Komon ou ye, Haiti?

Sunday our merry band of adventurers gathered in Johnny Wilson's lab to sort through stuffed animals, organize trip gear, and learn a little Kreyol, which is how real Haitians spell their language.

I was far more proficient at sorting beanie babies than I was learning this strange French-African hybrid. First of all, to my unsophisticated ear, Kreyol sounds a bit nasal, with a wickedly hard swallowed r sound. Not one of us could manage the r. I did, however, succeed at Kreyol hand gestures, which are frequent and emphatic. How a Kreyol speaker can sound both nasal and lilting is a mystery to me.

In my first lesson alone, I managed to ask our teacher, Ruthie, who her boyfriend was, instead of what my name is. Big gaffe. Then, I kept confusing the words for "head," tete,* as in Tet offensive, with tete, as in . . . well, think of an English word that sounds like that that involves mammary glands.

(*Note: The other things I have yet to figure out are diacritic marks. When I do, you'll see them . . . )

I also realized that I have an English part of my brain, separate from the low-functioning region for not-English, in which everything linguistic blends together in a kind of swirling uncooked gazpacho of foreign sounds. I kept substituting the Spanish muy with the Creole mwen, not for pa, and si for wi. (InKreyol, the French oui is spelled wi, as Kreyol is semi-phonetic, while French most assuredly is not.)

At one point I think I even threw in a danke instead of merci, and shook my hand like an Italian or maybe Russian would. The only other languages with a smattering of words in my memory bank are pig Latin and Japanese. Ortunately-fay, I did not have occasion to say sumimasen.

That reminds me of a low moment on my trip to Japan ten years ago. I had dutifully practiced basic Japanese phrases and words so I could at least attempt to communicate. However, in the heat of a tense intercultural moment--when the Japanese airplane flight attendant gave me my soda, for instance--I would blurt out the wrong word, occasioning the discreet sidelong glance at me in incomprehension. Later in our travels, Rebecca elbowed me hard and hissed, "You just said 'sorry' when that waitress handed you your food!" I grew so nervous about miscommunicating that I would speak neither Japanese nor English for fear of looking like a hick Yank rube. So much for the worldy mystique I was trying to create. I am deluding myself if I think that I am  savvy and assured global traveler for whom international communication is no problemo.  I was nearly mute by the end of the trip.

To tell the truth, I'm quite nervous, despite Ruthie's peppy "you can do it!" statements. In her opinion, the numero uno thing for us to do is say "Bonjou" or "Bonswa" in an upbeat manner to everyone, and she means everyone, we encounter. In that way, we will fail to give offense, despite our gutteral mangling of a lovely language.

So I shall muddle through Hinche friendly and ignorant, hoping at best to understand a stray word or phrase here and there.  I will think before I speak. I will remember that a smile is the universal language. I will avoid pig Latin at all costs.

Danke.