Hello all. I do wish I had access to the internet more often. It is frustrating to be so busy all the time (and/or sick) that you can not communicate with your friends and family when you really, really want to. Once I begin my service in Béléhédé (yes, that is my site!!!), I should have a lot more free time than during this grueling training period.
Well... don't get too excited yet. Indeed I will have lots of "unstructured" time, especially during my first three months. But I will also be 40 kilometers away from a bad internet connection that supposedly costs so much that it's "not even worth it". I do have a cell phone! For those who are interested, you can buy a reasonably priced phone card and call me sometime!* But still don't get excited yet. There is no cell phone service in beautiful Béléhédé so I'll be biking, running, or walking to the top of a hill 2 kilometers away to receive or make any phone calls. But I can receive texts! (on the hill...)
Now with eight (ooh just added another fifteen) minutes left on my internet connection before another training session - sigh - I will just highlight a few notable moments:
I have been sick for the past three weeks. Actually I have felt good for four days in a row now (so exactly three weeks from this past Friday) and all I can say is UGH. I'll spare you the details which are exhausting just to think about. But I will say - it started with a four day unidentified fever of like 102F (yes I was still attending classes and training sessions) and it ended with the death of an amoeba by the marvel of modern medicine!
We lost another two GREAT trainees who decided to go home. Jaime and Chris were one of our two married couples and I am really going to miss them. Now we are 24. Every time someone else leaves it gets harder to say goodbye.
Nonetheless, as a group we have pretty good morale and relatively positive attitudes. At this point, everyone is ready and waiting to finish up training and move to their sites. Over the past two weeks we all had the opportunity to visit our sites (or at least our regions) and meet our Burkinabé counterparts.
My site is in the north, in the Soum province which is part of the Sahel region. (Remember - where desert meets savannah?) Well now I have two minutes left and that is just not enough so I'll put this off until next time. Suffice it to say that I will have access to vegetables most of the year round and there is a lake. what!?
*If you are so inclined/awesome and would like to give me a ring, shoot an email and I'll send you my digits. Also, Mom has the number.
25 July 2007
12 July 2007
When The Rain Comes II
The second* time it stormed I had visitors. Two of my secondary education friends who live in the city decided to try out a night of village life. The other trainees in my village (three at the time) also had visitors so we gathered in a group of about 10 at a my friend Yaneth's house.
The Burkinabé had known that it would rain. We promised that we would get back in time. Yaneth's home is technically next to mine and in the daylight you can theoretically see it across the peanut/millet/corn fields. Anyway, I had a general idea of where it was when I took my two buddies tramping off into the darkness and we got there just fine.
Yaneth's extended Burkinabé family gave us a very warm welcome. They set up mats for us to sit on and more mats so they could sit next to us. Eventually the two groups chatted separately in their respective languages as everyone enjoyed the fine night.
After only a half hour my friends noticed that the children (girls) behind us were calling me.** They were telling me that "the rain had come". Well, clearly it hadn't since I was still DRY. So I acknowledged the girls and kept on chatting.
A few minutes later they were calling me again, "Adjara, regards la pluie est venue". I looked where they were pointing and could not see a darn thing. Throughout the evening we had been watching the other part of the sky light up in silent flashes. It appeared to us that nothing had changed.
Finally, the young girls insisted that we go home. "Faut partir, maintenant. La pluie est venue." We said our goodbyes and began walking off into the dark. Thankfully both of my friends brought flashlights but we could still only see a few feet ahead. After a few minutes they noticed someone calling me. Why is it that everyone else notices when someone is talking to me? "Adjara, à droite!" They were telling us to go right. So, we started to veer a little bit more to the right.
"A droite, Adjara, à droite!!" So we veered a little more. Eventually the girls must have been a football field away monitoring our two dinky headlamps bob off into the wrong direction in the night... "A DROITE, ADJARA! FAUT ALLER A DROITE!" OK! We finally turned right.
Ten or fifteen minutes after leaving Yaneth's we arrived home and entered my hut. We dropped our things, thanked goodness and started to laugh. Of course, right then, it began to rain.
*Could have been the second time... but also could have been the third or fourth?
**Just a note: they were only a few feet behind us but Burkinabé girls (and children in general) tend to speak softly. Sometimes it takes a moment to notice when they are talking to you.
The Burkinabé had known that it would rain. We promised that we would get back in time. Yaneth's home is technically next to mine and in the daylight you can theoretically see it across the peanut/millet/corn fields. Anyway, I had a general idea of where it was when I took my two buddies tramping off into the darkness and we got there just fine.
Yaneth's extended Burkinabé family gave us a very warm welcome. They set up mats for us to sit on and more mats so they could sit next to us. Eventually the two groups chatted separately in their respective languages as everyone enjoyed the fine night.
After only a half hour my friends noticed that the children (girls) behind us were calling me.** They were telling me that "the rain had come". Well, clearly it hadn't since I was still DRY. So I acknowledged the girls and kept on chatting.
A few minutes later they were calling me again, "Adjara, regards la pluie est venue". I looked where they were pointing and could not see a darn thing. Throughout the evening we had been watching the other part of the sky light up in silent flashes. It appeared to us that nothing had changed.
Finally, the young girls insisted that we go home. "Faut partir, maintenant. La pluie est venue." We said our goodbyes and began walking off into the dark. Thankfully both of my friends brought flashlights but we could still only see a few feet ahead. After a few minutes they noticed someone calling me. Why is it that everyone else notices when someone is talking to me? "Adjara, à droite!" They were telling us to go right. So, we started to veer a little bit more to the right.
"A droite, Adjara, à droite!!" So we veered a little more. Eventually the girls must have been a football field away monitoring our two dinky headlamps bob off into the wrong direction in the night... "A DROITE, ADJARA! FAUT ALLER A DROITE!" OK! We finally turned right.
Ten or fifteen minutes after leaving Yaneth's we arrived home and entered my hut. We dropped our things, thanked goodness and started to laugh. Of course, right then, it began to rain.
*Could have been the second time... but also could have been the third or fourth?
**Just a note: they were only a few feet behind us but Burkinabé girls (and children in general) tend to speak softly. Sometimes it takes a moment to notice when they are talking to you.
05 July 2007
When The Rain Comes
Since I have been in Burkina, we have had say, somewhere between 3-6 storms. It is the rainy season now when many Burkinabé depend on the sky to open up and allow them to cultivate their fields.
The first storm was at night. I was sleeping* in my round, thatched-roof hut during one of our first nights in village. I was woken up by the wind slamming my tin door at against the frame repeatedly. The first time I think I screamed... after I shut and locked the door a voice cried through the one of my two windows - faut-pas avoir peur! or don't be afraid.
The next thing that happened was probably that I started to cough. There was dust everywhere! Was this a sandstorm? Do I live in the dessert? Instinctively I wrapped one of my two bed sheets around my head like a head scarf. I left my eyes exposed so I could try to see something (ha). Another voice screamed through the other one of my two windows - faut fermer la porte! or shut the door. (Didn't I already do this?)
The other sounds that followed were the usual (though not yet usual to me at the time) -- goats, donkeys, cows, bulls, chickens, guinea fowls, and cocks. The next thing to come was, of course, the rain. Well this was the best sound of all. I discovered that when it rains outside, it also rains inside a little bit too. It was raining on my bed. I scrunched over. People were outside maybe running around? Or just talking? Or maybe passing from here to there -- there is a lot to do when it rains.
This particular storm didn't last very long. When it was over there were voices at the door of my hut, people were calling my name... I opened the door and used my flashlight.** Well the family came pouring in, within minutes I had 15 people in my hut fawning all over me laughing and discussing the storm. There was an inch of dust on everything.
*At least I think I was sleeping. Am I ever sleeping here?
**I think I remember using my flashlight but if it was as early as my second night in village, I did not yet have a working flashlight to complement my kerosene lamp.
The first storm was at night. I was sleeping* in my round, thatched-roof hut during one of our first nights in village. I was woken up by the wind slamming my tin door at against the frame repeatedly. The first time I think I screamed... after I shut and locked the door a voice cried through the one of my two windows - faut-pas avoir peur! or don't be afraid.
The next thing that happened was probably that I started to cough. There was dust everywhere! Was this a sandstorm? Do I live in the dessert? Instinctively I wrapped one of my two bed sheets around my head like a head scarf. I left my eyes exposed so I could try to see something (ha). Another voice screamed through the other one of my two windows - faut fermer la porte! or shut the door. (Didn't I already do this?)
The other sounds that followed were the usual (though not yet usual to me at the time) -- goats, donkeys, cows, bulls, chickens, guinea fowls, and cocks. The next thing to come was, of course, the rain. Well this was the best sound of all. I discovered that when it rains outside, it also rains inside a little bit too. It was raining on my bed. I scrunched over. People were outside maybe running around? Or just talking? Or maybe passing from here to there -- there is a lot to do when it rains.
This particular storm didn't last very long. When it was over there were voices at the door of my hut, people were calling my name... I opened the door and used my flashlight.** Well the family came pouring in, within minutes I had 15 people in my hut fawning all over me laughing and discussing the storm. There was an inch of dust on everything.
*At least I think I was sleeping. Am I ever sleeping here?
**I think I remember using my flashlight but if it was as early as my second night in village, I did not yet have a working flashlight to complement my kerosene lamp.
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