Observations of a foreign land
I really still can’t get over the number of times that I have ridden a Mercedes Benz in the last few days. No, I haven’t bought myself one, and no, I haven’t found some rich man to take me on cruises in his Kompressor. The reason for this luxury is that I currently find myself in Germany – the home of the hallowed Merc.
Most taxis here are Mercedes Benz models – sedans, SUVs, station wagons – you name it. And boy, do the drivers know how to step on the gas. The top speed I have experienced thus far is 182km/hr. Now, the roads here are much better than back in beloved Zim; no potholes to avoid and so far, no drivers with a ‘kombi mentality’ ready and willing to swerve and slice their way through traffic. And apparently, there are no speed limits on certain stretches of road. But still, the ease with which the drivers step on the gas makes me whisper short prayers as my stomach ties up in knots.
I have been in Europe now for about 5 days – and my impression of it, thus far, is mostly good. What I especially like about Germany is that the people here have really managed to maintain the essence of their culture, of which I feel that language is a major constituent. Language of instruction within schools and general conversations are carried out in German. And so, almost all TV and radio stations, newspapers and street signs are in German. A classic example of my shock at this was when, at the airport in Munich, I tried to get myself something to read at the bookstore there. ABSOLUTELY nothing in there was in English!
And if you want to find your way around, you must always move around with a German. Not everyone one meets will be conversant in English, and a German speaker must always be at hand to help out.
That really got me thinking about local languages back home. If a person can only speak Shona or Ndebele, we tend to look down upon them as uneducated. Perhaps, this is because the main language of instruction within schools and the workplace remains English. And so, to not be conversant in the language implies that a person has not been to school.
But even more apparent – at least to me – is that many of us have grown to associate English with certain eloquence and status that we feel our own languages cannot offer us. Just think of the extra respect that the village elders get from other village folk if they can speak English, or dress in English-style suits. “He speaks the white man’s language so he must be wise and know a lot about the world,” is the mentality these folk tend to possess.
For me, this reasoning stems from the colonial legacy imbibed into people that makes us believe that expression in local languages cannot be erudite or eloquent.
Imagine if more local authors could publish in the vernacular, and if a market developed for their work. Imagine if there was a more diverse vernacular print media industry in Zimbabwe. Currently, the local language newspapers in Zimbabwe tend to be sensationalist and light-hearted. What if these media were used to raise the political consciousness of the masses, who are generally not so conversant in English and need not only to be entertained, but also to be informed and educated?
Just a few days in, and already a wealth of observations and contemplations on the difference between two fine nations.