What’s mine is yours

“Bonsoir Madame,” answers a teenage male voice I recognize as Dkupe’s brother, Kiki.

“Bonsoir Kiki,” I say. “I’m looking for Dkupe. Is she around?”

“No she’s not. Do you need something?”

I relay the reason I’m calling, that I need water, and Kiki promises to give Dkupe the message.

This is the second time I have called the phone number that Dkupe gave me as her phone number, and it is the second time someone other than Dkupe has answered her phone.

The first time it was her friend Paula who had borrowed Dkupe’s phone because her own wasn’t charged. I imagine the reason Kiki had the phone this time was simply because he needed the phone at the time.

After 22 years in an individualistic society, being dropped into a collectivist society takes some time with which to become comfortable. Especially, when I was younger, the biggest fights I ever had with my sister were over one of us having taken something that other had a perceived notion belonged to her.

The idea that I would refuse to let someone use something they need that I have that I’m not using doesn’t exist. So far I’ve lent out a bandana, my motorcycle helmet and my bicycle. I will draw the line at certain things, but so far no one has asked for my computer.

What I’ve asked for the most is information about things so I don’t look like a foreigner flailing in a new culture. It’s been pretty mutually beneficial so far.