and the heavens opened up again. Hello rain, thanks for noticing I was not entirely kitted out for your onslaught of wetness. Well played.

The next day promised to be beautiful, with clear skies and warm sunbeams, but we had to head back home. It was good to get away and do nothing, to have long conversations with people you didn't know all that well before and to be out of your comfort zone.

I speak because I can

It is a scary thing, speaking a language that is not your own. You don't know what the right words are as your tongue stumbles over unfamiliar sounds and your synapses search frantically to relay information that they have acquired, somewhere, at some point in time, but that you cannot seem to remember.

You are afraid that the others will have learnt the mastery of the language, that they won't make mistakes as you, in turn, take an axe to a language that is supposed to flow beautifully.

Learning a languages means pronouncing words from your mother tongue with a different accent when you don't know the correct word. It means gesticulating a lot. It means nodding and smiling when someone else finally finds the word and you have an 'aha'-moment. It means opening your mouth and stumbling because yes, it does get better. It might even get so good that you won't have to search for the right words, that you won't fall over each grammatical exception and that you might even interject youthful slang like a local.

Speaking more than your mother tongue opens worlds and breaks down barriers because people appreciate others making an effort to learn their native language, even if you aren't extremely proficient yet.

It isn't easy because your brain cannot simply go into Google Translate mode, but all the strain and embarrassment is worth it when you don't have to think what you are saying anymore and the executioner has become eloquent.

Therefore a friend and I created Taaltandem, a page on FB that aims to unite people in Pretoria who have learnt a language or are in the process of acquiring a language and want to practice their oral skills without the confines of traditional classes. It is a free event, about twice a month, where a random group of people get together and chat about their lives. The only condition is that you try to speak whichever language you are learning.

Our second event took place yesterday, and although I was nervous it would be a big awkward flop, every one that came was charming and keen on interacting with so many new faces. Wonderful.







If you are interested, there is a 'like'-button on the right side of the blog or simply search for 'Taaltandem' on FB and join the page to see when the next meeting is.

My happiness

Japan interview, done.
It is intimidating when some of the other applicants have already done the programme, or can already speak Japanese, or have worked for a few years, or are looking really serious in their suits and ties.
It is also intimidating when you walk into an enormous room and see a little white chair in the middle, facing the three men who will be interviewing you.

But then, somehow, it all turned out ok.
They let me talk about multiculturalism and needing to be 'immersed' in order to learn a language and ideas for my Masters and Chris Chameleon and Boo! and Desmond and the Tutus and Japan having too many old people and music videos and Gangnam Style and Disneyland and culture shock and being thrown in the deep end.

Here is also a funny commercial relating to language and happiness:

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Привет, Россия. Очень приятно. Я надеюсь, что не имеют никакого наступления ошибки. Это все перевести Google.


I cannot speak Russian. Nor write in Cyrillic. That was all Google Translate, hopefully semi-correct.

As a child, language never meant anything to me. I spoke one to my mom and another to my dad. As easy as that. Then, when I started school, suddenly there was a third one added into the mix. It wasn't hard to learn, and soon I progressed to the intermediate class. I remember being in that class for the first time. About twenty six-year-olds being told some story about how the little fish travels from the stream all the way to the ocean. At that age my eyes would occasionally start to water at random times, and I swear it was not crying. During the account of Mr. Fish's adventures my eyes chose to start producing tears, and the whole class was very concerned about my sadness concerning the fish. All I could say, very embarrassedly, was "Meine Augen tränen nur." Not even in French. Well, at least I was not the girl who peed in her pants during class.

The next step in language learning was Mexico. All the other children were either Mexican or could speak Spanish. Not I. For a year, the fat boy next to me kept calling me tonta, until I could one day retort, very eloquently, "Tu eres tonto." For a year I stalked my sister during break time since no one in my class wanted to speak to me in a language I could understand. I missed the good old days of watery eyes about wandering fish, now crying for real in my room after school. And then, after a year, hello Spanish. The language coming out of my mouth was the one of a native speaker, the looks not so much. I was asked to join the cool girls' group, la bola. Things were looking up.

But then, wham bam, we up and left. Next challenge. English. I had heard it but had never really spoken a word of English. My mom sat outside with me in the sun and I learnt things like As dead as a doornail. It was no use though, because initially I had no idea what the teacher was saying. Once I asked the girl opposite me to tell me what we were supposed to being doing, and Mrs. Nöffke asked me to leave the class. Well, that is what the girl translated. But then she added in a whisper that I should just stay seated and be quiet.


I had a few years on non-language issues. Puberty and hormones were of greater concern. Then, at university, I volunteered to attempt to learn Latin. The other languages had been easy, and this was their source, so why should it not be, too? Ah, the ignorance. All I remember now is puer and puella (boy and girl, I think). The rest is a complete blank. The origins of Romance will elude me, it seems. 

Now, what remains? To try to learn another? To try and regain the one's out of practice? South Africa has eleven official languages. Two I've got, should the next one be one of these: IsiNdebele, IsiXhosa, IsiZulu, Sesotho sa Leboa, Sesotho, Setswana, siSwati, Tshivenda, or Xitsonga? It is a blessing to be able to learn as many languages as possible, but I believe that without some kind of immersion in the original culture, it is of no use. You need to hear the way others speak their mother tongue, the accents and nuances that only someone who has heard this since birth (or even whilst in the womb?!) naturally uses and which are so hard for language learners to understand. An accent is a sign of belonging, of having others like you. An accent is something to be envious of.

One of my cousins has grown up speaking mainly Afrikaans, which means that he has quite a strong accent we he speaks English. Normally, we treat this imperfection of pronunciation as something to be ashamed of, as a marker of the uneducated, the lower class, the one's who could not manage perfect language acquisition of a tongue not their own. I disagree. We aim at speaking like native speakers, but I am not French, nor Spanish, nor English, really. So why must I speak like someone who is? I don't mean the stumbling massacre of language executed by local politicians. There is a difference between having a charming accent and an intentionally dumbed down accent to make you appear closer to the masses.

But what of the baggage that language carries with it? How are we embarrassed by our speaking? When I had to read my short story, I was petrified of mispronouncing the words, of making the story I told in my head different from the one I read simply by saying it wrongly. This Friday presents another linguistic challenge. For four years, English has dominated my brain's language centre. Now I need to present in my father tongue, my school tongue, a language used irregularly over the past years in a colloquial mix of slang and words borrowed from other languages. I have forgotten how to speak in the way that cursive handwriting looks on the page, the Dichter and Denker part having been somewhat neglected. 

It is interesting to note that the two languages my parents taught me have both originated from cultures hated by others for old atrocities. Before launching into "Igh libbe dish", non-Germans comment on the hardness of language, the harsh mix of sounds foreign to their ears. For Afrikaans it is the same comments. Occasionally someone will say it is ugly.

I think there is beauty in words on pages, words reaching ears and even if no meaning is understood, the sounds can still effect some reaction. You know how people say French is such a beautiful language? But it is the same thing as telling a dog in a soothing, friendly tone that you will not feed him for a week. We react to the sound of things, not to the truth of it.

Same in any language

About thirty people are shouting at me, enthusiastically. "Commerce!Commerce!Commerce!" I am bewildered. What arrrrrre they saying? Because they are all speaking at the same time, and not in unison, I don't really know, but smile politely and pretend to have understood.

Today was the first day I ever interpreted, officially. At the moment the university is hosting a course for diplomats from francophone countries in Africa, and some of the Masters and Honours students are helping with the interpreting. Most of the visitors do understand English, but to make some points clearer it helps to have someone. Perhaps that someone is not me, yet.

The diplomats know we aren't professionals, but still I was stressing. It was like a first date, except that the butterflies in my stomach were evil and eating my insides. I prepared, read some articles, found some terminology I thought was relevant, and remembered to translate, above all, "le sens" (the sense) and not the individual words. But what you do at home is not the same as when you have to interpret words and acronyms that you don't even know in English.

After a while I decided to fuck translating the slides and simply pronouncing English words in a French way. I just made notes, and when I didn't know the word or expression, the group was more than willing to help. They were all very friendly and understanding, and after an hour, I felt a lot more at ease. I'm sure a professional would have cringed and thought that it was a bit of a pathetic effort.

But the diplomats came up to me afterwards to say "good job" and to give advice on how to improve, which is great. I think good interpretation comes with experience. I'm glad I tried this, and will do so again for Wednesday's session. It can only get better.

Someone ( I found either Roosevelt or Vonnegut as sources) said that you should do something everyday that scares you. I'm scared of lizards, sharks and people breaking into my house/car and hurting me. Academia normally doesn't scare me. Speaking in front of people is also mostly fine. This, however, was terrifying. It was the fear of not understanding, of misinterpreting, of not finding the right words, of embarrassing myself, and most importantly, of failing.

But without trying, you can neither succeed nor fail. So suck it, evil intestine-eating butterflies. I got this.

Paris (Aeroplane Remix)

Bonjour-eh.

I fink u freeky

Who needs Die Antwoord when you've got Gazelle.

Thoughts on a Monday. But not this one.

Walking.
Getting away as far as possible, escaping from what I have grown up with, what I have been taught, what I can remember.
I think about my BFF in elementary school, Tina. I always thought I would leave first, because that is the life when one is used to moving. But she left first.
Now everyone has left, somehow. It's not easy making new friends, but also somehow, it is ok. The whole small talk aspect of it pissed me off, but I see myself as a Zwitter: alone and in crowds, part and yet not, entirely.

Today was a bad day. Normally your presence would have saved it. Holding you would have eased it.
Now mourning, c'est d'être vivant quand la vie même est morte, it's like being alive when life itself has died, c'est de respirer quand tout souffle s'est enfuit, it's like breathing when all breath is gone, c'est sentir trop, like feeling too much about everything.

Walking I saw
the lady in the car waving at me for not letting me walk past. Fuck you.

There is a teenage girl with black tights and shirt jumping in tandem on trampoline with a little girl in a yellow dress. I hear the see-saw of the springs. Un peu d'air sur terre. A moment of not being bound to the earth and its restrictions.

Then the varkhond barks.
A second later the bubbling of a child's laugh from behind a tall wall.
People are standing on the corner, careful to look away as I approach. No eye contact here.
The heavy breathing of an older man jogging only in tiny blue shorts. A short wave.

Congregating in the street. It is strange to see after years of hiding behind enormous gates, "Good fences make good neighbours".
A dad with a huge drooping-eyelid-dog, the two boys barefoot on bikes, circling him.
Walking and crying.
A little boy playing with two pavement specials waves at me.
A grey cat sleeping, blending into the pavement.

Now, the boy kicking the soccer ball home, uphill. I would just pick it up and carry it instead.
Three men around a cellphone, watching me, talking about me in a tongue I cannot understand. But I feel the words. Mens weet altyd.

Two older men, politely greeting. They must have known the restrictions the pass/past laws. I am wondering if we still choose to live in our own race, or if it's mostly dependent on means.

Then, I am home.






This is how I think. It is never just one language.

word for word

via Becky

Glossolalia*

I think you are never able to express what you want to say as well as you do in your mothertongue. Sure, you can learn other languages and depending on how well this acquisition is you can learn to express yourself like a mother-tongue speaker, but it is never wholly natural.

Because my parents both spoke a different language with us, we grew up bi-lingually, but ( as you have probably noticed) my Afrikaans is fine when I have to speak it, but the grammar and the linguistic expressions are lacking because I did not learn that base structure at school and was not constantly practising it. Now I practice by watching 7de Laan. 

Also, I only learned English when I was 10, but I feel quite secure in my language use here. 

But today I helped a young South Korean man with his English ( basically we just talk and thereby he practices his English) and it reminded me of my time at Disney, because people assume you are not as smart when you cannot express yourself clearly in their mothertongue. When you have an accent and not quite the same expansive vocabulary as 1st language speakers, they think you are not as intelligent because you cannot always immediately find the right words to say exactly what you mean. I doubt most of them realise how hard it is to learn a new language and that it becomes quite frustrating not to have the words right there. It is annoying to have to think about what you are saying and if the expression is right. 

To some it might also be irritating when people correct you, but this depends on how it is done. Normally I don't mind being helped along because I see it as a learning curve and then one won't make the same mistake in the future, but I can understand how it is weird to be very eloquent in one's own language and not have that immediate access to words in another language. 

But then again, it bothers me when people speak a language badly when they have had ample time to learn it. Here I directly mean the politicians and the journalists at the SABC. I mean really, that jumbled mix of bad grammar and worse pronunciation is just not sufficient. If I can learn to speak other languages clearly, why can you not do the same? Especially when one must speak to the public and provide information for them. 

* it means "speaking in tongues"