Mardi 21.11.06 Lost in translation
The rain brings everything to a halt this morning. Nicola is due to start a class at 7,30 and even though we got the 6,20 bus she’s late by half an hour. I’m not due at Tartenson until 8,00 but even so I just make in time; though I needn’t have worried because our foreign friends have mistakenly gone to the Rectorat at Terreville instead of Tartenson.
Today our continental chums will be introduced, or enlightened, to the French and Martiniquan education system. It may seem like the last thing any visitor would wish to do but they are here as educators, as teachers and as representatives of their respective schools and educational systems.
And me, why am I present? Well, I may get away with not having classes this week but I still have to earn my crust. Today I’m a translator. On Thursay I’ll be a tour guide and on Friday I’ll be a tourist. As bizarre as it may seem, most of the educational authorities which we encounter today do not speak English, or rather they do not possess sufficient English to succinctly communicate with our foreign delegation. Madame Jacqueline Bonne is the exception. She is the foreign language specialist for this circonscription, or district, of Fort-de-France 1. She speaks perfect English and Spanish. I spy Mr Nazaire and I follow him up to Madame Bonne’s office where I greet them both.
Joccylene and Karine arrive in a flurry and I help them unload the drinks and treats for our tea break. En route we bump into the battle-axe, Madame de l’Inspectrice. She is in charge of all the primary schools in this circonscription. There are approximately 20 in total in Fort-de-France as a whole. She’ll be giving the talk on education and I’ll be translating, explaining and elaborating throughout. With the projected graphs and illustrations some of the points are straightforward enough and a topic which could go on for days wraps up after an hour with a question and answer session.
What I find the most interesting is the breakdown of who actually teaches English in Martiniquan primary schools; 20% are assistantes like myself, 19% are the primary teachers themselves (with or without sufficient language skills), 8% are secondary school teachers who specialize in languages, 42% are contracted individuals who seldom have either formal teacher training or a permanent post. The remaining 11% is made up of foreign teachers who have had relevant teacher training. Of these 1.8% are French speakers or from the Metropole.
I feel very important as I stand in front of all these essential educators. Its not exactly nerve wrecking but it’s a comfort to direct my translations to the Irish contingent with whom I can relate the most. Each delegation in turn explains how their educational syllabi and structures differ from one another. It is interesting to hear how Finnish students only start to read at 7 years of age but are rated as the best readers in Europe. The Germans inform us on the different streaming systems upon entering secondary education, the Poles complain about being underpaid and underappreciated while the Northern Irish ladies highlight the problem of too many teachers and not enough teaching posts.
For our pause we feast on croissants, pastries and sweet bread and wash it down with coffee and a strange green juice. We never find out the name of the fruit but decide it tastes like gooseberries.
Next up is Mr Nazaire. He presents his slideshow and talk on Martiniquan culture and Créole heritage. For someone who supports and understands the importance of language it’s strange he doesn’t speak English. Instead he tries to impart all his Créole knowledge on us. He starts off by introducing the landscape and climate with the economical and political points to follow. He then jumps on to the timeline and introduces the islands history and how it shaped, and continues to shape, Créole culture. Then the digression begins and he brings in the Carnival, clothing and culinary customs of the population.
“How useful,” I think mockingly as I gaze out the window during his 20 minute stretch on Créole jewellry. It’s not as if it’s not interesting but it’s neither the time nor the place to prattle on about imitation-pearl beads, intertwined links and gold filigree – Madame Bonne and Madame de l’Inspectrice could have lent the crowd their ears, necks and wrists while they displayed their own jewellry collections. Everybody is waning but Mr Nazaire notices and wraps up after an hour and a half. I’m relieved he didn’t have time to go into great detail on the sociolinguistic existence of Créole and French; terms such as diglossie, la zone des mésolectes and tetraglossique were clearly confusing, obscure concepts to the native French speakers present. I think they would have lost all their meaning had I tackled them: “Now for the science bit…” I would have said and everyone would no doubt have instantly retreated to the yard preferring the hazy drizzle than the smog of sociolinguistic drivel.
The morning is not yet over. Madame Muriel Suffrin flutters into the boardroom. She seems to exude a certain skittish, childish joy upon setting eyes on the foreigners. She holds the same position as Madame Bonne though she oversees the other subjects taught in primary schools. She is researching the application of reading and reading skills among primary schools in Europe. Ireland, Germany and Finland are part of her own studies so she is interested in speaking to those present. Upon being introduced to the Poles she adds that a comparative study could also help her research. They exchange names, numbers and emails. She even takes my details even though I tell her it has been ten years since I left primary school.
The other teachers arrive; Madame Thaly, Madame Edragas, Mr Carval… They’re all off to lunch but it’s all the way out the other end of town so I decline the offer to join them. Dominique asks if I mind translating the clues for the treasure hunt around Fort-de-France. I reckon she’s both stressed and impressed with my translation skills and after her hardship and heartache of late all I can do is accept the scrunched pages and try to decipher the cursive scrawls.
Jossylene drops me into town. On the way she thanks me profusely for helping out. I ask her what Thursday and Friday will bring however just as she starts to explain what other Martiniquan masterpieces I have to interpret her phone rings. Herself and Madame Bonne have a good chinwag about the morning session and we reach the city centre just as she hangs up.
Nicola is wearing a bright pink top today. Town is black today but I can’t help but pick her out among the crowds at Point Simone. She was due to meet Bex for lunch but she can’t make it. We head to our cheap and cheerful canteen café. Colombo du poisson and copious amounts of CocaCola prep us for a shopping spree. There are some sales on and we snap up low cut garments at even lower prices. In one store we are both given a cadeau de maison. It turns out to be a bag of gawdy pink bows and tacky plastic hair accessories which would have been à la mode twenty, even thirty, years ago.
Nicola goes back to school. Meanwhile, I’ve to do our dirty work; James, the Irish guy in Sainte-Marie, and his friend Dene, a Spanish assistante in Marin, are staying with us tomorrow and so Madman Arlette has to be told of their arrival. At first when I tell her that we’re having two people over for a night she’s waves her hands dismissively and smiles adding that that’s okay. I leave it at that, wish them a good afternoon and scurry out the door. Though no sooner have I placed my foot on the first step leading downstairs than I hear her flapping about calling me. I roll my eyes to heaven and respond with an offhand yet lingering oui, oui. She pops her head through the side window and asks again how long they are staying and how many there will be. “Deux personnes. Une nuit,” I repeat. There’s only a slight pause before she repeats what I’ve just said adding that that will incur some charges. Charges my arse! I could have charged for her if it weren’t for the railings and five foot concrete wall between us. It was the way she cocked her head and wagged her finger that peeved me the most. I knew that my previous inward self-applause had been premature but I was prepared to regain the sweet sentiment of success. “Mais on s’étouffe” I retorted. “Les chambres ne sont pas climatisées.” She actually didn’t have anything to say. One second passed. Two seconds. I quickly said goodbye and continued down the stairs with a certain smugness replacing what could have easily turned out to be a meek moral and monetary mugging.
Nicola met-up with David in town that evening. She returned just after 20,00 after forking out €20 for a taxi. When I told her she could have had to offer that taxi fare up to Madman Arlette she was gob-smacked. I blame, or rather should thank, Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen for their input, for fuelling me along. The world is a jungle of wealth and Martinique is a dispersed, far-flung island. People are hungry here; hungry for money. If you give them a centime they’ll take a mille. If you hand out a sou they’ll take you under too. It’s all about survival; laying boundaries, marking territory, knowing when and where to strike, weighing up consequences, accessing damages… perhaps a career in the Army would suit me after all!
No comments:
Post a Comment