I am surrounded by construction workers much of the year. Teams from Croatia, Bosnia, Kosovo, or Macedonia come and go. One team deals only with roofing, another with rendering, and the third with painting. But no matter where they come from or what their trade happens be, they always sound exactly the same—as though they all come from the same tiny village in equatorial Africa. “Gaumoo, gaumoooooo! Boogoo? Gaumoo!” there shouts one. “Baugomoo, baugomoo!” shouts another. “Maboo, maboo, maboo, maboo—goo!” shouts the first one back. Booming guttural shouts can always be heard among all the bangs and buzzes and cracks of so many half-refurbished ruins around my house. “Babagaumooba?” there shouts one as I write. “Baugoo?” shouts another. “Agooboomoooooo!” the first one shouts back. Equatorial Africa without any doubt. All around me.