“Don't worry, everyone speaks English there.” It's a reassuring line many of us hear when preparing for an international move, and one that often proves misleading the moment we arrive. Because yes, in many countries, English is the official language. On paper. In everyday life, the reality is far more complex. Between dialects, creoles, patois and regional languages, newcomers can quickly find themselves disoriented. Which raises an essential question: is learning the local language essential to integrate? Or is it possible to get by, and even thrive, without ever really speaking it?
Official English, everyday Creole
Take Jamaica, Belize, or Pacific islands such as Vanuatu. Officially, English is the language spoken there. But in the streets? You'll hear Jamaican Patois, Belizean Kriol or Bislama, to the delight of linguists and the despair of new arrivals.
The same goes for many English-speaking African countries like Nigeria, Kenya or South Africa. English is the common language, yes, but alongside Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, Swahili, Zulu, Xhosa or Pedi. And it's often these languages that dominate everyday conversations.
Yann, a French expat in Tanzania, shares his experience: “Honestly, I was confident. I speak good English, and I've worked in London. So when I accepted a job in Dar es Salaam, I didn't think twice. What I hadn't realized is that people here speak Swahili among themselves. English is something they use for your benefit, but without much warmth. At work, it's fine. But if you want a real human connection, you need to speak Swahili. Challenge accepted. I started taking classes three evenings a week with a lovely teacher who explained that Swahili is very logical, except for its noun classes, which can make you want to scream. At first, people laughed when I spoke. Now, they respect me. I still mispronounce some words, and it makes my colleagues laugh. But I've made friends. And most importantly, I've stopped feeling invisible in my neighborhood. I feel like I belong, at least a little.”
Yes, English is the official language in countries such as the Philippines, India or Fiji. But no one actually speaks it the way they do in Netflix series. Before you know it, you're stuck in the middle of a conversation in Tagalog, Urdu, Bengali or Hindi, nodding along with the strained smile of a tourist whose brain is overheating.
To learn or not to learn? It's also an ego question
Learning a local language doesn't mean mastering grammar or reading Shakespeare in the original. It usually starts with basic everyday words, key expressions and social codes.
It's not about perfection but about openness. And locals love it when a foreigner makes the effort to speak their language, even with a painfully strong accent. It instantly builds a bridge—a connection. This often leads to plenty of laughter.
Many expats hesitate to learn the local language because they're afraid of sounding ridiculous or because they don't feel “legitimate”. That's a mistake.
Let's be honest: learning a local language is humbling. You'll butcher pronunciation, mix up words, and make awkward slips. And above all, you'll lose the confidence you have in your mother tongue.
Élodie, a Swiss national living in South Africa, explains it perfectly: “Back in Switzerland, I was a writer. Words were my tool, my playground. I loved nuance. I could spend twenty minutes choosing between ‘pleasant' and ‘enjoyable'. I had power through language. Then I moved to South Africa, and that power vanished. One day at the bakery, all I managed to say was a pathetic ‘I want bread'. Not even ‘some bread'. Just… ‘I want bread'. The baker's look was a mix of amusement and pity. I felt like I'd lost 30 IQ points. Overnight, I wasn't an articulate woman anymore. I was a slightly lost foreigner speaking school-level English with all the grace of a fish out of water. I smiled a lot. I nodded at everything. I was in social survival mode. The hardest part wasn't not understanding. It was the inability to respond. Not being able to crack a small joke, ask a subtle question, or express an emotion accurately. I wasn't myself anymore. I was a simplified, almost mute version of myself. So I decided to learn Zulu. Not just to buy bread without shame, but to find myself again. Today, neither my English nor my Zulu is perfect. But I can talk, laugh, connect, and that's enough.”
That blow to the ego is also the beginning of something real. It's a way of saying: “I'm making a step towards you. Even if I get it wrong, I want to understand.” And more often than not, that step is warmly welcomed.
Some expats take the plunge. Others spend years in a country without ever learning the language people actually speak. But then, how deep is the integration really?
“My parents have lived in the Philippines for ten years. They barely speak any Tagalog. They live among French people, eat in expat restaurants, read French news. It's a bubble. I wanted something else,” says Clémence, an expat in Manila.
Culture shock also happens through the ears
What we often forget is that the local language isn't just for ordering chicken and rice at the market. It's a gateway to culture, to references, humour and emotions. Learning Creole, Swahili or Tagalog also means understanding jokes, songs, proverbs and wordplay that don't translate into English. It's not just “making an effort”. It's grasping subtleties, unspoken meanings and values. It's discovering that some languages have ten different ways of saying “we”, depending on who's included. That humour sometimes relies more on intonation than words. A proverb can replace an entire explanation.
Agnès, who lives in Haiti, shares: “I fell in love with a Haitian man in Port-au-Prince. He taught me Creole. It felt like discovering his soul. Creole words have a warmth I never found in English.”
No one expects you to become fluent in two weeks. But learning a few words shows respect for the local culture. It shows you're not just a permanent tourist, but someone who genuinely wants to understand, exchange, and live alongside others.
Marie, who lives in Port Vila, confirms this: “Vanuatu is one of the most linguistically rich places in the world. Most people speak English and French, plus Bislama, the local Creole. On top of that, there are village and island dialects. Many people speak four or five languages fluently. When I arrived, I spoke a little English. That helped me understand and then speak Bislama, which is an English-based creole. Today, I actually speak Bislama better than English! It's a simple language. ‘House' becomes haos, ‘good morning' becomes gudmoning, ‘we' becomes yumi — ‘you and me'. Some words are hilarious. A bra is called basket blong titi — a basket for breasts. My favourite is ‘saw', which is i come i go i come i go i kakae wood — it goes back and forth and eats wood. Just that makes you want to learn the language, right? What's amazing is that speaking the language instantly makes you part of the landscape. Mumbling three words in Bislama is enough to light up faces, break down barriers and create real exchanges. It's like a password to the hidden world of the ‘real' Vanuatu, the one you never see if you stay in your comfort zone. And Bislama is also a philosophy. It's direct, visual, funny. You don't say ‘I'm tired', you say ‘mi no gat paoa' — ‘I have no more power'. It's almost poetic. Learning this language taught me to think differently, to see the world through different eyes. Today, I can have a full conversation with the villager, tell stories at the market or joke with children. Although my accent still makes people laugh, I know I'm truly part of life here.”
And what if you just can't?
Some languages are simply too hard. Some accents too fast. Some conjugations are too unpredictable. And sometimes, you don't have the time, the energy or the desire. And that's okay. In that case, what matters is curiosity. Asking questions. Listening. Letting people teach you. Not imposing your language as the only valid one. Because more often than not, it's linguistic arrogance that creates distance.
There's no need to feel guilty if you struggle. Intention matters more than fluency. A smile. Active listening. Humility.
Jules, who lives in Nigeria, explains: “I never managed to learn Nigerian Pidgin. I really tried. But between the local expressions, the musical intonation and English words that no longer mean what they're supposed to… my brain gave up. But in the end, it didn't matter that much. I realized something essential: in Nigeria, it's not so much what you say, but how you say it. It's the energy. The vibe. So I focused on that. I say hello in Hausa, I laugh even when I only understand every other word, and above all, I don't try to pass myself off as a local. I'm an oyinbo—a white guy—but a nice one. And that's enough. People accept me as I am. They appreciate the effort, even when it's clumsy. We often think integration means understanding and mastering everything. But most of the time, it's about humility, curiosity, and not being afraid to look silly. A smile, a word in the local language, a knowing wink, and that's all it takes.”
Speaking the local language isn't mandatory to live abroad. But it's a shortcut to deeper, more genuine, and often funnier, relationships. It's a way of saying: “I'm not just passing through. I want to understand. I want to get involved. I want to be part of the landscape.” It's telling the other person: “I see you.”
And in a world where you can live in a country without ever leaving the expat bubble, that's a true declaration of love.
