Across the street from our place, stands a little green kiosk where the folks sell tuna for my bisadi Walan, cold bottles of Coca, chalky chocolate biscuits and canned milk. I meet the Cuban gynecologist there occasionally, who communicates to the vendors unabashedly in Spanish. That is the funny thing about living in places where Roman derivations are not the mother tongue. You can say anything you like, and most people are not shooting for your words anyway. They just take for granted not understanding. It is the context, and the gestures, that matter. So, where I found the Cubans approach a little off-putting at first, I now find that I speak to almost everyone in English, to the detriment of my French; and, I get along just fine that way.
However, now that I am getting a sense of the rhythms of Somali, I try that a little too. My colleague and I have both experienced a taxi driver or a street vendor, leaning wwwaaayyy out to shout Habeen wanaagsan (Good evening) as we go by. We think the rumor mill of guardians and chauffeurs around the city has folks watching out for us now. First, it was the minibuses that knew to stop for us -- most foreigners don't take them. Now, it's the folks around town, who are starting to recognize us, and engage. As I walked into the market a couple days ago, a man called to me: "Bonjour, la djiboutienne!"
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