"Nodey" says my regular Kotokoli cook in welcome as I arrive at her food stall, located literally just a stone's throw from the office or bureau where I work with the local partner NGO.

"Ya," I reply, as is required. "Nose," I add, and she corrects me, smiling her typical wide smile, saying that "nose" is for mid-day, and "nyanadanina' or bonsoir' for the evening.

I try this a couple of times, listening intently as she repeats it, again and again, but it's still hard to get my tongue round. "Nya na ..." I stammer. She repeats it again, breaking it down into easy syllables: "Nya na da ni na", and I finally get it right this time.

I try saying it again, and whilst it hardly trips off smoothly from my tongue, I can sense that I'm getting there.

She then asks me how work is: "Temerini?", and I give the standard reply: "A la fia", meaning OK. I throw back the question to her, and she replies: "A la fia", but then suggests that I should really ask her: "Kia Korni?" meaning "how's the business going?"

I have been visiting her food stall nearly every day since I got here; it was a real godsend to find cheap, filling, nutritious food sold just around the corner of the hotel where I'm staying. For the sum of less than 50p I get half to three-quarters of a bowl filled with cooked rice (with a few cabbage leaves, bits of chopped carrot, tomato thrown in - cost 100 francs or 10p); two or three chunks of meat, either beef or mutton, at 50 francs (5p) a lump; and some sauce to cover it all. Great, and it does the trick.

This is my standard evening meal, although I have been known to eat this at lunchtimes too if I'm feeling particularly hungry.

My dinner lady', as I'll call her, is always smiling, friendly with a ready laugh, which she dispenses as I try to master her language, happy to serve this foreigner or anasara' his daily rice dish. She dresses in various matching pagnas (the multi-coloured print cloths that most women wear here), and serves food that she has cooked herself.

Apart from the rice, there is the pate de mais' (a doughy paste made from pounded, mashed-up corn which is very filling, but with very little flavour and the consistency of half-wet cement); the fufu' or sokoro' (pounded yams, again in a doughy texture, with the consistency of solid mashed potato), and rice balls.

These basic carbohydrate staples are accompanied with either a choice of meat (beef/mutton), lying in a large bowl, along with various unidentifiable offal off-cuts and the fleshy parts of the animal's hooves, or fish sauce: small chilli peppers, whole, float in the liquid stew.

I invariably choose the rice, as I'm used to it I guess, and at least it does have some flavour compared to the other two, although to be fair, that's the role of the meat/fish sauce, to add flavour to the dish. And I'll take the meat stew over the fish any day, as there is no problem with spines (although the meat is, quite literally, on-the-bone') and the fish itself is not really fresh: rather it has been dried, stacked in a pile of other fish for the whole day in market with flies buzzing round, and then re-hydrated during the cooking process. It is not as tasty as, say a nice piece of cod, or plaice, or even smoked mackerel, need I say more?

But I'm very happy with the rice and meat stew, which keeps me going until breakfast the next day.

Her road-side caf is at the side of the route nationale' or main highway, which runs from the capital Lome in the south, bordering on the sea, due north to the frontier of Burkina Fasao, a distance of approximately 700km.

It is the major road linking all the regional capitals, and is the only one completely tarmacked. Actually, that's not strictly correct; it's tarmacked along perhaps two-thirds to three-quarters of its length, from the capital up to Kante, before it turns into a rough dirt track with bits of tarmac showing through. In the rainy season, it gets very slushy too, and you have to drive from side to side along the road, choosing the areas that are least eroded to gain some purchase with the tyres. Four-wheel drives are the best option in this case, and when I had occasion to drive north when I was working here previously, the project VW/Toyota hi-lux model performed admirably.

For the mini-buses and other cars that transport people up and down this road, travelling pretty fast across the dips or troughs as is the drivers' want, it is quite an uncomfortable experience, especially as the suspension is usually shot to pieces.

Anyway, I digress slightly. Madame's caf, or rather road-side shack, is equipped with a rough wooden table, and a couple of equally roughly-carved benches. Plastic jugs filled with water and plastic cups provide the liquid refreshment, at no extra cost, and her small daughter washes the metal plates and cutlery between servings.

After the first couple of days here, I ventured into the town market and bought myself a small enamel bowl, a fork and spoon, which I bring along to fill-up with the required food items, before retiring either to my hotel room, or occasionally to the bar attached to the hotel, where I can enjoy my meal with a bottle of locally-brewed beer: Eku (Bavarian style lager, according to the label) or Awooyo, a darker, more potent beer, resembling a Newcky brown or light ale. I prefer Eku at lunch-time, and Awooyo in the evenings, since if I drink Awooyo at lunchtime I am liable to fall into a long sleep and awake slightly dehydrated and woozy, not ideal for working in the afternoon.

In any case, both are delicious when ice-cold, and thanks to the hotel's refrigerator, they usually are.

"Tina," says my friendly dinner lady, pointing at the fish, "som", pointing to the meat, and "mao", at the large cooking-pot filled with rice. She tries to teach me how to say "I want 100 francs of rice", but at this point my brain is already so saturated with Kotokoli, trying to remember all these new words, that I give up.

"Alfa" is a hundred, two hundred is "alfa" plus another word that I've forgotten, and the verb for "I want" is anyone's guess. She suggests in her loud, rough French accent that I bring along a small notebook tomorrow, in order to jot the new words down.

"Three words," she says, emphasising this with three fingers pointing in the air. "I'll teach you three words each day, you write them down, and then you'll be able to speak Kotokoli very soon."

I'm not so sure, but I'll try it anyway - with three words a day it's going to take a long while to master the language, and in any case I've only got another fortnight to go of the mission, but I'm more than willing to give it a go.

It's good exercise for the brain, nice to be able to greet local people in their own language - especially when they're not expecting it from a white stranger - and, if nothing else, it provides some free entertainment for my teacher' and fellow diners sat at the dinner table.

Sofesi (as they say here in Kotokoli land): Goodnight!