Cold War, Détente

It happened suddenly, unexpectedly…

One night, across the maquis (see 7/2), we spotted a group of blancs=white people (the level to which this is derogatory is uncertain)--the first we had seen since arriving in Cote d’Ivoire.  The group eyed us, and we them… but no words were exchanged, and we took our separate tables.  Overcome with curiosity, we trained our ears on the table across the way, straining, aching for a clue as to the origins of these rare creatures... and finally concluded from snippets of verbiage that floated our way that The Others were probably Russian.  Glances were exchanged, but distance maintained.  Aicha and I amused ourselves with inventing explanations (what could four Russians possibly be doing in Daloa—our Daloa?).  United Nations we immediately ruled out based on their reluctance to unite even our tables.  Healthcare?  Impossible; their rate of cigarette consumption was appaling.  Footballers, we decided; the only possible occupation this scruffy crew could have.  We left after dinner, self-satisfied in our espionnage and powers of deduction, but still ungreeted by our rivals—I began to think of it as our own little Cold War.

Jump ahead two nights, and curiosity gets the better of The Others.  They gesture to us to join them in their sphere of influence, and we gesture-reply in full American-ness, no… if you want to do business, you have come here.  They oblige, and the two superpowers sat together at last at the table of détente.  The Russians, it turns out, speak neither English nor French (except for “big beer”, which they happen to be able to order in both languages), and I quickly learn how very little 4 semesters (!!!) of Russian earned me.  

The “conversation” of the night consists mostly of comic gestures.  For example, their leader would submit, “Barack Obama?...”; to which we replied with thumbs up--handshakes all around.  “George Bush?..." thumbs down--handshakes again.  “Michael Jackson!…” (followed by gagging sounds and mock collapse).  Yes, we all agreed. Michael Jackson is totally dead; and so on.  Being an expat is not nearly as cool as Hemingway and those guys made it out to be.  I'm still not sure who those people were, or what they are doing here in Daloa.  I think, judging by an unscientific sampling of their iPhone photos, they might have been helicopter mechanics, but as even a well-functioning car is a rare sight in Daloa, it seems unlikely.

In the end, it turns out that you can have a good laugh without being able to speak the language of your compatriots, which is probably exactly what everyone was thinking when John F. Kennedy (thumbs up) declared, during his own cold war, Ich ben ein Berliner (I am a jelly doughnut).

Glastnost, From left: Their Leader, Aicha, The Quiet One, Alpha Blondy.

Failing in my conversational skills, I tried to redeem myself by showing each one how I could write their names in Cyrillic.  Be impressed.  (Also pictured: big beers.)