I don't think I'll be keeping up the blog. Sorry. It's too tricky to find time to sit down at a computer alone. Don't worry, though, I'm still making mental notes galore.
Did you know that Indonesian takes words from Portuguese, Chinese, Arabic, and Dutch?
Which means that Arabic, hilariously, has become my guiding friend.
"waktu" on the airplane TV screen obviously referred to remaining flight time (waqt in Arabic=time)
"selamat" is an easy greeting to remember (salam in Arabic=peace, and is used in the classic greeting "salam waaleikum", peace be upon you).
Peace be upon us all.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Being one's self, whatever that means
The other night I broke and reverted to North American English--the accent, the expressions, everything. At once, I wanted to speak and speak and speak. Rick and Jacquelyn, across the table from me, listened. Behind them were the balcony's sliding doors, made of glass. In the glass, I could see myself reflected. I was smiling and glowing from the pleasure of speech.
"What's different?" Jacquelyn asked.
"I'm not hindered," I said.
Then Rick and Jacquelyn told a story of a British woman raised in Argentina by her missionary parents. The woman was prim and proper in English, but relaxed and animated in Spanish. At a party dominated by Spanish-speakers, the woman told stories filled with emotion and punctuated by gestures. On the car ride home, among English-speakers, the woman straightened her spine, put her hands in her lap, and within twenty minutes morphed back into her usual English self.
A natural question: In different languages, are we different people?
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Change and anxiety
I encounter both at two levels.
On the level of the trip: Why am I doing this? Why am I spending all my time, money, and energy on this? What if this is a stupid idea in the end? Being misunderstood all the time isn't pleasant, so why am I signing up for it? I could be back in Vancouver, riding my bike or talking to a friend. I could be taking an art class or making dinner. Instead I'm squashing my clothes into a little bag and figuring out the next step.
On the level of language learning: What if I don't learn anything? What if I do learn, and as a result my English goes haywire and I can't easily express thoughts? Or what if the thoughts themselves go haywire? What if I go crazy?
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Maori in the lexicon
Kia ora! (hello. This appears above my Yahoo mail log-in and before the evening news)
That's his wahine (woman).
Walk as far as the marae (Maori meeting house, though I've read the word actually refers to the sacred ground in front of it)
Kumara (sweet potato)
Pukeko (a particular bird that flies badly)
Ponga (a particular tree fern)
Pakeha (white New Zealanders)
New Zealanders use a lot of Maori words, not only for the plants and animals that their immigrant forefather had never encountered, but also for things that have English equivalents, and for themselves. Do Canadians do this in some parts of the country? I can't think of examples.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Kiwi expressions
Heaps (lots)
Bach (beach house or cabin)
That's flash (fancy-looking)
The weather'll turn to custard (be bad)
Tiki tour (little wander around, by boat or car)
Rangi (poorly-made, poorly-done. Similar to 'ghetto'? Far from politically correct, since it's from Maori mythology and used in Maori names).
Mm (yes)
I reckon (I think)
It's good, eh. (Different than the Canadian 'eh', I reckon. The Canadian 'eh' seems more like a legitimate question. Here I've heard it used for emphasizing or softening a claim).
Sweet as (cool. Great. Preferably used in the expression, "Sweet as, bro.")
Hard-out (hard-core)
She's a hard case. (harder to translate this one. It's positive. I means she's got a good, strong character, and she probably doesn't care what people think.)
Chur (thanks or yeah. Not used by everyone. Again, preferably used in conjunction with 'bro'.)
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
In the morning
In the morning, before we put on our togs (bathing suits), before we look for Ngaire's jandals (flip-flops), when the sounds are the squeaky call of the tui or the electrical racket of the cicadas in the trees, and the colours I imagine beyond my closed eyelids are green--this country is GREEN--and red from the blossoms on the pahutakawa, I have a moment in which to decide:
morning or mo(r)ning
"Good morning, Ngaire," like the North American I've been for the last 26 years, or "Good mo(r)ning, Ngaire," like the New Zealande(r) I can be.
Dropping the 'r' is not an enti(r)ely new concept fo(r) me. My British friend Lauren was chastised each time she came into the house speaking the American dialect we all somehow agreed upon in our expatriate compound in Saudi Arabia. Neve(r) mind that we we(r)e Greek, Indian, Lebanese, Canadian, and so on. We spoke American. "Speak English, Lauren!" said Lauren's British mothe(r) when Lauren fo(r)got to drop the American at the front doo(r) befo(r)e proceeding to the kitchen. And thus Lauren maintained two dialects and I was exposed to a wo(r)ld of 'nea(r)', 'dea(r)', and 'da(r)ling.' "The phone's fo(r) you, Ki(r)sten," Lauren called to he(r) younge(r) siste(r). Or was that me? When I pictu(r)e da(r)ling Ki(r)sten, she's as much a Ki(r)sten as a KiRsten. I could call he(r) eithe(r). People did. Lauren now wo(r)ks in in England. People on the phone ask whe(r)e she's from. She claims some random state in the U.S. to cu(r)tail the conve(r)sation about Saudi. Indiana, I think.
We a(r)e all so, so good at spotting difference. Hitchhiking no(r)th from a reggae conce(r)t in Matakana, Ngaire and I we(r)e approached by a blonde teenage(r) in a blue singlet (tank top/'wifte-beater'). We exchanged fou(r) utterances and he left to check with the drive(r), his gi(r)lfriend, that we could indeed get a ride. Ngaire tu(r)ned to me: "Whe(r)e's he from?" I shrugged. "I dunno. He(r)e?" "Nah," said Ngaire, "I thought he was from America o(r) something." I had spotted a difference and assumed he was a Kiwi. Ngaire had spotted a difference and assumed he was No(r)th American.
The mystery was solved 5 minutes late(r) in the ca(r). Blue singlet was raised in White Rock, British Columbia, for the first 10 yea(r)s of his life, before moving with his Kiwi mothe(r) to Auckland for the next 8. Woah! So much richness in this case study! We could talk about the issue of "mothe(r) tongue," for sta(r)te(r)s. We don't call it "fathe(r) tongue" for a reason--kids tend to take thei(r) mothe(r)s' accents. And yet blue singlet hadn't. And what of the "critical age hypothesis", by which resea(r)che(r)s a(r)gue that if you get imme(r)sed in a language before age 7 or 11 or pube(r)ty, that you can achieve pitch-pe(r)fect fluency in that language? Blue singlet was ce(r)tainly not a pitch-pe(r)fect Kiwi.
I subdued the geek in me that wanted to discuss these issues, but still made him pronounce a list of wo(r)ds that I scribbled into my notebook, designed to quickly test the accent:
call
awesome
family
difference
torso
The last one made everyone laugh: "toRso." Said like a Yank. Even I wouldn't have fallen fo(r) that one, and I've only been he(r)e a week. "Yeah, but you'Re trying to change youR accent," he responded. Fair enough. He was just living his life. And since No(r)th American and Kiwi accents a(r)e--for the most part--mutually comprehensible, why would he change?
My dad didn't lose his Kiwi accent because it was incomprehensible to the Americans who called him while he was wo(r)king in Montana. He lost it because those Americans pe(r)ceived it as different and made fun of him. "Where are YOU from? ENG-LAND?" Easie(r) to inse(r)t some 'r's and extend the vowels than explain. Fast fo(r)wa(r)d fo(r)ty odd yea(r)s and my dad ba(r)ely references the language he hea(r)d and spoke for the fi(r)st couple decades of life, except when he speaks to his beloved cat Jake, and when he thinks no one else can hea(r).
Good mo(r)ning, Ngaire!
morning or mo(r)ning
"Good morning, Ngaire," like the North American I've been for the last 26 years, or "Good mo(r)ning, Ngaire," like the New Zealande(r) I can be.
Dropping the 'r' is not an enti(r)ely new concept fo(r) me. My British friend Lauren was chastised each time she came into the house speaking the American dialect we all somehow agreed upon in our expatriate compound in Saudi Arabia. Neve(r) mind that we we(r)e Greek, Indian, Lebanese, Canadian, and so on. We spoke American. "Speak English, Lauren!" said Lauren's British mothe(r) when Lauren fo(r)got to drop the American at the front doo(r) befo(r)e proceeding to the kitchen. And thus Lauren maintained two dialects and I was exposed to a wo(r)ld of 'nea(r)', 'dea(r)', and 'da(r)ling.' "The phone's fo(r) you, Ki(r)sten," Lauren called to he(r) younge(r) siste(r). Or was that me? When I pictu(r)e da(r)ling Ki(r)sten, she's as much a Ki(r)sten as a KiRsten. I could call he(r) eithe(r). People did. Lauren now wo(r)ks in in England. People on the phone ask whe(r)e she's from. She claims some random state in the U.S. to cu(r)tail the conve(r)sation about Saudi. Indiana, I think.
We a(r)e all so, so good at spotting difference. Hitchhiking no(r)th from a reggae conce(r)t in Matakana, Ngaire and I we(r)e approached by a blonde teenage(r) in a blue singlet (tank top/'wifte-beater'). We exchanged fou(r) utterances and he left to check with the drive(r), his gi(r)lfriend, that we could indeed get a ride. Ngaire tu(r)ned to me: "Whe(r)e's he from?" I shrugged. "I dunno. He(r)e?" "Nah," said Ngaire, "I thought he was from America o(r) something." I had spotted a difference and assumed he was a Kiwi. Ngaire had spotted a difference and assumed he was No(r)th American.
The mystery was solved 5 minutes late(r) in the ca(r). Blue singlet was raised in White Rock, British Columbia, for the first 10 yea(r)s of his life, before moving with his Kiwi mothe(r) to Auckland for the next 8. Woah! So much richness in this case study! We could talk about the issue of "mothe(r) tongue," for sta(r)te(r)s. We don't call it "fathe(r) tongue" for a reason--kids tend to take thei(r) mothe(r)s' accents. And yet blue singlet hadn't. And what of the "critical age hypothesis", by which resea(r)che(r)s a(r)gue that if you get imme(r)sed in a language before age 7 or 11 or pube(r)ty, that you can achieve pitch-pe(r)fect fluency in that language? Blue singlet was ce(r)tainly not a pitch-pe(r)fect Kiwi.
I subdued the geek in me that wanted to discuss these issues, but still made him pronounce a list of wo(r)ds that I scribbled into my notebook, designed to quickly test the accent:
call
awesome
family
difference
torso
The last one made everyone laugh: "toRso." Said like a Yank. Even I wouldn't have fallen fo(r) that one, and I've only been he(r)e a week. "Yeah, but you'Re trying to change youR accent," he responded. Fair enough. He was just living his life. And since No(r)th American and Kiwi accents a(r)e--for the most part--mutually comprehensible, why would he change?
My dad didn't lose his Kiwi accent because it was incomprehensible to the Americans who called him while he was wo(r)king in Montana. He lost it because those Americans pe(r)ceived it as different and made fun of him. "Where are YOU from? ENG-LAND?" Easie(r) to inse(r)t some 'r's and extend the vowels than explain. Fast fo(r)wa(r)d fo(r)ty odd yea(r)s and my dad ba(r)ely references the language he hea(r)d and spoke for the fi(r)st couple decades of life, except when he speaks to his beloved cat Jake, and when he thinks no one else can hea(r).
Good mo(r)ning, Ngaire!
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
The Trip
The tentative list:
Dec 25 to New Zealand for New Zealand English
Jan 23 to Indonesia for Indonesian
Feb 21 to India for Hindi
March 22 to Japan for Japanese
April 21 to China for Mandarin
May 20 to Russia for Russian
June 19 to Germany for German
July 19 to Turkey for Turkish
Aug 17 to Iran for Farsi
Sept 16 somewhere for Arabic?
Oct 15 somewhere for Spanish? or Portugese?
Nov 13 somewhere for French? or Italian? or Swahili?
Dec 13 back to Vancouver
I stress tentative.
A small story:
It happened fourteen months ago, on a chilly October evening in Vancouver. I was sitting with my fellow grad students in a low-ceilinged classroom, half-listening to the professor lecture on language acquisition and doodling in a notebook. Onto the page fell an idea.
Some ideas need time to gestate in dark caves of the brain; you peek in and watch their progress. This one was different. No sooner had I thought it than I saw it. The idea took the form of a book cover bordered with moons--thin crescents and fat circles--and had a tongue sticking out in the center. And at the same moment it was a book, it was a trip: 12 Moons, 12 Tongues.
Just as some ideas need time to grow, some ideas need time to grow resilient. Exposed and passed around too quickly, they get sick or hurt, curl up and die. This one was again different. I told people right away. All the right ones said, "Yes!"
Some favourite responses: Sarah, several hours after viewing the cover, texted me to reiterate, sincerely, her belief that I should do the trip. Second, my dad. The man immediately retrieved a world atlas and then consulted the internet to know the most-spoken languages by number. Finally, Hedy, an adult ESL student. Upon hearing the idea and seeing me point to China on the map, gasped, and, perhaps not knowing how best to express her emotion, shrieked, "Welcome!" Another student mentioned Marco Polo and two said that if they could, they would do the same. Which brings me to gratitude.
I have a passport (two, actually--from Canada and New Zealand) and I'm welcome in most countries. Both parents support me and give me tools to construct the life I imagine. They also welcomed me to live at home this year, without which I wouldn't have saved enough for the trip.
How did I save enough, other than by living at home, you might ask. I worked (as a teaching assistant for Japanese geography students at UBC). I worked (as an academic tutor for students with learning disabilities). I worked (as an ESL teacher for adult newcomers to Canada). I worked (as an ESL tutor to a Chilean engineer, a Brazilian bricklayer, a Japanese paper exporter, a Saudi newspaper editor, and a Polish rebar tier). I made up a job and worked (as director, coordinator, trainer, and handbook-writer for a program to pair language-learners at UBC). I bussed and biked. I schlepped around Tupperware. I made and drank homemade wine. I rediscovered endorphins--cheapest drugs around. I didn't go out much. I bought half my winter clothes at Value Village. I discovered the, "Oh my god, a whole pineapple" thrill of dumpster-diving behind Choices in Kerrisdale. I fell for a fellow anti-materialist.
And voila! End of December spits me out of an intense work-study-family-love waterslide, with $13,000 and a ticket to New Zealand. This is $4,000 short of my $17,000 goal, but that figure was based on a particular list of countries, and a particular series of flights, trains, and buses necessitated by that list of countries, and $30 a day.
I don't have to visit that particular list of countries, I don't have to take those particular flights, buses, and trains, and I don't have to spend $30 a day. Through Couchsurfing, WWOOFing, and being open to the offerings of the universe, I can travel for a year for much less.
Which brings me back to stressing "tentative."
Another story, this time shorter, I promise: While living in Morocco, I took my 10 days of Christmas break to travel up through Spain and France. On the first day--nay, on the ferry on the first day--a Spaniard offered me a stay with his family near Madrid and a German orchestra conductor offered me a room in his villa near Cadaques, where he lived with his Italian wife. To both I had to say, "No. Sorry. I have a plan." The more I reflect on traveling, the more I remember this ubiquitous phenomenon: People suggesting or offering amazing places, jobs, activities, and opportunities. A stewardess gig on a Turkish yacht. A place in London. Surfing lessons. The least-planned trip--a week in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, taken to get away from the 24 million cold-infected inhabitants of Istanbul in the winter--turned out to be the most interesting, most serendipitous, and most though-provoking of all. I think it was also the first time I really used another language, and thought, "Oh! I can do this! This is a do-able thing!" So thank you, Northern Cyprus.
And here's to having a tentative list, but being extremely open to the offerings of the universe.
Thanks for reading the blog!
*I'm not traveling with a computer of any kind, so the updates will be as infrequent as a week apart, and editing will be weak. Ah well!
Dec 25 to New Zealand for New Zealand English
Jan 23 to Indonesia for Indonesian
Feb 21 to India for Hindi
March 22 to Japan for Japanese
April 21 to China for Mandarin
May 20 to Russia for Russian
June 19 to Germany for German
July 19 to Turkey for Turkish
Aug 17 to Iran for Farsi
Sept 16 somewhere for Arabic?
Oct 15 somewhere for Spanish? or Portugese?
Nov 13 somewhere for French? or Italian? or Swahili?
Dec 13 back to Vancouver
I stress tentative.
A small story:
It happened fourteen months ago, on a chilly October evening in Vancouver. I was sitting with my fellow grad students in a low-ceilinged classroom, half-listening to the professor lecture on language acquisition and doodling in a notebook. Onto the page fell an idea.
Some ideas need time to gestate in dark caves of the brain; you peek in and watch their progress. This one was different. No sooner had I thought it than I saw it. The idea took the form of a book cover bordered with moons--thin crescents and fat circles--and had a tongue sticking out in the center. And at the same moment it was a book, it was a trip: 12 Moons, 12 Tongues.
Just as some ideas need time to grow, some ideas need time to grow resilient. Exposed and passed around too quickly, they get sick or hurt, curl up and die. This one was again different. I told people right away. All the right ones said, "Yes!"
Some favourite responses: Sarah, several hours after viewing the cover, texted me to reiterate, sincerely, her belief that I should do the trip. Second, my dad. The man immediately retrieved a world atlas and then consulted the internet to know the most-spoken languages by number. Finally, Hedy, an adult ESL student. Upon hearing the idea and seeing me point to China on the map, gasped, and, perhaps not knowing how best to express her emotion, shrieked, "Welcome!" Another student mentioned Marco Polo and two said that if they could, they would do the same. Which brings me to gratitude.
I have a passport (two, actually--from Canada and New Zealand) and I'm welcome in most countries. Both parents support me and give me tools to construct the life I imagine. They also welcomed me to live at home this year, without which I wouldn't have saved enough for the trip.
How did I save enough, other than by living at home, you might ask. I worked (as a teaching assistant for Japanese geography students at UBC). I worked (as an academic tutor for students with learning disabilities). I worked (as an ESL teacher for adult newcomers to Canada). I worked (as an ESL tutor to a Chilean engineer, a Brazilian bricklayer, a Japanese paper exporter, a Saudi newspaper editor, and a Polish rebar tier). I made up a job and worked (as director, coordinator, trainer, and handbook-writer for a program to pair language-learners at UBC). I bussed and biked. I schlepped around Tupperware. I made and drank homemade wine. I rediscovered endorphins--cheapest drugs around. I didn't go out much. I bought half my winter clothes at Value Village. I discovered the, "Oh my god, a whole pineapple" thrill of dumpster-diving behind Choices in Kerrisdale. I fell for a fellow anti-materialist.
And voila! End of December spits me out of an intense work-study-family-love waterslide, with $13,000 and a ticket to New Zealand. This is $4,000 short of my $17,000 goal, but that figure was based on a particular list of countries, and a particular series of flights, trains, and buses necessitated by that list of countries, and $30 a day.
I don't have to visit that particular list of countries, I don't have to take those particular flights, buses, and trains, and I don't have to spend $30 a day. Through Couchsurfing, WWOOFing, and being open to the offerings of the universe, I can travel for a year for much less.
Which brings me back to stressing "tentative."
Another story, this time shorter, I promise: While living in Morocco, I took my 10 days of Christmas break to travel up through Spain and France. On the first day--nay, on the ferry on the first day--a Spaniard offered me a stay with his family near Madrid and a German orchestra conductor offered me a room in his villa near Cadaques, where he lived with his Italian wife. To both I had to say, "No. Sorry. I have a plan." The more I reflect on traveling, the more I remember this ubiquitous phenomenon: People suggesting or offering amazing places, jobs, activities, and opportunities. A stewardess gig on a Turkish yacht. A place in London. Surfing lessons. The least-planned trip--a week in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, taken to get away from the 24 million cold-infected inhabitants of Istanbul in the winter--turned out to be the most interesting, most serendipitous, and most though-provoking of all. I think it was also the first time I really used another language, and thought, "Oh! I can do this! This is a do-able thing!" So thank you, Northern Cyprus.
And here's to having a tentative list, but being extremely open to the offerings of the universe.
Thanks for reading the blog!
*I'm not traveling with a computer of any kind, so the updates will be as infrequent as a week apart, and editing will be weak. Ah well!
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