Stephen Stills: If you smile at me, I will understand, ‘cause that is something everybody everywhere does in the same language.

As a result of the Belgian colonization, the national language in Burundi is French. This is ostensibly good for me, as I have studied a bit of French and can at least communicate with greetings, questions, and light conversation. However, those who did not attend school did not learn French. They speak the local language, Kirundi, many speak Swahili, and those who have been in Tanzania speak a bit of English, but not many. As a result, I am unable to communicate with the patients, and much of the maintenance staff, except for very general greetings, and a smile. The young guy on the kitchen staff has a proud grin on his face when I come to the kitchen, clearly searching for something, and he is able to ask "cup?" and happily understands when I ask for coffee. 

The woman who cleans in the residence surprises me the other day by asking me what my name is, and introducing herself in English. The beautiful songs she sings while cleaning transcends any need for language.

I discover very quickly that not only is my ability to communicate in French very limited, but the Burundian accent and the speed at which they speak make it very difficult for me to understand. Even when I tell them I may be able to understand if they speak more slowly, their speech seems to remain unchanged. They just smile.

Rwanda has just instituted a change that makes their official language English, no longer French, and Burundi may not be far behind. Outside of the capital, Bujumbura, people prefer to learn to English, in an effort to have one up on the citizens of the cosmopolitan city.

But, a smile is of course universal. I walked down to the Pharmacy office at the end of the clinic’s residential walkway, lined with patients and their families, who were staring wide-eyed at the mzungo (white person). I smile and wave, and their suspicious faces turn to grins.  On a walk down to the soccer field, I meet a Burundian colleague coming up. He turns and walks with me, and to my delight, walks me past the soccer field, through a muddy, overgrown path, dotted with small brick one-or-two room homes. 

The children come out of the woodwork to see me walking and talking with someone from the community. Those who stop to greet my colleague, always with some form of a handshake as is customary, reach out to greet me as well. Today, this was done not with a hand held out, but rather with a fist that points down to the ground, and the other hand resting on their upper arm of the fisted hand. This is a sign of deference and respect, that they don’t reach to touch me, and that the second hand is visible. There are many variations of this handshake greeting – none seems to be wrong. Everyone we meet along the way is very happy to greet us. I remember living in Sweden, when walking along a quiet road, and I encountered another person, I would wait for eye contact to offer a greeting, yet it seemed never to happen. What a contrast that these people who have almost nothing materially, have so much to give with their spirits. 

Children as young as maybe 3 or 4 are hauling containers of water, spilling all over themselves as they try to steady their bare footing on the uneven terrain, and keep up with us. When I break out the camera and ask if I can take a photo, they immediately bust into posing mode, so proud and happy to be photographed. When I show them the image on the digital screen, they scream with delight and laugh, and then stare, wide-eyed. Their faces melt me. One is sweeter than the next. They have no idea that their faces will make it halfway around the world into your social media. 

As dusk begins to set in, the skin color of these children and their soiled clothing make some of them almost indiscernible against the muddy backdrop as they approach from ahead. We pass young shepherds goofing around, as they guide their small herd of cows and goats down what seems to my eyes to be a cliff. My companion tells me that one of the women who works at the clinic lives down this steep path, and walks home alone at night. Tonight it’s a beautiful crescent moon, but so dark, and I wonder how she will find her way and if she will stumble or fall. 

The view across the mountains as we headed back toward the clinic.

I have my iPhone in one back pocket, my camera in the other, shoes on my feet, and an inescapable uneasiness in my gut.  I wonder about the water the children are carrying, the parasites that might be leeching into their bare feet, how many family members live in their two-room homes, when and what they will next eat. 

My next meal is dinner, which follows very shortly after this lovely but poignant walk. This is my first opportunity to use my Kirundi. I announce to the table as I sit, "ndashonje!", which is the only thing I can say. It comes in handy if you’re me, as it means “I’m hungry” and I always am. The table of Burundians busts out laughing with delight. There are only four mzungo on site, the rest Burundians, so meal conversations are a motley mix of Kirundi, French, and English, but everyone is happy to try to help translate, suggest appropriate words, and be generous with clumsy translations. But for those who do not speak any western languages, like the housekeeper/chef/laundry man/taxi fetcher in the Bujumbura house, a simple sawa sawa* and a smile will have to do.

*sawa sawa in swahili roughly translates as "everything is ok."