I started writing this blog at 2pm on 27th September in Mauritania. It was 106∞F.  I had no thermometer, but my flip flops always melt at 100∞F. So I found myself in a small shaded corner of a courtyard playing Scrabble with the National Park guides in the Banc D’Arguin.

I faced a problem.  This was French Scrabble and I had picked a W.  It was worth 10. GCSE French did not equip me for this.  I ran through vegetables, directions and professions but come up with nothing.  The W sat there eyeballing me.

I speak french like a drunken fighter – full of enthusiasm and intent but with little sense or accuracy – my sparring partner often gets bored or starts laughing.  Lynn has a good grasp of Spanish and Tim would know enough French to get out of this W conundrum.  But none of us are fluent.

They say that 80% of communication is non-verbal.  I do not believe this.  A raised eyebrow will get you nowhere with a Portuguese academic explaining migration.  Corrupt officials will quickly lose patience with blank faces when they speak French.  You need language to get beyond pleasantries.  It is why Bruce Parry always ends up playing with small children in Tribe – they are the only other non-verbal members of the community.

And so we have tried to find ways to bridge this gap.  Sometimes we are trying to understand, sometimes we are purposefully not.  It all depends on what we are trying to communicate:
 
1. Senegalese police and border guards.  We understand nothing.  Not a jot. Like we have never encountered a French person.  A stammered ‘bonjour’ is followed by a look of panic in Lynn’s eye.  We smile and nod. They talk slower.  We nod.  Another ‘bonjour’ perhaps.  We talk amongst ourselves in hurried English.  And nod. They get bored and wave us on.  Every time.



2. Moroccan academics.  We want to understand them.  We really do.  We are trying very hard.  But it’s difficult.  The impacts of climate change on Morrocan women is a handful in English. We will record it and listen to it later in our own time.  Carefully.  We try.  It makes no more sense then either.  So we have to send it home to get translated. 

3. French expatriates.  It all sounds right.  The words are all there. But its like listening to one instrument in the orchestra and then guessing the tune.  By the time I have processed the words to make the sentence I am already a paragraph behind.  Another pastis? Why not.

4. Senegalese schoolchildren.  You can tell by their eyes.  They are trying to say it in English.  Trying really hard.  But their tongues are refusing.  The eyes are willing but the mouth jams up.  So we try and say it back to them in French.  They look worried.  Who are these people who have arrived at their school and talk to them in this garbled mix of English, French and Spanish?  The bell goes.  They leave.  We are still mid sentence.
    
And now we have got to Gambia.  Gin drinking, tea sipping, English speaking Gambia. Our first school is one of the finest in the country.  A private school that follows the Cambridge Education Syllabus.  They do A-levels and IGCSEs.  Their students go to English universities and American colleges. The teachers have trained in London and Manchester.  Now is the chance for us to shine. We speak at the assembly.  People applaud.  We do workshops with the children.  They nod and ask intelligent questions. 

We get them to write a letter about their views on climate change. A letter to the world.  They scribble happily in their notebooks.  We collect them. We are introduced as Kim, Will and Ian from Atlantic Horizon. 

I weep.