Yakkety-yak

Language is a funny thing. There are those who seem to have an affinity for it, learning new languages with apparently effortless speed, while others struggle to depart any distance at all from the comfortable shores of their native tongue. I suppose that I must be somewhere in between these two extremes, for I love English with its nuances of meaning and multiplicity of words, yet I also delight in learning how to pronounce the strange sounds of another language. But I have never achieved anything like fluency in a foreign tongue and cannot imagine what it must be like to have command of two languages.

Years ago someone told me that, to be fluent in a foreign language, you have to learn to think in it. I can see that there is truth in that statement but it is also like telling me that, to fly, I will first have to grow wings. For me, it is impossible. I feel forever bound by my native tongue; it inhabits me and is rooted deep in my ancestral past. It so defines me that I imagine I would be able to learn its root language, the Anglo Saxon of my ancestors. Yet I have never tested that assumption and so it remains a romantic dream and a source of my envy of the generation of CS Lewis and Tolkien that had to learn it in their schools so that they might comprehend Beowulf.

I am, and can only ever be, a dabbler in foreign languages. At school I had a few years of instruction in Afrikaans, sufficient for me to understand it if spoken slowly and to construct a few simple sentences. There followed several years of struggle with French and, with practice, I can build sentences in that, too. But the most important language training that I received was the short period in which I was forced to study Latin. Although I hated it at the time, I recognise now that it gives me greater insight into my own and other European languages, so many of which were built upon its foundations.

Growing up in Africa as I did, it was inevitable that I should come into contact with African languages too. I learned a few phrases of the lingua franca of Southern Africa, Chilapalapa, a simple mix of Swahili-related African tongues with additions from Afrikaans and English, and I heard and imitated the delightful sounds of the Nguni languages, acquiring a few words along the way.

It is that last sentence that really defines my relationship to foreign tongues: I love their sounds; the music of the language, as I call it. A friend of mine once visited a little-known tribe on the borders of Zimbabwe and Mozambique and brought back a word that illustrates this perfectly. The word was "nswe", an expression of surprise, approximately akin to the English "You don't say..." But it's the sound of it that fascinates me. As my friend pointed out, the only equivalent pronunciation in English is found in the word "menswear". If we take the NSWE out of that word and then repeat the sound of those letters in a very deep, slightly puzzled voice, we have the exact sound of this hauntingly African word - "nnz-waih".

My smattering of Afrikaans has meant that I have a toehold in Germanic languages, particularly Dutch (upon which Afrikaans is based). I can understand a fair bit of written Dutch as a result and the Netherlanders I meet in chat find great amusement in what they take to be my atrocious spelling of their language.

During my residence in Britain, I also came into contact with the Gaelic languages, Welsh in particular. I learned almost nothing of them, however, being content to hear their beautiful music and to recognise some of the mistakes made by those early Anglo Saxons in interpreting the language of the indigenous inhabitants. As an example, there are many rivers named Avon in England but the joke only becomes clear when one is told that "avon" is Welsh for "river". Let not the Americans laugh too loudly, however, for I have been told that, somewhere in the States, there is a lake whose name in the local tongue means, "It's your finger, you idiot."

All of this shows how little qualified I am to have linguistic theories. Let it never be said that this held me back, however. I do have a theory or two and, as long as it is accepted that this is a blog and not a learned treatise, I am prepared to share one with you. It has to do with the volume or loudness of languages.

Many years ago I was struck by the different approach to volume inherent in different languages. It began to appear to me that the sunnier the clime in which a language developed, the louder it was going to be. A South African once wrote a play consisting of several sketches and it was one particular episode in this that gave my theory its start. In the sketch, two Africans meet on stage and greet each other with much politeness and wishes of good health, then continue on their way in opposite directions. But this does not halt the flow of their conversation. They continue to speak to each other as they disappear offstage and, as the distance between them grows, they merely turn up the volume a little. Their deep voices continue to exchange comments for several minutes across a completely empty stage. To an African audience, this is intensely funny because it illustrates a truth known by all who live in Africa: that Africans will converse with each other across immense distances. I have heard Africans talking quite happily between two hilltops separated by more than a mile.

Two observations occurred to me as a result of this. It seemed that this explained why Africans have such deep and sonorous voices that can carry across such distances. And this is only possible in a landscape with few trees to absorb sound. This theory received added impetus when I came to England.

Northern Europe was once covered in endless forest. Not only do forests absorb sound, making conversation over distance impossible, but they are also the home of sprites and demons, fairies and monsters. Take a look at the wealth of folk tales from countries in Northern Europe and you will see how the forest is regarded as a sinister place full of unseen threats and shadowy beings. So it is not a place to talk loudly. The people of the forest learned to keep their voices down so as not to disturb the spirits of the forest.

If we turn to Southern Europe we find a land much more open and summery. And, surprise, surprise, here the people have a reputation for being talkative and fun-loving, unlike their dour compatriots farther North. Surely this must be landscape-related. It makes sense to me, at least.

In America I find a similar principle at work. The New Englander, surrounded by deep and dark forests, is famous for being quiet and reserved, very much like my countrymen in Olde England. But the inhabitants of the open plains of the West and Southwest are known for their brash and confident approach to life. Coincidence? Or are we seeing how the landscape shapes us, molding our speech to suit our surroundings?

So there you have one of my linguistic theories. It's meant to be fun and not taken too seriously. My other theories are all to do with English accents and dialects and are extremely boring and long-winded. So enjoy, at least, the fact that I'll not go into them here...