Without being too stereotypical, I wonder whether many of us Americans have a very limited view of the world outside our borders. Yes, we recognize that other countries speak different languages; but speaking for myself, it never occurred to me that some sounds (not words) are indeed words in other languages.

Elizabeth yells Martin, and Martin replies Aaaaae! This would be the sound you make when you touch a hot stove  . . . or the sound I made when I saw that a teeny-tiny lizard had crawled into my water bottle. Spit it out! When I first arrived in Pô I thought Martin sounded quite rude screaming back to his mother from down in the valley. In fact, Martin is merely replying, yes ma’am. As Americans, we say uh-uh when we really don’t want a third-helping of cheesecake. Here in Kassim-land, that same sound means, yes, of course I understand and quite agree. In Dallas when I put my foot in the pool in early October to confirm that it’s too cold to swim, the squeal I make is merely a squeal. Here, that same squeal sounds means you’ve got to be kidding, you want how much for that pagne? Think about that the next time you spit out a sound that has clear meaning in your world, unmistakable by your partner in conversation . . . because in another language you may have just said that's yummy after unknowninly eating a skewered lizard. Ugh, quick, spit it out.

Lately I’ve observed more spitting. Yes, you read that correctly. Spitting! I presumed that I’d merely failed to recognize all the spitting in The B.F., which, surely, has taken place for ages, albeit previously unobserved by this PCV who generally notices everything. Wrong. It’s Ramadan. And during this fasting period the faithful don’t even swallow their saliva, much less water. Really?! Who knew? Makes sense . . . in an odd way. Thus the prevalence of spitters throughout The B.F. Ramadan. Of course.

I love the sound of the muezzin. It’s so musical. When I return to the States I may need to live near a mosque. It is humorous to me, however, that even the muezzins work on W.A.I.T. time (West African International Time). So, at which five times daily are the faithful called to prayer? Are they concerned that they’re late? I can tell you this: something happens daily around 15h00 and 18h30 . . . but the call to prayer around these times may vary by as much as 40 minutes. Perhaps this is a tradition in Islam. I suspect, however, it’s W.A.I.T. time. I’d know if I weren’t a typical American, sometimes blind to cultural nuances beyond my own little world. This past month, with complete oblivious insensitivity, I’ve offered water to visitors who are fasting, either by my not realizing they were Muslim or simply by trying to be polite while inexcusably forgetting cultural distinctions. Should the names Ali or Azize have been my first clue?

So the end of Ramadan happens any day now. I should take a peek at my calendar. I think it’s Tuesday. It forecasts quite a party. But the real feast happens a month from then with the arrival of Tabaski. I confess, I don’t fully understand the significance of Tabaski (which isn’t a hot sauce from Louisiana), but I do know that it means a great day and night of partying with lost of dead goats and a tasty feast. Does this fully explain all the bleating of late? Are those sweet little goats warning each other? Did I feel guilty yesterday for drinking an icy Coke and eating apples all the way home from Ouaga? We can only speculate.