|
A peculiar practise that I have developed early in my childhood was one of vocal imitation. It had been my deepest fear as a child to be ostracised for my difference in appearance, and I quickly learned that grasping the exact intonation and correct grammar avoided me of the many questions, misunderstandings, expressions of impatience and at times derogatory remarks that would be directed at someone who lacked a good command of the local language. My speedy grasp of local languages was not an attempt to defeat the locals at their own language but in fact, a rather harmless dissimulation that would enable me to evade many of the racial conflicts that has been experienced by other immigrants in future.
Over time, mastering languages became not only a necessity but also an art that I’ve learnt to take pride in. At an early age I was fluent in three languages and over the years attempted to accumulate several other European languages but in vain. Either I gained the ability to converse in a new language and lost a language that I previously learnt, or I was unable to acquire a consistent standard in all of my known languages.
Languages such as Xhosa (that possesses the famous ‘clicking’ sound borrowed from the Khoisan tribe and spoken in most of southern Africa), Russian and Arabic Darija (spoken uniquely in Morocco) are of particular interest for me. The intonations and pronunciation are an array of sounds not unusual to my ear, yet very much so for my tongue, and I would be able to sit quietly in the presence of native speakers without uttering a word, listening in awe.
Having rarely failed at pronouncing words in a foreign tongue, my problem lay usually in grammar. It also became exceptionally hard at one point in time to learn additional languages and even more so to speak it. I started to panic. Why the awkward pause before opening my mouth? I was a stranger to hesitancy- as a child I paid no heed to what I said and spoke with speed and expressiveness in many languages. Was I to lose my one aptitude that could as much as build as topple my confidence? I decided to get to the bottom of my linguistic hindrance.
Morocco provided with me with the answer. Weeks before my departure from France I made it a point to learn at least ten phrases of daily use as well as counting from one to twenty. In spite of all the help from my Moroccan neighbour in France in memorising words I soon became weary, in the end unable to recall the phrases taught. Suffice it to say, I arrived in Morocco unfit to converse.
Random classic Arabic words along with Darija shrouded my mind at the passport control. I was greeted with the solemn face of the immigration officer who looked at me closely, almost rudely. I was the only Asian in the entire airport. He flipped through my already-battered passport with distrust, and for reasons unknown decided to call upon a fellow officer. All knowledge of Arabic vanished from my mind in an instant and I immediately inquired after the apparent problem in French- Morocco being one of the many francophone African countries- a question that he dismissed with several other questions regarding my position and intentions in Morocco (which was obviously to work, thus the work visa). Nevertheless I explained briefly the internship that had been granted by their local authorities and gave the name and address of my company-to-be. It did not cast away his doubts, instead, he leaned over the counter and did the impossible: calling upon a French lady seen chatting with me in line to vouch for my supposed personage. Confused as I was, the French woman repeated what I had said and politely asked if he could speed up the process.
By now, people lined up behind me have not only doubled in size but have rowdily started to complain, directing their spiteful comments at me rather than the testy officer. “Mais quoi encore? La chinoise n’a surement pas de visa…”, went one French woman, that Chinese surely does not have a visa. I could sense her disdain eight bodies away and I whipped around to scowl at her in retaliation. With all the confidence I could muster I directed back at the officer in what little Darija I could conjure up in the time of crisis and spoke in a potpourri of broken Darija and French, Mashi Moshki Sidi, bghriti numéro dyal El Watan? appelez-le, ana sahafia ils vont te le confirmer.
No problem Sir, I said, do you want the number of El Watan (newspaper name)? Call them. I am a journalist, they will confirm it.
Waš tehdar arrabiyya shinwiyya? Bienvenue au Maroc, came the response with a gap-toothed smile. You speak Arabic, Chinese girl? Welcome to Morocco. I could’ve cried with relief.
My episode with the officer at the Tangiers airport depicts in no way an accurate image of Moroccans, where strangers have offered me food and given me shelter without a demand in return. It is a mere demonstration of my final breakthrough in my ‘linguist’s block’. I was not obligated to speak in Darija but I had done so in hopes of dismissing the image of a benighted tourist, or whatever they normally stereotyped Asian people. I had realised that in not translating word by word in my head, as I would’ve done in what I had believed to be a constructive way of speaking other languages, was indeed the key to speaking a foreign language.
Our head is a treasure cove of words and corresponding meanings learnt, stagnant and yet to be tested. Holding back and being timid would not heighten your linguistic senses in finding the correct words to place in a sentence. Regardless of my awkward phrasing, He was able to comprehend my broken usage of Darija. Coincidentally enough, many Moroccans do indeed speak in a mixture of both Arabic and French.
Our tongue, despite what many may say, is capable of producing an astounding variation of noises, be it the guttural ‘h’s in Arabic, the rolled ‘r’s in Spanish, or the ‘z’s through clamped teeth in Russian. It takes practice, patience and passion as you would in painting a mural or mastering any dance choreography, before attaining an admirable result. Pay little attention to the foreignness of a language- a tiny insignificant detail- and concentrate rather on what you want conveyed and you may find yourself living in all corners of the world, speaking languages you would have never dreamed of knowing.
---------------------------------------------
Alice is a great traveller,
read about her "zugunruhe" syndrome
|
