French Lessons

The sun beats down on the hard, black lava rock outside HEAL Africa. The dust billows in the air as the motos and chukudus fly by. My new French teacher, Stuart, meets me in the Jubilee Center and we start our short walk to his school.

Stuart is a self-taught translator/interpreter, who has been contracted by my NGOs in the Goma area to interpret meetings. As we mosey through the dusty streets he asks me about what life is like in Vancouver and excitement moves across his face as we discuss the Olympics.

We arrive at our destination, a small storefront on a side street. The windows are barred and the door locked. With a turn of a key we enter the small, cool room. The cement walls are painted turquoise and white plastic deck chairs are neatly ordered in the room. The small chalkboard is commandingly situated at the front of the class with old lessons smudged and smeared across it.

I smile as I hear Michael Jackson playing in the background. Stuart introduces me to the others in the classroom as they vacate from my private tutoring lesson. He switches off Michael and we get to work.