“The women are, of course, the biggest single group of oppressed people in the world and, if we are to believe the Book of Genesis, the very oldest. But they are not the only ones. There are others – rural peasants in every land, the urban poor in industrialized countries, Black people everywhere including their own continent, ethnic and religious minorities and castes in all countries. The most obvious practical difficulty is the magnitude and heterogeneity of the problem. There is no universal conglomerate of the oppressed. Free people may be alike everywhere in their freedom but the oppressed inhabit each their own peculiar hell. The present orthodoxies of deliverance are futile to that extent that they fail to recognize this.”

- Chinua Achebe “Anthills of the Savannah”

Kin Kindé (Greetings).

A quick update since I’m back in Fada briefly to retrieve a package from the post office – some postal love that, over the past month, has made its way from Western New York to the heart of West Africa and one very appreciative daughter. A new headlamp, a sturdier tent, rechargeable batteries, reading material – this is the stuff of Peace Corps volunteer dreams and it takes on a whole new meaning here in the bush (thanks, Mom and Dad).

I decided to escape the air-conditioned, tunnel-vision-inducing, head-spinning mania of the internet café and take advantage of a fellow PCV’s laptop to type this entry. E-mail access is both a blessing and a curse here as it is unspeakably wonderful to be able to communicate with friends and family, yet it’s an experience that takes on an intensity here so that, in stepping back into the West African sun out of relative technological bliss, the words of people you love fresh in your thoughts, you feel as if you’ve been hit by a truck or, more accurately, slapped with an unexpected reality.

But on to village news…

I’ve talked a lot about École ‘B,’ the primary school that I’m assigned to work with in my village. The director (principal) is one of my closest friends, a confidant and source of sanity in the not-uncommon moments of frustration or confusion. The teachers, too, are good friends and people whom I respect deeply for the tremendous task and sheer difficulty of teaching a classroom overflowing with unruly kids with only a handful of textbooks (classroom etiquette here is woeful and kids, lacking regular supervision at home, can often be a nightmare in a semi-regulated educational environment, especially when there are 80+ in a single class). That said, it’s been a bit challenging to work with the school since the teachers are so over-taxed. However, upon returning to village a few weeks ago, I was pleasantly surprised in a conversation with my school director where we managed to iron out a schedule for me to conduct review classes for the CM2 (5th grade class) who are preparing for their CEP exam, which determines whether they are eligible to continue on to junior high. As the system here is French, it is decidedly different than what we’re accustomed to in the States. Students in Burkina are not set up to succeed. It is infinitely easier to fail. The rigorous exams are just one example. As a Girls’ Ed and Empowerment volunteer, I discovered that inequity in the number of boys and girls in primary schools is not a problem in my village, as it is in many others. Rather, the problem is that girls don’t continue on after primary school, the most obvious problem being that they fail the CEP, for a host of reasons and often multiple times. Thus I’ve started conducting two review sessions a week with the CM2 class which will continue until the exam in mid-June. Wednesday mornings are grammar revision and Thursday mornings consist of a dictée – an exercise in which a passage is dictated to the students and then grammatical questions are posed. This is an area of the exam that kids do miserably on despite the fact that it’s a regular part of the curriculum. They must first listen and copy down the passage and then define and categorize certain words and phrases, conjugate verbs in the passage, translate sentences into a different tense or from the active to the passive voice. Each element is scored and students must score the “moyenne” (average) to get credit. Most do not. The exercise may not seem difficult at first glance, but these are 5th graders and French is not their first language. So here is where I come in: I execute an exercise with them and then we correct and grade it as a class. Although I practice reading each passage the night before, my accent sometimes gives the kids trouble…but a challenging revision is better than none at all. Though I haven’t implemented it yet, I’m planning on keeping a score chart for kids who get the moyenne and then I’ll give prizes to, say, the top ten kids who consistently achieve or exceed the moyenne.

Aside from the revision sessions, I’ve also started facilitating the equivalent of a gym class for the CM2 girls three times a week. My main objective is preparing them for the physical element of the exam, which consists of a 60m dash and a long or high jump (with impractically high standards, which boggles my mind…do undernourished kids in the third world really need to be able to sprint 60M in 9 seconds in order to continue their education?). Sadly, this portion of the exam often poses a problem for girls, who aren’t encouraged to participate in any form of athleticism (mainly soccer in village - the favorite pastime of boys). I’ve started off slow; we do a short run, then play a game – "duck, duck, goose" is good as it necessitates running quickly – then do another short run, which the girls, remarkably, love. I try to add interesting elements to the run, like having the girls at the end of the line sprint to the front then yell “allez” (go) to signal the next girls to start. They also enjoy singing during the run, which is always entertaining. The girls are enthusiastic to play soccer, so we’ll start with some soccer matches this week.

I’m hopeful that these sessions will pave the way for a regular sports club for any and all girls interested during the next school year. It’s pretty incredible to see how they respond to having my undivided attention for an hour. They’re used to teachers for whom it is often impractical to give significant individual attention and here I come, Suzy Sunshine ready to play games with them and even ask them what they would like to do. I’m excited about the possibilities that these activities will open up for the next school year. Burkinabé, though endlessly hospitable, are not particularly open, especially with a white foreigner. This makes it hard to tackle tough subjects, which I hope to do. “Empowering” these girls, for me, means giving them ideas and knowledge with which they can shape their own lives. To do this, we need to talk not only about making smart decisions, but what that really means – in other words, abstinence, safe sex, pregnancy, STDs, functioning and asserting themselves as females within a culture that often renders them impotent in everything from who they marry to how many children they have to whether they can leave their courtyard to go to the market. Challenging, to say the least…and I haven’t even begun to skim the surface.

At the secondary education level, I’ve identified two girls so far for the mentoring project I mentioned in the last entry. I’d like to get started as soon as possible, but the girls are troisieme (9th grade) students and are preparing for the BPEC, the exam they must pass to continue on in high school. The CEP, BPEC and BAC are the three major exams within the educational system, the BAC being the exam you must pass to receive a high school diploma and be eligible for university (like the SAT, only more comprehensive and difficult). The BAC is a rare achievement and even many teachers don’t have their BAC. Given their situation with the BPEC, I’ve asked the girls if they’ll be willing to work with me once a week during the four-month break to formulate the “curriculum” of activities and sensitizations they’ll do with the primary school girls. I also need to find a few more girls, but having two motivated, albeit timid, girls is a huge step.

I’ve got a few smaller projects in their infancy, but I’ll wait to report on those. I also await news regarding my Peace Corps Partnership funding application, and fear that it being a significant construction project and more costly than the average PCP project may render it untenable to the powers that be - cross your fingers for me.

So that’s the news as far as work is concerned. It gets easier and harder simultaneously. As I learn to navigate this culture and Burkina’s educational institutions, I identify more and more challenges and the climb only seems steeper. The consul and friendship of other volunteers is key here, as it provides an outlet and a sounding board for frustrations and fears, as well as a forum for idea exchange and support. We all want to move mountains, but we’re not even equipped to attempt hills. That said, I’d rather be here bumbling along and experiencing all that I am than sitting at a desk in front of a computer in the States. I tell myself that, no matter what, being here and trying and trying accomplishes something, even if it’s just to touch a few girls in the most superficial of ways – giving them respect and attention they wouldn’t otherwise receive.

On a lighter note, as the school year draws to a close, I’m preparing for exciting things. I’m planning a tentative trip in June with some fellow volunteers down through Togo, visiting volunteers there, and over to Ghana, where I’ll meet up with one of my absolute best friends in the world who will be working there for three months or so. The prospect of a familiar face is the best medicine I can imagine for the subtle but ever-present stress that living here produces. In July, I’m going to welcome my first visitor, another one of my closest friends, and look forward to sharing my "second home," with a non-Peace Corps volunteer (not to mention several weeks of conversation in English - hallelujah!).

So that's the news. It's hotter than Hades, as my dad would say. The temperature and humidity increase as the rainy season approaches. It's rained for a few minutes two or three times and we've had some relief in several recent overcast days, but, let me tell you, you don't truly understand hot until you've spent April in West Africa!

Hope you're all doing well.

'Til next time,

Chrissy

“…we may accept a limitation to our actions but never, under no circumstances, must we accept restriction on our thinking.”

- Chinua Achebe "Anthills of the Savannah"

A Picture

Beth and I enjoying a cold, tasty beverage on a recent bike trip from her village to Kompienga (70k round trip, done in a day), down near the Togo/Benin border.

Ny Taabo!

Africa tell me Africa
Is this you this back that is bent
This back that breaks under the weight of humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying yes to the whip under the midday sun
But a grave voice answers me
Impetuous son, that tree young and strong
That tree there
In splendid loneliness amidst white and faded flowers
That is Africa your Africa
That grows again patiently obstinately
And its fruit gradually acquire
The bitter taste of liberty

David Diop, “Africa”

Hey, All -

I know what you're thinking..."back again, so soon?" Well, yeah. I'm here in Ouaga, revelling in the glory of a significantly air-conditioned room, taking temporary refuge from the unrelenting heat. I came into the city to submit my application for funding for a new classroom building for my village's junior/senior high school and to type up some work reports.

I thought I'd take the opportunity to share some pictures from my Easter adventures in village. I threw a rockin' par-tay for my friend Sali's baptism (lots of folks here are baptized or married on Easter weekend). The turnout was excellent - the bissap, zom kom, and dolo were flowing ( boiled hibiscus leaf juice, sweet beverage made from millet powder, and village brew, respectively) the riz gras was aplenty, as was the goat and we danced our socks off (ok, no socks were worn) 'til the wee hours. Villageois, fonctionnaires, two of my Peace Corps neighbors, young and old alike came out to celebrate Sali's now-official Catholocism and check out my sweet new digs (i.e. my most excellent new house). It was a fete to end all fetes...but I'll let you judge for yourself.

That's a lot of riz gras....

Village ladies filling up buckets of bissap, zom kom, and dolo

A group of male fonctionnaires (principals, teachers, etc.)

and Theo, my second-nearest PC neighbor

Three high school teachers and the primary education inspector

Friends

Les filles - some junior high girls who helped to serve guests and do dishes

Arnold, enjoying some riz gras

The girls - taking a break

Marcel, the president of the high school parents' association and Martine, his wife - good friends and my favorite couple in village. They're often referred to as "les amoureux" because they're love for one another is amazingly evident in a culture where egality and affection are typically taboo.

Adissa, a good friend, and a neighbor.

Aicha, adorably percocious and one of my favorite petites.

Two elementary school teachers from a neighboring village.

Me and Orelia, one of my volunteer neighbors - she biked a good 30k to visit.

Sali and I in front a my blackboard, which Orelia and I decorated festively. It says: "Happy Easter, Joyeuse Fete de Paques and Ny Taabo (Moore for "happy celebration")"

Yambila and me - this is "mam kiera" ("mon cheri") that I referred to in my last entry.

Balagissa and daughter, Michelline

Amisatu and Alima

Germaine (a teacher at my primary school) and daughter, Shakianatu

Neighbor girls and frequent visitors - they got the leftovers

Sali, dancing to traditional drumming - the drums are called "tam tams"

Orelia, dancing up a storm

Me, trying with little success to emulate traditional dance. In my village, if you dance well (or are a nasara who gives it a good try) they put money (5 or 10 cfa coins) on your back, as a neighbor is doing in the photo.

Kadi, getting her dance on

More drumming and dancing...

Amisatu dancing.

Sali and I in our Easter/baptism complets. The complets are covered in tiny crosses with large pictures of a a chalice and host that says "ceci mon corps, ceci mon sang (here is my body, here is my blood)." Somehow, here in West Africa, it's ok that I'm wearing this getup. Interestingly, Orelia, the volunteer neighbor who was visiting that weekend, is Unitarian Universalist, like myself. We figured that embracing Catholicism on Easter weekend was appropriate given our liberal religious roots.

Me and baby Michelline, seconds before she peed on me.

According to the ladies in village, this is good luck and means that I'll have lots of children.

So, there you have it. We partied like it was 2007.

Other than being the hostess with the mostest, I've been working on commencing with some new projects in village - a microenterprise/income-generating endeavor with some village ladies and a mentoring program between high school and primary school girls. I hope to have a group of 4 - 6 older high school girls to work with this summer. I'd like to collaborate with them to develop a curriculum that they'll facilitate with older primary-school girls beginning the next academic year. We'll cover everything from HIV/AIDS to "what's junior high really like?" to activities promoting responsible decision making and goal setting, etc. I hope,with their insights and input, to produce a document so that they will ultimately be able to not only facilitate the activities, but also train the next group of girls, thereby making the project sustainable and my participation unnecessary.

That's all I've got. Thanks for reading,

Chrissy

“The [Bush] administration also noted that U.S. aid to Africa “has almost tripled” during its tenure in the White House. But Steven Radelet, a senior fellow at the Center for Global Development in Washington, told the New York Times that American aid to Africa, totaling less than $5 a year per African is “About the same as what many Americans spend each morning for coffee and a bran muffin.” Most Americans believe that the United States spends 24 percent of its budget on poor countries, but the actual figure is less than one-quarter of one percent.”

- Charlayne Hunter-Gault, “New News Out of Africa: Uncovering Africa's Renaissance”

A Yaa Tuulgo!

That's Mooré for "it's HOT!" The hot (read: hotter) season has commenced with a vengeance. It went from tolerable to "this is what they mean by hellfire" in a matter of days. I will be sleeping under the stars until the rainy season washes me back inside in a few months.

I just got back from Ouaga where we celebrated the impending departure of the oldest group of Burkina volunteers, who will be leaving us in June. The weekend was full of boisterous, debaucherous, and generally inappropiate activities ranging from sector vs. sector kickball (Girls' Ed and Empowerment lost badly, go figure) to some good old fashioned college (apple juice drinking) games to skits honoring (making fun of) the departing volunteers to karaoke. I'm currently in Fada, headed back to village tomorrow. Despite the suffocatingly stultifying heat, I am happy, no thrilled, to report that it just RAINED (ok, it sprinkled) for the first time in at least 6 months. Praise allah. Unfortunately, the rain has departed and the heat and humidity remain.

Apple Juice and Beirut skills - still got 'em

Kim and I, displaying unusual cuteness given the climate

This might be a game of flip cup

I mentioned in my previous post that I'd probably have lots to report regarding the move to my new house the next time around. I can't say I have lots, but I have some quality information to relay. The move went smoothly, with even the transfer of my wordly belongings by donkey cart occuring with relative ease. I was able to set up in a few days and already feel quite at home in my new abode. Beyond that, thus far I feel confident in asserting that my original supposition was correct. I am a seriously happier camper and feel like a brand new PCV. I'm amazed, though not surprised, at how much moving a kilometer has changed ma vie au village. It's been two weeks, but my Mooré has already improved by leaps and bounds (thanks to an army of dimunitive teachers, e.g. the neighborhood kiddies) and I am feeling much more bien integré. I've already gotten in good with the local ladies, who like to socialize with me when I pass by and get a kick out of teaching me phrases in Mooré and then listening to me butcher them. The vieux (old guy) in the neighboring courtyard has also declared that he is willing to leave both of his wives for me (oddly, they don't seem to mind) and we now refer to each other as "mam kiera" (my dear). This could be creepy except that he is quite possibly the cutest old man alive (he's got to be at least 85) and he's about 5 feet tall.

It's just started to storm for real (hallelujah!), so as this is Burkina and the power and/or internet will most surely cut out presently, I'll keep this short and sweet and close with some pictures of the new digs.

Thanks for reading.

'Til next time,

Chrissy

*Also, because there seems to be some confusion - I'll be in West Africa until August-ish 2008. Yeah, that's a long time. See you at the end of W's presidency.

Home, Sweet Home

Carting my stuff via donkey cart

La nouvelle maison

The terrace and front door

The water/dish-doing corner

My yoga spot, for a little early-morning exercise/inner harmony

The reading/eating/everything nook

La cuisine - where the magic happens

My indoor shower (a serious luxury here in the BF), that's the bucket from which I bathe

My bedroom and the world's largest mosquito net

View to the East from my courtyard, my nearest neighbors

The view to the North from my courtyard

A pretty flowering bush in a neighboring courtyard

"The earth swallowed heat all day and regurgitated it at night..."

- Alexandra Fuller, "Scribbling the Cat: Travels With An African Soldier

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

I'm in Fada for the weekend to do some work - writing an article on an HIV/AIDS sensitization I did with primary schools kids in my village and working on a funding proposal for a new building for my village's high school. The funding is through the Peace Corps Partnership Program which is basically a conduit for private groups and individuals to donate money to specific development projects initiated by PCVs. I will include relevant information once (and if) my funding request is approved.

I'd only been back in village for five days before leaving again, but lots has gone on. First, we celebrated Le Jour Internationale des Femmes (International Women's Day - March 8th). The events included a theater production by high school students, an essay and design competition that I organized amongst the high school students , and a soccer match between male and female fonctionaires (I played with the chicks, we killed, won by a goal). The 8th March is a big deal here, each year they come out with a special pagne (fabric) and everyone who can afford to buys it and has shirts or complets (female skirt/top outfits) tailored. I was a little late getting on the bandwagon and bought my pagne on the 9th March, but I've got a whole year to wear it, so there you go. It was a fun day and included festivities oddly reminsicent of a barbeque (with drumming and dancing).

Aside from the 8 Mars festivities, I've got big news. I've made a significant decision regarding ma vie au village. I've decided, based on recent events and a general feeling of discontent with my living situation, to move. I'll be moving to a house much like my current house but right in the center of village instead of on the outskirts, where I am now. The notion hadn't really crossed my mind, even after Ismael stole from me. It was Nancy, my nearest PCV neighbor, who brought up the idea. We were in Ouaga for FESPACO, sitting outside one evening, catching up and she told me that my friend Sali had stopped by her village before she'd left for Ouaga and that they had talked at length about my situation in village. Sali voiced the opinion that she thinks I could be a lot happier than I am and told Nancy that she had an unoccupied house in mind if I expressed interest. The idea hit me like a ton of bricks and made me realize that my current situation is pretty lame and has resulted in an experience that isn't exactly what I had imagined Peace Corps would be like.

I live in a courtyard with two other fonctionaire houses and my neighbors are, in effect, strangers to the village, just like me. Despite the fact that they're nice (sans Ismael the thief), I didn't come to Africa to make friends with civil servants who are assigned to the village and move every few years, I came here to live in a village and to get to know villagers. Though I am well-integrated into my village and have lots of friends amongst the villagers, I've missed on on a lot of the quotidien experiences of other volunteers by not living directly amongst villagers. This has hindered the development of my local language skills and has, I realize, caused me to be needlessly bored at times.

So, upon returning to village, I dropped by the market to catch up with Sali before heading to the high school to do some work. I mentioned that Nancy had filled me in on their conversation and expressed interest in seeing the house. Sali replied that she would take me to see it whenever I wanted and it turned out that the proprietor is actually a good friend of mine. The house is newly constructed and belongs to his older brother who lives and works in Cote d'Ivoire. Since I had time to kill before meeting with a teacher, we went right away. I was a little skeptical as Sali led me down the paths through a maze of courtyards - mud hut upon mud hut - and was shocked when we turned a corner to find a really nice house in a small courtyard. It's the same two room setup as my house now with the added benefit of an indoor shower (a small room with a drain in which to take your bucket bath, really nice during the windy harmattan season when you freeze your butt off showering outside in the morning). It has a concrete terrace and an overhang with a metal roof and the courtyard is private with a solid metal door that locks. The house is totally screened too, which is rare for a villageois house and is a requirement for PCV lodging. Overall, it's nicer than my current house and its situation is much better. It sits on the edge of a huge, populous quartier, so there are tons of neighbors and lots of little kids running around, but the courtyard is still unique, so I can close my door and have privacy. The courtyard also looks out onto a barrage (big man- made pond which provides the water for gardening and is home to some crocs) and jardin (massive, fenced-in garden that many of the villagers share) . Beyond the barrage is a beautiful vista of the bush/savanah and an expanse of sky so massive that on a clear day you feel like it might swallow you up.

That afternoon, I went to talk to the director of my primary school, since it's the school's PTA that is in charge of my lodging. He was skeptical at first, understanding my current situation but wary of my desire to move right into the middle of the action in village, so to speak. However, after we went to see the house, he was impressed with it and recognized how moving there would positively impact my situation in village. So it's pretty much settled, it looks like I'll move in the next few days, which will be a pain, since it involves hauling all of my furniture and stuff 1.5 k by donkey cart, but I think the effort will be well worth it. I find that the moments I'm happiest in village are when I'm in the marché or the quartiers by the mosque, playing with the kids or talking with my female friends or the elders. I'm excited at the prospect of becoming that much more inculcated in village life and getting to know people better, instead of living in my fonctionaire fortress that is intimidating to most villagers.

So that's the news. I'm thrilled at the prospect of being able to step out of my courtyard into the heart of the village. The director termed my move as a "rebirth" which seems pretty accurate, as my experience is about to change radically. I imagine I'll have lots to report on the move and the changes it brings the next time I write.

'Til then,

Chrissy

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.

Pictures from Village

“I know that my achievement is quite ordinary. I am not the only man to seek his fortune far from home, and certainly I am not the first. Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have traveled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination.”

- Jhumpa Lahiri, “Interpreter of Maladies”

The mosque in my village.

A courtyard near the mosque.

The mosque.

My friend, Eloi, storing straw to be used as cattle feed during the dry season.

Philomene the coiffeuse (Eloi's wife) - tressing hair.

Gladys, one of their daughters.

Diane, another daughter.

Richard, their son, waiting impatiently as dad makes tea.

Mes petits voisins at the robinet near my courtyard.

Visiting neighbors: Jamila, Latifa, and Yasmina

At the baptism of baby Zouweratu - with mom.

Me and Zouweratu (she's a week old here).

Salimata and Zouweratu.

"What's the rush? Dip your brush into this twilight..."

A women's association in village, dying traditional pagnes (fabric) to be sold to benefit their work.

Laying pagne out to dry.

Salimata and Nancy, my nearest PCV neighbor

Boys playing foosball "baby foot" at the market

Ecole 'B': the primary school where I work.

The kiddies.

“But troubled as these early years of nationhood have been, Africa need not dwell forever in the uncertain twilight zone. Its dreams have only been mislaid, not lost.
- David Lamb, “The Africans”