When I was seven, I began taking French, and my teacher, Monsieur Grimal, showed us a map of the world with random bits coloured in red. Monsieur Grimal told us that they were known as the "francophone" countries. They were important, and had names such as Madagascar, La Martinique, and Guinea Conackry. It seemed to me like excessive boasting, and I was not won over by his argument that this made my homework all the more important. In fact, I was fairly certain that countries like La Guadeloupe and Morocco would have very little to do with my life. French was for France, and France only.
When I was thirteen, I dropped French so I could learn how to write Chinese.
I spent the last three weeks in Senegal, which is, amongst other things, 1) not France, and 2) francophone. The moral of the story is that when I was seven I was an idiot.
Thankfully though, I was able the get around. This was partly because I remembered something, but mostly because English and French are closely related, and many words can be converted. Some, however, can not. For instance, when someone told me I was disgusting (dégueulasse), I thought he was calling me Legolas. Instead of apologizing, I beamed with joyous and inappropriate delight.
The hardest part of learning a new language is the sheer exhaustiveness of constantly paying attention. The reason for this is something that I have decided to call “The Luxury 5-second Recall”. I shall now demonstrate how it works with a randomly chosen word, in this case grapefruit. (The French translation is pamplemousse.)
The word goes in one ear
I remain blissfully unaware while it exits via the other
I realise that something has been said, snap out of
my stupor, and force the word to do a U-turn
so it can re-enter my brain, where I process it.
This is The Luxury 5-second Recall, and it is only an option if you are familiar enough with a language to remember and instantaneously comprehend sounds that were said a while back. It is also, as its name suggests, not to be taken for granted. Because if you are not that familiar with the words being said to you, something else happens:
The word goes in one ear
You remain blissfully unaware while it goes out the other
You realise that something has been said, and snap out of your stupor,
just in time to see the word, which you don't recognise, waft off into space
Meanwhile the conversation has continued without you,
leaving your brain empty and sullen.
*It's gone!
Basically, if you’re fluent in a language, you can understand it not just when you listen to it, but also when you hear it. If you're not fluent, your brain has to remain alert all day, which is painful.
French is not the only language spoken in Senegal though. The country has around 7 main ethnic groups (if you include the Lebanese, which you should; they’re everywhere), and each one has its own native tongue. However, the two most widely spoken languages are French and Wolof. For many Senegalese people, French is for school and words that have yet to been translated into Wolof, and Wolof is for everything else. This includes, but is not limited to: bargaining on the streets for Chinese-made flip flops, telling jokes, swearing, and pointing out white people as they pass by.
On the surface, Wolof sounds incredibly alien. It is written with loads of x’s and full of sounds like “wek”, “nek”, and “buhguhnuhduhguh”. Additionally, nobody is really sure what the standard way to write it is.
Yet on closer inspection, it is quite simple to learn. My epiphany came after I saw an advertisement in Dakar that read, “Kan Mo Bari Feem?” On it was a man with his mouth open, and he was about to engulf an entire car. It was the Rosetta Stone that I needed, and my mind sprung into optimistic action. Here is a diagram of my hopeless yet somewhat brilliant thought process:
French is not the only language spoken in Senegal though. The country has around 7 main ethnic groups (if you include the Lebanese, which you should; they’re everywhere), and each one has its own native tongue. However, the two most widely spoken languages are French and Wolof. For many Senegalese people, French is for school and words that have yet to been translated into Wolof, and Wolof is for everything else. This includes, but is not limited to: bargaining on the streets for Chinese-made flip flops, telling jokes, swearing, and pointing out white people as they pass by.
On the surface, Wolof sounds incredibly alien. It is written with loads of x’s and full of sounds like “wek”, “nek”, and “buhguhnuhduhguh”. Additionally, nobody is really sure what the standard way to write it is.
Yet on closer inspection, it is quite simple to learn. My epiphany came after I saw an advertisement in Dakar that read, “Kan Mo Bari Feem?” On it was a man with his mouth open, and he was about to engulf an entire car. It was the Rosetta Stone that I needed, and my mind sprung into optimistic action. Here is a diagram of my hopeless yet somewhat brilliant thought process:
Mohammed Barry is a student at ALA. Who knew he was so famous?
In actuality, “kan mo bari feem” means “who has the most swag?” But of course, we already know the answer to that: “Mohammed Barry has the most swag!” After all, he eats cars. It doesn't get much more swaggerfantastic than that.
In actuality, “kan mo bari feem” means “who has the most swag?” But of course, we already know the answer to that: “Mohammed Barry has the most swag!” After all, he eats cars. It doesn't get much more swaggerfantastic than that.
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