Breakfast with Angina

It was 8 am and I had just walked into the kitchen to make breakfast when I heard a little girl joyfully squeal, “Bonjour!”.  I looked up to see Angina prance into my kitchen.  She was alone and about an hour early then her usual arrival time, which is often accompanied by Sonja and her little brother.   

“Bonjour Angina! Ca va?”

“Ca va”

“Bien dormi?”

“Oui”

“Y votre famille?”

“Oui”

That’s about as far as our conversations go, as she knows very little French and just answers “oui” to everything I say, whether I say it in French or not.  She walked over and stood next to me as I measured out the rice.  I always use measuring cups and the children seem to be very intrigued by them.  I was out of oatmeal or cereal and eggs are out of season, so decided to make sweet rice for breakfast.  As I walked over to the water bucket she ran ahead, eager to help, and unscrewed the lid for me.  Even as a 5 or 6 year old she knows you have to wash the rice and look for stones before you can cook it.  We walked over to the doorway and I swished around the rice water, trying to get all the bugs to the top, then drained off the water.  Angina put her little finger over the rim of the bowl as I drained it, careful to be sure no grains were lost.  Then the two of us sat on my stoop and searched for stones and unshelled grains of rice.  I tried making small talk, but she doesn’t understand a lick of what I’m saying, so it’s mainly just smiles and giggles.  As we waited for the rice to boil I thought it a good time to do the dishes from the night before.  Angina dutifully took her spot at the rinse bucket- I washed and she rinsed and put away.  Just as the last dish was washed the rice was ready, perfect timing. 

I looked at Angina as I scooped out my bowl of rice and added a little sugar and powdered milk to it; children are almost always in my kitchen as I cook and I often wonder if they expect me to feed them, but they are usually in a group and I’m not their mother.  In Burkinabe culture you almost always invite people to eat with you if they are around during meal time, but the children are at my house during most of the day.  Not to sound selfish or like I’m depriving the hungry African children, but as a volunteer I simply do not have the means to feed 5 to 10 children everyday.  Plus these children are the sons and daughters of the Chief and are in no way starving.  Malnourished, maybe, but only because of a poor diet.

Before really even thinking about it, I said “Tu voudrais en peu?” I immediately prayed I wouldn’t regret that; I just imagined the children coming in droves asking me for food, just like they do for water or books or candy.  I had broken my golden rule, never give the children food or else they will always expect it.  “Oui,” she replied.  “Get the other bowl” I said in English.  Didn’t matter, she picked the other fish bowl off the drying table and brought it to me.  I spooned her out a small portion, what I thought was the right amount for a little girl.  I had made plenty thinking I’d eat the rest for lunch. “Sugar?” “Oui” “cinnamon?” “Oui”.  I’m sure I could have asked her if she wanted hot peppers or vinegar and she would have said yes if I was eating it too.   

As we walked to my other room I carried both our bowls.  I didn’t want anyone else to see her with a bowl, as I’m sure any child that saw would come running.  Safe in my room I set up my only other chair facing where I sit and she gingerly climbed up on it.  As we ate she was all smiles, this was the first time she had been invited to hang out with me in my room, much less to eat with me.  I couldn’t help but notice how awkward the spoon looked in her hand as we ate.  Was it because it was a big spoon?  Nope, that wasn’t it.  Then it dawned on me that this was probably the first time she’s eaten with a spoon.  Burkinabe of all ages usually eat with their hands.  She was holding the spoon slightly awkwardly and I could tell she was trying to imitate how I was eating. Every time I scrapped the sticky rice into a mass she would to the same.  She did pretty well with the spoon, but there was still a scattering of rice grains that made it onto the floor. 

After we’d eaten I gave her a glass of water to drink and a stack of magazines to look at while I drank my coffee and read a Time I had gotten in a care package.  Burkinabe may let their children drink coffee and beer, but I’m not about to let them.  It was precious, how grown up she was trying to be.  She kept looking up at me with a huge smile plastered across her face.  Finally just after 9 it was time for me to go to the CSPS.  She helped me clean and lock up.  As I got on my bike I looked at her and said “ok, Angina, a plus”  “A demain,” she replied, till tomorrow.  She doesn’t know what it means, just knows it’s something you say when someone is leaving. 

I suspect that our breakfast has remained our little secret, as none of the children have asked me for food.  She gets a little shy and stand-offish when lots of children swarm the house; I think it’s partly because she can since how overwhelmed and agitated I get when there are 10 or more kids demanding things from me.  I think it’s also because she wants to keep the things I allow her to do with me special between the two of us.  

The Dress

Before going to Koudougou I dropped off fabric to the tailor for my dress.  Traditional Burkinabe white fabric and a burnt orange-ish color for the waist band that was to match Josh’s tie.  I took my friend Lauren with me who is a bit of a ball buster, and she made sure the tailor knew EXACTLY how I wanted the dress and took ALL the needed measurements and that everything would be perfect.  He told me it would be ready in one week; perfect, I’ll pick it up after our week in Koudougou. 

I went to see if it was ready on the following Monday.  Josh helped me find the shop, since I’m terrible with directions, and then left to fix my bike while I dealt with the tailor.  I had a flat tire, again.  The tailor recognized me right away, and, with a smirk, asked where Lauren was, who was at the transit house.  My dress was ready and he pulled it out of the closet- it was perfect!  The embroidery on the waste band, which Lauren had given him creative rights too, turned our beautifully!  He led me to his room (his shop was attached to a restaurant/hotel, which he apparently lived at) so I could try it on.  I excitedly slipped off my skirt and t-shirt and slipped on the dress, only to find that the side zipper was slightly on a backwards angle and I couldn’t zip it up past my ribs.  I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t get it past that point.  I took off the dress and tried the zipper, could there be a catch?  Nope, it went up fine.  Okay, let’s try this again.  Is the dress too small or can I just not zip it up?  I put it back on and, once again, same spot no-go.  I could pull the fabric together so it didn’t seem like I was the problem, at the angle of the zipper I just couldn’t do it up myself.  I debated for a second- could I go out and find the tailor to help?  What if he had gone back to his shop, I would have to walk through the hotel and the restaurant in my half zipped dress.  Plus, would it be culturally appropriate to have a man tailor zip me up on a side zipper when I wasn’t wearing anything underneath?  Then I debated calling Josh or Lauren to come help me, but it would take too long for them to arrive, I'd already been in there well over 5 minutes.  And that would just be ridiculous-“Hi, I’m stuck in a dressing room at the tailor’s and can’t zip myself up, will you come help me?”  I took the dress off once again and tried the zipper.  Still good, so I decided to give it one more try. just one more quick try.  Third times a charm, right?  One more go and if I can’t get it I’ll go find the tailor.  I put it back on and gave it one hard tug.  Well that did it aright- pulled the zipper right off.  Still didn’t go past that one spot on my ribs.

I got dressed and walked out, dress in one hand, zipper tag in the other.  The tailor looked at me funny.  When I told him what happened he said he would have zipped me up, duh, you idiot .  Still, he happily replaced the zipper and by the time he was done Josh had returned with my bike.  This time when he handed me the dress to try on he told Josh to go with me, simply saying “she needs help”.  Josh got the zipper on the first try, of course, and when I walked out to show the tailor he said “voila” and gave me a look that said “you should have just asked for help the first time around”.  He tested out the snugness of the fit and made sure it was well tailored before trimming off the extra fabric and loose stings, a sign of a good tailor.  I paid 20 mille, about $40, and we were on our way.  Next time I’ll be sure Lauren is with me to get me in the dress.

IST-Tech

The last 2 weeks of January was our Technical In-Service Training.  In theory, this training is to give us all the technical knowledge needed to be a good health volunteer.  For the first week we returned to our beloved hotel in Ouaga where we lived for 2 weeks during Stage.  Home sweet home with (sometimes) hot showers and a flush toilet.   The schedule was just like Stage, 4 blocks a day from 8 am to 5:15 p.m.  Most of the sessions were fairly useful- how to fill out the Volunteer Reporting Form, where and how to apply for project funding, cross-sectorial work, how to set up a CARE group (a model where you teach 10 women then they each teach 10 other women) and lots of information on doing a HEARTH model (for malnutrition).  Some highlights included a fancy dinner at Dr. Claude’s house, our APCD, and the day we spent at a fake beach learning about gardening and getting to swim during the lunch break.  It was also amazing just to see and hang out with everyone from our health and SED group (SED also had IST at this time), the first time all of us had been together since swear-in.  On Saturday night a large group of us went out to dinner in downtown Ouaga, then met up with more volunteers, and made our way to a nightclub for a little dancing, the most fun I’ve had with friends since the night of swear-in. 

Monday started off a week in Koudougou, our other home during Stage.  The week started off great, we were staying at a mission run by nuns and the accommodations were wonderful including single rooms with showers and delicious snacks during the 10 am pause café.  After two days of regular sessions our counterparts were to arrive to learn how to design a project and plan one, basically have a project all set up so when we returned to village we could jump right in.  To be most effective, the volunteers got to choose who their counterpart from village should be, someone they were going to work with.  Before IST I told my assigned counterpart, the Major, about the formation and asked who he thought I should bring.  “Je ne sais pas” he responded, does it have to be some from the CSPS?  No, I told him, but it needs to be someone I’m going to do projects with and they have to speak French.  He told me he would think about it.  A week later I asked him again, saying that the nurse or mid-wife could be good choices, but still he had no suggestion of who would work with me.  I needed to tell Dr.Claude so she could send invitations, so I talked to her about it and she said she would talk to my Major directly; perhaps there was a miscommunication.  After talking to him he was the one the invitation was sent to, he had been personally invited by Dr. Claude, so I expected him on the morning of the 26th to join me at the workshop.  The evening before, while everyone else was receiving phone calls that their counterparts had arrived, I heard nothing.  Okay, not that unusual, I’m not exactly buddy-buddy with the Major.  8 am, still no Major and the session is starting.  No phone call, nothing.  Okay, still not that unusual, he was half a day late to the counterpart workshop during Stage, so this would only be the second time he’s been late to a formation of mine.  At 10:30 the second session started and the directors started to wonder where he was.  Finally, right before lunch I got a tap on the shoulder, “your counterpart has arrived”.  I get up and walk towards the door to greet him, only to find it isn’t my Major at all, but a random guy from village.  I recognized this man, he helps the CSPS with campaigns sometimes and I had worked with him during the mosquito net distribution, but I had no idea what his name was.  Panicked, as soon as we broke for lunch I went in search of Rob, who was there as a facilitator; he lived in my village for 2 years, surly he knew this guy’s name.  None such luck, Rob also recognized him but had no clue what his name was.  Finally another volunteer went up to him and made small talk and asked his name for me-Sibrie- a very Burkinabe name.

Needless to say, the rest of the workshop didn’t go much smoother.  He didn’t seem to understand one bit of project designing- why or what we were doing- perhaps this was because he missed the first 2 sessions, or because he hadn’t read the Project Design Manual that I had given the Major for the workshop.  Either way, he didn’t get that each step of the project plan was connected to the last and that they were all for one and the same project.  I had to explain everything to him over and over again.  To make matters worst, he had a hard time understanding my French, but since he didn’t really seem to understand most peoples French that well, nor could he write French, I suspect the problem didn’t just lie in my language ability.  After talking with other volunteers about their experience, it seems that counterparts who were more villageois struggled a lot more then fonctionnaire counterparts and this has to be because of education level.  Unfortunately, most of the education system is memorization and recitation, so asking someone without an upper level education “what do YOU think?” is hard for them to answer on their own.  Problem solving and creative thinking doesn’t seems to exist at the primary or college education level.  I was glad when it was over, and can say that the project we “designed” will never take place.