Hope you don’t mind, but I’m just going to gloss over the fact that I haven’t updated this thang (yes, thang) in two months. Okay, fine, I’ll just rattle off a few excuses for my absence and then carry on with your regularly-scheduled Waggadoogoo. Since August, I’ve wrapped up training the newly-sworn-in group of volunteers, totally revamped my computer lab at school, helped a fellow volunteer with her French learning, attended my quarterly Peace Corps AIDS Task Force meeting, started teaching classes, and formed and all-new—and totally exciting—English club with my students.
I’ve probably done more work in these past few weeks than I did in my first year as a volunteer. And so the reason for the two-year service requirement for Peace Corps makes itself blatantly clear: by the time you hit the 16-month mark or so, you’ve gotten over all your fears and hang-ups, really gotten immersed in the culture, and learned how to navigate personally and professionally in this once-foreign sociopolitical landscape. The first year is all about the swimmer floaties, and the second year is about ripping the training wheels off and blazing your own trail (sorry for the mixed metaphor—it feels so dangerous, and yet so right.)
Or, at least, that’s what my experience has been up to this point.
As much as I hate the term “gung ho” (it just sounds like an irregular bowel condition you might get from eating tainted bean curd to me), I have to say that I really am gung ho about my remaining nine (!) months in Burkina. I keep visualizing all these things I could initiate at my school and thinking up secondary projects I’d like to undertake. Granted, only a small fraction of all of these ideas has any potential to get done before I leave here, but it’s nice to finally feel useful and purposeful—empowering, even.
So, as I mentioned above, I’ve somewhat gotten the ball rolling on my grand schemes with my re-equipped English club at school. I hosted an interest meeting last week, and didn’t have enough room to fit all the students that came! We elected a president and a secretary at the interest meeting, and hit the ground running with out first official meeting the very next day. Even more kids came! (We had relocated to a more spacious classroom, thankfully.) The students are so enthusiastic about the club, and have so many great ideas for what they want to do this school year. One idea was to have a school-wide English Day, during which the entire student body would be encouraged to speak only English. In case I haven’t mentioned it before, we have over 3,000 kids at my school. So, this is a gigantic event to plan. I am confident that the club members are up to the challenge, though. I’ve also urged the club to write a skit about HIV/AIDS awareness that we can hopefully perform at our school’s World AIDS Day event on December 1. Hooray!
My English club in action
In other news—and I hesitate to mention this lest people should think they needn’t send me any more care packages—but I’ve been eating really well lately. I’m getting really into cooking these days. In fact, I’m not just getting into cooking, but into “food culture” in general here. By “food culture,” I’m referring largely to the marché (local market) and all of the social experiences it has to offer. Now, I’ve spent a good amount of time in the Middle East, land of some of the largest souks and other assorted marketplaces in the world. However, it wasn’t until I came to Burkina that I realized the significance of the marché as a social entity. Maybe that’s because Burkinabè in general are incredibly sociable, outgoing people. At any rate, going to the market here is an incredible, hilarious, frenetic, sensory-overloading adventure. It’s loud and hot and crowded, but if you spend enough time there, you start to see the order behind the chaos.
Obviously, it is nothing like going to the supermarket in America—that’s an errand that is simply done out of necessity. Going to the marché is a necessity, too, of course. However, it also offers women the chance to congregate, catch up on gossip, joke around, and just hang out somewhere other than the courtyard of their house (where they spend most of their day). Yes, shopping at the marché, like so many of the daily tasks in Burkina, is a gendered chore—one that is squarely in the domain of the female. As much as I hate the compartmentalization of the sexes here in Burkina, I am thankful that the marché is what it is: a space for the woman. Because, as a fly on the wall, I notice that women seem to loosen up and shrug off their cares there—at least momentarily.
At the marché down the road from my house, I am always the only male—and, of course, the only white person—shopping there. When I first got here last year, people at the marché (which happens to be very far from the main paved road and not near anything remotely interesting for tourists) couldn’t believe their eyes. I was the local freak show for a little while. When I first rode my bike into the marché square, my gleaming white helmet atop my head, people looked at me as if I was riding a hovercraft while dressed in a Buffalo-Bill-style ladysuit and playing the Battle Hymn of the Republic on the theremin. Or something like that.
Eventually, though, people got used to me. The people at the marché went from this: “Who’s that white guy doing his own food shopping? Where is his wife? She should be doing this. What’s that? HE DOESN’T HAVE A WIFE? But, WHY? Oh, he’s going to starve.”
To this: “The nutty white guy’s back for hot peppers and ginger.”
And, finally, to this: “Michael’s here! Get his bag of spinach ready.”
They got used to me, and I subsequently fell into the fold of the food culture in Burkina. Now, when I go to the marché, I know where they sell the firmest tomatoes, the tastiest bananas, etc. I swing by my friends’ respective vegetable and houseware stands for a chat, and I often find myself walking around and taking everything in long after I’ve finished my shopping. Also, I’ve developed a Jula-only policy for myself when I’m there, meaning I abandon French and force myself to use only my choppy Jula when buying things and discussing prices. The French crutch isn’t usually much of a temptation: so many of the marché women don’t speak French anyway—especially the older ones. This has rewarded me an intimate rapport with the people there, while also earning their trust.
I’d say that the enthusiasm I have towards buying food here has spilled over into cooking said food as well. I’ve been experimenting with a lot of different recipes, consulting with my neighbors on what they cook, and generally trying to make the most out of what I have ingredients-wise while trying to avoid the usual lament over cheese and the other delicious things I had to leave behind in America. Not everything is successful, but I have a great time with whatever I try to make. It’s also a really great hobby that makes time fly by.
So, as I wrap up yet another scintillating blog entry, I’ll leave you with what is probably my favorite thing to cook here. I’ve taken a really common West African dish and added some of my own twists to it. I really recommend this recipe. It’s incredibly easy and incredibly delicious. Try it and let me know what you think!
Tigèdigè naan bi nanfenw na ti sogo ra ni couscous/
Sauce arachide végétarienne au couscous/
Vegetarian peanut sauce with couscous
Some sort of peanut sauce dish can be found in pretty much any restaurant in Burkina. It’s cheap, tasty, and ready-to-serve—kind of like West Africa’s answer to Krystal Burger. Typically, the sauce is served over long grain white rice, thus the first deviation from the norm in my recipe: I use couscous. My Burkinabè friends were horrified when I first told them I replaced the rice with couscous (couscous is usually only served with a tomato sauce, and people here aren’t typically receptive to tradition bucking), but after tasting it, they conceded that it was indeed quite good.
Other changes in my recipe: peanut sauce usually contains a hearty amount of meat. Thus, not a whole lot is added in the way of spices, as the meat adds an adequate amount of flavor. As my sauce is vegetarian, I played around with all kinds of herbs and spices to jazz it up. Additionally, traditional peanut sauce uses a heavy helping of vegetable oil—as does pretty much every other Burkinabè dish—whereas I use none (though I am thinking about trying a variation wherein I roast the garlic and onions in a little olive oil first.)
Ingredients:
2 cups fresh peanut butter (no added salt or sugar)
¼ cup tomato paste
4 cloves garlic
2 medium-sized onions
1 medium-sized green pepper
3 medium-sized tomatoes
1 cup shredded fresh spinach leaves
Salt and black pepper to taste
A whole variety of herbs and spices: chili powder, crushed red pepper, cumin, thyme, oregano, garlic powder, rosemary (all added to taste)
2-3 cups cooked couscous
(probably serves 3 or 4 people)
Chop the garlic, onions, green pepper, and tomatoes. In a medium-sized pot, combine the peanut butter, tomato paste and water (enough water to start loosening up the peanut butter—you’ll be progressively adding water as needed as the sauce cooks.) Start cooking on low heat. When the peanut butter, tomato paste, and water appear evenly mixed, add the garlic, onions, and green pepper, and slightly increase the heat. Stir, and continue adding water ¼ cup at a time until the mixture reaches the consistency of a thin marinara sauce. Cook the couscous. When the onions get clear, add the tomatoes and spinach and continue stirring. Add the salt, black pepper, and other herbs/spices as you see fit. Continue stirring every so often for another 3-5 minutes, then turn off the heat and let the sauce sit for about 2 minutes. Serve over the couscous. Delicious!
Just slightly.
