Saturday, December 24, 2011

The Fair

I know this post is 3 months behind, but a lot of folks at home have asked me what this Peace Corps fair thing was all about.

Peace Corps Burkina Faso hosted a 3 day 50th Anniversary fair to celebrate Peace Corps’ 50th birthday and all the work that volunteers do in the BF.  The first day started off with a rainy swear-in of a new group of volunteers, and the whole thing ended with a celebration with the First Lady of Burkina and a concert by Floby, a popular Burkina singer.   

I worked the Food Security booth for all 3 days, handing out Moringa tea and orange marmalade samples, making Moringa doughnuts, and teaching people about the benefits of Moringa and food preservation techniques such as jam making and food drying.  I also dressed up as Moringa Woman for a morning. 

Here are a few videos made by other PCVs to give you a look at the Peace Corps 50th Anniversary Fair!

Day 1 of the fair

Floby’s Peace Corps Song!
 

This one gives a pretty good overview of the Peace Corps Burkina Faso program

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Huffington post article

This article so completely describes my Peace Corps experience I had to share it. 

What the Peace Corps taught me about failure

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Bike Tour

A special treat for everybody, I thought a video would better portrait when the Bike Tour came to village then a written post.  It took some work to get it together, but I hope you all enjoy! 

Sorry that the quality is so bad, the chief’s son filmed it. 

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Pink Toes

While home in the US for my sister’s wedding I enjoyed a spa day with the bridal party.  It was an intimate group, just my sister, my sister’s best friend whom we’d grown up with from our neighborhood, and me.  It was the usual pre-wedding package- message, facial, manicure, and pedicure- which I did not mind one bit after a year in Burkina.  I actually felt it necessary to apologize to my nail girl for the condition of my feet, which were in sad, sad shape.  My sister was in the chair next to mine during our pedicures, and when it came time to choose a paint color I asked if she had anything in mind for her bridesmaids.  No, do whatever you want, she said. “Just don’t pick something boring, like you always do!  Like clear or something!” she says, just before I ask the lady about some neutral options.  She had a point, the novelty of nail polish wore off all most as soon as it had started in my girlhood, just after Nany finally allowed me to take Dana’s and wear it.  As soon as I started playing sports I could no longer be bothered with the stuff- it was always chipping off and I had to keep my nails short anyways.  As for toes, well, I was just lucky to have toe nails.  I went through a nail buffing stage, but upon entering Asheville School it was all I could do just to keep up with the high expectations they have for their students, and well kept nails was not one of them.  To be honest, I hadn’t worn nail polish since my senior year prom, 6 years ago.  After a slight panic attack as to where to begin I decided to follow my sister’s lead- what color are you picking?  All three of us girls picked a deep pink color that matched the bridesmaids’ dresses, watermelon or some fuchsia-esk color.  

For the rest of the vacation, I have to admit, I couldn’t help but admire my pink toes every time I looked down (She did a very good job).  Every shoe looked just a little better on my foot.  Every outfit just a little more put together.  I felt just a little more feminine, an established adult, a real person, an American.  It’s amazing how something so small, so normal, can make such a huge difference.  But the real difference came when I returned to Burkina.  I held on to those pink toes as long as possible, and each glance at my feet took me back to America, to boating with my family on Torch Lake, to being introduced to Josh’s life in Texas.  For just a moment I was still in America, I was a normal American, or maybe just a typical ex-pat.  And my feet were stained orange from a red sand beach, not a red dirt desert.  The children screeching in my ears were just neighbor boys playing, not neighbor boys constantly asking for something, ready to steal from you at any time.  The buzz of bleating farm animals, chickens clucking and donkeys, could just as easily be the buzz of traffic.  One look at my toes and I was no longer dirty and gross, in old funky clothes, but transformed to pretty, clean clothes, that dared to show my knee, or maybe my shoulders.  For just a moment I felt normal, pretty, clean.  I could be anywhere in the world, not just a mud-brick house in the middle cornfields in Africa.  Even Josh couldn’t help but comment on my pretty pink toes every time he saw them; so out of place in the Burkina world.  And then the moment would pass and my reality would solidify; I was still in the middle of West Africa.   

I remember packing for the Peace Corps- didn’t bother with any type of hair product and only the bare minimum make-up for special occasions, like swear-in.  Didn’t pack any clothes I would normally where in the US, I knew everything would get ruined here.  Even disregarded my one usual jewelry habit and didn’t pack any necklaces, and brought only one pair of silver stud earrings, which my grandmother had given me right before I left.  Why on earth would you bring make-up and hair gel to Africa?  I will admit I even scoffed at the girls who brought hair straighteners to the Peace Corps- What?  Are you going to straighten your hair in village?  With the current from a solar panel and car battery in your hut?  Or the girls who wore make-up everyday- Seriously?  Who are you trying to look good for?  We’re in Burkina Faso, just taking a shower is an amazing feat.  We’re constantly sweaty and dirt stained just from being.  I really don’t think your eye-liner is going to make a difference here.          

But now I understand.  This country has a way of wearing you down.  Maybe it’s not Burkina, necessarily, but this lifestyle.  All your clothes are ruined- dirt stained or bleach stained or falling apart and discolored or a cheaply-made pagne has bleed on your one white shirt.  Even the clothes you never wear to keep nice turn out ruined.  Just walking from the shower room to the house makes my feet as sandy as if I was walking on a beach, and our courtyard is cement.  No mater how are we try, the bed is always filled with sand and bugs (we have a bed net- how do they get in?!).  We are always dirty, sweaty, and smelly.  My hair is always knotty from wind and sweat, and I just realized I haven’t looked in a mirror in at least 3 weeks.  We joke that you can pick a PCV out in a crowd of ex-pats because we will be the ones in village clothes, dirty, and look like we just come from the bush.  And it’s true.  It’s easy to loose your sense of self-identity here, to loose yourself, your confidence, and just melt into the surroundings.  One might need to wear nail polish to feel like a normal human being, to remember there is more out there beyond the huts and millet fields.  Maybe eye-liner and make-up is what one needs to feel pretty, to feel like they, the person they were before the Peace Corps, still exists, when everything else is filthy.  If that’s what it takes to get through this experience, I understand, and I’m all for it.  I will admit that I now have a stash of fashionable clothes in Ouaga, the make-up and hair-curl cream I needed for Texas and Paris, and now I make a point of it every time I’m in Ouaga to dress as Western as possible.  Ouaga is a real city, with lots of foreigners; why shouldn’t I look like an adult American women, clean and put-together? 

After a month the opportunity arose to take off the nail polish.  I was at another volunteer’s site and the remover was on the table in front of me.  My toes were starting  to look bad anyways, but I was still sad to see them go.  I briefly thought about re-painting them, but the moment had passed for painted toes.  It was time.  I still have to thank my sister- thanks to her I realized there is more to nail polish, and beauty products, than just vanity.  And maybe I needed that here, too, to get me through the Peace Corps. 

I followed the lead of my sister’s best friend, a very successful business women, and did a nude color on my finger nails.  I thought it looked more professional.  But now I wonder what bright pink fingers would have done for me.          

Our First Sensibilisation- June 29th

It only took us a year of being in country, but finally we planned our first sensibilisation.  Sensibilisation doesn’t really translate into English, the Peace Corps calls them awareness campaigns, but it’s more of a short lecture or lesson.  Basically, it’s speaking to a group or an individual on a specific, usually health related, topic- sharing sensible information-and it’s one of the main things volunteers do.  We had a ready made audience- after weeks of attending baby weighings three days a week I was well aware that these mothers arrive around 8 am, or before, and that nothings gets started until 8:30 or so.  It seemed like the perfect platform to give a sensibilisation and get my feet wet in projects in village.  We were a bit in limbo project wise, waiting for grants to come in or the school year to start, but this we could easily do now.  And the maternity offered an easy topic- infant nutrition.  Recently at a dinner with Antoinette she had told us how she would go around village with Jamie, an old volunteer in our village, and talk to people about family planning and other health topics.  She practically offered to be our translator and help us do the same.  Perfect, we had a Bissa translator.  Now we just needed to coordinate with the CSPS staff and pick a date.  We went to talk to them on a Monday, hoping to do the sensibilisation on Wednesday.  Wednesday baby weighings are the day they give vaccinations, so there are always more ladies on Wednesday.  When we arrived at the CSPS there were quite a few people in the waiting room, rainy season had started and therefore malaria season had started.  We wanted to run the idea by the Major first, following the chain of command, but when we went into the office only the midwife was there.  Both the head nurse and nurse were away this week leaving only the midwife to hold down the fort.  There were no baby weighings this week.  This news made a small part of me sad- why didn’t they let us know? We should have been called in to help.  Josh and I had had discussions with the midwife before about baby weighings and all had agreed that the two of us could do them on our own.  We knew the drill and how the books worked, we just couldn’t give any vaccines.  But, alas, we were not asked to help.  She agreed that a Wednesday would be best for a sensibilisation and we agreed on the following week. 

When Wednesday rolled around we arrived at the CSPS early and waited for Antoinette and everyone to arrive. That Wednesday also happened to be an inventory day at the pharmacy, so all the COGES members were suppose to come to help.  The CSPS staff leisurely motoed up to the clinic around 8:30, all of them taking their motos a grand total of 100 yards from their house to the dispensaire.  Ganga, the COGES president and Josh’s counterpart, biked in and started preparing for taking inventory.  Finally, just before 9, Antoinette arrived.  We had arranged for the sensibilisation to start at 8, so it would not interfere with the midwife’s usual routine.  Furthermore, inventory was to start at 8, and as treasure of the COGES Antoinette was a necessary component to keeping inventory and making sure all moneys were accounted for and medicines restocked, so her lateness was, well, annoying to say the least.  Antoinette tells us she is ready to give the sensibilisation, but first must real quick say hello to the pharmacist and check in on inventory.  We wait another 15 minutes for her, then walk to the maternity together.  As soon as we get there she says she must real quick go get Ganga.  We wait another 10 to 15 minutes.  Meanwhile, the midwife is solely waiting on us to start baby weighings and 60 or more women are sitting/standing around with crying babies waiting to get weighed.  Finally she comes back, this time with Ganga.  Sib, a nurse, arranges us in a corner and I pull out the nutrition poster I brought for a visual aid.  Sib places a stepping stool behind me and I think wants me to sit, but instead I stand on it so more women can see the poster.  Antoinette is standing beside me, then sneaks out of the room right before we start.  Guess she didn’t want to translate for us.  But Ganga was there and he understands us better anyways, so it worked out.  Josh gave the lecture in French and Ganga translated, while I made sure key points were remembered and repeated and held up the 3 food groups poster.  Sib and the Major, who joined us half-way through, threw in things here and there and reinforced what we were saying.  We briefly went through exclusive breastfeeding, proper weaning and complementary foods, and the 3 food groups and basic nutrition.  The whole time most of the women looked bored or as if they didn’t understand what was going on, and only a handful were interactive when we asked questions.  The actual sensibilisation didn’t take more then 15 or 20 minutes, or so, and I’m not sure I’d call it a huge success, but at least we did it.  If just one woman out of the 60+ there learned one thing it would be worth it, but there is no way to know that.                                       

The Floppins Experiment (or my best day in village)

I had been looking forward to this day for a week.  Our friend Christina had introduced us to a teacher friend who happened to raise rabbits.  It was love at first site.  Josh didn’t even have to ask me, one look at me gushing over the babies and he asked the man how much.  Since they were babies and we only wanted one, also since the rabbit was to love and not to eat, he said we could have it for free.  we had a planned trip to Ouaga in a couple of days, so we made arrangements to come back on our way home in a week and pick out the newest member of our family. 

For a week I had thought of nothing else.  I had a name all ready, Floppins, taken after my sister’s rabbit, Marry Floppins.  I prepped the courtyard and even made her a two-story house out of care package boxes, which read “Maison de Floppins” on the front in big letters.  We tapped up cardboard on the courtyard gate so she couldn’t hop out under the door.  We even discussed potty training her, like Big, so she could come in the house.  And now it was finally the day. 

The anticipation made the 4 hour bush taxi ride seem like a breeze.  I scouted out the options and picked a cute little white and brown bunny, big enough to leave mama but small enough to make love me, confident/ strong enough to easily adapt to a new home yet still sweet enough to cuddle with me.  My little Floppins. 

After I got my new play thing it was time for Josh to get his.  We had been saving my monthly PC allowance and finally had enough to get a big home purchase- a solar panel and car battery.  Josh was almost as excited for this as I was for the bunny.  I sat in a chair at the hardware store while Josh talked to the shop keeper about batteries and panels and wires, holding little Floppins close to clam her fears, while people gave me the what-is-that-crazy-white-women-doing-with-a-baby-rabbit look.  Wanting a baby animal over an adult is crazy to them, because you can’t eat a baby; petting an animal or showing affection is even crazier.  After a while we headed home, Josh’s new toy strapped to the back of his bike, mine riding in my satchel because she was just too big to fit in my shirt pocket. 

Once home I set Floppins up in her new corner of the courtyard.  It took her a minute, but after an hour or so she was eating and hopping in and out of her house like she had always enjoyed a two-story villa.  Josh also rather enjoyed the afternoon putting the solar panel and battery together; made him feel like a man doing men’s work.  And I have to admit, the set-up revolutionized my life in village.  We now had a light for the evening hours and could charge things at will, as long as there were sunny days.  That evening I cooked dinner by florescent light while watching Floppins flop around the courtyard.  With the flip of a switch Burkina went from one of the shittiest places on earth to live to, hey, this is not so bad. 

While Floppins adjusted to life chez moi we adjusted to life with (almost) current.  She right away started pooping in the latrine, which made it easy for us to clean up after her, all we had to do was brush her droppings down the hole, which also meant she was allowed in the house.  She lazed around in the shade and learned to go in her house when it rained.  She even adjusted to me and my frequent need to love her.  Even Chicken was getting use to sharing a courtyard with her, and they even started eating off the same plate at the same time.  Life was perking up.     

P5140857        P5140860 

 

Unfortunately, two weeks later we had to go to Ouaga for a meeting.  We debated locking Floppins in the house, but decided there was too much damage she could do there.  So we set out ample amounts of food and water, and reinforced the cardboard on the gate.  We even locked the gate with a lock and key from the inside of the courtyard so that kids couldn’t open the door and let her out.  But, alas, upon arrival home there was no Floppins.  There were no signs or hints of what happened, just an empty courtyard, but she was too little to eat, so our best guess is that she escaped from under the cardboard on the gate.  It was a good too weeks while it lasted.     

Dinner parties

After we got home from Ghana it was time to settle into village and establish ourselves both as a married couple, but also Peace Corps volunteers.  Josh decided the first step to doing this was to have dinner with people.  But first we needed the invite.  His first prey was Antoinette, a young women (24 it turns out) with a school-age daughter and a 2 year old son, who is the treasurer of the CoGes of the CSPS and was very good friends with a past PCV here.  Getting the invite turned out easy; we saw her in the marche and made small talk, then Josh threw in how much he liked To and how I didn’t know how to make it- Bam! You must come over and learn how to make To.  The date was set for May 3rd.  We showed up around 5 like she said, just as she was starting to cut up the okra.  She gave us chairs to sit in and brought us a box of wine.  We were not to do anything in this cooking lesson, just sit, drink, and watch.  She talked me through the whole To-making process, including the okra sauce, and than ate it with us, even forming the To balls for us because it was too hot for our fingers.  While there were awkward moments, everyone in her family sitting and staring at us, it was quite nice.  We learned some about the old volunteer and the projects she did and about the community. 

For his next dinner venture, Josh decided to invite Ganga, his counterpart, and his family to our house for lunch, which I had to cook.  The plan was to make riz sauce tomato.  Two days before I was preparing a shopping list  and asked some of the girls in our courtyard how they make tomato sauce.  I know how Americans make their tomato sauce, but Burkinabe like it a bit different.  Well, one of the girls must have thought we really wanted to eat that and I couldn’t cook, so that evening she brought over a pot of rice and a casserole of sauce, which was very sweet of her, but this was after I had already made dinner.  We ate what we could and I took notes for when I cooked it, and then we packaged the rest up for tomorrow.  Sauce doesn’t keep after one meal, but the rice should be fine for tomorrow. 

The next day we had 2 neighbor volunteers visit, one of which was about to leave us, and I made such a huge feast of goodbye mac’n cheese that we couldn’t eat anymore that day.  Rice should keep for 2 days, right?  I started cooking early, well 10 am, the next morning to make sure every thing was ready for when Ganga came.  The rice smelled a little funny, but I hated to waste good rice so I threw it in the pot as I cooked up some fresh rice. More water and heat and it should be fine, right?  I tried my best to make the sauce Burkinabe, but I think it turned out more American, mainly because there were no hot peppers in it.  It was still delicious, I thought.  The lunch started off well, we presented our guests with welcome water and a box of wine.  Josh made small talk while I finished cooking and brought it all out to the table.  Just before serving the rice I tasted it to make sure it was done; it still had a slight smell to it and was slimy like it had been over cooked in too much water.  Shit!  It was too late now, everyone was waiting on me, I had to serve it.  Ganga and his wife ate it fine, but their son just picked at it.  In every bite I took all I could taste was funky rice.  Everything else went fine and Josh thinks our lunch date was a success, but damn that 2 day old rice!  I don’t think they will be coming to eat with us again soon.   Also, shortly after that event I learned the reason Burkinabe cook with hot peppers is to mask the taste of gone-off food.

To thank Antoinette for dinner we sent her apples we had purchased in Ouaga.  This, of course, resulted in another dinner invite.  This time dinner started out like the last- welcome water and sitting on a bench by ourselves as the old women and children stared at us- but this time Antoinette told us we must say hello to “the old” (what they call old men), and led us into another courtyard where her husband’s father was sitting, the master of the household.  She set out chairs directly in front of him and told  us to sit, then left us there.  The old man spoke French, but apparently conversation is not a big part of the culture and we sat mainly in silence.  After 30 or so minutes we started wondering if Antoinette was coming back for us, which was answered when she brought us a big plate of beans and placed it on a small table in front of us, then left again.  Then another women brought us omelet sandwiches, another, the man’s wife, brought out To and sauce, and finally, the man pulled out 2 sodas in glass bottles.  First of all, there’s no place in village where you can buy soda in glass bottles; this is how we learned that this man owns a bar in a near by bigger village.  Second of all, we’re lucky to find omelet sandwiches in the closest town, much less village. Third of all, how on earth are we suppose to eat this much food (and it’s rude not to eat it)?  These people were definitely putting on airs for us, but why?  After we ate as much as we could our plates were cleared and Antoinette finally came and sat with us.  We talked for a bit and took our leave.  We were headed to Ouaga the next day for a meeting, but Antoinette insisted the day we got back we came for dinner again.  This dinner was much like the last- was taken to sit and eat with the father-in-law, only thankfully this time we were just served To.  I know in this culture it’s proper for guests to eat with the head of the family, but it defeats the purpose of us trying to eat and talk, become friends, with our potential counterpart, Antoinette.  We were glad no dinner dates were set after that. 

Our latest dinner venture has become an exchange.  Massie was the women who took in the last volunteer as her unofficial host daughter, and they ate dinner together every night.  She is a bit older, 30’s maybe, with several children, including Fatiema who just got accepted into middle school.  It took her a little while to warm to us, but after a few occasions of chatting in the marche she invited us to dinner.  Dinner went well, not as awkward because she or her daughters actually conversed with us, and we actually ate in the same courtyard as her.  Although she did serve us our own bowl of To and sauce and we ate before the rest of the family.  We tried to reciprocate and invite her to dinner at our house, but she has to cook for the family and can’t leave.  “Just send food”, she told us.  And so we did- a few days later Josh made rice and sauce and sent a child to deliver it.  Since then, every few days we receive To and sauce or beans in a casserole dish and a few days later we’ll send rice or something back.  In between we’ll greet and chat a little here and there.  It’s perfect- maintaining a good friendship without all the awkwardness or hassle of leaving home!                        

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Homeward bound

Amazingly, getting home from Ghana turned out to be more difficult than coming in.  We started off in Anomabu and first needed to get back to Cape Coast.  First thing in the morning, after we enjoyed complimentary breakfast, of course, we walked to the road to flag down a Tro Tro (shared van) into the city.  After waiting 5 or so minutes a taxi stopped. I was anxious about time so we took it despite the inflated price.  We told the taxi man we needed to catch a bus to Kumasi and he took us straight to a parking lot that serves as a bus station.  The first bus was full and we had to wait in line to buy tickets to the next.  For whatever reason, they don’t sell tickets for the next bus until it arrives.  It’s almost as if they are afraid it may never show. The next hour or so is spent waiting in line. 

We get to Kumasi late afternoon, as soon as we drop our bags at a hotel we head towards the STC bus station to buy tickets for tomorrow.  First I call the PC bureau to get the green light to come home; with the recent civil unrest we were told not to come back without clearance.  Everything has settled down and we’re clear to come back, however we should avoid going through Po, the main boarder between Ghana and Burkina.  Once at STC we ask the lady about the bus that runs from Kumasi to Zabre, the bus we see in Zabre every week, the bus we wanted to take from Zabre to Kumasi when coming into Ghana.  Yes, there is a STC bus that goes from Kumasi to Zabre.  We’d like 2 tickets on that bus, please.  No, you can’t get on the bus here.  Apparently the route is from Abidjan, Cote D’Ivoire, to our little neighboring village Zabre, Burkina Faso, with a stop in Kumasi, Ghana.  You may get on at either end of the route and get off wherever you please, but you can’t get on the bus along the route.  Hhhhmmmm, well that throws a kink in our plans.  The best we can do, and still avoid Po, is to take the bus to Bolgatanga and get onward transport from there. 

At first she tells us the bus to Bolga is full, but then sells us tickets anyways.  We’re weary of our sold out tickets, but the next morning everything goes smoothly, except the bus is several hours late .  After everyone, or almost everyone, has boarded there is a well-dressed lady next to the bus who making a big fuss, yelling at the STC men.  It appears that her and a younger woman, maybe another person, were suppose to be on that bus and the ticket collectors wouldn’t let them on.  She was furious.  I pray we weren’t given her seats.  Meanwhile, Josh is miserable.  He started to come down with a stomach bug the night before and today has a fever and is shitting as much as the surroundings allow.  The STC bus is air conditioned, and they are so proud of that fact they keep it on full blast.  We were both freezing.  At the one food break along the way we went in search of a sweater or blanket for him, but all we could find was a cheap towel.  The rest of the ride Josh was curled up in his towel trying not to poop himself.     

We arrive in Bolga very late that night, and after Josh has an emergency poop in a field, we head to a cheap hotel.  After asking around, the bus for Bawku leaves at 6 am in the morning, so we only have a few hours to get some sleep.  As to be expected, we had a little bit of a late start the next morning, plus we only had a vague idea of where the bus station was, so I was happy when the only car on the road we were walking on was a cab.  He drove us to the parking lot where all the metro busses left and we immediately got on the bus to Bawku.  Any later and we would have missed it.  The bus is a metro bus, and it’s exactly what you’d think of as a metro bus, in a big city.  There are 2 seats on one side and one seat on the other, with poles and lots of standing room in the middle. Perfect for fitting in a lot of people to get across town.  But we were taking this bus 2 or more hours across the country.  We were the last on, so we were standing.  

While still on the metro bus we start asking people about where to go to get a car to Zabre, so as soon as the bus is parked in Bawku a gentleman offers to take us to find a car.  Thank God for nice people all across the world! He takes us to a small little waiting area along the main road, really just a wooden bench and a bunch of people hanging around.  I hear a woman talking in Bissa and Moore and know we’re almost home.  Right away a man says “How are you, my friend?” and gives Josh a big hand shake.  It’s the driver who brought us into Ghana 2 weeks before.  His car is full, but he tells us to wait here and his brother, also a driver, is coming shortly.  The next vehicle that pulls up is a Camion, what the La Rousse dictionary translates as a lorry or a truck; think an open back semi that is mostly used to transport lumber.  Josh and I look at each other, then pile in with everyone else before there is no more room.  However, in Africa, there is always more room.  The bottom of the truck is filled, unevenly,with full rice sacks going  into Burkina, and on top is all the women, children and baggage, literally sitting on top of each other.  For a while I had a women sitting on my feet, supporting her back with my legs.  At another point a small girl was snuggled into me, as if I had my arm around her, all her weight being held up by my arm.  All the men sat along the sides, clinging to the bars that make up the open walls of the camion.  At one point I tried to count how many people were crammed in, about 40 men, 40 women, and 12 children/ babies.  Uncomfortable, to say the least.  We briefly stopped at a police checkpoint, probably on the Ghana side since the man spoke to us in English.  He asked where we were going, but didn’t care to see our papers.  I think he was just amused to see 2 white people traveling on a back road in such a manor.  We unloaded a few rice sacks for the officer, and then continued on.

This route into Burkina first stops in our closest neighbor PCV’s village, and we actually drove right past her house.  I was really hoping she’d be outside and see us, but she wasn’t.  I thought about yelling to her as we drove past her house, but decided that might be too weird for our fellow travelers.  The camion stopped in the marche and we all piled off.  That marche is pretty big and there is a lot of commerce between Ghana and Burkina there; that would be the final destination for most of the people until evening when they would return to Ghana.  From there we would take a normal bush taxi to Zabre, where our bikes were, and then bike home.  We had to wait for the car to fill before we could leave.  It was almost noon, and the marche was just heating up, so not many people ready to leave.  It felt ridiculous to be stuck in a village less then 10K from our house, waiting on a car for several hours, but at least we were in Burkina.  At least we were home.                           

Highlights from Ghana

I’ve come to the realization that if I continue to play catch-up on my blog I’ll be blogging about my time in the Peace Corps for the next five years.  Still, I feel I can’t just leave you in the middle of our vacation to Ghana.  So I’ll attempt to stray away from my over-detailed story writing and just summarize some highlights. 

Busha:

Right out of the car we found Frank the Juice Man.  He roams the streets, restaurants, and beach offering to make you whatever homemade juice is in season.  Luckily he showed up just as we were ordering breakfast at Daniel the Pancake Man’s, and made us some fresh orange juice.  The real stuff, just oranges in a bottle, none of this orange sugar water crap they have in Burkina.  Daniel the Pancake Man was also a find- It’s a little restaurant setup at Daniel’s house, and he only makes pancakes.  The menu has quite the selection too.  (Tip for Americans: order the American style or you’ll get crêpes).  However, my pick for breakfast foods is the lady working out of window of the Black Star Surf Shop- get the surfers breakfast, seriously the best breakfast I’ve had in Africa (They had strawberry jam and real toast!).  I suppose while I’m on the topic of food, I should mention Nana’s Place.  Nana’s is a must if you’re in Busua, however I highly suggest you order your food hours, if not days, in advance because he is literally homecooking a meal just for you.  Also, he’ll tell you he can make anything on the menu, even if it’s not in season, and then sort of sneakily get you to agree to something you didn’t order.  We went for dinner and ordered lobster and shark; he said it’d be ready in an hour.  When we came back he had just returned from the market- there is no fridge so you pay him and he goes and buys all the ingredients fresh.  We sat outside at a little table and watched him cook along the side of the street- finally eating 2 hours later.  He couldn’t buy the shark, so made extra lobsters, at a slightly extra cost, but promised if we came back for lunch the next day he’d have it.  We wanted to take a surf lesson at high tide at 2, so we told him lunch had to be ready at noon.  When we got there he was just returning from the fishing boats, no shark today, but he had purchased giant prawns and more lobsters.  Can’t argued with giant prawns, but the lobsters put us over the price limit we had set for lunch, so we told him we just wanted the prawns.  Needless to say, we missed the surf lesson and he served us the lobster as well, however we were able to negotiate their price.  Despite the annoyances, the food is amazing and the experience is worth it.  And don’t forget to sign Nana’s wall! 

Fort Metal Cross is in the bustling fishing village next door, Dixcove, and is a pleasant walk from Busua.  The fort is owned by a European family who also live there, and while it’s slightly awkward to be touring a historic site and walk in on a family eating breakfast, it’s worth a look; if only to instill the dream of one day buying an exotic Fort.  Since it’s privately owned you must pay a tour guide get in, but they are local and seem to know a lot (as far as we could tell…)

Butre

Butre is a small, remote fishing village that offers The Hideout, a literal hideout that comes highly recommended from Ghana PCVs.  It’s difficult to get there by taxi, so Lonely Planet suggests an easy 2 km hike from the Busua beach, which is the option we went for.  We headed off along the beach, and when we found a path near the end of the beach we took it.  An hour into the jungle, we still had not seen another person, yet we trudged on.  The path was just a foot path, not large enough for a donkey cart or even a bike really, and curved around large hills deeper and deeper into the wilderness.  Finally I dropped my pack and decided to climb up a mountain to get a better view, surly if we couldn’t see the village or the ocean we needed to turn back.  To my surprise, at the top was a woman and her children working the crops they had planted into the side of the mountain.  We told her where we were headed and she told us we took the wrong path.  She called to the lady working the hilltop next door and that lady told us to come over and she’d take us to the path.  She led us out of the wilderness and we discovered the right path was labeled “To Butre,” 50 feet from the path we had taken.  Climb up a steep path and you can clearly see the village below, it’s breath taking. 

The Hideout is perfect if you want to be perfectly secluded.  There seemed to be only 2 other groups staying there, and nothing much nearby.  However, the beach is a bit step for ideal sunbathing.  The Hideout also offers “tree house” lodging, which is pretty much a small room on stilts with a small tree growing underneath it, but they still have a small fan and electricity rigged to them.  Worth it just because it’s different. 

Cape Coast

Despite being on the coast, Cape Coast does not offer much in the way of beaches, which is a shame.  However, Cape Coast Castle is well worth a visit.  If it’s good enough for Obama to visit, it’s good enough for me (yes, his visit is commemorated with a plaque).  The true gem of Cape Coast, in my opinion, is Baobab.  Baobab is a restaurant that serves hip vegetarian fare that is all organic, and supports Moringa (PC LOVES Moringa!), as well as a great little shop, and now a small guesthouse.  Baobab runs/is a children’s foundation which teaches children how to grow organic produce, cook, and trade skills, so all that’s in the shop was made from the students and all proceeds, form everything Baobab, go back into the children.  I give the whole set-up a five star rating (Dream job to work with an organization like that?  I think so). 

From Cape Coast, it’s well worth a day trip to Elmina.  Take a shared car though, not a taxi, or you’ll pay 10x more!  In Elmina is St. George’s Castle, both Josh and I’s favorite.  It’s huge, beautiful, full of history, and has a really put together museum.  After the tour, go exploring on your own!  Across the street from St George’s is Fort St. Jago.  The climb up the hill to the fort is steep but worth it.  It’s comparatively small and the upkeep is lacking, but you get to explore the fort on your own; we had fun imaging what we’d do with the place if we bought it (Josh’s new dream is to buy a fort).           

Side note: Han’s Cottage Botel sounds really cool, suppose to be suspended over a crocodile swamp, but not worth going out of your way for.  Only the restaurant is over the swamp, and while there are real crocs in it, they are not that exciting.  Plus, they have poor service (they messed up our order and then over charged, but it wasn’t worth dealing with them to fix it…).      

Since Cape Coast is lacking a beach, we decided to go elsewhere for our last day on the coast.  The best Lonely Planet could suggest to us was Anomabu Beach Resort, in Anomabu 45 minutes up the coast.  As soon as we walked into the place we realized we were way out of our league, and social class.  It’s by far the nicest resort I’ve been too, full of foreigners and rich Africans on spring break; with pretty reasonable prices, I’d suggest it to anyone going to Ghana.  They do pity the backpacker and offer a tenting option on the beach, literally next to the shore, truly beautiful (one downfall- the bathroom facilities are the changing rooms set up for day users).  Word for the wise, as we checked out we discovered the prices are slightly more expensive then Lonely Planet reports, and for the price of a rented tent for two, you might as well get the cheapest room for a couple dollars more.                                           

Monday, July 18, 2011

Akwidaa Beach

It took a 2 hour wait at the bus station, a 5 hour bus ride, and a 2 hour taxi ride on a small, pot-hole ridden dirt road into the middle of the jungle, but we were finally there- the secluded, beach paradise that I had been dreaming of since arriving in West Africa.  Our home for the next 3 nights was the Green Turtle Lodge, the most impressive eco-resort I’ve ever been to.  The Green Turtle is a popular heaven for backpackers, volunteers, and eco-conscious travelers; make reservations well in advance.  It was late by the time we arrived, so we trudged in the sand after the lodge staffer, in the dark, until we got to a little round hut on the beach.  He unlocked the door with a key attached to a child-size flip-flop and turned on the solar powered lights.  Instant wow- the room was something out of a beach resort catalogue- are we really at a backpackers lodge?  “Is the room okay?”  the man asks.  Yes, after living in a mud-brick hut for 7 months, this will do just fine.  It is a beautiful round hut with a double bed and a bunk bed, a sitting area, a sink and countertop made from local pottery and shells, a shell lined shower, and an attached WC with a self-compostable toilet, with a toilet seat and paper.  Yes sir, this will do.  Dinner is finished at the lodge, and there are no dinning establishments around, but luckily the kitchen staff takes pity on us and agrees to make us sandwiches off the day’s lunch menu.  Except for breakfast, lunch and dinners must be ordered in advance because all the ingredients are fresh from the local markets and the staff has to go buy what was ordered.  It is possible to walk or bike to Akwidaa village, a few kilometers away, and eat street food, but other then that the lodge restaurant is really your only option.  Have no worries though, every dish we tried was absolutely delicious; African-gourmet with a western twist at reasonable prices.  We ate dinner at a rustic, lantern-lit picnic table on the beach, feet in the sand, palm trees all around, and watched the stars shine over the ocean.  Yes, this will do just fine.   

The next morning we were both excited to see our soundings in daylight.  The Green Turtle did not disappoint.  It’s got a young, eco-chic vibe without loosing it’s rustic, tropical beach roots.  After a stratifying breakfast, in which I had real French-pressed coffee for the first time in 10 months, we got down to business- beach time.  We lathered up the sun screen, grabbed a pagne and a book, and promptly took our places on the beach next to a palm tree.  And that’s where we stayed until lunch.  We ate tropical salads and sandwiches on a bench carved out of a traditional fishing boat overlooking the water, then returned to our spots under the palm tree.  It was what I had been dreaming of for months.  Around 3 pm I started to get that hot feeling that tells you your skin is burning, and I went back to the hut to get out of the sun and take a look.  Sure enough, despite putting on sunscreen 3 or 4 times and trying to be very cautious, the back of my legs were absolutely fried.  Not my entire back, which all got the same SPF treatment, just my butt to the bottoms of the back of my knees were bright red- the part of my body that hadn’t seen daylight in over 10 months.  Lovely, the one thing I was trying really hard to avoid on this trip. 

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The next morning we decided to explore a little, giving my skin a chance to heal.  Our original goal was to head to Fort Princess Town, just under an estimated 15 km away.  We rented bikes from the Green Turtle, and when we asked the bike guy he told us the Fort was too far away, but 15K is nothing to a PCV in Burkina.  We would take the trail to the Cape Three Points lighthouse, about halfway to Princes Town, and from there would see how we feel about continuing on.  We started off, and within 5 minutes the bike had thrown me completely over the handlebars.  The brakes were opposite what I am use to on my PC bike, and when I braked for the first time I used the front instead of the back, and over I went.  Luckily it popped me almost cleanly over the front of the bike and I landed, like a circus trick, on my feet.  With one exception- something, maybe the pedal, was forcible jammed into the back of my knee during the tumble.  No cut or broken skin, but a rather large bump instantly formed that was black and blue.  The swelling would continue throughout the day, and while it was no serious injury by any means, it turned into the most impressive bruise I’ve ever had, lasting a good 3 weeks.  Once I had dusted myself off and regained composer, we started off again. 

After over an hour of biking in the hot sun and seeing no sign for the lighthouse, we stopped and asked if we were on the right road.  We weren’t.  Could we continue on this road and get to Princes town, we want to see the Fort?  They seemed confused as to a Fort, and no, we were not on that road either. We had to turn back.  I became annoyed because Josh had insisted it would be an easy, straightforward ride and refused to pay for a guide.  Well, it wasn’t; we were lost and the road was very hilly.  We biked back until we hit a junction and asked this time for directions.  Finally after another hour we made it to the lighthouse.  The lighthouse was a lighthouse, they are all kind of the same, but Josh had never seen one before so I was glad to share the experience with him.  The grounds around the light house had a few cool mural-maps of Africa and the world that were interesting; I wonder what NGO or organization initiated that?  After our 5 minute tour and a short rest we were driven by hunger to head back to the lodge.  Hot and tired we powered through the bike ride home and made in in under an hour, ate lunch, and resumed our position on the beach to nap. 

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The next morning it was time for us to move on down the coast, continue our exploration.  I was sad to say goodbye to the Green Turtle.  As we packed out and paid we had a lovely conversation with the English owner, charming chap, and he offered us a ride with their truck that was heading to Takoradi, the closest city, to stock up on supplies.  We hopped in the back of the truck with a young British fellow who had just finished volunteer-teaching at a school in one of the coastal cities.  Not a bad volunteer post at all- a beach paradise in an English speaking country, how much worse could it get?   

Kumasi

Hilly, lush, vibrant, and colonialesque, Kumasi has the same look and feel as Nairobi, Kenya.  A strange clash of rich, western culture and a rich history of the Ashanti kingdom and traditional culture.  Our first stop was the National Cultural Center.  The complex houses the Prempeh II Jubilee Museum, which promises a good introduction into Ashanti history and culture.  The Museum was small, over priced, and the tour guide rushed us and was more concerned with selling us souvenirs at the end then giving us a good tour.  I would have enjoyed it better sans the free tour and just looking at the artifacts and reading about them on my own.  A huge disappointment.  The rest of the National Culture Center was interesting though; very beautiful and well groomed.  We actually saw men watering the flowers and cutting the grass- something that made us both stop and ask “are we still in Africa?”  The majority of the grounds house workshops for brass working, woodcarving, potters, weavers, and other artisans, very much like the Artisan Village we have in Ouaga.  We leisurely explored and I enjoyed getting a peak of the craftsmen at work, however Josh wouldn’t let me buy anything since he was convinced everything would be overpriced. 

P4150533  Nany, I took this picture for you since the pottery reminded me of you!

Still wanting to learn more about Ashanti history, the next stop was the Manhyia Palace Museum.  The Palace was built for the Ashanti King by the British and the current King still lives on the grounds, which also house other government-type buildings.  The museum is restored to it’s original 1925 condition and has several life-size wax figures for Ashanti royalty, which, to be honest, were creepy.  The tour was very informative and interesting, this guide being much better then the last, however the guide singled us out right away as the only 2 white people and asked if we were British, then went on to speak unfavorably about white colonialist.  We did the tour with a British/Jamaican family and the tour guide kept telling the women how they looked like the Ashanti queen-mothers and their family MUST have originated from the Ashanti kingdom before they were stolen into the slave trade.  It was a little uncomfortable. 

P4150537     Queen mother, yaa Asantewaa, who led a revolt against the British.    

The last stop of the day was to the Armed Forces Museum, Josh’s one request in Kumasi.  The museum is in Fort St George and, as a museum, was pretty good.  The tour guide was very knowledgeable and patient with us and the contents of the museum were very complete.  As for the subject matter, well guns and military history aren’t really of interest to me, but Josh loved it.   

The Road to Ghana

After changing the date of our honeymoon twice so that I could have a week of intensive French tutoring, our bags were packed and we were finally on our way to Ghana.  We had done our research and were assured that a bus leaves from our closest “city” to Kumasi once a week.  We had even seen this STC bus with our own eyes and Josh talked to the driver about leave times and all.  So we were very confused when we giddily biked into the bus station and found no bus.  We asked around- one man seemed confused as to the possibility of a car to Ghana at all, one man told us it didn’t come this week, and one said it would be here tomorrow.  Desperate and determined to get to Ghana today, we started asking every bush taxi we could find about where they were going and how we could get to Kumasi.  Luckily, the second car we asked was going to a nearby village where we could get a car to Ghana. Not exactly what I had spent hours planning, but as long as we got to the glorious land of English and beaches I was ok.  We deposed our bikes and almost immediately left, a rarity around here, to the nearby village where our closest neighbor volunteer lives. 

There we waited, and waited, for the car to fill up.  After an hour or so the driver turned on the car and we started driving- Finally!- only to stop just out side the market area and wait for almost another hour.  By this point I had hoped to be hours into Ghana, but, hey, what can you do.  When we finally left it all seemed like smooth sailing from there.  Josh and I were sharing the front seat and we were squished, but at least we only squished by each other.  There was no stopping at the border, we realized we had left Burkina and were in Ghana when I started noticing power lines running to mud-brick houses and street signs were in English.  Glorious English! After about a 20 or 30 minute drive we hit a paved road.  After 45 minutes to an hour we were in Bawku, where the bush taxi dropped us off and a man was waiting for us with tickets for a bus to Kumasi.  Apparently the taxi men work with the bus men and had called ahead for us and a few other people, reserving us spots.  We had just enough time to go to the bathroom and try to buy water and a snack, only to realize we only had big bills and could buy nothing, before the bus left.  The drive to Kumasi takes several hours and I was glad to get going.  Things were looking up.

After about an hour or so the bus stopped.  Most of the people got off, but not all, and there were food ladies and whatnot on the side of the road.  Not knowing what was going on I tried to see where the people were going- was this a check point or a food break?- and that’s when I spotted a boarder guard, and he spotted me.  He signed for us to get off the bus.  As we walked up to him he asked for our passports; that’s fine, we had gone through painstaking measures to get visas 2 weeks before.  He leafed through them and then took us to his boss who was resting in the shade under a tree.  He leafed through them and then asked us where our stamp was.  I pointed to the visa.  No, the stamp, the entry stamp, that you get at the border?  What entry stamp, you are the first Ghanaian officials we’ve seen, there was no border?  He seemed confused and told us we had to go back, to wherever we came from, and get a stamp.   Go back where, Bawku?  He told us we had to go back to the border to get our passports stamped, we couldn’t do it in Bawku.  I tried to stay calm and explain to him where we had crossed and that there was no checkpoint, no immigrations, no police station, nothing.  It is a small road that is used daily by villagers to cross between Ghana and Burkina.  We also told him we were Peace Corps volunteers and lived there, not tourists in Africa.  He took us into a practically empty, of anything, office building and another man brought out border papers while the boss man made a phone call about the situation.  He explained to the phone that he had 2 PCVs that had come into the country on a village road and did not have their passports stamped, could they stamp it there?  The phone said no, we had to get off the bus and turn around.  You have got to be kidding me!  This means we not only have to go back from which we came, but go all the way to Ouaga and back down to Ghana on a different road to the main border crossing to get this stamp, an 8 or more hour detour. I am almost in tears, I just want to get to the beach.  Josh asks the officer to help us get our money back for the expensive bus ticket and an officer escorts us back to the bus to talk to the driver.  As the officer announces to the entire bus, who is waiting solely on us, that “he is very sorry for the wait, but the white people don’t have their papers in order and have to get off the bus,” the other officer gets a phone call with the authorization to stamp us.  Thank God!  He leads us back to the office and we fill out a small pink paper that barley asks for anything but our signature and the man stamps the date into our passports.  All of that just for this?  Good grief!  The entire bus glares at us as we sheepishly take our seats, and we’re off.     

After a few hours, about halfway to Kumasi, the bus gurgles and stops.  A break down.  Everyone piles off the bus and finds shade along the side of the road; there is literally nothing around, we’re in the middle of nowhere.  I’m not too worried though, we’ve done this drill before when our bus was rear-ended or the time we got a flat tire- we’ll wait in the shade while they fix it and in a short time we’ll be on the road again- and I’ve got a book.  Worst case scenario another bus will come to get us.  We wait several hours and no one seems to know what’s going on.  People start sleeping along the side of the road.  Josh starts getting worried and goes in search of information.  I’m fine, I’ve got the Henry Miller book I’ve been saving just for this trip- I’m good.  Josh comes back with the news that they can’t fix the bus, and can’t decide whether to call in another bus or send for a mechanic from Kumasi- either of which is several hours away.  I keep on reading.  Finally, after an absurd amount of time and far longer then any person wants to be stuck on the side of the road in the middle of a foreign country, another bus rescues us.  It takes another 3 or 4 hours to get to Kumasi, but at least we made it there.                                 

Wish List Revisited

A new village means new (and more!) resources.  I was delighted to discover that the new village has over 5 boutiques, 2 or 3 of which are open most everyday.  The variety of things now possible to buy in village is now infinity greater, even though bigger items (oatmeal, powdered milk) still need to be bought in our closest city, which is 9 km away, and bigger yet items (cereal, olive oil, tuna) still can only be bought in Ouaga.  With that in mind, Josh and I made a new wish list of the care package items we get most excited about.  Josh insists that all we should EVER ask for is meat and cheese, just meat and cheese, in any form.  I’m not as specific, as any and every food item we receive helps me in cooking and planning our daily meals.  Here is what we finally agreed on:

-Tuna (we can buy Tuna in Ouaga, but it’s just not as good as American Tuna)

-Bacon (pre-cooked in a can or box, or even just bacon bits)

-Sun dried tomatoes (especially from May to September when we can’t buy tomatoes in country)

-Parmesan cheese

- Cheese ( harder cheeses keep the best)

-Mac ’n cheese

-Beef Jerky and the like

-Summer Sausage or other pre-cooked types

- Lentils, couscous, quinoa, or any other base besides white rice or pasta

-nuts (especially pistachios and almonds, NOT PEANUTS!)

-dried fruit

- Baking Mixes (It’s really nice to make brownies for special occasions, or real pancakes)       

 

We want to say a HUGE Thank You! to all our friends and family members who continually keep us well stocked and well fed.  We have been truly blessed. 

Sunday, July 3, 2011

March 14th- The Move

It was 8:20 a.m. when we got a call from the PC driver- “Where are you?”  We were at the transit house and had been since 7:30, were we not suppose to meet here at 8?  He’d be right over.  I continued to franticly try to get everything ready for our departure- one last email to Nany, writing a Thank-you card to Roger in French, fill up our water bottles, gather the left over glass bottles from the wedding, and so on.  Since I was running around trying to squeeze in one last thing, Josh helped the driver pack up the car.  When I got out there it was a typical conversation- Did you remember my bike, talk to the diver about the bottles, go to the bathroom once last time?  Josh assured me everything was set and we hopped in the car.  The back of the big PC SUV was packed with our bags, so Josh and I both sat up front with the driver, it was a cozy ride.  First things first, we needed to return the bottles from the wedding (Soda and beer bottles are reused here and are worth money, so are very precious to restaurant owners).  Since Yassine, from the Bureau, had signed for them with a promise to return I felt very responsible to get them back for her sake.  The Driver said the Jardin was out of the way, but assured me he would drop off the bottles for me upon returning to Ouaga.  With that, we were off to my site. 

We talked, in French, almost the entire 2 hours to my village.  I was surprised that neither Josh or I dozed off for a cat nap, as cars makes us sleepy.  As bad as it may sound, I was also a little sad that we talked and I didn’t get a chance to read my book- I love long car rides because it usually means time to read.  And yet, for the life of me, I have no idea what we talked about.  Once we got close I directed the driver down the little dirt road that led to my village, and then threw the market area to my house.  The big white Peace Corps SUV didn’t attract the attention it did the first time it came, to drop me off, but as soon as we got the house unlocked and started carrying out boxes we caught the eye of all the neighbor children.  First we placed all the things I was moving out in front of the house, so the driver could see everything.  The kids helped carry what they could from my kitchen to the pile.  Then Josh and the driver loaded everything up as I did last minute work.  There were a few left over boxes and packing supplies I didn’t use, which as soon as the kids realized I was putting in my burn pit they fought over.  One little boy even ripped a box out of my hand as I was walking to the pit.  There were a few pieces of bubble wrap that 2 girls started to play with, quickly discovering that the bubbles popped and then popping them all as kids do, which made me smile.  Last in was my water filter which was full of water.  I offered “l’eau pour boire” to the children, since they came to my door daily asking for a drink, and they jumped at the opportunity to drink the magic Nasara water- clearly it had special powers of the white person.  Once we were all packed up and my old house was locked up I gave each kid a goodbye gift- a dumdum sucker- and a postcard to my little friend Angina with my contact information on it.  She couldn’t read it and I know it was probably a lost cause, but I’d like to think that I was her special friend too and one day I’ll hear from her.  Too bad just as soon as I gave it to her her older brother ripped it out of her hand, interested in the Statue of Liberty printed on the front.  The kids were too excited by the candy to be sad that I was leaving. 

On the way out of village we stopped by the CSPS.  The Major was the only one there working.  He asked how the wedding was and I gave him my house keys.  Alright then, goodbye.  I don’t know what I was expecting, but more than that.  Next I went to the pharmacy to find Roger.  He was behind his desk, as usual, and his check was all bandaged up.  A bull had gotten him in the face.  I gave him my sympathies and wished him a quick recovery.  He asked about the wedding, then I told him that the table he had given me was still in the house and the Major had the keys so he could get it back.  I also gave him a postcard with my contact information on it and Thanked him for everything he had done for me.  He walked me to the car and said hello to Josh and the driver, and waved as we drove away.  Goodbye, little village! 

We were back on the road, back to Ouaga.  This time we talked mainly about the driver- where he was from, where his family lives, etc.  We stopped for lunch in a quant little restaurant in Ouaga 2000 that the driver knew of.  Then off to Josh’s village.  After the first hour and a half that road stops being paved.  Around this point I started to worry- I was going to a new village.  I wouldn’t know anyone.  I’d have to start the integration process all over again.  A completely new language, completely new market, completely new CSPS staff, new kids to annoy me.  What was I doing?  Before I had always been really excited; Josh had made it sound so much better then my old village, and he was already pretty well intergraded.  But now I couldn’t stop thinking about how the last 7 months had been a waste.  The driver stopped at a police checkpoint, and bought us each an orange while stopped.  I didn’t eat it, but the gesture made me feel better.  Soon enough we were in the new village.  I had been there before, for Christmas, and was filled with excitement as we drove up to the house.  My new house.  A handful of kids, my new everyday kids, came to the car to help unload and check out what was going on.  At least there wasn’t 30 of them this time.  We unloaded everything into the courtyard, thanked the driver, and he quickly departed to drive halfway back to Ouaga where he was going to stay the night. 

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I looked around to survey the scene.  So this was now home.  It was already 5 and I wanted everything inside before it got dark.  Josh had promised he had cleaned up the house and prepared it for my arrival, but I’m not quite sure what his definition of cleaned-up was.  If it meant put everything in the middle of the floor, then yes, he had done it.  The house was a mess (to his credit, it had rained since he had left and rain always makes sand and dirt fall into the house).  First things first, everything had to be swept and dusted.  I was not bringing my things into a dirty house.  Next all the furniture had to be properly arranged.  At this point we were both tired.  Josh was blindsided- he had expected to come home and have a nice quite evening, our first night in our first home.  Upon my suggestion, we sat down outside and ate the oranges the driver had given us while watching the sky turn colors at dusk.  We both needed a break and to regroup.  I don’t know why, but for whatever reason that was the best tasting orange I’ve ever eaten.  Very sweet, yet tangy and delicious.  Unlike any other orange I’ve ever seen in Burkina.  Then back to moving in.  We got everything inside- my extra stuff (mattress, stove) in the outside room we call the shed, my clothes and such in the bedroom, my food and cooking supplies in the kitchen- and unpacked what needed to be unpacked that night.  The rest could wait until the morning.  I made a soup mix from a care package for dinner, something easy, and we ate it outside under the starts.  Took turns bucket bathing, then crashed into bed, exhausted.  

I was pretty much completely unpacked, everything re-organized and re-arranged in the entire house, by noon the next day.  Poor Josh- I came in and took over like a hurricane, he didn’t know what hit him.  We spent the next week adjusting to married life.  I met the chef and the CSPS staff.  He took me to all the nearby  markets; there was now a marche within biking distance everyday of the week.  We checked out all the little boutiques so I knew where to get things- I can now buy more the just spaghetti and tomato paste in village!  Much, much more!  Any day of the week!  He took me to some of the satellite villages and showed me around.  We even went to a general assembly meeting at the CSPS where I met the CoGes (CSPS board members), Community health agents, and village midwives- something I never did in the 7 months living in my old village.  We even set up a Bissa tutor and started lessons, and bought 2 pigeons, which were dinner after a couple of days.   All in all, it was a smooth transition.   

P3180529  Dinner!                              

March 12th, 2011- The Wedding

Woke up like any other day, just another unbearably hot morning in Ouaga.  Only it wasn’t a normal day at all.  This day was my wedding day.  I took a shower and shaved, threw on some clothes, and briskly walked to the message salon.  Josh had booked us both a 30 minute massage and a manicure and pedicure, which I insisted we both get since this country destroys your feet, at 9 am.  We got there at 5 till, no one was there.  That’s okay, we’re early.  5 minutes passes and no one shows up.  It’s only 9 am and people are already fleeing to shade from the unforgiving sun.  There is no awning in front of the salon so we seek refuge under a nearby tree.  10 minutes pass, 15, 20.  Finally at 9:30 Josh calls the number he used to make the reservation.  “Je arrive” the women tells him. 

Finally 10 minutes later a young women arrives and lets us into the little salon; one room with a curtain that divides the massage table from the sofa area, which acts as a waiting area.  She turns on the air and we’re just glad to be out of the heat.  She works alone; so much for getting our massages and all at the same time.  I go first.  The massage is good, relaxing, but really more of a full-body rub-down.  Next, Josh was up.  As someone who doesn’t have a wonderful masseuse for a sister, and had never gotten a massage before, he described it as “disappointing”.  At this point it was getting close to 11, but I was still really hoping for that manicure and pedicure- my hands and feet were in sad shape.  As the lady was cleaning up after Josh I asked if it was still possible to get the mani-pedi.  She seem a little confused, but it was possible, and she put water on the stove for the footbath.  I guess the reservation system didn’t quite work for this lady and her manicure, pedicure, and massage salon.  There wasn’t enough time for both of us to get one, but Josh wasn’t too disappointed.  Things started off well; she put both my hands and feet to soak.  Then she pumiced my feet and gave ‘em a good scrub- then she pumiced, and filed, them again about 5 times with 5 different stones and files- and slapped on a foot cream.  All done.  Alright, that was unlike any pedicure I’ve ever gotten, but at least my feet were really clean.  Then she did the same exact thing to my hands, literally pumicing and filing them over and over.  Maybe here their hands get excessively calloused?  She seemed very concerned by how pruney my hands got from soaking for so long and didn’t seem to understand what caused it, She apologized over and over.  Do African hands not prune in water?  I walked out close to noon with very clean hands and feet, and perplexed on how a manicure and pedicure can not include touching the nails at all. 

I rinsed off the oils and did a quick shave again, then gathered all my things and ran to the Rooney house.  While Dan, the SED APCD, was in the US, his wife had offered me her house to get dressed at.  Lauren, my witness, joined me.  After a quick, homemade Lunch we got to it.  A hot shower (where I shaved for the 3rd time that day) and then I got to use a real hair dryer!  (Oh, the luxuries of being a real expat!)  Lauren did an impressive job with my hair and helped me get ready and Mrs. Rooney was wonderful. 

A J 03.12.11 (1 of 123)         We ran a bit late and rushed off to the mayors office.  Thierry, the training manager, picked us up in his nice SUV, while Dr. Claude, the HE APCD, picked up Josh and Shannon, his witness, from the transit house.  Once at the Maire Central we briefly waited in a blue waiting room until everything was ready.  From there, everything is a blur.  Dr. Claude acted as Josh’s mom and walked him down the isle, then Thierry walked with me, and Josh and I took our seats at a long table on a platform in the front of the room, along with our 2 witnesses.  We awkwardly waited a few minutes, a ball of nerves, not knowing what was really going on.  Finally Simon Compaore, the mayor of Ouaga and the presidents little brother, came in and took his place in front of us.  A J 03.12.11 (18 of 123)       First he read over all our personal information (name, place of resident, parents, etc) and asked if 1)we were present and 2) if the information was correct, witnesses included.  Then he read us the marriage laws for Burkina, which were all in French and I was to nervous to be attentive.  Next was the “I dos”, which was him asking us a question, in French, and us saying “Oui” into the microphone. (How do you normally say it in French?)  Then a kiss for the crowd.  As we sat back down he put his hand over his mic and asked, in English, if we had rings, which we had.  Usually you do that before the kiss; how were we to know?  So we put the rings on each other and kissed again. Then everyone signed the paperwork and he presented me with our copies and a “Livret de Famille”, family health book, with instructions to start having lots of babies. To wrap things up he gave us a short speech in English, where he thanked us for volunteering in his country and making it a better place, and told us we were the first American couple he has ever married, followed by giving us the Burkina Faso medal of honor! 

A J 03.12.11 (60 of 123)        We Thanked him and shook hands with all who was there.  As we walked out of the building the Bureau threw confetti for us and we took lots of pictures.  Dr. Claude surprised us with a decorated car to take us to the reception, which was at the Jardin de l’Amitie.  The Jardin was way more decorated then I had expected, and our small little reception turned into the normal wedding fair.  The food was delicious and came in many rounds.  Country Director Shannon surprised us with champagne and a beautiful wedding cake, as well as giving a wonderful speech.  After everyone was well feed and thirst quenched, the girls insisted I threw the bouquet, which our witness Shannon caught.  To end the festivities we were asked to first dance to an American song, which was a typical song from the 80’s which I’ve heard several times before but didn’t actually know, and then dance to a Burkina song, which we had no idea how to dance to.  Thankfully some bureau friends helped us and everyone joined in. 

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Thursday, May 26, 2011

The Party

A week earlier I had received a text from Katie, “Come to [our district capitol] on the 9th.  No questions.”  With no other details, a failed attempt to meet Katie on the road, and a dead phone battery I wasn’t sure when or where I was suppose to be, so I was very glad to run into Lauren as I was walking out of the Post.  As we attached our packages to our bikes she says, “So… how long has your phone been dead?”, with an intriguing smile.

“Since yesterday.  Why? Is there something I should know?” I asked wearily. 

“Well, we’re on standfast…”

Standfast is the Peace Corps’ first step in the emergency action plan; it means is that we’re not permitted to move/travel from wherever we are and we need to report our whereabouts to the office and be ready to act incase of an emergency.  For all elections or major planed protests and whatnot, we’re put on standfast; it’s more of a precautionary measure then anything, in most circumstances.    

Lauren and I biked to Emily’s house, where Emily and Katie are waiting for us.  Luckily Katie, Lauren, and I didn’t find out about the standfast until we were already in the district capitol, some of our other friends didn’t make it in.  We briefly talked about the standfast and why we were put on it, the recent protests had escalated some, but the gravity of the situation and what it meant for me didn’t hit me for sometime later.  We went on with the plan for the night and the party began. 

The girls gathered around me, “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, this is your bachelorette party” Emily said.  The party was to have 3 stages, the first was spa treatment.  We made a milk face mask, foot bath, and did hair masks.  Filed our nails and feet.  All the pampering our limited means could lend us.  The conversation was the typical conversations had by 4 girls who haven’t seen another English speaker for over a week, supplemented by the gossip from a People Magazine. 

Emily made us dinner-Mac ‘n Cheese made from a brick of Velveeta Katie had received- a special treat for all of us.  Just as we were finishing up dinner Josh called; it was at this point where I realized what the standfast meant for us- we could not take transport to Ouaga in the morning as planned.  This effected him more then me at this point, since his car left at 5 am and mine not until 7.  Still, neither of us could leave the villages we were currently in.  It took a little convincing to get Josh to agree NOT to take the 5 am car, since there were only 4 cars to Ouaga and 3 of them left before 8 a.m., but we made a back up plan- we’d call the Bureau starting at 7:30 a.m. and hopefully he could get on the 8 a.m. car and I’d take 10 and we’d both get there around noon.  Now that that was settled I went back to the party. 

Stage 2 was a board game Emily created, roll the dice and go so many spaces and answer the question.  Some questions were personal (what was your first kiss), some were trivia questions about Josh (what was his childhood security item? (answer: a stuffed rabbit named Bunny)) and some were just silly challenges.  The second spot to the end was “Eat some Cock,” and when I got here Emily pulled out a cake she had made in the shape of cock and balls.  It was made out of banana muffin mix and homemade frosting, and was surprisingly delicious.  Guess there has to be a little dirty humor at a bachelorette party.  Overall I was very impressed with the creativity.  The game took several hours to finish, but in the end I won. Not sure if it was rigged that way or not, but still fun.

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Stage 3 was a dance party.  A Lady Gaga dance party to be more specific.  There is no hiding that I LOVE Lady Gaga (her beats are catchy and perfect for dancing, there is no denying it).  We were all tried, as it was already around 1 a.m., several hours past our village bedtime, and none of us were as drunk as you would expect for a bachelorette party.  In fact, I don’t think any of us were drunk at all, despite the 4 bottles of Champaign.  But they insisted on a dance party, albeit short, and after a few songs we all crashed into bed. 

 

I woke at 7:15 to my phone ringing.  Josh and I immediately started to get ahold of someone at the Bureau who could tell us if we could come to Ouaga today.  2 days before the wedding and we still had a lot of errands to run beforehand.  Finally just after 8, Josh got ahold the the Safety and Security officer- he told us we had to get permission from the country director herself.  She was in a meeting and would call us as soon as she could, until then we had no choice but to sit tight.  So the party continued on into the morning after.  The 4 of us girls drank tea and coffee, ate omelet sandwiches, and perused the latest magazines we had got in the mail, all anxiously awaiting news from the bureau.  Finally, just after 11 a.m., Josh called.  He had talked to the Country Director- Josh and I, and our 2 witnesses, could come to Ouaga today, but we had to take the next possible car and leave right away.  The first possible car for Josh, and only other car leaving that day, was at 2 p.m., and his witness (and neighbor) wasn’t planning on leaving until tomorrow.  Josh frantically tried to call her, she has poor cell phone service, and prepared to bike to her village to get her.  Thankfully he caught her by phone and she was able to catch their car, 10 minutes before it left. 

As for me, luckily Lauren was my witness and she was already with me and ready to go.  Our bus also left at 2 from the village we were already in.  We waited with Emily and Katie; took naps, read magazines, and played with the tattoo mustaches someone had sent Katie. Finally we all went to the bus station and Katie and Emily saw us off.  Took my favorite bus, KGB, out of the Centre-Ouest for the last time.  

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