FESPACO and village updates

Greetings from Ouaga and FESPACO - the bi-annual Pan-African Film Festival. The festival features films from and about Africa, mostly of African origin with a few from the UK, US, India, even Haiti. The city is abuzz with droves of nasaras, of all hues and nationalities, who've descended upon our otherwise-totally-obscure country to get a taste of cinematic culture, African-style. The Peace Corps hostel is packed, so a bunch of us opted for a hotel down the street. We're currently hosting volunteers from all over W. Africa: Mali, Senegal, Ghana, Togo, Benin, and Guinea, whose volunteers were just evacuated due to escalating conflict and government instability. It's been cool to hear a little bit about their experiences in-country and realize the cultural elements that transcend borders here in l'Afrique de l'Ouest.

I had the opportunty to see four films. The first, "Some Kind of Funny Puerto Rican? A Cape Verdean-American Story", by Claire Andrade Watkins, is a documentary about Fox Point, a neighborhood on the lower east side of Providence, Rhode Island, which was the major settling point for Cape Verdean immigrants in America (no longer in existence thanks to the construction of Route 195) . (Reference: the Cape Verde Islands are just off the coast of W. Africa and were colonized by the Portuguese in 1462). The second film was "Ezra" by Nigerian Newton Aduaka, the story of a child soldier in Sierra Leone. I had to shut my eyes for a few scenes depicting raids on villages. It gave me a sort of sick feeling because those images aren't "over there" or "somewhere else" any more. I know those huts and those lives because I live amidst them. Imagining widespread, intense violence on a localized scale is something most Americans are unable to do because we haven't experienced it and can't truly fathom experiencing it. Images of terrorized kids running away from AK-47-wielding mercenaries evoked some serious emotions, not because I live in a war-torn or particularly unstable country, but because those kids looked like MY kids.

The third film I saw was a documentary by American Micah Shafer entitled, "The Death of Two Sons" which hit a more personal note. It's the story of Amadou Diallo, a Guinéan who moves to New York City to work and save enough money to go to college. While he's in NYC, his family simultaneouly hosts a Peace Corps volunteer in their village in Guinea. In 1999, Amadou Diallo was shot by 4 NYPD policemen as he was leaving his apartment building in the Bronx, I believe. He was reaching for his wallet which the policemen mistook for a gun. He was shot 19 times and fired upon 41 times. His death cause major controversy and resulted in a multitude of demostrations targeting racial profiling. Jesse, the American PCV, mourned with the family and even tranlsated for American journalists who had come to Guinea to visit the village and report on the funeral. Some time later, Jesse had returned from vacation in Ghana and was in a bush taxi with two other volunteers in Guinea headed back toward village. There was an accident and Jesse and one of the other volunteers were killed. The documentary depicts both of their stories and the details and ramifications of their deaths, both on a personal level and on a broader, international, social, and political level. It focused on the disparity between the "justice" that was served in each country, since the 4 officers were acquitted yet the government of Guinea held the bush taxi driver liable and sentenced him to 3 years in prison (this was probably done as a political statement as accidents are typically not pursued legally in Guinea, this was mentioned in the film and reaffirmed by a bunch of volunteers from Guinea who were in town for FESPACO). It was really well done and incredibly moving and thought-provoking. It hit home not only because I'm a PCV, but because the third volunteer who was in the accident was, until recently, the Secondary Education Director for Peace Corps Burkina and was sitting a few rows in front of me in the audience. She now works for another NGO in Ouaga but still comes by the hostel when there are lots of volunteers in town. It's hard to imagine the addition of such a tragic event to the already challenging experience of "the toughest job you'll ever love."

The fourth film was "Tsotsi" by South African Gavin Hood. It won last year's Oscar for Best Int'l Film. It's the story of Tsotsi, literally "thug", a young street thug in the townships of Capetown, I assume. He steals a car in a wealthy neighborhood, shooting the mother and leaving her for dead, he drives off only to discover that the woman's baby is in the back seat. Story ensues. I won't go into it since you can rent it in the States. It was really well done, better executed than Ezra, the other film in the fictional/drama genre I saw. The cinematography and urban cityscapes are excellent, I'd reccomend it if you can find it.

Yesterday was the last day of the festival and, though I didn't catch any films, I get to check out the art/crafts expo which featured artisans from all over the continent. I bought some beautiful Tuareg earrings (they're a nomadic group from the Sahelian region of W. Africa including northern BF, they make beautiful imprinted silver jewelry), some batik prints of village scenes made by a local artisan (who invited me to come watch him make the prints, which are stunning, the next time I'm in Ouaga), some handpainted writing paper, and a malacite necklace from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I also met a woman from Madagascar who makes colorful straw handbags that would be trés chers in the states, but cost around 10 to 20 dollars here. I had seen her handbags in Ghana, so it was neat to meet her and hear about her business and distribution throughout the continent.

So, FESPACO, good times.

Before I get to the lengthy history of recent goings-on in village, I'd like to make a few revisions on facts presented and judgements rendered in previous entries.

Revisions and Reinterpretations

First, regarding my friend Sali who was due to depart for Equatorial Guinea. Her departure has been delayed due to the challenges and frustrations of third-world bureaucracy. This is not a big deal for her and is great for me as I get another month or so in the company of my closest friend in village. She's also currently trying to find out a bit more about the current state of affairs in EG, since a friend who has just returned to village from Libya, where he worked in the Burkinabe embassy, offered information suggesting that the economic/employment situation in EG may not be quite as rosy as the picture that had been painted for Sali by some others.

Second, regarding my neighbor, Bachir, the French teacher. I'd related a story about some less-than-appropriate advances made on a high school girl that had changed my opinion of him significantly. I'd like to revisit the subject in light of a conversation I had with Sali on the matter. We were talking about male-female relationships in Burkina and how infidelity is rampant and contributes greatly to the HIV/AIDS problem (significantly lower here, under 4% infection rate, but that's still 350,000 people in a country with a population only slightly greater than New York City). I expressed outrage at the way women are treated and impacted by their husbands' infedility (not that women don't participate too). To this Sali responded that it's just how it is here and that the situation is, in fact, better than before as women are asserting themselves more and more, especially in urban areas. When I mentioned my neighbor and how his behavior continues to impact my opinion of him, she approached the issue from a different angle. She talked about how she respects his manner, how he conducts himself with a humility not often seen amongst males here, how he doesn't "se promene" (socialize) around village a lot, but stays in doing classwork most of the time. She also said that, while it's possible that he does interact with female students in a non-studious way, it's not many or frequent as is often the case with other male teachers. (Female high school students here are often as old as 20 or 21, as well). When I looked at it from her angle, I realized that his behavior is way more upstanding than the average male here and that I tend to make judgements based on my U.S.-borne standards of behavior, which just don't work here because the norm is so totally different. While I can assert my views based on my cultural context in order to generate dialogue, it's not necessarily productive to let my instinctive, context-driven judgements effect my relationships in village.

So, that's the update. Oh, almost forgot, one more tidbit. I cut my hair reeeeally short (we're talking one step away from the page-boy I rocked as a three year old). But anyhow, on to the major subject of this blog entry...

I WAS ROBBED.

Seriously. It happened last Sunday evening. It was not a stranger. It was my 18-year old neighbor, Ismael, who lives with is brother, the aforementioned Bachir, French teacher at the high school. A little background: Ismael comes from Ouaga "the big city", his mom is the Minister of Forages (wells) for the country and his dad owns or runs or does something important at a major transport company in Burkina. In village, he is identifiably a "city kid" as he sports clothes way nicer than anything most people in village can afford, like 30,000 CFA shoes (that's $60 USD!!! a fortune for a cultivator, seriously). Point being, this kid is NOT hurting and he's certainly never been hungry.

So, this is how it went down. It was Sunday evening, after dinner-ish, about the time when the sun has just set and darkness creeps in (necessitating the use of petrol lamps and my headlamp, which the villagers think is WIERD). Anyhow, I was sitting between my house and Ismael and Bachir's house, playing with my new kitten, Africa, (white and orange tomkitten, seriously cute, pictures to follow) and hanging out with my petits neighbors, Gislain (age 6) and Martine (age 11). These kids are like my surrogate siblings. I was teaching Martine some constellations and telling her a bit about their mythology. This is a new pastime of ours, we're fans of Orion (who's not!?), Canis Major, and Lepus, particularly. Anyhow, she suddenly gets really quiet and then leans over and whispers that she's seen someone enter my house. The main door is open and unlocked with only the screen door closed, since I'm sitting maybe 20 feet away. She says that she thinks it's Ismael, which is confusing as there is absolutely no reason for him to be in my house alone. Culturally speaking, you don't enter a person's home unannounced and you would certainly never go in alone, uninvited, especially in the case of a woman living alone. I tiptoe up to the door and peak in the main-living/kitchen room which is dimly lit by my petrol lamp. I notice that the curtain on the door to my bedroom is askew so I return to where I had left my flashlight, grab it, and go back into my house. I pull the curtain open, shining the light around. After 15-20 seconds, I realize that Ismael is crouched behind my bed, veiled by the mosquito net. The light rests on him for a moment and he doesn't move until I say, "Ismael, qu'est-ce que tu fais (what are you doing)?" I proceed to demand if he is trying to scare me, the first thing that crosses my mind given the totally bizarre nature of the situation. He gets up and mutters something affrimative about trying to scare me and proceeds to leave my house. I don't recall the exact chain of events following as I was pretty shocked, but I returned to where the kids were seated after Ismael went back to his house, where some other lycee students were hanging around. I sit down and Martine tells me that I need to tell his "grand-frere," Bachir, right away. I sit with them until Ismael leaves the courtyard to accompany a friend out, and I go up to the house, stand outside and call to Bachir. I tell him what has passed and am forced to repeat myself two or three times as Bachir is totally shocked by what I tell him. The force of his reaction trumps mine and he assures me that he will talk to Ismael immediately. I return to my house and look around, for the first time considering Ismael's motive, to steal. My first thought is my iPods, but they're still where I'd left them, along with my camera and shortwave radio. Finally, I come across the messenger bag that I use to tote my work when travelling around village and see my wallet, a small zippered pouch I'd bought in Ghana, lying on the floor next to it. I'd had a 1000 franc bill and some coins inside, the mille franc bill was missing.

At this point I walk outside as Ismael is walking from the door to the courtyard across to his house. I call out to him and tell him that the mille is missing and that it was there before he went into my house. The little !#(&@ has the gall to tell me "il faut bien regarder" (to look well). A barrage of expletives come to mind right now and, a week later, I still feel the urge to wring his neck, but I'll spare you. I freak out, go inside and start to get really upset (we're talking tears here). I don't know what the heck to do next so I take off on my bike to find my friend Sali. I tell her what's happened in stunted, incoherent French but she gets it and tells me she's coming back to my courtyard with me and that she'll talk to Bachir and Ismael and that I need to let her talk and not try to stop her. The girl is PISSED OFF, which is seriously reassuring for me, the lone nasara who's suddenly feeling a little insecure about her situation in the middle of the bush in Africa. We head over and Sali greets Bachir and very respectfully states her/my case. Bachir is totally willing to sit down and talk and we proceed to discuss the situation. After a few minutes he asks that Ismael be present, so the little @#'(- sits down across from me. I am beyond words (well, beyond French words), and so am silent for the most of the conversation and let Bachir and Sali takes turns reprimanding Ismael and demanding that he fess up. I do throw in the odd comment such as how his actions and behavior are that of a child and not a man, etc. We sit for two hours until he finally says that yes, he took the money, and that he's already spent it (1000 cfa is a lot of money to spend in a day in villagewhere you can buy a meal for 50 or 100 cfa). The kid has no shame and is the quintessential coward, which makes me even angrier about the whole situation. Finally, we disperse and I try to sleep. Both Sali and Bachir send me reassuring text messages asserting that my safety and well-being in Diabo are not compromised and that, in effect, they have my back. This is particularly great coming from Bachir, who's in the awkward position of playing responsible party and guardian to his cousin and being my friend and neighbor.

The next day Ismael decides to add insult to injury and drops a mille bill in the courtyard, I suppose to make it look like I had dropped it. The proprietor/landlord of our houses discovers it and asks me if it's mine. I tell him that yes, it is in fact a "remboursement." Bachir comes over to talk to me about it and I express my rage. I call the PC safety and security officer, who rocks and handles the situation SO well, calling Bachir to discuss what has passed and explaining that the situation has diplomatic implications and that, while we'll deal with it entre-nous (between us) this time, anything that occurs in the future will be taken directly to the police. Bachir comes to talk to me after the phone call and has obviously absorbed and taken to heart all that has passed and definitely appreciates how it's been handled.

That night my nearest neighbor comes to spend the night to give me the opportunity to vent in my mother tongue and to demonstrate that we are solidaire and that she too, has my back. Sali joins us and we chat on my terrace into the evening. During this time Ismael sends me a text message demanding pardon (the cowardly little son of a you know what). I don't respond as it doesn't dignify a response. As my neighbor and I are about to go to bed, I hear a "coq coq coq" at the door (that's what people do to announce their presence). It's Ismael, he asks if we can talk and I say yes, so we sit down outside. He proceeds to tell me that he's been out of sorts all day trying to figure out what motivated him to steal from me (read: he regrets his bad move and the consequences and repurcussions it holds for him). Demanding pardon is a big deal here so I grant him that but tell him that I have lost all confidence in him, that our friendship is finished, and that his ass is grass if he so much as sets a foot on my terrace, let alone approaches my door. Meanwhile, as he's been talking, my PC neighbor, who knows Ismael, makes intermittent comments like "that's bullshit" in response to Ismael's very rushed and rehearsed apology, which causes me to laugh inapproriately. She and I later sit outside spouting jingoist, ethnocentric wisdom inspired by the temporary bitterness that the events have wrought. Sometimes a little un-PC humor is all it takes to make the situation feel a little less terrible.

I left village to come to Ouaga two days after the fact, but made sure to tangibly demonstrate my iciness before leaving, not because I want to hold a grudge (there is an equivalent to karma which pemeates Burkinabé culture) but because I want Ismael to learn a lesson and feel remorse, which he's done a crappy job of displaying. Before I left, Bachir and I sat down and Bachir expressed his worries pertaining to Ismael's lack of direction and the casual way in which he operates and views his relatively privileged situation. Bachir is the polar opposite of Ismael, having worked his butt off to succeed and having rejected any sense of entitlement, working to pay his own way even while at university. Bachir and I were actually on the same bus to Ouaga, he had planned to stay the weekend, during which he would explain everything to Ismael's parents (read: there will be hell to pay). Parents are tough here and I hope they give it to him good (in the non-violent sense) and that he comes out of it with an appropriate amount of shame, because tendencies like that are dangerous, especially here, in the developing world, where life is so much more precarious.

So, that's that. It sucks and totally changes my situation in village, particularly in my courtyard, but life goes on. I'm doing my darndest not to let this get me down and to remember, as my neighbor Angel said, why I'm here and what my mission is. I've got real, kind friends in village who have demonstrated their loyalty, so I can deal with one less. It was definitely a lesson learned and I will no doubt move about with a greater sense of attention to my actions and those of others, and will certainly not take things at face value, even kindness. But I'm not going to let the exception determine the rule, though I will certainly feel the consequences of Ismael's actions for quite a while.

OK, gotta go catch my bus. Sorry to end on a downer. FESPACO was sweet, I ate some good food, and I'm revived both physically and spiritually...on to village!

P.S. A belated but major thanks for mail - packages and letters alike. You know who you are and you rock. Thank you.