The Sex Lives of Cannibals by J. Maarten Troost

The Sex Lives of Cannibals is my new favorite book. I have often wanted to put into words what it feels like to live in a foreign country like Botswana, but, often the words fail me. Sometimes I get annoyed at the little inconveniences like electricity going out, or a complete lack of Internet not to mention good lettuce – but I find myself completely at a loss for words when it comes to describing it all. Recently, however, I have found that my plight to find the perfect wording to express my frustrations is no longer necessary; Maarten Troost says it all flawlessly! So if you want to read a great read and get a little more insight into my life here I recommend you pick up this book immediately.

Back of the book: At the age of 26, Maarten Troost – who had been pushing the snooze button on the alarm clock of life by racking up useless graduate degrees and muddling through a series of temp jobs – decided to pack up his flip-flops and move to Tarawa, a remote south pacific island in the Republic of Kiribati.

He was restless and lacked direction and the idea of dropping everything and moving to the ends of the earth was irresistibly romantic. He should have known better.

Excerpt from the book

"Stealing, I was told was a major offense in I-Kiribati culture. I could see why. There is absolutely no good reason for stealing in Kiribati. This is because of the bubuti system. In the bubuti system, someone can walk up to you and say I bubuti you for your flip-flops, and without a peep of complaint you are obliged to hand over your flip-flops. The following day, you can go up to the guy who is now wearing your flip-flops, and say I bubuti you for your fishing net, and suddenly you have a new fishing net. In such a way, Kiribati remains profoundly egalitarian.

I-Matangs (white people) can choose to play along. I know one volunteer, determined to go native as they say, who lost her shoes, her bicycle, her hat, most of her clothing, and a good deal of her monthly stipend to the bubuti. She was a bit dim, however, and it never occurred to her to bubuti others, and so she spent her days walking barefoot, with a sun burned scalp, dressed in rags, wondering how on earth she was going to afford her daily fish. One day, a man, a complete stranger to me, walked up to the door and politely said: "I bubuti you for bus fare." Warily, still attuned to big city panhandlers, I gave it to him. As the bubutis rolled in, however, I felt no obligation to comply. Pocket change, sure. The pick-up truck, no. It was my ability, or rather the I-Matangs ability to say no to a bubuti that made foreigners useful on Tarawa."