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.