Stank: High Voltage

Okay, so here's a stream-of-consciousness blog post written at breakneck speed. I only have 13 minutes. You should see the looks on the faces of my fellow patrons at the cyber café -- they're completely in awe of my virtuoso typing skills. My hands are caressing the keys like some Web 2.0 Liberace, only I think I'm slightly more fabulous.

Just slightly.

How are you? I've spent the past month running back-and-forth between Ouagadougou, Ouahigouya, and my hometown of Bobo. Been working like crazy with the Peace Corps Bureau prepping for the new Peace Corps Trainees who arrive in Burkina TONIGHT! Ahhhh ... it will be so interesting to see how they soak it all in for the first time and reflect on my own experience a year ago when I was just a wee Peace Corps lad.

Anyhoo, this is probably the last you'll hear from me on this blog before my TRIP OF MAGIC AND WONDERMENT to a little place I like to call the United States of America. Cape Cod and New York City (potentially) better be ready for my manic and triumphant return. And if you'll be in these areas during my trip and have some events or activities planned CALL ME UP. I am up for everything. I just want to soak in the Americanness of America. I want Stuffed Crust. I want plasma screens. I want clothes that practically wash themselves (chiropractors will make millions over my Burkinabé "laundry back" -- picture me hunkered over two big buckets for an hour-and-a-half, scrubbing my hands into oblivion. THIS IS MY LIFE.)

Yeah, so I'm kind of punchy right now. Been planning out training for the new people for the past month practically, and now I'm just ready for them to get here already! It's going to be exciting!

Okay, I am going out to enjoy some beverages now. In case you didn't know, this is the one-year-anniversary of my arrival in Burkina! Thanks for all your support and good vibes up to this point! LUV YA LIKE A SISTA. XOXO

Things I Know Now That I Wish I Knew Then

Hello darlingfaces,

Next month (June 11th, to be exact) marks the one-year anniversary of my arrival here in Burkina Faso. And, perhaps more substantially, in a few short days I'll actually be able to say that I've successfully completed an entire school year's worth of teaching. I know: where's Alice Cooper when you need him, right? I can't wait for summer vacation! It is going to be such a welcome respite from my daily grind of lesson planning, lecturing, and computer repairing my face off. I'm particularly excited about the 3.5-week trip to the United States I'll be taking at the end of June. It already holds the title of Best Vacation I've Ever Had, and it hasn't even happened yet! My mind is constantly concocting delirious fantasies about the United States, which just get more and more exacerbated the longer I spend in hot, dusty, insect-rich, resource-poor Burkina. I feel as though I look upon the US with the same awestruck fascination as my Burkinabé friends now. I mean, come on: air conditioning? Clean, fast, and reliable transportation ALL THE TIME? Robotic tables with lasers that scan some alien code on your food in order to tell you the price? Wait a minute, products over there have a SET PRICE? You mean you don't haggle for twenty minutes over an avocado? You just pay what this little stub of sticky paper with printed numbers on it tells you to pay?! Okay, now, let me get this straight: you Americans give this Tyra Banks lady millions of dollars to walk around in fat suits and scream and roll around on the floor on camera and in front of an audience?

It's demented how excited I am about going to the US. Most of my plans involve eating—devouring, really—many and varied types of awful, terrible, but great-tasting food that I couldn't ever dream of finding here in Burkina. Like, I've actually asked myself if a root beer float topped with Sno-Caps and monterey jack cheese and wrapped in a P'zone would taste delicious or not. I don't even really know what a P'zone is, but I plan to shove several in my mouth during my time in the States. If I don't come back to Burkina with at least fifteen extra pounds on me, the trip will be deemed a severe failure.

Anyhoo, I'm not going to be chillaxing the ENTIRE break, of course. In fact, my summer is shaping up to be just as busy as the school year. I've been asked by Peace Corps to serve as a PCVFP (Peace Corps Volunteer Facilitator-Programmer) for the upcoming PST (Pre-Service Training) in June, July, and August. You see, a whole new group of PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) is coming to Burkina at the beginning of June to go through a three-month training process that will prepare them for their service. Remember my situation last year, with the staging event in Philadelphia followed by living with a host family in Burkina and the daily diarrhea woes and the culture shock I endured over everyone screaming the Mooré-equivalent of, "Hey, Whitey!" at me wherever I went? Yeah, well, this group is going to be going through the exact same thing, and a few of my fellow PCVs and I will be there to help them along the long and storied journey that is PST.

In the weeks leading up to my big Peace Corps departure last year, I scoured just about every blog kept by a PCV I could find, including those who had served as far back as 2002. I was determined to get as much insight as I could into this strange, mystifying, and daunting experience I was about to hurl myself into. The blogs helped immensely, giving me an intimate perspective on the PC experience with a personal twist.

So, in the event that a would-be Burkina PCV is reading this here blog, I'd like to take a few moments to offer some bits of information I wish I had up in the old cabesa before I headed off to Burkina last year, for my sanity and patience's sakes. Keep in mind, of course, that everyone's Peace Corps experience is different and entirely what they themselves make of it, and no blog is going to help you mould your existence here. These are just a few small things that I, personally, wish I was more prepared for. (I know, I ended with a preposition—it's hot and past my bedtime and I'm not Thomas Hardy.)

1. Burkinabé do NOT know how to form lines. The dynamics and politics of lines do not exist in or are not recognized by their society. Time and again on this blog, I have waxed rhapsodic about my interactions with Burkinabé. I simply do adore the people here, and often get a warm and fuzzy feeling over the friendships I have made in country. That being said, I utterly loathe Burkinabé in any situation that calls for a line to be formed, whether that be boarding a bus or queueing up to pay a bill at the electric company. I don't know what goes on in the social upbringing of the average Burkinabé, but the section on respecting the construct of the line—which Americans tend to follow stringently—appears to be wholly absent. As a result, an unaccustomed foreigner in Burkina will likely be shocked and appalled when they find themselves in unnecessary human clusterfucks that could easily be remedied if everybody just agreed to form a line and wait their turn. How do you like these apples: whenever I travel between Bobo and Ouagadougou, I go with a very nice, clean, and reputable bus company that gives each of its passengers a printed ticket, complete with an assigned seat number. Totally legit, totally reliable. And yet, what happens when they call everyone aboard? A stampede that reaches such absurd heights of absolute pandemonium that it rivals Pamplona. People—dudes, chicks, old folks, and children alike—are elbowing each other in the ribs, pushing and shoving, and yelling at each other to back the eff off! UM, HELLO? Everyone has an ASSIGNED SEAT. WHERE, EXACTLY, IS THE FIRE? It is an absolutely jaw-dropping sight to behold, especially if you take how nice and civil Burkinabé are in every other social situation into account. If you're not used to this, it is infuriating at first—I mean, I've been here almost a year and it still irks me. My advice in dealing with this phenomenon is to be active and aggressive rather than passive and permissive—beat 'em at their own game, I say! I started off very hippie-ish and love thy neighbor about the whole thing in the beginning, but I eventually got so pissed off that I just started joining in the carnage—mob mentality, I guess. Nowadays, I jump right into that mass of humanity, elbows out and with the reflexes of a linebacker. THUNDERDOME. I expend so much energy ramming myself through the crowd that I don't have much left to waste on getting angry about the Burkinabé's utterly preposterous manners in this realm of human interaction, so it's a win-win.

2. A reliable algorithm for calculating the actual length of meetings in Burkina Faso: multiply how many minutes/hours the people in charge claim the meeting will go for by ten, and add two hours. Example: If the principal of your school calls for a 30-minute meeting to discuss the cleaning schedule of the computer lab, expect to actually be there for seven hours -> ((30*10)/60)+2=7. Okay, a little exaggeration here, but, fo' real doe: meetings in Burkina take FOR-EV-ER. One of the reasons for this is that Burkinabé don't follow the superficial and capitalistic dictum that "Time is money," which reigns supreme in America. This is a collectivist society, and, as such, there is a genuine concern for the comfort and well-being of others and their relatives. So, a good chunk of the "meeting" is actually spent on rigorously discussing the welfare of all the parties involved, as well as the welfare of their immediate and extended family and their material possessions (goats, cows, pigs, etc.)

Another, more justifiably irritating reason behind the excessive meeting lengths is that Burkinabé love to belabor even the finest and minutest point—especially the men. I think it has something to do with the machismo element of society here, because it appears as though each man is always trying to make the last, resounding point in a meeting, only to be a foiled by another dude who chimes in to regurgitate something that isn't even a subtle variation on what the guy who was just speaking sputtered out mere seconds ago. It simply never ends.

My advice: once you've got the gist of a meeting and said all that you've needed/wanted to say, feel free to tune out, unless you enjoy tumbling into an unfathomably redundant, ego-infused death spiral.

3. Children of a certain age will be resolutely terrified of you if you are white and/or wear a bike helmet. The age range for such children seems to be between 3 and 5 years old. Kids who are younger are simply too young to know what's going on (i.e., to sense that you, as a person of a paler persuasion, are something "different"), while older kids have had enough life experiences and scraped knees to toughen them up. The fear in these children usually manifests itself in the form of piercing shrieks, running, hiding behind things/people, and many tears. Wearing a bike helmet seems to bump up the Richter scale of horror considerably. At first, this can be disheartening: you just wanted to say, "Hi" to the little tyke! My advice, though, is to not take it personally and, in fact, to have fun with this and take advantage of it. You can only take so many kids taunting you with shouts of, "Tubabu!" or "Le blanc!" before you start getting a little resentful. Payback time! I'm not saying you should run around with animal blood smeared across your face deliberately scaring children, but if you're biking down your street and see a little kid start to cry upon catching your eye, smile widely, get off your bike, and walk over to them to shake their hand. This will undeniably send them into hysterics of fear, fleeing for the nearest tree or rock or grandmother to hide behind. Chances are, if their friends and family are around (which they usually are), they will all get a huge kick out of this. It seems that the more a kid cries here, the more his parents laugh. Burkinabé are interesting that way. (I've seen Burkinabé crack up over television news footage of rioters beating the shit out of each other, if that gives any insight into their sense of humor). Incidentally, this is also a good technique for deterring kids from banging on your door after sunset for no apparent reason other than to keep you from getting some reading done or preparing dinner.

So, yeah, these are just a few miscellaneous things that struck me as stuff I never would have thought about nor was I prepared for before arriving in Burkina. If any of this made you uneasy, that was not my intention. Despite the minor hitches out here, there are mountains of goodness and wonder. Burkina is a fantastic place that boasts some seriously glorious people. I'm still loving it all after a year.

And if anyone reading this is indeed in the upcoming SE/GEE PST group, let me wish you an early welcome to Burkina and Peace Corps. See you soon!

Challenging Social Norms (Or, Like, How I, Like, TOTALLY Love My Hair ~*~*~*)

I haven’t had a haircut in over ten months.

Shortly before I left for my Peace Corps staging event in Philadelphia last June, I buzzed my long, curly locks completely off. I was kind of attached to my hair (figuratively as well as literally—har dee har, jerkface), so it was upsetting to take a mean old set of clippers to it and obliterate every last hank in one fell swoop. There were two specific reasons for me doing so, though: one, Africa tends to get a little warm, in case you didn’t know; and two, in one of the pre-staging documents that Peace Corps sent me, they noted that, for the sake of social acceptability in Burkina, men should keep their hair short. Well, as an embryonic aspiring PCV, I took this as gospel, and summarily dusted off my haircutting kit and made with the snip snip.

To an extent, Peace Corps did know what it was talking about in terms of hair length and how it pertains to social norms here. Every Burkinabé man has his hair closely cropped and gets it trimmed on a pretty regular basis. If you do see a guy with long hair, chances are he’s either a Rasta (and thus has a stigmatized reputation for smoking pot) or a fou (quite literally, a crazy homeless person who wanders the streets in various stages of undress). Thus, there is a very clear-cut—and clean-cut—idea of what a Burkinabé man should look like. And with that idea comes a whole host of other gender norms that Burkinabé men and women tend to follow rigorously.

In most Burkinabé social spheres—except, perhaps, those of the fabulously wealthy Burkinabé élite who live in a posh development in Ouagadougou known as Ouaga 2000 (President Blaise Compaoré has a residence there)—men are the breadwinners, and women and girls take care of everything at home. This includes fastidiously cleaning the house, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, sweeping the courtyard, going to the marché, cooking the meals, and bathing the kids (some families can have upwards of ten children). Women really are the backbone of this society. There are the nurturer-caregivers, the rock of the family, and the guiding force of the household. Their seemingly unwavering stamina despite all the work the societal mould in which they live shovels onto them is amazing to me.

Now, to avoid making this sound like a man-bashing entry, I should say that men here do their fair share of work to earn money for their families—and it isn’t usually through a cushy office job. True, there are many wealthy men who seem to do nothing all day but ride around on their new motos, fuss with their immaculate, lavish clothing, and play around with their flashy cell phones. However, the countless men in the poorer classes work as carpenters, locksmiths, welders, water-haulers (if there is a more appropriate title for this line of work, let me know), etc.

My point is that these social and professional roles are rigidly defined: men work/have careers, and the women stay home. Period. This distinction between the sexes is made pretty early on in life—during secondary school, for example. In case I haven’t mentioned it here before, you have to pay to send your kids to school here—even public school. Tuition for a year can run anywhere from $50-$100. Not a huge sum for an American, but for some Burkinabé families that money represents food on the table. So, a big family might start out by sending all of their kids to school, but as the years go on and the money runs tight and more work needs to be done in the household, the parents stop enrolling the girls in classes and just let the boys continue their studies. After all, social norms dictate that girls and women belong in the house, anyway, so what do they need to learn history, geography, science, and math for? Knowing the Pythagorean theorem ain’t gonna get the floor swept.

Maintaining a certain manner of dress and general appearance is one way through which these social paradigms are upheld. I already mentioned that Burkinabé men, outside of a few pariahs, don’t let their hair grow long. So what are people supposed to make of me, then? I’m a teacher—a very good and esteemed profession in Burkina, particularly in the bigger cities—yet I come to work every day in simple (yet appropriate) clothing and with my hair all over the place. To put it in perspective, this would be like me being a lawyer in America and coming to a hearing in plaid golf pants.

A few months ago, when my hair was on the cusp of becoming noticeably long enough to warrant a trim, I asked myself whether I cared or not if I just let it grow, weighing all the social and cultural knowledge I’ve gained since arriving here. I eventually decided that I would take a chance and not cut it, and spend the next few months testing the waters.

Well, here I am today with my hair long enough to be put in a ponytail, and what have I learned? First of all, Burkinabé don’t get angry or offended if you’re a man and you have long hair. They will be all sorts of nonplussed, though. I’ve been through a whole range of personal interactions all because of my hair here. Men have asked me if it’s a wig; women seek my advice on what they can put in their own hair to make it blonde and curly like mine; sometimes little kids just want to touch it.

What I’m hoping is, because Burkinabé don’t seem to be bothered by my hair, it’ll encourage them to think about the gender restrictions that rule their society and their tendency to sustain them. I’m not expecting my locks to start a revolution, but I’d least like to leave people here with the sense that things don’t have to be so black-and-white. I loathe male chauvinism and machismo, which I come in contact with regularly here. It’s a sobering experience when you hear Burkinabé—some of the most impoverished people on the planet—use pejoratives like “faggot” (pédé in French), but eventually you realize that this sort of behavior is borne out of a stark acquiescence to social constructs. I hope I’m not being naïve when I say that I hope these constructs can at least be challenged—if not changed.

EFF 2009

Ah, spring break … in America, it’s a magical time of stifling one’s beer gas, schmaltzy co-ed confessions at tacky, vaguely Mexican eateries (Señor Frog’s, anyone?), and drunken frat boy histrionics. In Burkina, if you’re a Peace Corps Volunteer, it’s a time to risk one’s life by impinging on the habitats of gigantic mammals for the sake of a photo op. It’s like comparing the debauched decadence of Nero with the modus operandi of the Crocodile Hunter. Whatever.

So, last week, upon the start of spring break (henceforth known as ELEPHANT FREAK FEST 2009, or EFF 2009—you’ll see why in a minute), I traveled with several friends to the glorious city of Fada N’Gourma in Eastern Burkina. It was the first time I’d traveled east of Ouagadougou, which means I’ve now seen Burkina in virtually every direction, from the cruel heat and red sands of the Sahel to the cool green and mango-tree-laden Cascades (waterfalls) Region.

Once in Fada, we chilled, ate fries and salad, and generally got crunk, as is customary for Americans on spring break (see above). The next day, queasy from Burkina’s finest local brews and stymied by Fada’s oppressive heat (soooo much hotter there than in Bobo), we schlepped via bush taxi (essentially a ratty van packed to the brim with people, goats, chickens, bicycles, whatever works …) to a city way down in the southeast, very close to the Benin-Burkina border, where a fellow PCV, the lovely Joanna, lives. Joanna and her equally lovely Gulmanché (that’s an ethnic group) host family allowed all of us crazy kids—about fifteen of us—to camp out in their courtyard for the evening.

As much as I loved Joanna’s beautiful city, that was easily one of the worst nights I’ve ever spent in Burkina, purely because of the heat. My friend Danielle, whom I shared a tent with, deserves some sort of gold-plated award for putting up with my vulgar and Yiddish-tinged (some people call me an honorary Jew) ranting and raving over the sweltering conditions all night. I’m sorry, but it was extraordinarily hot. I was laying down, perfectly still—afraid to blink my eyes, even!—and yet I could still feel the sweat pouring out of me in rivulets.

By morning, I was soaked from head to toe. I was pretty sure my perspiration even saturated Danielle a little bit. Gross, right? It was like The Blob—an unstoppable and malevolent force. Now everyone’s convinced that I have some sort of gland problem, and I can’t say I disagree with them.

What was that about elephants? Oh, yeah, so from Joanna’s city, we traveled even further south (basically to the border), where we went on the safari of a lifetime (almost literally, as you’ll soon find out). This part of Burkina is known for its large animal reserves. We spent the day at the Arly reserve—one of the best known—riding around in a roofless and windshield-less old Land Rover driven by one of the safari company dudes, who was assisted by two other dudes hanging off the back. There were plentiful stretches of time where we didn’t see a single animal, which made us weary. Some of us were really jonesing to see some birds and gazelles, but, wtf? This is a SAFARI. I want to see giraffes and giant turtles and monkeys flinging poop and pterodactyls and stuff like that. A friggin’ bird? Come on.

So, all morning I was silently pining for some nutty, action-packed animal encounters. I really wanted to see a mastodon get masto-DOWN, know what I’m saying? Eventually, we saw a ton of hippos bathing in a small barrage. They were cool enough, and made cute noises when they shot water out of their nostrils, but they were completely docile (so much for being the number-one deadliest animal in Africa. *scoff*) and left me craving more.

Well, I’m an asshole, because we got more. A whoooole lot more. Shortly after we left the hippo barrage, we came across a massive herd of elephants (there were at least fifty of them). Initially, the herd was completely oblivious of us. However, our driver saw the delight on our faces, and I think he wanted to give us a good show. He therefore slammed his foot on the gas pedal and went surging towards the herd. Now, I’m a rather pampered, city-dwelling sybarite who doesn’t have much wilderness experience, but even I knew that, as puny humans in a crappy SUV, charging this assload of elephants wasn’t exactly the most brilliant idea ever conceived. Lo and behold, once we got within about twenty feet of them, two of the bigger beasts turned a complete 180 and began to hurtle towards us! I’m not even joking when I say that, almost instantly, it became apparent that we were all going to certainly die if we didn’t do something soon. It was dire. Our driver didn’t keep his cool at all, as he clumsily tried to load his shotgun and turn the steering wheel at the same time, when clearly he should have given the gun to one of his buddies and focused solely on the driving. I remember thinking amidst the sheer horror and panic how very Dukes of Hazzard it all was. As a result, we sort of crashed into a tree—we didn’t actually collide with it, but we got sort of stuck there, with two giant elephants coming straight towards us from the rear.

I’m not a religious man, but there had to have been some sort of miracle that allowed our driver to lodge the Land Rover out of our obstructed position against the tree. Once we were somewhat in the clear, the driver passed the shotgun to one of his assistants (finally!) and booked it the hell out of there. There was a second wave of extreme terror after that, because it kind of looked like all the other elephants were taking notice of us and were beginning to charge as well. Uh, single scariest and most adrenaline-filled moment of my life! Thankfully, though, they all seemed to lose interest in us after a few seconds (maybe they thought it was too easy) and returned to the ranks of their herd.

Understandably, we spent the rest of the afternoon on the safari recovering from minor heart attacks and discussing how we all thought we were going to meet our demise. I’m just glad I got such an excellent story out of it. And, bonus! Lucky for you, my video camera was rolling the whole time, so I got some really gritty, Blair Witch-esque footage of the entire fiasco:

And thus, spring break 2009 will forever be known as EFF 2009.

No worries, though. I’m back in Bobo now, safe and sound. The latter half of the break has, not surprisingly, proven to be quite boring by comparison. Nothing going on here except for pizza eating, vodka drinking, and America’s Next Top Model watching. Sort of ironic that it took moving to one of the poorest countries in the world for me to finally appreciate this show.

The Boast Post

There’s a phrase we use here in Peace Corps Burkina—bien intégré(e) (“well-integrated”)—to describe a Volunteer who is fully immersed and comfortable at their site and in Burkina in general. Some people within Peace Corps love the term and use it freely; others have nothing but the deepest disdain for it (“Well, I never! You cad! How can you, a rich American, have any accurate perception of Burkinabé mores?!” *takes to fainting couch*).

As far as I’m concerned, I don’t really feel one way or the other about bien intégré(e), except that I love using it as an acronym (“Dude, brah, you eat caterpillar and you’re off toilet paper?! You are so B.I.!”) But, whatever your opinion of the term is, integration is something that is constantly on the mind of the average Volunteer. It’s not an autonomous phenomenon; it’s something Volunteers have to work on and be cognizant of on a daily basis. Just because you’re here for a long period of time doesn’t mean you’re going to automatically gain trust, respect, and friendship from the people in your community, no matter how welcoming the culture is. And, believe me, Burkinabé are plenty hospitable: they make Mother Theresa look like Björk in that video where she mauls the reporter in the airport.

Is it too soon for Mother Theresa jokes?

Anyway, some Volunteers succeed at integrating with flying colors, while others, well … they spend a lot of time locked up in their houses. And, since I feel like I still need to do penance for my wholesale censure of my experience at site upon my initial arrival in Bobo back in September 2008, I think it could enrich your blog reading if I reflect on the positive strides towards my quest for integration I’ve made since then.

First of all, on the surface, a lot has changed since I got here. Back then, I lamented about how the hundreds of kids in my neighborhood would accost me with shouts of, “tubabu!” or “le blanc!” (essentially, “whitey!”). I was particularly upset about this because my neighborhood is gigantic (just as Bobo itself is a gigantic city by Burkinabé standards), and I concluded that there would be no logical way I could stop and chat with each and every one of these mercurial tykes in order to explain to them that I come from the United States, a wonderland of political correctness—like it or not—and, as such, do not appreciate being singled out due to my race.

Well, what a difference a few months, a sense of humor, and a lot of patience makes! I’ve gotten into the habit of stopping my bike whenever I hear a tubabu and introducing myself to the kid(s) who uttered the term. Sometimes I’ll just talk to them about their favorite subject in school—provided they’re lucky enough to afford school—and sometimes I’ll get off my bike and play with them for a bit. (Tip: if you want to entertain a group of Burkinabé children to the point of hysterics, all you have to do is chase after them for a couple of blocks; the adults seem to get a kick out of this as well). Then, we usually part ways with a tampon (a fist bump—don’t get any crazy ideas) and, the next time I see them, they and their friends are shouting, “Michael!” at me. Problem solved.

If there’s one universal truth about every Burkinabé child I’ve ever met that I can impart, it’s that they’re tons of fun—unlike the brash and selfish little monsters you see tugging on mom’s sleeve at Baby Gap in the States. They’re playful, but not overbearing, and inquisitive, but meekly so. They’re also heart-meltingly respectful to elders and strangers (something that carries on into adulthood here, apparently). Kids here are just amazing, and I can say without an ounce of embarrassment that some of my closest friends here are all under the age of 10.

On a somewhat related note, recently I’ve been encountering strangers who refer to me as tubab muso or la blanche (essentially, “white lady”)—do you think I might need a haircut?

So, taking care of this children problem has bolstered my confidence tremendously here, leading me to branch out and form several substantial—and, indeed, very rewarding—relationships with some people here. The most significant example that comes to mind is my friend Jean-Claude. He’s 22 years old and works at the local maquis (bar) in my neighborhood, while moonlighting as a filling station proprietor. I first met Jean back in October, when I stopped at the maquis for a beer. We became fast friends, talking about pretty much everything ranging from life in America to informal lessons in the Mooré language (one of dozens here in Burkina) to Jean’s various travails with his girlfriends. We have a routine of meeting up every night at the bar, where we while away the hours over shared bags of peanuts and the occasional card game. I guess Jean’s the Ted Danson to my George Wendt. Anyway, he’s probably my best friend here, and hanging out with him has opened up lots of social opportunities/routes to integration for me here.

And, as far as gaining people’s trust is concerned, I feel like I’ve done pretty well for myself. One case in point: there is this woman who works as a secretary at my school who, when we first met, was adequately friendly, but noticeably reserved and shy. Whenever I greeted her in the mornings, she would respond, and then sort of cover up the burgeoning smile on her face with her hand in the gesture of shyness that seems to be the trademark of Burkinabé women. I remained persistent in getting some more meaningful interaction out of her, though, and would occasionally pepper my greetings with questions about her family and other things about her life. Slowly but surely, she has opened up to me. Nowadays, she’s the one asking the questions, as she’s very interested in what life is like in America.

Recently, the woman asked me a question that furnished a huge piece of the puzzle that could explain her shyness. She turned to me and asked somewhat reticently, “Do men in America hit their wives?” She went on to particularize the question by explaining, “Here in Burkina, men use hitting to control their women. They are the ones who have control over the family. Wives have no control in their homes.” This was a fact that I was already aware of, but it had never touched me with such poignancy as it did at this moment. I immediately took this chance to denounce violence in any form—particularly against women, who are essentially the backbone of society here. I talked about the lives of women in America, about how American women can do whatever they want—start a family on their own terms, get a master’s degree, pursue a career, etc.—without retribution, and how this is indeed a fundamental building block of our idea of free will. The huge smile that broke across her face in reaction to my response broke my heart, and I had a feeling in that instant that any worries of trust on her part were quickly dissolving.

So, without boasting too much, I think I’ve made lots of progress towards becoming integrated and fostering meaningful relationships with the glorious people of Burkina Faso. The only downside is that, now that I’m really enjoying myself, the time seems to be going faster and faster. We’re coming up on ten months now; pretty soon I’ll be celebrating the one-year anniversary of my arrival in Burkina. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought up several harebrained schemes to fly all these people back to America with me.

Hotter Than Satan's Cleavage

So, Burkina has three seasons: the rainy season from June to September; the “cold” season from November* to February; and the hot season from March to May. The lines dividing these seasons are as rigid as a prison warden, i.e. it doesn’t rain during the hot season—ever—and the second the cold season is over, you can rest assured that it ain’t coming back for another year.

The hot season arrived here overnight late last week—quite literally, I might add. That is to say, I went to bed shivering in the 55ºF chill, wishing I had packed my footie PJs (complete with zipper up the back, of course) when I left America, and woke up on the surface of ten thousand suns. Mean suns, too. Like that asshole sun in Super Mario Bros. 3 who swoops down at you in the pyramid levels. Man, I hate that guy.

I don’t think I’d ever realized what a profound effect weather has on my mood—and, subsequently, the way I act—before now. This is one of the most poverty-stricken corners in all of Africa; it’s not like I can lounge around some air-conditioned enclave all day long reading Us Weekly and shuddering at Nicole Richie’s hammertoes. Instead, I force myself to suck it up and bear the heat, which includes not getting all stank about having to bike across 20km of scalding pavement on a daily basis. Eventually, though, everybody cracks, right? Like, the other day, I almost lost it when I couldn’t get that ridiculous paperclip with eyes in Microsoft Word to disappear. I mean, we’re talking banging on keys here. Saying horrible things about Bill Gates’ momma. The works. Hmm, maybe I’m prejudiced against inanimate objects with human facial features. The Mario sun, that dumbass paperclip? I’m sensing a theme here. Whatever, that “Office Assistant” is totally wack and anything BUT helpful in any climate, so I think my behavior was justified in the end.

I used to be so proud of myself for living in New York City for two successful years (while attending grad school, no less). I mean, if I could make it there…well, you know what Frank says. Now that I’ve been in Burkina for a while, though, I’m realizing what a cakewalk New York is: Starbucks as far as the eye can see; reliable transportation (after riding West African bush taxis, I will never complain about the L train or the MTA in general ever again); culinary splendor … sure, the rent’s a little high, but so what? Does that compare to the three-day water outage my neighborhood endured a couple of months ago? It’s not like we can walk downstairs to the bodega or Duane Reade and pick up a bottle of Dasani, you know. So, as far as juxtaposing NYC and BF goes, we’re not even talking about the same ballpark. I’m not trying to begrudge someone’s flagrant loathing of New York society, but, shit, dude, it doesn’t hurt to think beyond Gotham from time to time.

It seems like every season has its own habitus: the rainy season finds us optimistic and well-fed, but also working tirelessly, thanks to all the harvesting; the cold season is subdued and introspective, with Burkinabé concealing themselves in fur-lined parkas (really), and mostly quiet, except for the jubilant November/December holidays (Christian and Muslim); and the hot season, as far as I can tell, is when the harsh realities of Africa truly become compounded. Seriously, it’s amazing how much this jump in temperature has made me reevaluate (for the thousandth time) my experience here. Without the comfort and luxury of A/C and swimming pools, you experience heat for the force of nature that it really is, and with a change in habitus comes a requisite change in perspective.

So, I’m really hoping the hot season flies by. I mean, this whole Peace Corps experience has had wings up to this point (has it really been eight whole months?), so maybe it’ll be June before I know it. I can’t imagine how I’ll react when that first rainstorm of the season bursts down from the heavens, but I’m sure I’ll be hearing the Hallelujah Chorus in my head. Okay, I have to go stand under my showerhead on full blast with all my clothes on for the eleventh time today.

*What happened to October? Well, that’s kind of its own mini hot season. A hot pocket, if you will. Mmmm, three cheese and broccoli…

I Have a Blog?

Hmmm ... hello, I suppose. I don't know why I've been avoiding my blog so much lately, especially considering the stakes at hand: maintaining the ever-distinguished title of The Best Peace Corps Blog in All of Burkina Faso. I don't what to say, really! I've now been here for over seven months, a point of denouement by which whatever was exotic and strange before has now become commonplace and people at home start to forget about you. Well not forget about you per se; I just feel that the magnitude of this whole thing sort of wears off once your American friends don't see you around and their memory of you wanes as they move on with their lives. It seems perfectly natural to me and I'm not bent out of shape about it in the least. It's just something I've noticed at this point.

So, where do we go from here on the blog? I feel as though we're at a crossroads (can't get Bone Thugz out of my head now). I mean, really, I can't talk about how bizarre it is to hang out with my friends over a beer as they prepare goathead soup (eyes and all), or how weird it is that my New Year's Eve consisted of watching fireworks whilst rubbing elbows with Bobo's fabled prostitutes. Because it's not bizarre and it's not weird anymore. For me, it's utterly normal at this point -- almost banal, in fact. I feel completely immersed, safe, and at home here. I look back on the first blog entry I posted after my affectation in Bobo last September, and it seems like an entirely different person wrote that. Back then, I was sick, insecure, cranky, and just over this experience in general. Thank goodness I toughed it out for a few more weeks and gave myself the time to see the light at the end of the tunnel, because that has made all the difference, to crib Frost. Check it: I was hanging out with some of the girls in my courtyard last night, laughing together and carrying on in French and Jula, when it dawned on me how little time I have left here in the grand scheme of things. If you want to draw a parallel to what I'm going through, imagine being told you have less than two years to spend in your beloved home town, where you are treated like a rock star and are privy to the kindest and most genuine people on the face of the earth. I mean, it is going to be devastating to leave this place behind. Wow, what was familiar (America) is now cold and alien, and what was unfamiliar (Burkina) now fits me like a tailored suede glove. Who knew I would eventually feel this way just a few short months ago? Shit is deep, my friends.

Yeah, I don't really know what's going to happen on this blog. I feel that I might become so enamored with my strange (to you) life here that I could alienate my readers. I'm having such an identity crisis right now! But the most wonderful identity crisis a person could ever experience, if that makes any sense. No, it doesn't make any sense. See? I'm doing it already! I'm completely insane. Just know, however, that I will continue with the blog in some way, shape, or form. Just don't expect it to take the same path it was on before. I guess this is the chrysalis phase, but aren't I already gorgeous?

PS: I still feverishly update my Twitter and Flickr pages, so check those out regularly.