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Language lessons in the park 3. Les Urgences.

Today's lesson ended with a whole other adventure that I didn't anticipate. Our park is the gathering point for all Afghans passing through or living in Paris. I met some minors who'd been given accommodation and French schooling by the state. One spoke French with real confidence and told me that he'd been learning at school for three months, I was incredibly impressed. "I live just outside Paris," he said, "I just come by to see my friends, whoevers here." During our lesson a really scruffy, unkempt guy came to me and said with a Pashto yet clearly London accent, "I hear you speak English and French?" He pointed at his foot. "I need to go to the hospital, will you take me and translate for me, I can't speak French" I wasn't sure about this guy, he had what looked like just a big blister on his foot so I agreed but asked if he would wait until we finished our lesson in thirty minutes. He waited. I just wanted to kind of suss him out a little bit. As we continued this guy joined in, helped translate between Pashto and English as I tried to explain the difference between "Bon soir", "bon nuit" and "bon soirée". They got it quickly. We talked, joked and I felt more comfortable with him. When our lesson finished we walked (he limped) to the local hospital where he got seen to pretty quickly. He had an abscess on the sole of his right foot which would only grow bigger and lead to blood poisoning if left unchecked. As we walked back and forth between the reception and waiting room a guy repeatedly tried to catch his attention saying, "Afghan? Afghan?" We walked on. Who's that, what do you think he wants? I asked. "I dunno," he replied, "he looks Bangladeshi, they recognise Afghan's, they know we're living on the street, could be anything."

While we waited he told me his story. He was 23 and seemed weary and tired of the past eight years spent bouncing around Europe and Afghanistan. He shook his head as he looked down, "I'm lost in Europe." He had arrived to Paris from Calais three weeks ago. As we talked I realised that his swagger and chat came from having lived in the same part of London as me where he worked as a cook. I learned that the familiar twang I'd noticed immediately in his English accent came from having spent time with a lot of Jamaicans so we reminisced about London. "When I went back to Afghanistan the first time I left it had changed completely," he said, "it was like the whole place had been bombed, there's nothing there." He told me that he'd worked briefly as a translator for the US army but that it made his life very complicated with his fellow Afghans and so he quit and left. Without going into more details I knew that this young man was exactly the kind of migrant that the readers of The Daily Mail absolutely fear and abhor. I asked him to describe to me an average day in his life: kicked awake by the police at 6am, queues for food (once in the morning and once at night), appointments, the park, sleeping in packs for protection. Here's what it was like, to live day in and day out waiting to be accepted into any country where, his words, he could rebuild his life: "time just blurs into time, it's limbo, just waiting everyday you know?" He apologised repeatedly for being dirty and asked if I could help him stay in France. I replied that the associations that he had already made contact with were better equipped than me but look, I said, you can't speak a word of French, let me teach you while we're waiting so at least you have something. I taught him phrases to appease police and a bundle of other phrases like "une bouteille d'eau", "je comprends", "je ne comprends pas", "ou? Quoi? Quand? Qui?" He asked for the piece of paper with our notes, folded it and put it into his pocket.

The doctor called him into the treatment room and I translated what they were going to do. His whole exterior soon dropped once they showed him a mask for the gas he was going to have to breathe while they cut open and treated his foot: panic. The doctor was kind but firm and explained that this was a completely normal procedure, that she had treated much much worse cases and the gas was essential for the pain he was going to feel. Leaving out the ins and outs of how I realised the following, I could see that the fact that he was going to be rendered powerless in a room full of people that he didn't know, couldn't understand and in an environment where he knew everybody knew he was a completely illegal alien was freaking him out. The fragility of his situation hit me and I went out into the corridoor and shed a couple of tears which I'm glad I got out of the way as when the treatment began (anyone who has had anything similar will understand!) his pain was excrutiating and the gas made him disorientated. The doctor called me back into the room with a friendly smile, "he thinks we're killing him so you better come in to calm him down."

An expertly bandaged foot, a fat box of paracetamol, a tetanus jab and lots and lots of thank-you's later and we were walking (he, dazed but walking much more comfortably) back to the park. When we were in sight of it he relaxed and showed huge relief. "Thank God," he said, "When I see the park I feel secure again, I can't explain it, it's what I know." I asked what time the nightly queue for food ended and he said that he'd missed it. He said that he'd also missed an appointment with an old friend who was meeting him on his day off work and might have a lead for somewhere to crash. You know he'll be back to the park, I said trying to be positive but also knowing it to be true, he'll come back on his next day off I'm sure. We shook hands and he hobbled off to his place. As I walked towards the metro I realised that I'd made a stupid error at the pharmacy when they gave him his medicine. The pharmacist had pulled out tablets that had to be dissolved into a cup of water three times a day instead of the prescribed gel capsules. At the time none of us thought it a big deal but now I realised that pills simply swallowed with water are more practical for a homeless person who has to actively go out and hunt a cup. Tsk. Idiot. My lesson for the day. This guy has been on the road for eight years my practical side told my more emotional side, he'll know how to find a plastic cup.

Language lessons in the park 2. Je suis, tu est, nous sommes.

After a week with a mild flu I return to the park to see my friends. As you'll remember they're a small group of best friends aged between 15-24, all have fled the war in Afghanistan, their common language is Pashto and some but not all are surviving together on the streets of Paris. Arriving I could see that others in the park have the same mild flu that practically everyone else in Paris and London is experiencing. My particular group of friends in the park haven't caught it yet but Alfar, 18, was worried that nobody could go to a hospital, a doctor or buy medicine because they don't have the correct papers. But wait, I said and for him to translate his friends symptoms. It's a mild flu and you can go to any pharmacy to buy what I took, I said, Aspégic. No need for a hospital or doctor, just look for a shop with a big green cross and this word "P.H.A.R.M.A.C.I.E" They didn't look convinced that a pharmacy is essentially a shop where anybody can buy cold and flu treatment without being asked for papers. Maybe this has happened to them I can't say but I offered to take one of them with me to the pharmacy to buy a box of Aspégic. Adamant that they didn't want my money (even if it only costs five euros) they refused. If these guys catch the cold I'm sure the story will change cos I had it and it wasn't fun! I'll be sure to take one there as I buy it so that they can see for themselves and will know what to do in the future. My sole goal is that these little dudes begin making sense of the city and its language for themselves and so learn how to stand on their own feet. Otherwise, what's the point?

And so on with the lessons of the day. Je suis, tu est, il est, nous sommes, vous etes, ils sont. Repeat. We follow with 'avoir', 'faire' and some sentences that illustrate the verbs. By total accident I had picked an incredibly ironic triplet of sentences and Luckman had a great time play-acting their humour against the backdrop of their situation. "Oui c'est ca, j'ai un livre, je suis en Paris and je fait mon lit," he continued with a smile, "in English this means yes, here I am in Paris, I'm reading my book and then I'm making my bed." He motions to the sun and the trees under which he reads his imaginary book and pats the park bench when he says the word 'bed'. We all laugh and I apologise, very embarrassed, I'm sorry guys, I didn't think! They're incredibly keen that I learn the Pashto for everything I teach them to the point of comical mishap for example when I taught them the word metro. A silent pause dispersed with exchanged looks came. And then, "actually we don't have a metro system in Kabul so there's no word, just train." These guys have told me just some of their tales of bombings, capture, torture and escape. And of relatives being killed so there's a dark joke in lots of the phrases I'm teaching them but we all get it, conversely we all get that they need to learn the basics of French grammar to survive. Twenty-four year old Mohammed wants me to go over and over the conjugations of "etre" with him until he feels more comfortable. As we wrangle over the meaning of the words 'gentil' and 'tranquille' one ventures that tranquille could be used if someone is being aggressive towards them. Definitely I say. Luckman acts out a situation, holds out his hands and says "je suis tranquille, nous sommes tranquille". Yes, I say, you got it. We're all tranquille on our bench with our books before later going off to make our beds, no problem.

(As I write this a huge thunder, rain and lightening storm is passing over Paris. I hope those guys are ok. I know that they sleep together, look after eachother and are pretty street smart. I have nothing to offer them except my language skills. It is what it is. Or, as little Mohammad says, opening his hands up to the purple sky with a smile, Inshallah)

Language lessons in the park

Despite some preconceptions that Paris is a kind of living mausoleum, today I didn't need to check my newspaper to know the date. Or a map to tell myself in which city I was sitting. Any time traveller, certainly one with even a passing interest in French history could pinpoint the date, the year, the city, even the neighbourhood just by what could be seen from my spot on the bench in our park. For a start it was a hot day despite the leaves on the trees having turned gold and rusty coloured. From the bench I saw two groups of old Algerian men playing pétanque. Past retirement age they knew eachother and the other retired Algerians sitting on the shaded benches that lined the pétanque terrain which was a well played and, in parts, quite tricky one. Sitting on the bench to my right were four Afghan youths gazing at the scene. One old pétanque player had a special magnet-on-a-string contraption, made for those whose spinal vertebrae don't like the fuss and bother of bending down to pick up metal boules all day long. Another old man arrived to the pitch with a hop, a smile and loud greeting to his fellow players. I may be late his entrance said but I'm ready to play. To my side was a way way old Algerian with a bottle of beer in his hand, a snazzy black sequinned Fedora on his head, an empty yellow pottery jug by his side and a huge medical bandage on his forefinger. It was hard to understand all that he was saying but he did point a lot with his bandaged finger and coached his buddies as they threw boules at the cochon.

Under the sign that read "Pétanque Club" was a table full of old French men and women playing cards, about six of them and a jolly time they were having too. The pétanque players and the card players would chat and exchange places but when both groups games were going good they were going good and concentration broken only by jibing was in the air. Snacks and sandwiches were taken out of plastic tubs and shared. Across the way on the sports court were six Chinese teenagers playing basketball. Three had purple shirts to denote their team. They were average players, they tried out tricks and missed the hoop more often than scoring but you could see that they were having a lot of fun. I was fascinated with watching them play not least because sometimes, when watching professional basketball, the ball just moves too fast for me to to know what's happening. It felt so good to watch a game being played at a speed my eyes could trace. I also enjoyed watching the six lads interact: friends. An Afghan of the same age walked along the side of the court and gently kicked them the ball when it fell out of play.

Out in the park, stretched or sitting on the grass were many, many other Afghans and many French, infact I can't tell you all the nationalities that were on the grass today as there were quite a few. I can tell you that it was sunny, I can tell you that one of the velo police had a really handsome smile, I can tell you that the vibe was relaxed and I can tell you that I was late for my appointment with some newly made friends and had missed them. But I knew they would be back hence why I was killing time at the pétanque pitch. Sure enough, an hour later when I finally folded up my copy of the International Herald Tribune, stood up and scoped out our meeting place, there they were: Luckman, Hamid and Mohammed with some other little friends too, all sitting on the grass, they too killing time in this small park in Paris that has been nicknamed 'Little Kabul'.

All smiles and my apologies for being late we shake hands and sit on the grass. Despite the heat, the temperature on the ground as I sit reminds me that one season is saying good-bye and it's opposite will arrive before long. Luckman is listening and humming along to music on his mobile phone with a friend. Hamid and I talk about his French classes which he finished today at 2pm. Mohammed just grins. Hamid begins the business of our day quickly. They are to teach me Pashto, one of the main languages spoken in Afghanistan. In return I'm helping them with their French and English. More of their friends join us and they're all keen to tell Hamid how my first lesson should proceed. There's some debate on which kind of Pashto I'm to learn, how many Pashto letters I should learn today and a little passing of the paper and pen goes on before Hamid settles to write the Pashto alphabet for me.

Of the six young men I'm sitting with I could say that all are under twenty-five, probably more around the twenty mark. One of them definitely has a roof to sleep under at night. One of the smartest ones also looks to be one of the youngest, say seventeen. All of them are clean and immaculately tidy but this young guy has that subtle extra layer of dust on his face and hair that confirms he's sleeping rough. "Today you will learn five Pashto letters," he says to me. Mohammed raises his eyebrows with a big smile and reiterates by holding up his small hand, "five". They all have many old and healed nicks and scars on their arms. More than the average boisterous teenager? Yes, I would say. They all look healthy and fed though. My mind also knows this to be the case as, on entering the park, I saw a mobile medical drop-in bus on the street outside labelled, Medecins Sans Frontiéres. I also know for a fact that charities and organisations of citizens in the area are all working to reach these kids with food, clothes and education.

The whole group takes interest in what Hamid and I are doing. I recite the Pashto alphabet after Hamid, it's pretty hard for me to wrap my tongue around some of the letters. After Pashto we all do the same with the French and English alphabet. It's small Mohammed that's encouraged to sit next to me as we do the French and English parts as he's the one who knows the least and it's with him that I made this friends pact to swap languages. At the time of the agreement Hamid offered himself as the go-between for us both because he speaks English. This whole agreement initially began when I first showed these boys a Pashto-English dictionary I had bought and through their response I could see that it was pint-sized Mohammed that needed it the most. "Can I have?" he had asked me. Tell you what, I replied, let's share it, we'll teach eachother. "OK" he said grinning, "OK."

After the Pashto alphabet we go through the days of the week in English, French and Pashto. I draw a picture of the sun to explain Sunday. Next he repeats after me, "je m'appelle Mohammed", concentrating so hard he cracks up with laughter at the situation. I draw a picture of a snail followed by a picture of Paris and all it's arrondissements to illustrate how the cities different areas are laid out in its circular form of twenty postcodes. I remember when a French friend first explained this to me when I arrived in Paris and how suddenly the unfathomable city began to make sense. I hoped that it would make some sense to Mohammed too. It did. Not so much my wonky drawing of a snail but the circular layout of the city was definitely understood. "We are in the first?" asked the youngest lad. I shook my head and pointed out our position.

Some police walk by and say hello. A toddler in the French family sitting behind us begins screaming, I didn't look (to me this is France and there are babies everywhere) but Hamid stops mid-sentence to see what's happening. The toddler had tumbled and the mother swept her child into her arms. Hamid watches the mother rock the child then returns to what he was telling me. Another boy of around eighteen joins us. I recognise him, this young lad with big eyes. I knew him to be a little more serious than his friends, his shoulders were always a little stooped, and that he could speak good English. He watches as our language lessons progress but actually he's more interested in my newspaper. Hamid pauses and pointing at the paper asks, "is there news of Afghanistan?" Ok, I said, let's hear what's happening in the news today. Beginning with the front page I explain every article in simple terms to six pairs of ears that lean in close. Here they are investigating the groups that attacked Mumbai. Here are spy photos of hidden nuclear sites in Iran. Here Gordon Brown has just given a rousing speech at the Labour Conference. Everybody points out that they recognise the face of Gordon Brown. Inwardly I quickly realise that even if these boys couldn't understand the details of what I was saying, each of the news stories has an arguably direct impact on their lives. "I am from Pakistan," said the new boy, "from the border. There we are at war, very dangerous life." There was a photo of a bombed building in a hot country with women wearing headscarves walking past. "Afghanistan?" said another boy. No, Gaza. He pointed at the bombed building. "Like Afghanistan," he informed me. On page three there was a story about Afghanistan, about NATO pledging to deploy more troops to the region. Suddenly I got the immediate feeling that these boys were wishing for different news, more regular, basic news of life at home like if, for example, we could read news of Hamid's family in the newspaper. We couldn't. "It's not yet safe for me to go home," said the boy from the Pakistan border. No, I replied, I guess not. He turned the page. Here's some news about Hollywood, I said. "Bollywood?!" No, I laughed. "Who is this?" the boy asked. This, I said, is Drew Barrymore, she is an actress. "Good?" Yeah pretty good.

As we turned back to our studies this boy took back my newspaper and restarted at the front page with a furrowed brow. He stopped at one page and, pointing to the section headline said, "business!" Yes, I replied. "Yes," he repeated and studied the page hard holding my dictionary in one hand. "If you can find a Pashto-French dictionary would also be good," he said motioning towards his Afghan friends. I told him that I would find an address for a shop and bring it back next time. I didn't ask him if he was OK reading my newspaper alone or needed help, he was clearly a bright young man who wanted to figure out what he could by himself. I watched him leaning over the pages thinking that I was never that interested in the news when I was eighteen. But then at eighteen I wasn't alone, thousands of miles away from a home that was an unstable and dangerous warzone. I would like to think that boys growing up in villages on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan have the option of deciding which side they must choose once some deem them old enough to carry a gun. Common sense tells me this teenager decided on neither and voted simply by using his feet.

Foreward by Quentin Crisp

INFINITE VARIETY:
The Life and Legend of the Marchesa Casati
by Scot D. Ryersson & Michael Orlando Yaccarino


FOREWORD
by Quentin Crisp


Quite suddenly and simply by chance, I once met a bizarre lady while taking tea with some friends in London. She arrived wearing black velvet from head to foot, her mouth painted blood red, and carrying a very tall umbrella with a decorated handle. And, you must understand, this ensemble was being worn in the middle of the day. This picturesque ruin of a woman was very tall and thin, and gave the impression of formidable strength. It was then I was introduced to the Marchesa Luisa Casati for the first and last time. She had made her entrance into that room looking wonderful and saying very little. She wasn’t beautiful—she was spectacular. Here was a woman possessing a presence one would never forget.

A few days later, an artist for whom I was posing started back in surprise upon seeing me. He asked if I had ever met the Marchesa Casati and I answered, "Yes, I did, just two days ago." He then asked what she had said to me on that occasion. When I replied, "Nothing," he said he didn’t wonder because I was so exactly like her! Presumably, he was joking.

Without question, the Marchesa Casati was an exhibitionist. But exhibitionism is a potent drug. After a short time, a dose strong enough to kill a novice no longer works. Many have criticized the extreme aspects of the Marchesa’s life. But I believe she had a specific purpose. She wanted to fulfill an ideal, a vision of how she should look and exist—to become a being of her own invention, not one of any particular sex, or time, or size, or shape. And the Marchesa had total self-confidence, never doubting herself for one single moment. She knew never to be too predictable. If the public can predict you, it starts to like you. But the Marchesa didn’t want to be liked. She wanted to incite. This shrewd lady had a knowing scorn of the world and presented those who adored her with an image of something they could never hope to be—a being somehow beyond criticism and convention.

The Marchesa Casati was part of a world that was as fragile as it was beautiful, one that has disappeared altogether from the face of the earth. It was a time of fabulous parties at which people wore the most extraordinary costumes designed for just a single evening. Never a day went by without these antics being mentioned in the press—they fascinated everybody.

Looking back, it all seems quite unbelievable now and possibly just a little bit absurd. But fun was both very extravagant and very serious then. In today’s age, everyone must be useful, independent, practical. To that I say, "What a tremendous bore!" I do believe the Marchesa would agree.

woof recipe 2

1.65euros of finely chopped chicken liver
small bag potatoes
1 onion chopped
2 cloves garlic halved
2 carrots chopped
1/2 chicken stock cube
small cup of oats
small cup of rice
spoonful of tomato concentrate

Boil everything (except the oats and liver) together in a pot til ready to be mashed, add the rice towards the end as it's cooking time is less than potatoes and carrots need. Drain then roughly mash this mix. Thoroughly stir in the chicken liver and oats so that the liver is cooked with the heat of the mix. Leave to stand covered. Serve a portion when cold.

This should be enough for however many days its ok to keep this mix in the fridge ie. minimum 4/5 days, max a week. The idea with each recipe is that they last for a weeks dog food although sometimes I get caught out by day 6!!

woof recipe's

A little tin of sardines....
plus a mix of leftovers from our kitchen cupboards and leftover rice from the food being cooked by humans that evening. None of the vegetables need to be peeled, just washed and chopped leisurely. This food isn't meant to be high maintenance to prepare or another thing to think about, quite the opposite infact.

5 good sized potatoes
1 carrot
1/2 an onion
1-2 garlic cloves
chicken stock cube.
(here I use whatever vegetables I have hanging about in the kitchen, chopped and thrown into the boiling pot)

boil until softish then drain (keep the water drained from the vegetables in a separate container to cool)
Mash lightly.
Add tin of sardines (including the oil, good for shiny fur and dry skin!) a small cup of raw porridge oats (roughage for small tummies) and enough cooked rice to fill out the mix but not overly dilute the taste of sardines! If you think that the mix becomes too dry then add a tiny bit of the vegetable juice.

Mix thoroughly so that absolutely everything is coated with the taste of sardines and leave to cool in a container that later, can be sealed and stored in the fridge.

Once everything has cooled pour some of the vegetable juice into your pets water bowl (vegetable vitamins!) and serve a meal from the mix into the food bowl.