The Dutch minister of Development Cooperation has come to Burkina to promote the use of impregnated bed nets. We have all been working on it for weeks. The embassy was spotlessly clean, and nicely decorated with African statues. I did not expect to get much out of it myself, though, and that was a good thing: he came, he did his thing, and he left again. I did not see him at all. He did shake hands with our (local) receptionist, though. And rightly so: she had put on an extra nice outfit, and lots of colourful make-up, especially for him. She beamed with joy the rest of the day. I tried teasing her with inquiring why she hadn’t gone through all that trouble the day I arrived at the embassy for the first time, but it was no use trying to get the smile of her face, especially not after I had emphasized that, of course, she álways looks pretty, whether with special make-up or without.
She wasn’t the only local employee who gave me a smile yesterday: one of the platons (who clean and stuff) did so as well. He never seemed to like me much, eying me up suspiciously from the first day on. He speaks French with a heavy local accent, making it impossible for a non-native speaker to understand what he is saying, and since he wasn’t susceptible to my smiles, like most people, there was not much I could do to establish a good report with him. But ever since he heard me practice Morré on the ambassador’s chauffeur, I have become one of his favorite persons at the embassy. He was slightly disappointed when he found out that I’m actually not fluent yet, but quickly recovered and renewed his attempts to communicate with me in French. This made me understand even better how important it is to learn Morré if I want to be able to communicate with people like our platons.
So, I practiced my Morré a bit more: with the tailor, again, although we have not yet arrived at the point at which I can explain in Morré the sort of trenchcoat I want him to make. I also tried out a few words on the guy who fixes bikes, and who fixed my flat tire. One of his customers actually decided to pay the reparation for me, because he was so content with me speaking Morré. I tried to explain that, really, I did not mind paying the 100 CFA (15 eurocents) myself, but he insisted. So I waited until he had left, and paid the same fee once more myself. Not that it helped much: this morning, the tire was flat again.
If only I would be getting a feeling for Latin-American culture as well as for African culture. Unfortunately, this is not the case. The footwork of the salsa is coming along fine, but I keep on forgetting to make the appropriate (sensual) movements with my arms, and I have already been told off for having a worried face too often. But I will persist, with salsa as much as with French, Morré, and the finger-snapping handshake, and one day, I will be Latina Lotte, as someone suggested. Well, Latina Lotte… It has a ring of cheap prostitution to it, don’t you think?
It is funny how a languague can reflect culture. In Morré, a single woman is called ‘pogsada’, but it also means ‘girl’, because adult woman are not supposed to be unmarried. So, not every Mossi will agree that I am ‘pogsada’, because they think I’m too old to be called like that. I presented the problem to my Morré teacher, who learned us another word: pakuli. Pakuli means ‘old spinster’. The teacher explained when to use what, taking me as an example: ‘now, Lotta can still be called ‘pogsada’, being unmarried and 25 years old. But íf, well, let’s hope she won’t, but íf she would still be unmarried at thirty, she would be a ‘pakuli’.
I felt a bit stressed about the five year time limit that was inflicted upon me, not to mention my own estimation of how probable it is that I will be married within five years. But well, if I don’t succeed in finding myself a husband before my thirties, I can always become a professional Latina Lotte, right?
She wasn’t the only local employee who gave me a smile yesterday: one of the platons (who clean and stuff) did so as well. He never seemed to like me much, eying me up suspiciously from the first day on. He speaks French with a heavy local accent, making it impossible for a non-native speaker to understand what he is saying, and since he wasn’t susceptible to my smiles, like most people, there was not much I could do to establish a good report with him. But ever since he heard me practice Morré on the ambassador’s chauffeur, I have become one of his favorite persons at the embassy. He was slightly disappointed when he found out that I’m actually not fluent yet, but quickly recovered and renewed his attempts to communicate with me in French. This made me understand even better how important it is to learn Morré if I want to be able to communicate with people like our platons.
So, I practiced my Morré a bit more: with the tailor, again, although we have not yet arrived at the point at which I can explain in Morré the sort of trenchcoat I want him to make. I also tried out a few words on the guy who fixes bikes, and who fixed my flat tire. One of his customers actually decided to pay the reparation for me, because he was so content with me speaking Morré. I tried to explain that, really, I did not mind paying the 100 CFA (15 eurocents) myself, but he insisted. So I waited until he had left, and paid the same fee once more myself. Not that it helped much: this morning, the tire was flat again.
If only I would be getting a feeling for Latin-American culture as well as for African culture. Unfortunately, this is not the case. The footwork of the salsa is coming along fine, but I keep on forgetting to make the appropriate (sensual) movements with my arms, and I have already been told off for having a worried face too often. But I will persist, with salsa as much as with French, Morré, and the finger-snapping handshake, and one day, I will be Latina Lotte, as someone suggested. Well, Latina Lotte… It has a ring of cheap prostitution to it, don’t you think?
It is funny how a languague can reflect culture. In Morré, a single woman is called ‘pogsada’, but it also means ‘girl’, because adult woman are not supposed to be unmarried. So, not every Mossi will agree that I am ‘pogsada’, because they think I’m too old to be called like that. I presented the problem to my Morré teacher, who learned us another word: pakuli. Pakuli means ‘old spinster’. The teacher explained when to use what, taking me as an example: ‘now, Lotta can still be called ‘pogsada’, being unmarried and 25 years old. But íf, well, let’s hope she won’t, but íf she would still be unmarried at thirty, she would be a ‘pakuli’.
I felt a bit stressed about the five year time limit that was inflicted upon me, not to mention my own estimation of how probable it is that I will be married within five years. But well, if I don’t succeed in finding myself a husband before my thirties, I can always become a professional Latina Lotte, right?
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