Tuesday, October 27, 2009

School 'n' Sauce

Haaaayyyyyy!

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!

English club
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


My favorite dish to cook here


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!

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Hello?

I do believe it is me you're looking for. I can see it in your eyes. Why, I can even see it in your smile:

I think the kids are glad I'm back.

Hello, my babies. Well, after a lovely respite in the United States that pretty much consisted of eating, revisiting my old haunts in NYC, eating, going to the New England Aquarium, eating, marveling at plasma-screen TVs, and eating, I'm finally back in Burkina Faso, 4 pounds heavier and ready to take on my second school year. What's that you say? "Nice badunkadunk"? So kind of you to notice!

I've been back for almost a month now, yet I still haven't been to Bobo (my home.) As soon as I flew into spacious and luxurious Ouagadougou International Airport (the Fendi and Gucci outlets there are to die for)*, I shuttled myself up to Ouahigouya to finish training the new group of Secondary Education and Girls' Education and Empowerment Trainees. Seeing the optimism spread across the faces of these would-be Volunteers has encouraged me to ditch my occasionally jaded mindset for the upcoming second year of my service.

I now fully understand why the standard Peace Corps service lasts for 24 months. The first year is all about discovery, integration, and getting comfortable in and familiar with your surroundings. Once you're at ease in this once-alien place, it's time to seize the second year as an opportunity to really put yourself out there as a Volunteer, working on doing the best job possible in your primary duty (mine would be teaching computer science), and also giving yourself some time to do some secondary projects (such as leading awareness seminars on HIV/AIDS, nutrition, or fruitful business practices).

I already have some goals set in place for the upcoming year:

  1. Get my computer lab in tip-top physical shape. This includes reformatting nasty, virus-ridden machines, rearranging the desks and workspaces so that actual human beings can circumambulate, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. I also want to clear out the graveyard of dead and discarded monitors, CPUs, and peripherals clogging up what precious little free space I have in there. I should probably consult a wise man -- a shaman, if you will -- before doing so, however. I don't want to be haunted by the malicious ghosts of broken French keyboards for desecrating their tomb. éçèçéçèçéçèçéçè !
  2. See what I can do about getting an internet connection installed in my lab. This may either involve negotiations with my school administration, or applying for a Peace Corps Partnership grant that would help pay for the initial set-up costs. Stay tuned for more on this and how you (yes, you!) might be able to help!
  3. Reenergize my English club at school. This year, I've decided to turn the club into a dictatorship in which I choose (and depose) the president at will. The club sort of fell apart last year because the president (who was not chosen by me, mind you) basically dropped off the face of the planet, so we never were sure when meetings were happening, what we were supposed to talk about on any given week, etc. Now, I don't want to be the president myself because a) I'm not a student and b) I want no other obligations to or responsibilities for this club other than simply needing to show up and talk. I will not be putting together an agenda. I will not be recruiting members. My schedule is busy enough as it is. Thus, I am going to find the best student for the job myself, and let them do all the organizing and planning. So there!
  4. Work on some sweet secondary projects. As luck would have it, I'm getting a sitemate this year, which means that one of the Trainees is going to be placed in Bobo after she swears in! We've already discussed the possibility of doing a girls' computer camp, which would be all sorts of lovely. I'd also like to be able to do some more HIV/AIDS seminars, and maybe some projects with the Small Enterprise Development sector of Peace Corps Burkina.
So, yeah, it's a whole new day! I'm ready to take on the 12 remaining months of my service with a spring in my step and love in my heart. America was lots and lots of fun, but I'm really content with my life out here, and am looking forward to finishing up my service strong.

Can you believe I've been here for almost 15 MONTHS already? Lordy! In related news, I recently went to Ouagadougou for my Mid-Service Conference, where we reviewed Peace Corps' Burkina's Secondary Education Project Plan, made goals for the upcoming school year (done and done), and gave feedback to the Peace Corps Bureau. Oh, and we also had to go through lots of fun (read: not fun) medical and dental exams ... you know, pooping in cups and stuff like that. Also, going to the dentist in Burkina is a TRIP! You know that sharp hook-like tool the dentist uses to clean your teeth? Well, in Burkina they're ELECTRIC, meaning that this thing vibrates like crazy. Beware if you have sensitive teeth -- it feels like the enamel is being stripped right off! Oy vey.

So that's what I've been up to since I've been back. I've missed you, faithful blog readers and commenters, and hope you've missed me as well. Toodles!

*Note: there are no luxury clothing stores at Ouagadougou International. There are two gates, a dirty conveyor belt, and a place where you can get a piece of cheese on a slice of bread for three dollars, though. Ah, the alluring glamor of air travel!

Thursday, June 11, 2009

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

Saturday, May 9, 2009

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!

Saturday, April 25, 2009

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.

Monday, March 30, 2009

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.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

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.