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.