Burkina Faso is not yet a country that is in common consciousness, but those who know it likely recognise it for one of two things: the Music of the Grasslands, or the great Pan-African, socialist revolutionary, Thomas Sankara. Ten weeks in Ziniare - a small city an hour away from the sprawling capital of Ouagadougou - and I had memorised the route into town from my homestay in the small village of Guilongou. After a swift seventeen-minute cycle down a straight road, first came the fruit stalls, piled with mangos, tropical bananas and apples; then came the local equivalent of an ice-cream parlour, selling sweet yoghurt and deep-fried 'gateau' balls for 150 CFA a pop (GB£0.20); and finally came the bumpy left-turn to our favourite tailor, who would weave magic with reams of waxy 'pagne'. I had arrived in Burkina Faso with an overconfident assumption that my fluency in the administrative language, French, would make my stay a breeze. What I was unprepared for was that my host mother, Mama Eugenie, did not have a working knowledge of French, and rather communicated only in the language of the Mossi people, Moore. So, as much as the growing familiarity of Ziniare began to feel like home, the actual residence that I was sleeping and eating in felt the furthest from home that it could possibly be. Burkina Faso has a network of homestays, usually dotted in communities where there is a stream of international volunteers. Hosts are reimbursed graciously for their service, which includes not only lodging - in adequately mosquito-proof conditions - but also breakfast and dinner, as well as lunch on weekends. The hearty menus - yam, soja, beans, jollof rice, fresh bread, chilli omelettes, fruit teas - were as homely as the house itself felt alien. In the first five weeks, I wondered what Mama Eugenie thought of me constantly. I would speak to her four children in French, helping them with their Maths and English homework. On the weekends, when Mama’s husband returned home from doing business in the city, I would have a catch-up with him too. Whilst I already knew I was doing more than most English-only lodgers, I wondered if Mama thought I was deliberately avoiding her. As somebody of Indian heritage, wherein value is placed on collectivism, family and particularly motherhood, I stewed in my own disrespectful behaviour. One evening,, hearing belly laughs from the courtyard, I stepped out to find the women of the family preparing the local beer, 'dollo'. Steeped in large metal vessels that both ferment the beer and stir in the earthy mix of spices, the warm liquid is then transferred to clay pots to cool and sell at the local Guilongou market. They certainly looked like they could use an extra pair of hands, so I began shovelling the pungent brew into the pots, my eyes burning from the spicy steam. Mama Eugenie and her girls had a little laugh at my expense, and once the work was done, we sat around a fire on wooden benches, chatting in an eclectic mix of French and Moore. Bollywood - about which I know a thing or two - is hugely popular in Burkina Faso. In Guilongou, if ever a lucky soul came across a DVD, a night screening was held in the market. But it was the dance moves they wanted to learn from me. I, of course, obliged, running an exciting class on Screwing the Lightbulb. Through an interpreter, Mama Eugenie told me I’d have to marry a Burkinabe man and come back to stay with them forever. As Anglophones, we do not consider the impact of rampant anglicisation on local languages, cultures and customs, until we find ourselves in the few corners of the world that our language hasn’t colonised yet. Whilst it is unrealistic to suggest that everybody travelling should master a local language to be able to truly live the local experience, it is important to recognise that communication is often beyond verbal. Communication can be in the form of actions, gratitude, presence and active interest, all of which can create a memorable experience for both you and your hosts.