Living in the present

Hello everyone! Once again, it’s been almost three months since my last post. Time flies!

Well, I love Burkina Faso. Not hopelessly, or overwhelmingly, or unconditionally or anything like that. It's not like I won't want to come home when it’s all done. I will! But I do love it here right now. I love Peace Corps service. Maybe this is interesting - for me, being a Peace Corps Volunteer is like having two present and active lives. My third life is the life at home in America. Yes, here in Burkina I live two separate and not quite equal lives. Most of the time (when you're not hearing from me) I am in or around my village removed from electricity, running water, toilets, cold drinks, bananas, vegetables, and most other fruits. (Although right now Béléhédé has mangos and guavas!) I present myself differently; I wear different clothes, I speak adjusted French and some local language. I've got my friends and my habits which include sitting around drinking small shot glasses of foamy, strong, green tea with sugar; working on local language in a (honestly) filthy, fly-ridden mud hut on a worn, ripped-up straw mat; playing volleyball most nights barefoot in dirty, (sometimes punishing) sand; interacting with some school children and all their teachers; and often walking around village trying to track down meetings that never happened or information that is somehow, perpetually just a bit further away. I eat with someone's family almost every day and sometimes twice a day. In people's courtyards we are surrounded by chickens, goats, sheep, guinea fowl, sometimes ducks or even bunnies, and always children. I respond to a local name, or several names to foreign ears, although I know that they are all the same thing. I use my right hand for everything. I often use only my hand to eat.

When I'm with Americans, it’s different. We dress in pants and tank tops. We complain in English (whereas Burkinabé complain in French, n'est ce pas?) We do not say hello to EVERY single person along the road or in the street. We do not stop to shake hands with strangers or even greet each individual friend when we enter a room. We do not invite strangers to eat. We drink beer, we hug, and we touch. We talk on our cell phones for extended periods of time and we receive enormous, gratuitous packages. We laugh, a lot. We talk about where we want to travel, next. The Peace Corps community is vibrant, mostly young, fresh... Sometimes, with some special friends, you can mix your two lives as a Peace Corps Volunteer. When you are integrated into your community, sometimes you'll act similarly when you are out of it. But in Ouaga with other Americans you are compelled to make a choice. Some volunteers won't ever invite you or strangers to eat; some won't greet people on the street. This is the city, for goodness sake. The other white people don't do that. Volunteers in a group speak ENGLISH. There's no two ways about that. Unless, of course, you're with an American who doesn't speak English as a first language… My friends Yaneth and Kim are Columbian-American. One even received her citizenship just before joining Peace Corps. Volunteers like these learn the host country culture AND the American culture all at once! I'm personally learning more about Americans, in this diverse but very American group, than ever before.

Well the point is, I guess, that sometimes, I think about my two faces. In village - here are some of the things my community thinks - Adjara is sporty and likes to do sports. For example she runs and plays volleyball. She is not married (or is she?). She does not have children but wants them one day. She wants a husband one day too (for those who really "know" me!) Adjara likes to debate. She does not speak "our language." Adjara does not drink or go out at night. She can dance well but we have only seen her do it once or twice. She comes from America and is therefore rich. She is white - our white person. She likes children and gives them empty bottles, cans, or cartons at her house. She is here to help girls and maybe women. She smiles a lot and likes to travel in and out of village. She is not Muslim but also does not go to church. She does not believe in genies. (Actually only the teachers know that and they are still trying to convince me of the facts of black magic.) She walks around village but when she leaves she rides a bike. She is courageuse (courageous) because she came all the way to Africa from America with no one and moved into the bush and lives alone. I haven't heard them say it yet but they probably think I am crazy too.

Peace Corps Volunteers are crazy. And they are diverse. They come from all over the country and from all different backgrounds, orientations, age groups, religions, and experiences. African-American volunteers in Burkina are called "white person". Latino-Americans experience the same thing. Asian-Americans are called Bruce Lee and Chinese. Married women are called by their husband's first or last name. Homosexual volunteers are advised not to reveal their sexuality to any locals lest they endanger their safety and security. Outside of Peace Corps meetings, I have never heard any Burkinabé even breach the subject of homosexuality. They do not believe it even exists.

This was supposed to be an "update post" but it turned into a tangent about my lifestyles. I will type an update tomorrow. To finish this up though, for now, I'll tell you what I did today and what I did days ago. Today and yesterday I ordered food to the transit house, ate a salad and humus and beer out last night, I watched part of a movie, and sat and sleep in front of standing fans on a real bed, drank water from a freezer that had turned to ice. A few days ago, I held a life skills discussion on assertiveness in a French/Koranfe literacy class; I ate rice with beans and oil sauce; I played volleyball with a bunch of men whose single or multiple wives were home cooking for them while breast-feeding their babies; I walked around village fanning myself with a ever-present hand fan (it's my third arm), and fleeing from brutal sun; I drank warm water; I went to bed not long after the sun. Right now in front of me seven friends are sitting in front of a standing fan and a laptop, on a couch, watching The Office. We just got wireless internet in our Ouagadougou transit house. I can smell someone cooking something in the kitchen. I can see two other people reading an American gossip magazine and Newsweek respectively. I am personally listening to Lauren Hill, Norah Jones, the Cranberries, and Radiohead on my ipod after about 4 or 5 months without music (seriously) because the ipod temporarily broke. This is borrowed music since all mine got erased. A few days ago I would have listened to the BBC news on my (broken) shortwave radio. Often I listen to World Have Your Say and Focus on Africa while cooking or sometimes doing yoga.

The food in the kitchen was popcorn and thankfully, most volunteers do share.

GUEST POST by Megan

As promised, my great friend/ X-mas host/ Komsiliga-baby namesake Megan has written up a summary of her trip to Burkina Faso. Thank you Megan and Andy for this and for your fabulous visit!

Visit to Burkina Faso

We left Ghana for Burkina Faso on an STC bus on the 21st of January, 2008 and did not arrive until about 24 hours later. It was a long and tiring ride from Accra to Ouagadougou. We were met at the STC station in Ouaga the morning of January 22nd by our sweet and caring host Christina and that is when the adventure began.

Our first ride in a BF car was in a Ouaga taxi (all green in color) which took us to Hotel Del Wende where we were to pass the night. Christina (our host, tour guide, translator and everything in between) then took us to a restaurant where we had one of the popular foods in BF, couscous. It was delicious. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped to purchase some fruit from some women on the street. However, the minute we indicated any interest in buying anything, we found ourselves surrounded by vendors crowding, shoving food in our faces, and shouting at us in French to buy their goods. Andy and I were completely overwhelmed as we couldn’t even comprehend what was being shouted at us and Christina, being assaulted in every direction and simultaneously trying to translate the French being spoken to Andy and I as well as our responses in English to the women, grew understandably and increasingly frazzled. This situation (which must have looked quite hilarious to any of the other “le blanche” walking the streets) finally culminated in Christina and I busting out in uncontrollable, unstoppable laughter at the insanity of it all while Andy in the meantime, continued to fight off his salesman. The funniest part of the whole situation and what finally caused the breakdown was when Christina translated what one particular woman had been shouting all along. While shoving an orange up to the faces of both Christina and I (while another one thrust strawberries to our mouths), the woman repetitively called out the phrase “jolie comme toi! jolie comme toi!”. When Christina told me the phrase means “pretty like you” and I pictured my face being compared to a beautiful, bright, plump orange, I felt both flattered and ridiculous. The thought, combined with the persistence of the women in the Ouaga side-parking lot market, made all three of us laugh and to purchase not only several of the “pretty like us” oranges but also a bunch of the deliciously sweet strawberries the other woman had insisted on us sampling.

The next day took us to Djibo. It was the market day or the “marché”. It was a great sight to see. We combed the market and got some few items for our next few meals at X’s place in Béléhédé. Later, in the dusty heat of the afternoon, after purchasing our transport “tickets”, the driver called out that it was time to go. To our amazement (and Christina’s nonchalantly, on-the-phone-with-her-parents un-noticing of the whole scene), hordes of Burkinabe rapidly and nimbly scaled the back and sides of the oversized and overstuffed lorry (aka tractor trailer truck) that we intended to ride. Now, for those of you who are only used to seeing the calmly passing and horn-tooting tractor trailers on highways in the US, let me explain to you just how this particular truck differed. Not only were the seats in the cab filled (the only actual seats on the whole rig) but the whole of the back of the truck was also filled top to bottom with goods. This left the roof of the truck, guarded on all sides by a short fence such as one you might find typically on the ground to keep say, goats or some other small farm animal, contained at a petting zoo. But even atop the truck, no “seats” were to be found. For while people rushed to fit themselves and any belongings, babies, bikes in any open crack or crevice, the workers continued to load ginormous sacks of rice and other grains, thereby crushing people’s toes as they (oh wait, that was us), as we hesitantly and desperately searched for a place to exist. Since none was to be found (thanks to Christina taking her sweet ol’ time, which later we realized was no accident but in fact genius strategy, even the smallest openings of space had been filled), we stood there wide-eyed and a bit intimidated as people shouted at us in god knows how many languages to move, get off their stuff, stop pushing, stop staring at their babies, exposed breasts, etc. (at least that is what I imagine they were shouting at us). However, luckily, our guide and hero X-tina had made this trip before, many times by now. She would not be intimidated or held back. Shouting right back at all the pushy, jabbering Burkinabe, she crawled, pushed, and basically swam her way to a miniscule open space towards the front of the truck. Following her lead, I plopped myself right down on a big sack of something and struggled to keep the large woman pushing up against me from squashing our tomatoes into paste. Andy, on the other hand, being the too-kind-for-his-own-good kinda guy that he is, kept letting latecomers nudge him out of any space he had managed to gain until finally he was dangling from the top of the little fence thing with no space even to stick a toe. He was joined in the back there by another Burkinabe, perhaps one of the loaders, who midway through the ride decided to completely duck out and ride instead hanging from the back. The man’s dark skin matched his red shirt by the time we disembarked due to the at-least-inch-thick coating of red dust all over him.

After the truck had finally been loaded and the last of the latecomers had shoved their way on top of somebody (see the genius part now?), the truck pulled out of the marketplace only to stop about hundred feet later to let the street vendors do their thing. From her tiny hole in the middle of the truck, Christina expertly maneuvered a transaction that resulted in all three of us sampling some of the sweetest, coldest, freshest, and best yogurt I have ever tasted. This topped off our good mood as our ride officially began. Andy and I, still in shock over the way we were being transported, had a case of that unstoppable laughter again. Christina, unfazed by it all, sat back and enjoyed the ride. However, part-way into the ride, we realized that we could shout back and forth across the truck to each other without a single soul understanding a word we said. It was the first time I had been in such a situation. I felt like one of those haughty Asian women in a nail salon, always smugly commenting on the shabbiness of a customer’s toes before politely turning back to you to inquire what color polish you desired. Needless to say, everyone else stared at us in wonder, curious to know what was being said. At this point, the baby boy of the outspoken woman riding next to/on top of my legs started pissing. Since this woman lacked the double-durability and ultra-absorption of a Huggies disposable diaper and had instead donned her child with part of a cloth she wore (which she quickly pulled away, by the way, when the kid started to go), the pudgy woman and I were soaked. Fortunately for me, it only got my leg. The other woman’s shirt was soaked all down her back. Though the woman showed no remorse and didn’t look as if she was bout to start apologizing, I quickly smiled at her and let out a laugh to let her know it was no big deal (much to the anger of the large woman). Andy, in the meantime, had made a new friend in the passenger riding beside him and was conducting English lessons up above my head.

Shortly after this incident, Christina called out to ask me what it was she was leaning against (as she had no way of turning around to see for herself). “Is it a person or a thing?” she asked. “Well,” I said as I struggled to get in a position to see what lay behind her, “it appears to be a sword. Yep, a sword.” Well of course we couldn’t let the moment pass without capturing it on camera so X politely asked the fellow behind her if she could see his sword. Seconds later, the man whipped out (of the box with the photograph of it) a fancy, shiny, silver, old-school warrior sword. Hence, the photo below of X-tina happily brandishing the sword to the amusement of our fellow passengers. Needless to say, we had, what Andy so rightly termed “the best ride ever”.

“Welcome to Béléhédé” was what everyone seemed to be saying when they saw us. The people are so friendly and welcoming. And guess who was waiting for us at Christina’s- David. He had come to keep us company. The next few days saw us visiting friends of Christina including Valerie, a teacher at the school who spoke some English, and her cousin Coco. With Alou, Christina’s counterpart in Béléhédé, we toured some of the farms and spied a crocodile sunbathing on an island in the middle of the barrage (lake). Everyone we passed stopped to exchange friendly greetings and welcome us to Béléhédé. After all we were friends of Ajarah, “the one who is loved.” One woman was so happy to see us she asked Christina to tell us that as much as we love Béléhédé, Béléhédé loves us more.

The following day took us to Dori where Yaneth is stationed. In Dori, we spent two nights hanging out with other PCVs and visited the marché, which is much bigger than in Djibo. Andy’s proudest moment came when he got to sit on a donkey, something he had wanted to do since the first day he saw one being used as a means of transportation in Djibo.

Bani was our next stop from Dori. We left early in the morning after a breakfast of “pain” aka bread and sweetened condensed milk (mmmmm!) to visit this small town which seems to have a mosque for every day of the week. In total, eight (I believe) mosques sit atop the surrounding hills, facing, unlike all other mosques aimed at Mecca, the center of the town. The mosques, while appearing ancient but actually only 30 or so years old, were built entirely with mud and sticks. The view of Bani and the surrounding desert from these hills was spectacular.

By the time we finished our mosque tours, it was time for us to leave our Peace Corps friends, including X-tina, for Ouaga, our final stop in BF before we left for Ghana the next day. Andy and I both laughed nervously as we joked about how we were going to survive the rest of the way without knowing any French. However, our gracious host was happy to write down for us everything we would need to say throughout the remainder of our stay. The note highlighted key exchanges and phrases such as “how much does it cost?” and “does this have meat in it?”. Without it, we would have been lost, I’m sure. It was so funny but we made it. We got to the hotel, our starting point from days earlier, where we had dinner and passed the night. The next morning passed uneventfully as the hotel manager helped secure us a ride to the bus station. We thought we had done pretty well and were very satisfied with our trip. We were recounting some of the funny stories when suddenly our bus toppled over the side of the road. We were hanging at full tilt off the road, ready to roll down the hill at any minute. Everyone on the bus panicked, scrambling out of the windows and doors to exit the bus. I thought it was very funny while of course Andy took up the job of worrying about our safety. We managed to get off the bus after which the driver was able to pull the bus safely back onto the road. And that is how we left the glorious, dry-as-ashes country of Burkina Faso.

Our days in BF were over sooner than we expected. Guess it was because we had such fun and wished to stay longer. That is why we would love to visit Burkina again next winter because our host was so great, took such good care of us, and there is still so much more that we would like to see! Merci beaucoup to Christina and all her friends!!!