"Now, being in Africa, I was hungry for more of it, the changes of seasons, the rains with no need to travel, the discomforts that you paid to make it real, the names of the trees, of the small animals, and all the birds, to know the language and have time to be in it and move slowly."
- Ernest Hemingway, "Green Hills of Africa"
Hey, All. I'm back again, and so soon! I decided to take the weekend prior to the commencement of my teaching endeavors to meet up with friends in Fada. Despite the fact that it's only been a little over a week since I last posted, I've lots to report.
While in village, I spent some time contemplating this whole blog ordeal as I've been a bit disatisfied with the experience thus far. I feel like this is my one truest conduit to the outside world, the outlet that provides the best opportunity to express a fraction of what I see, experience, and feel while embarking on this wild adventure in West Africa. However, each time I sit down at a computer I feel overwhelmed to quickly and succinctly encapsulate all that is going on here into a few paragraphs during an hour or two-hour sitting at the computer, an impossible and impractical feat considering that Burkina Faso is Mars compared to the lives that you're all living (that's just the way it is). So, I've decided to throw caution to the wind and take a more fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, stream of consciousness approach to writing my blog. This means no logical succession, no chronological order, no rhyme or reason, just my thoughts and reflections in absolutely no particular order. Hopefully, this will render my entries a little more authentic and perhaps more interesting for all of you devoted enough to read (thanks!).
Ramadan, Poultry, and Malaria
So I returned to village a week ago, after my sejours in Ouaga, and immediately went home and to sleep. I woke up on Saturday and headed to the marché to see my friend Sali*, who I've mentioned before and has come to be my closest friend au village. I think I mentioned that she works at a telecentre in the marché (excuse the obviousness, it's a place where people can make and receive phone calls) and she also vends gateaux that she makes as well as fruit, often imported from Cote d'Ivoire (bananas, oranges, good stuff like that). Anyhow, Sali is a staple presence at the marché and the telecentre is located next to a "bar" (that serves alcohol, yes, but mostly coffee (Nescafé) and food) AND there is a foosball table next to the telecentre (not to mention that the marché is unequivocally the center of village life), THUS there are always people sitting on the bench outside the telecentre including, a most recent addition, me. It's definitely been the most siginificant inroad to village life and has resulted in the acquisition, on my part, of a whole lot of friends, many of whom work in and around the marché and are actually fairly close to me in age.
But I digress. So, it's Saturday morning and I head ot the marché to sit and chat with Sali and tell her about my trip to Ouaga. I get there and Kou Kou, a lycée student and member of Sali's extended family, is at the telecentre. I ask after Sali and the people present beat around the bush for a few minutes before telling me that she's at "l'hopital." At first I'm thinking Ouaga or Fada, a real hospital, but then I realize that they are referring to the previously mentioned, woefully understaffed and underfunded, Medical Center in village. This, as you might expect, is still NOT good, especially in a place where people only go the CM to receive free vaccinations or when the situation is grave. Upon hearing this news, I am not a happy camper and I proceed to hightail it over the to Centre Medicale with Amisatu, another friend of mine and Sali's. Sali is there, in one of the barren, un-screened, not particularly sanitary patient rooms, and, to my relief, looks OK despite the syringe sticking in her arm. Apparently the night before had been bad, but she was doing ok that morning and would be released in the evening. She was in good spirits and even rendered the story of being brought to the CM with a bit of dramatic flair for our amusement. I hung around for a while, making a trip to her quartier to get her flip-flops (she had come to the CM barefoot) as well as a trip to the pharmacy to pick up the quinine and other-drug-I-can't-name with which she would be injected for the next few days.
As I left, I asked her how she would get back to her courtyard when she was released, who was coming to pick her up (it's not all that far, but far enough that someone with malaria probably shouldn't make the trip on foot). She responded that she would, in fact, walk because "that's just the way it is here." Not satisfied with this answer, I went and asked the owner of the telecentre, and good friend of Sali's, to pick her up on his moto at the designated hour, which he did.
When I visited her in courtyard the next day (the celebration of the end of Ramadan/breaking of the fast) she looked much better and we sat under a tree in her quartier for the morning. She mentioned that Ali (owner of the telecentre) had commented on how upset I seemed when I asked him to pick her up (well, yeah, malaria's not normal or good or usual in my realm of existence!). Apparently this gives me a lot of credit in the eyes of my village, which is great and all, but the experience was, cliché though it may be, a lesson learned. Despite the fact that I call Sali my friend and truly mean it, and hope to retain that friendship all of my life, there is a serious "us" and "them"-ness to our existence that can never change. I will always be white and American, she black and Burkinabé. My experience with povery is fleeting, hers endures despite her relative success. I take my malaria phrophylaxis once a week and my gravest concern is forgetting, she works so hard and such long hours that despite her youth and health, malaria could kill her.
But now on to Ramadan and Poultry. As I mentioned, the day I went to visit Sali was the end of Ramadan and breaking of the fast. As we sat under the tree, women in the courtyards all around were busy preparing a HUGE meal, in almost all cases of riz sauce (rice and, most often, peanut sauce with vegeatables and goat or chicken). When I say huge I mean the biggest cauldron-like cooking vessel you can imagine (I have pictures which I will manage to post in the near-ish future). While the women prepare the meal, the rest of the family goes to the Mosque to pray, decked out in gorgeous colorful bou bous and brightly patterned complets. I have some great pictures of tiny little kids in matching outfits, ridiculously adorable. The Muslim population is concentrated in the area of the village near the Mosque, so there's an intense feeling of community as all this occurs. After the Mosque, the men return to their respective quartiers (neighborhoods, typically grouped by large, extended families) to pray in smaller prayer buildings. As Sali and I walked around the neighborhood, I ran into the vieux (oldest male) of Aisattu's, my homologue, family. He ushered me into their prayer building where I greeted the elders and then sat with the men for a bit as they prayed and ate (a serious privilege, I was a little overwhelmed).
After making the rounds with Sali and eating an incredible amount of food, I had planned on heading back to my house to relax for a bit before going to visit Aisattu's courtyard. However, I ran into her on my way home and was ushered into her courtyard where I was promptly fed and then led out to make the rounds again with Aisattu, which included a visit to the courtyard of the Imam. I sat in a little mud room in the courtyard with his ancient, wrinkled, totally precious and sweet mother (the vielle of the family) and as we exchanged greetings in Mooré, I contemplated how utterly "Peace Corps" that particular moment was.
Later that evening Sali biked over to my house, bringing with her a chicken which was a gift from her vieux. Apparently he had been touched by the fact that when I greeted him during the feast, I had done so in the traditional Burkinabé way (kneeling while shaking his hand, head bowed, avoiding eye contact). I asked her to keep the chicken, since I'm not well-versed in the preparation of live poultry. As we sat and talked she explained why the vieux had given me the chicken and told me that people in the village are very happy with my presence because I am "simple" (uncomplicated, easygoing) and I smile a lot and respect their traditions. This was, without a doubt, the most gratifying moment I've had thus far in Burkina Faso. It's a truly amazing thing to be so warmly embarced simply for being kind, behaving as one ought to behave, and taking a sincere interest in the culture and life here.
Dreaming in French
This is a not-particularly-relevant but, I think, amusing enough to warrant publication. So, last night my fellow volunteers friends and I enjoyed a tasty dinner (we had SALAD!), some cheap wine, and lots of good conversation before heading back to the hostel here in Fada for the night. The three of us slept on two twin bends pushed together, me in the middle. In the wee hours of the morning I sat up with a start, still asleep, and began babbling in French. I later figured out that I said something, roughly translated, along the lines of "What!? What is it!? I think there's something at the end of the bed! Is it a lizard?" while furiously feeling around at the end of the bed. Mind you, I was pretty much asleep. Aisha, to my left, was the first to wake up and promptly started to respond to me in French, "Quoi!? C'est quoi!?". Beth, to my right, then woke up because my frantic lizarcd-searching had, understandably, scared the crap out of her. At this point I woke up and realized that I was speaking French and exclaimed, "Why am I speaking in FRENCH?" Now all being awake and cognizant enough to comprehend the hilarity of the situation, we three proceeded to burst out laughing and promptly returned to sleep, only to recap the bizarre occurence, with much amusement, again this morning. I guess dreaming in French is what we would classify here as "bien integré."
CNN and Coca-Cola
And now for a totally surreal experience au village. This occured two days ago. It was Thursday and I had little to do since there is no school on Thursdays (why, I do not know, but there is school on Saturday. I enjoyed a leisurely morning, after which I headed over to the marché to pick up some varnish I had ordered to be delivered from Fada. I planned on varnishing the furniture I've had made in order to make it look pretty and protect from the plethora of wood-eating insects that frequent my village and, often enough, my house. It hadn't yet arrived so I headed back from the marché in the direction of my house planning to stop and saluer (greet) some friends on the way. As I was heading back I encountered Oumarou, the chef du marché (guy who makes public announcements au marché and basically makes sure that all goes well). He's a generally funny guy with a great sense of humor and we enjoy a playful, humurous exchange every now and then (particularly when he proposes marriage, suggesting that I would indeed be quite happy as his third wife). As we're chatting sur la route, a JEEP CHEROKEE pulls up. This, I must stress, is ODD. Yes, there are Land Rovers and Land Cruisers and any number of SUV-ish type vehicles that government officials and development workers drive around but a JEEP!? The Jeep stops and we greet the three men inside who proceed to invite me to have a drink at the nearby maquis. In Burkina, one doesn't decline an invitation without reason so I accepted and sat down with them to enjoy a tasty, cold Coke (ah, the good life). Turns out they work with an NGO and were in village on business and turned out to be entirely nice guys, one of whom repeatedly told me how captivating my blue eyes are. The conversation was fairly interesting so I accepted when they invited me for lunch, having little else to do that day. So I got in the Jeep with them and we drove down the road towards Tenkodogou to a small village less than 10k from Diabo. Here I must interject: yes, getting into a car with relative strangers would be sketchy and stupid in the States, here, au village, it is not. So we arrived at a large, COMPLETELY SCREENED house complete with a wrap-around porch, satelite dish, and it's own mini-water tower, NO JOKE. I was floored. We walked inside, over the TILED porch, into a relatively comfy (by Burkina standards) living room complete with a nice television and a bottle of Johnny Walker on the coffee table (ah, Burkina, so it goes). We sat down with the proprieter (who I later found out is the Deputé, though I have no idea what that actually means in bureaucratic terms) and he turned on the television to CNN in ENGLISH. IN THE FREAKIN' BUSH! I was beside myself, I was ecstatic, I was in 7th heaven and I watched for a good half-hour, as my companions sat, bemused by my joy. Yes, I see a television from time to time, there are lots au village,with cleverly hand-crafted antennae, though they reception is fuzzy and the options for viewing range from bad W. African music videos to the local news (think public access-style). But this was CNN IN ENGLISH and at least 30k from a paved road no less. What an experience. It made my day. The meal was good too, as was cold Coke no. 2 (a refrigerator en brousse is also pretty crazy).
So, yeah. I really don't miss 24-hour, sensationalist news all that much, and CNN pretty much sucks now (pardonez-moi, but Soledad and Miles O'Brien, I DON'T LIKE YOU and your clever banter, your discussions of your morning at home or the funny thing your niece or brother or uncle did the other day, I want NEWS!). Nonetheless, I cherish information and access to it, especially of the up-to-the-minute, this JUST happened variety (I'm currently reading issues of Newsweek, int'l edition, that are more than a month old).
Tea With Eloi
I have a friend in village, Eloi, he's a tailor and has a wife and five very cute children (four by his wife, one previous to his marriage, this I add because it's relevant later). So, I'm not sure how our friendship began, probably just because Eloi is a friendly guy and he lives in centre-ville on the main route. His courtyard is set back a bit and there is a nice area before the entrance, right off the road where there are several large, shade-giving trees. This is where Eloi's family spends the majority of their time. Eloi keeps his sewing machine on a table under one tree and, if he's not working, can be found seated under another tree brewing tea, perhaps alone, perhaps talking with several others. I find myself drinking tea chez Eloi at least a few times a week, usually in the late afternoon or evening. It is inarguably one of the most delightful spots in village, a welcome reprieve from the sun, a prime people-viewing location, a happy place (because theirs is a happy family), not to mention that it also offers a great view of the night sky, thus star gazing is a regular occurence. Also, Eloi's handmade wooden chairs are ridiculously comfortable and I have risked falling asleep several times while visiting in the evening.
Now tea in Burkina is a big deal and a social event. It is not tea as we know it, but a super-strong, quite delicious tea brewed over coals in a tiny teapot on a tripod-like wire contraption. It is an art and it is delicious. The tea is typically green and is served in shot-like glasses, usually with sugar and sometimes mint. Brewing tea is what men do in Burkina (and women are lucky if they are invited to partake, which is rare, unless you're a random white chick who happens to live in village).
Anyhow, Eloi and I, and often various others, have spent many any hour discussing any number of things. Eloi's favorite topics range from the weather, to why I should marry a Burkinabé (don't worry, Mom) and stay in Diabo forever to, my personal favorite, why la vie au village is so darn good. And this is why, according to Eloi: we grow or raise almost everything we eat and, thus, have just about all we need, things are calm (not noisy or hurried like the cities), and people are kind. So there you have it, I couldn't agree more and find his attitude encouragingly refreshing. Because, yes, the people who constantly tell me that "la vie au Burkina est dure (hard)" are right and, yes, there are challenges, problems, deficiencies, etc. but there is so much good, a fact that I state often and with force because there is SO much here that the United States could use a great big dose of (first off, the fact that people here give a damn and, no matter who you are or what you do, you could be crazy or dirt-poor or oddly attired, yet they will ask you how your day is going and how things are chez vous).
But back to Eloi. I was in Ouaga when I wrote my last entry. Eloi and I had traveled in the same bush taxi because he was going to visit family in Ouaga and pick up his oldest daughter, who was coming to live with him and go to school in Diabo. He stayed longer than I did but, on the day of my departure, he came to the bus station, though he wasn't positive that I would be there since I had missed his phone call of inquiry, to make sure that I got along ok in my efforts to get back to village (not a big deal, but it was the first time I had taken the direct transport from Ouaga to village). He was there when I arrived and proceeded to wait with me for almost three hours (one never knows when transport will actually leave) until he had to leave to pick up his daughter at another station across the city. This is a totally normal gesture, based solely upon the fact that we come from the same village and were both spending time in the city. Stuff like this is mind-boggling for me at times, coming from an American perspective. This lack of any sense of personal inconvenience, this loyalty and sense of obligation based on geography and shared experience and little else.
Whew, that was a lot and I have spent way too much time in front of a computer, thus it's time to sign off. Thanks for reading. 'Til next time.
"I am just a tiny person in Africa, but there is a place for me, and for everybody, to sit down on this earth and touch it and call it their own."
*Addendum: I considered not using people's real names, though I have been thus far, in the interest of protecting their privacy, not exploiting them for entertainment value, what have you. But then I thought "hey, this is my life and these are my friends, people I admire, trust, and have come to rely on, who play a significant part in my general well-being, happiness,and day-to-day existence." Thus, I will continue to use their real names because talking about Sali (Salimata) just doesn't work if I call her Amisatu.
- Ernest Hemingway, "Green Hills of Africa"
Hey, All. I'm back again, and so soon! I decided to take the weekend prior to the commencement of my teaching endeavors to meet up with friends in Fada. Despite the fact that it's only been a little over a week since I last posted, I've lots to report.
While in village, I spent some time contemplating this whole blog ordeal as I've been a bit disatisfied with the experience thus far. I feel like this is my one truest conduit to the outside world, the outlet that provides the best opportunity to express a fraction of what I see, experience, and feel while embarking on this wild adventure in West Africa. However, each time I sit down at a computer I feel overwhelmed to quickly and succinctly encapsulate all that is going on here into a few paragraphs during an hour or two-hour sitting at the computer, an impossible and impractical feat considering that Burkina Faso is Mars compared to the lives that you're all living (that's just the way it is). So, I've decided to throw caution to the wind and take a more fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, stream of consciousness approach to writing my blog. This means no logical succession, no chronological order, no rhyme or reason, just my thoughts and reflections in absolutely no particular order. Hopefully, this will render my entries a little more authentic and perhaps more interesting for all of you devoted enough to read (thanks!).
Ramadan, Poultry, and Malaria
So I returned to village a week ago, after my sejours in Ouaga, and immediately went home and to sleep. I woke up on Saturday and headed to the marché to see my friend Sali*, who I've mentioned before and has come to be my closest friend au village. I think I mentioned that she works at a telecentre in the marché (excuse the obviousness, it's a place where people can make and receive phone calls) and she also vends gateaux that she makes as well as fruit, often imported from Cote d'Ivoire (bananas, oranges, good stuff like that). Anyhow, Sali is a staple presence at the marché and the telecentre is located next to a "bar" (that serves alcohol, yes, but mostly coffee (Nescafé) and food) AND there is a foosball table next to the telecentre (not to mention that the marché is unequivocally the center of village life), THUS there are always people sitting on the bench outside the telecentre including, a most recent addition, me. It's definitely been the most siginificant inroad to village life and has resulted in the acquisition, on my part, of a whole lot of friends, many of whom work in and around the marché and are actually fairly close to me in age.
But I digress. So, it's Saturday morning and I head ot the marché to sit and chat with Sali and tell her about my trip to Ouaga. I get there and Kou Kou, a lycée student and member of Sali's extended family, is at the telecentre. I ask after Sali and the people present beat around the bush for a few minutes before telling me that she's at "l'hopital." At first I'm thinking Ouaga or Fada, a real hospital, but then I realize that they are referring to the previously mentioned, woefully understaffed and underfunded, Medical Center in village. This, as you might expect, is still NOT good, especially in a place where people only go the CM to receive free vaccinations or when the situation is grave. Upon hearing this news, I am not a happy camper and I proceed to hightail it over the to Centre Medicale with Amisatu, another friend of mine and Sali's. Sali is there, in one of the barren, un-screened, not particularly sanitary patient rooms, and, to my relief, looks OK despite the syringe sticking in her arm. Apparently the night before had been bad, but she was doing ok that morning and would be released in the evening. She was in good spirits and even rendered the story of being brought to the CM with a bit of dramatic flair for our amusement. I hung around for a while, making a trip to her quartier to get her flip-flops (she had come to the CM barefoot) as well as a trip to the pharmacy to pick up the quinine and other-drug-I-can't-name with which she would be injected for the next few days.
As I left, I asked her how she would get back to her courtyard when she was released, who was coming to pick her up (it's not all that far, but far enough that someone with malaria probably shouldn't make the trip on foot). She responded that she would, in fact, walk because "that's just the way it is here." Not satisfied with this answer, I went and asked the owner of the telecentre, and good friend of Sali's, to pick her up on his moto at the designated hour, which he did.
When I visited her in courtyard the next day (the celebration of the end of Ramadan/breaking of the fast) she looked much better and we sat under a tree in her quartier for the morning. She mentioned that Ali (owner of the telecentre) had commented on how upset I seemed when I asked him to pick her up (well, yeah, malaria's not normal or good or usual in my realm of existence!). Apparently this gives me a lot of credit in the eyes of my village, which is great and all, but the experience was, cliché though it may be, a lesson learned. Despite the fact that I call Sali my friend and truly mean it, and hope to retain that friendship all of my life, there is a serious "us" and "them"-ness to our existence that can never change. I will always be white and American, she black and Burkinabé. My experience with povery is fleeting, hers endures despite her relative success. I take my malaria phrophylaxis once a week and my gravest concern is forgetting, she works so hard and such long hours that despite her youth and health, malaria could kill her.
But now on to Ramadan and Poultry. As I mentioned, the day I went to visit Sali was the end of Ramadan and breaking of the fast. As we sat under the tree, women in the courtyards all around were busy preparing a HUGE meal, in almost all cases of riz sauce (rice and, most often, peanut sauce with vegeatables and goat or chicken). When I say huge I mean the biggest cauldron-like cooking vessel you can imagine (I have pictures which I will manage to post in the near-ish future). While the women prepare the meal, the rest of the family goes to the Mosque to pray, decked out in gorgeous colorful bou bous and brightly patterned complets. I have some great pictures of tiny little kids in matching outfits, ridiculously adorable. The Muslim population is concentrated in the area of the village near the Mosque, so there's an intense feeling of community as all this occurs. After the Mosque, the men return to their respective quartiers (neighborhoods, typically grouped by large, extended families) to pray in smaller prayer buildings. As Sali and I walked around the neighborhood, I ran into the vieux (oldest male) of Aisattu's, my homologue, family. He ushered me into their prayer building where I greeted the elders and then sat with the men for a bit as they prayed and ate (a serious privilege, I was a little overwhelmed).
After making the rounds with Sali and eating an incredible amount of food, I had planned on heading back to my house to relax for a bit before going to visit Aisattu's courtyard. However, I ran into her on my way home and was ushered into her courtyard where I was promptly fed and then led out to make the rounds again with Aisattu, which included a visit to the courtyard of the Imam. I sat in a little mud room in the courtyard with his ancient, wrinkled, totally precious and sweet mother (the vielle of the family) and as we exchanged greetings in Mooré, I contemplated how utterly "Peace Corps" that particular moment was.
Later that evening Sali biked over to my house, bringing with her a chicken which was a gift from her vieux. Apparently he had been touched by the fact that when I greeted him during the feast, I had done so in the traditional Burkinabé way (kneeling while shaking his hand, head bowed, avoiding eye contact). I asked her to keep the chicken, since I'm not well-versed in the preparation of live poultry. As we sat and talked she explained why the vieux had given me the chicken and told me that people in the village are very happy with my presence because I am "simple" (uncomplicated, easygoing) and I smile a lot and respect their traditions. This was, without a doubt, the most gratifying moment I've had thus far in Burkina Faso. It's a truly amazing thing to be so warmly embarced simply for being kind, behaving as one ought to behave, and taking a sincere interest in the culture and life here.
Dreaming in French
This is a not-particularly-relevant but, I think, amusing enough to warrant publication. So, last night my fellow volunteers friends and I enjoyed a tasty dinner (we had SALAD!), some cheap wine, and lots of good conversation before heading back to the hostel here in Fada for the night. The three of us slept on two twin bends pushed together, me in the middle. In the wee hours of the morning I sat up with a start, still asleep, and began babbling in French. I later figured out that I said something, roughly translated, along the lines of "What!? What is it!? I think there's something at the end of the bed! Is it a lizard?" while furiously feeling around at the end of the bed. Mind you, I was pretty much asleep. Aisha, to my left, was the first to wake up and promptly started to respond to me in French, "Quoi!? C'est quoi!?". Beth, to my right, then woke up because my frantic lizarcd-searching had, understandably, scared the crap out of her. At this point I woke up and realized that I was speaking French and exclaimed, "Why am I speaking in FRENCH?" Now all being awake and cognizant enough to comprehend the hilarity of the situation, we three proceeded to burst out laughing and promptly returned to sleep, only to recap the bizarre occurence, with much amusement, again this morning. I guess dreaming in French is what we would classify here as "bien integré."
CNN and Coca-Cola
And now for a totally surreal experience au village. This occured two days ago. It was Thursday and I had little to do since there is no school on Thursdays (why, I do not know, but there is school on Saturday. I enjoyed a leisurely morning, after which I headed over to the marché to pick up some varnish I had ordered to be delivered from Fada. I planned on varnishing the furniture I've had made in order to make it look pretty and protect from the plethora of wood-eating insects that frequent my village and, often enough, my house. It hadn't yet arrived so I headed back from the marché in the direction of my house planning to stop and saluer (greet) some friends on the way. As I was heading back I encountered Oumarou, the chef du marché (guy who makes public announcements au marché and basically makes sure that all goes well). He's a generally funny guy with a great sense of humor and we enjoy a playful, humurous exchange every now and then (particularly when he proposes marriage, suggesting that I would indeed be quite happy as his third wife). As we're chatting sur la route, a JEEP CHEROKEE pulls up. This, I must stress, is ODD. Yes, there are Land Rovers and Land Cruisers and any number of SUV-ish type vehicles that government officials and development workers drive around but a JEEP!? The Jeep stops and we greet the three men inside who proceed to invite me to have a drink at the nearby maquis. In Burkina, one doesn't decline an invitation without reason so I accepted and sat down with them to enjoy a tasty, cold Coke (ah, the good life). Turns out they work with an NGO and were in village on business and turned out to be entirely nice guys, one of whom repeatedly told me how captivating my blue eyes are. The conversation was fairly interesting so I accepted when they invited me for lunch, having little else to do that day. So I got in the Jeep with them and we drove down the road towards Tenkodogou to a small village less than 10k from Diabo. Here I must interject: yes, getting into a car with relative strangers would be sketchy and stupid in the States, here, au village, it is not. So we arrived at a large, COMPLETELY SCREENED house complete with a wrap-around porch, satelite dish, and it's own mini-water tower, NO JOKE. I was floored. We walked inside, over the TILED porch, into a relatively comfy (by Burkina standards) living room complete with a nice television and a bottle of Johnny Walker on the coffee table (ah, Burkina, so it goes). We sat down with the proprieter (who I later found out is the Deputé, though I have no idea what that actually means in bureaucratic terms) and he turned on the television to CNN in ENGLISH. IN THE FREAKIN' BUSH! I was beside myself, I was ecstatic, I was in 7th heaven and I watched for a good half-hour, as my companions sat, bemused by my joy. Yes, I see a television from time to time, there are lots au village,with cleverly hand-crafted antennae, though they reception is fuzzy and the options for viewing range from bad W. African music videos to the local news (think public access-style). But this was CNN IN ENGLISH and at least 30k from a paved road no less. What an experience. It made my day. The meal was good too, as was cold Coke no. 2 (a refrigerator en brousse is also pretty crazy).
So, yeah. I really don't miss 24-hour, sensationalist news all that much, and CNN pretty much sucks now (pardonez-moi, but Soledad and Miles O'Brien, I DON'T LIKE YOU and your clever banter, your discussions of your morning at home or the funny thing your niece or brother or uncle did the other day, I want NEWS!). Nonetheless, I cherish information and access to it, especially of the up-to-the-minute, this JUST happened variety (I'm currently reading issues of Newsweek, int'l edition, that are more than a month old).
Tea With Eloi
I have a friend in village, Eloi, he's a tailor and has a wife and five very cute children (four by his wife, one previous to his marriage, this I add because it's relevant later). So, I'm not sure how our friendship began, probably just because Eloi is a friendly guy and he lives in centre-ville on the main route. His courtyard is set back a bit and there is a nice area before the entrance, right off the road where there are several large, shade-giving trees. This is where Eloi's family spends the majority of their time. Eloi keeps his sewing machine on a table under one tree and, if he's not working, can be found seated under another tree brewing tea, perhaps alone, perhaps talking with several others. I find myself drinking tea chez Eloi at least a few times a week, usually in the late afternoon or evening. It is inarguably one of the most delightful spots in village, a welcome reprieve from the sun, a prime people-viewing location, a happy place (because theirs is a happy family), not to mention that it also offers a great view of the night sky, thus star gazing is a regular occurence. Also, Eloi's handmade wooden chairs are ridiculously comfortable and I have risked falling asleep several times while visiting in the evening.
Now tea in Burkina is a big deal and a social event. It is not tea as we know it, but a super-strong, quite delicious tea brewed over coals in a tiny teapot on a tripod-like wire contraption. It is an art and it is delicious. The tea is typically green and is served in shot-like glasses, usually with sugar and sometimes mint. Brewing tea is what men do in Burkina (and women are lucky if they are invited to partake, which is rare, unless you're a random white chick who happens to live in village).
Anyhow, Eloi and I, and often various others, have spent many any hour discussing any number of things. Eloi's favorite topics range from the weather, to why I should marry a Burkinabé (don't worry, Mom) and stay in Diabo forever to, my personal favorite, why la vie au village is so darn good. And this is why, according to Eloi: we grow or raise almost everything we eat and, thus, have just about all we need, things are calm (not noisy or hurried like the cities), and people are kind. So there you have it, I couldn't agree more and find his attitude encouragingly refreshing. Because, yes, the people who constantly tell me that "la vie au Burkina est dure (hard)" are right and, yes, there are challenges, problems, deficiencies, etc. but there is so much good, a fact that I state often and with force because there is SO much here that the United States could use a great big dose of (first off, the fact that people here give a damn and, no matter who you are or what you do, you could be crazy or dirt-poor or oddly attired, yet they will ask you how your day is going and how things are chez vous).
But back to Eloi. I was in Ouaga when I wrote my last entry. Eloi and I had traveled in the same bush taxi because he was going to visit family in Ouaga and pick up his oldest daughter, who was coming to live with him and go to school in Diabo. He stayed longer than I did but, on the day of my departure, he came to the bus station, though he wasn't positive that I would be there since I had missed his phone call of inquiry, to make sure that I got along ok in my efforts to get back to village (not a big deal, but it was the first time I had taken the direct transport from Ouaga to village). He was there when I arrived and proceeded to wait with me for almost three hours (one never knows when transport will actually leave) until he had to leave to pick up his daughter at another station across the city. This is a totally normal gesture, based solely upon the fact that we come from the same village and were both spending time in the city. Stuff like this is mind-boggling for me at times, coming from an American perspective. This lack of any sense of personal inconvenience, this loyalty and sense of obligation based on geography and shared experience and little else.
Whew, that was a lot and I have spent way too much time in front of a computer, thus it's time to sign off. Thanks for reading. 'Til next time.
"I am just a tiny person in Africa, but there is a place for me, and for everybody, to sit down on this earth and touch it and call it their own."
*Addendum: I considered not using people's real names, though I have been thus far, in the interest of protecting their privacy, not exploiting them for entertainment value, what have you. But then I thought "hey, this is my life and these are my friends, people I admire, trust, and have come to rely on, who play a significant part in my general well-being, happiness,and day-to-day existence." Thus, I will continue to use their real names because talking about Sali (Salimata) just doesn't work if I call her Amisatu.
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