Letting the words wash over me...

“That’s Asful.” George said when explaining the water project.

I waited to understand. Sometimes if I wait, after a few seconds when I let the words wash over me, I’ll understand. I didn’t this time. I thought Asful might have been a region of the country. When he used the word twice more in the next sentence, I waited for him to finish and then I asked.

“Excuse me, What …” then I got it. Useful. His English was impeccable. He uttered words like epoch. Epoch? Ok epoch it not a word I would use, but its impressive and I can roll with it. The accent for me, however, is sometimes just hard to understand.

“…oh nothing,” I finished. We moved on.

There I times that I just don’t get it. And I know it’s me and not them. (Just like when I was in Scotland and heard two Scots speaking to each other and instinctively wondered how they can understand each other’s “jibberish” with such strong accents) The people hear speak English to a strong extent due to the colonial legacy.

The other day I was talking to my guest house attendant and had commented about the clouds. She replied and the only words I understood were “rain and goats.” I thought Uganda may have had a reference to raining goats, like we say its raining cats and dogs. Or that goats do something special before it rains -- a canary in the coal mine effect if you will. That wasn’t it. I asked her to repeat twice. I just didn’t get it. Then I smiled. She knew I didn’t get it; I knew I didn’t get it. We both tried. She smiled; it was time to move on. But weather is always the default conversation, so we paused a little bit before I complimented her about the breakfast of toast and tea.

But sometimes I get the words but the exact meaning is slightly different than what I internalize, for example when the Kenyan Air flight attendant asked me in his deep voice if “I wanted to chew on some nuts.” I got what he was offering, but it was not the way most people I know would offer cashews.

The accent is both intriguing and frustrating. There is a taxi driver I like to use, not because his car is cleaner, or he is any safer or cheaper than others, but just because he is fascinating to listen to. Not his words, so much but his rhythmic voice. I have never heard anything like it. I know the fascination will wear off as I end up at the wrong location because we miscommunicate as I have with other people, but as of now I am still appreciating.

My new-found friend Rebecca summed up the poor communication best through a story about her work directing work at a hospital elsewhere on the continent. She told her nursing staff to come get her if the patient in the other room began to have seizures. They stared blankly at her. Frustrated, she tried three different times with various word choices to make her simple point. At the end of the third time, the nurses responded to hjavascript:void(0)er request, “You know Rebecca, sometimes when you speak, all we hear is singing.”