My Golden Birthday

This year I turned 24 on the 24th, my golden birthday, and my first birthday in Burkina Faso.  I knew it was going to be a Burkina kind of Birthday when I woke up to a flat tire.  Lauren and I were making the journey to Josh’s site that day, so we meet up in out district capitol the night before in order to catch the early morning bus to Ouaga on the 24th.  Happy Birthday to me, I have a flat tire.  Luck for us , the closest bike guy was enjoying a Nescafe out front of his hanger.  He hadn’t set up shop yet, it was only 6 a.m. but at least he was there.  Actually, it was his son or an apprentice, and two white women with a flat tire was a little too much for him at such an hour.  After me trying twice and Lauren once to explain to the boy that there was a hole in the tire, we gave up and just let him pump it up with air.  At least this would get us to the bus stations on time to catch our bus. 

The trip to Ouaga went smooth as usual on our bus company of choice, KGB.  They are new to the area so the bus tend to not be as full, and the buses are yellow, American, Blue Bird  school buses, complete with signs still to  in English.  It’s like riding the bus in elementary school, only with chickens piled in the isle and 10 motos and a goat tied to the roof.  I’m not joking, once we debarked in Ouaga we realized there was a Billy goat on the roof, typical of transport in BF. 

         In Ouaga we made a pit stop at the beloved Marina Market to get all the Western foods needed to make a Christmas feast.  I was bound and determined to make eggrolls for dinner, my birthday wouldn’t be complete with out them,  and went on a mad search to find egg roll wrappers.  Finally, after searching the entire store (I couldn’t ask the store staff, because how do you say eggroll wrappers in French?) I spotted them in an out of the way fridge on my way to the checkout counter.  Alas, my Birthday dinner was saved! 

After buying everything possible for a delicious Birthday/Christmas dinner Lauren and I met up with Josh and headed to the gare to catch a taxi brousse to his site.  Now a bush taxi is roughly the size of a 12 passenger van, or slightly bigger then the Nany van, with 4 to 5 rows of bench seats that hold 25 to 30 people.  It’s a tight squeeze, however people get off and on along the route so numbers are constantly in flux.  Also, there aren’t exactly set leave times, the taxi waits until it is full to leave.  We got lucky and only had to wait at the gare 2 hours for it to leave. 

The 3 hour bush ride took over 4 hours because of an off road detour, and only the first hour was on a paved road, but we made it in one piece, including 11 of the 12 eggs we had carried on our laps in a plastic bag desperately trying to keep them from breaking.  We arrived at the city closest to Josh’s village just as the last rays of day light were fading, and, as to be expected, my tire was completely flat again.  We hurried to catch a bike repair guy before they went home for the night, but were too late.  Josh did the best he could to pump up the tire with my Peace Corps given bike pump and we prayed it would get me home, and, thankfully, it did.

It was past 7 by the time we finally made it to Josh’s house and we were all tired and hungry.  Lauren and I wasted no time in starting dinner.  Making Nany’s eggrolls in Burkina Faso on a gas tank stove with no electricity was a challenge, but it had to be done.  It was all coming along pretty well, until I got to the rolling.  The wrappers need to be refrigerated until use, and, well, after the 7 hour journey from the store to site they had dried out.  Also, they weren’t the square wrappers I was use to, but were triangles.  I got a little innovative with wet paper towel and raw egg and made it work.  Then came the issue of the oil- when I told Josh I needed enough oil to fry eggrolls plus some, he didn’t quite understand how much oil that entailed.  That’s okay, use a smaller pot and only cook one or two at a time while pushing them under the oil, pouring hot oil over them.  It had to work. 

        While I rolled and Josh fried, Lauren made a delicious soup, a Burkina version of Olive Garden’s Tuscany soup.  As we cooked, Josh turned on his sort wave radio and we caught the Pope’s catholic mass on the radio.  It was comforting to hear familiar hymns and remember that despite the 90 degree weather and being in Burkina Faso, it was still Christmas Eve.  Finally the eggrolls were done and I just needed the sweet and sour sauce and dinner would be complete.

        A huge Thanks to all my family members who sent me ketchup packets, to which the sweet and sour sauce would not have been possible.  Dinner was served.  May I present to you my finished stack of eggrolls, not quite up to par with Nany’s, but as close as could get in the conditions. 

Lang IST

Three months into service, sort of the mark of the end of the Etude period, there is In-Service Training.  It is broken up into 3 parts, first December 15th to the 21st was regional based language training, then in January there is a week of tech training and a 3 day workshop with counterparts to make project plans.  Lang IST went a little something like this:  Our schedule was suppose to be the exact same as during Stage- 4 blocks a day, 2 before lunch and 2 after- which, thanks to a great LCF, turned into a block of French at 8 a.m., 2 hours of internet time, Lunch, personal sleeping time, and then a block of Moore to finish out the day.  There were 6 volunteers at my lang IST, the 6 volunteers in my providence from my training group, and having all the down time to hang out with other Americans was very nice, but I will admit the actual learning left much to be desired.  I needed the French practice, but French class consisted of reading a French African fable for homework and then discussing it during class.  The kicker is that there are verb tenses used in written French that are never used in spoken French, so a week of studying passe simple is not going to help me speak to my villagers.  In our group of 5 Moore learners we were at 3 different levels, so Moore class wasn’t that useful either, unfortunately.  However, a week out of village and in a hotel with electricity and a half way flushing toilet was invaluable.  We’ve been in country for 6 months now, which is usually a natural slump for volunteers, and we were no exceptions.  Even the volunteer that lived in the bigger city with electricity and internet at his house and a fridge at his disposal was like “I want to go home”.  So having a week to just complain about everything that is wrong with Burkina was nice (the constant intestinal problems, the lack of vegetables, dairy, and meat on a daily bases, not ever being able to communicate with anyone, constantly being harassed because your white, always feeling awkward, the list could go on and on and on).  The one night that we all got together and decided that life wasn’t so bad after all was Sunday night.  Like Stage, we had Sunday off, so after a lazy morning and a little marche visit we all went over to the volunteer’s house who lives there.  It took 6 volunteers, 2 dictionaries, and an iPhone to get through the fable that was our homework, but after we finally finished Katie made us all a homemade dinner.   4 or 5 boxes of wine and several hours of the internet later, life in Burkina didn’t seem so bad.  Through in a little Lady Gaga into the mix and we had ourselves a party. 

Our week of commiserating accumulated with our final supper.  Hilary was really craving the rice from “the Ghana restaurant”, and despite going there the night before and only getting 2 of the 6 plates we ordered, waiting 30 minutes, and then upon our questioning finding out that the food we had ordered “was finished”, we decided to try it again.  We sat down and ordered, commanded salads and a plate of meat from the salad lady and meat stand out front of the restaurant, and then sipped on our drinks and waited.  After a short time the LCF that ordered To got his food, and we waited a little longer.  Rice takes longer to cook, right? Then our other LCF showed up and we asked to add another plate of rice to the order, only to be told the rice was finished.  Apparently they didn’t feel it was necessary to tell the 6 people waiting for rice that it wasn’t coming.  What are the odds that two nights in a row they would run out of food and not tell us they ran out after we already placed an order?  High, this is Burkina.  We asked what else they had- only To- and after eating salads, pouting, and debating where else we should go to find food (no where really, it was on the late side and food options are limited) we reluctantly ordered the To.  It didn’t take long to come out, a large, cold porridge-like blob of tasteless nothing with cold peanut sauce.  We swallowed down as much to as we could- I tried to pinch off little balls and put them in the bowl of sauce and pray it would be like southern dumplings in stew, which was actually eatable, but unfortunately I was served a disproportionate amount of To to sauce and was left with the choice to eat plain To or still be hungry.  I chose being hungry.  As we finished up eating and playing with the jello quality of the giant To ball and waited for our change from the bill, Hilary decided to make a soundtrack to our lives as Peace corps volunteers in Burkina with Hugo’s iPhone.  First she put on “This place is a prison” by the Postal Service, followed by a Bright Eyes song that has chorus that starts off with “how did I get here,” and when the chorus came on she shouted out at the top of her lungs “HOW DID I GET HERE?!”  A question we’ve all been asking ourselves lately.                                                   

Happy Birthday Burkina!

December 11th marked the 50th anniversary of Burkina’s independence.  To celebrate the day, there was a big parade in Bobo-Dioulasso and the government asked the Peace Corps to be apart if it.  Peace Corps recruited 25 volunteers to march in the parade, luring us with free transport to Bobo, free housing, “work-related leave” from site so as to not count as our allotted TAC days, and a promise of free meals from the 50th anniversary committee.  To march in the parade required 4 days of parade practice, so essentially is was a free week long trip to Bobo- Yes please , sign me up!  [Side note: there was originally a 2 day “International Volunteer Day” event that was to happen the weekend before the Independence day fete that called for 75 volunteers to attend, extending our stay in Bobo to 10 days, but the event was mysteriously canceled a day before our departure to Bobo.]

Those of us that had to travel through Ouaga to get to Bobo all met up Sunday the 5th around noon in Ouaga to endure the 5 hour bus ride together, almost loosing one during the one “10 minute” rest stop to grab dinner-to-go.  As the bus started to pull away all the Nasaras started yelling to wait and a white man took off running after the bus.  We got into Bobo after dark and were taken to “the apartment” where the rest of the volunteers were settling down to bed. The apartment is a 3 bedroom house that is located right across the street from the PC Bobo Bureau that apparently is empty and can be rented out.  Very convenient for us.  There were 3 double beds, all taken, and a pile of mattresses and Burkina-style pillows, which are more like couch cushions.  There was a dash to claim a mattress and floor space, but since it was late and not clear what was free, we scouted out tent space on the porch, snagged pillows and called it a night.  Would rather sleep in a tent outside then packed in like refugees on the floor, although it reminded me a lot of sleep at tournaments with the Ultimate team. 

Monday morning parade practice started bright and early, around 6:30 am.  “Practice” consisted of milling around near our designated parade spot, then being put in our marching lines- tallest to shortest both horizontally and vertically- but the Gendarmerie, followed by more waiting around and seeking out water and snacks, randomly being called back into our lines only to wander out again in search of shade, and then finally at around 11:30 we learned how to march.  We walked about half the parade route with sporadic Gendarmerie and other military men along the way screaming “Gauche, gauche, gauche, droite, gauche” and calling out those of us who were off and fixing our lines as we marched along.  Now the Burkina march step is a mix between a band step and a normal walk and very closely resembles the hyenas marching in the Lion King, including the swinging, straight arms.  After learning how to march, we were corralled back to our starting point and had to walk the whole parade route again, which was a 2 to 3 mile straight shot down the road to the football stadium.  We were told that practice would end at 11, and by the time we finished the first test run it was past 13:00 and we were all hot, thirsty, hungry and champing at the bit to leave.  Thankfully once we reached the stadium we were given water and told we were done for the day. 

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday’s parade practice wasn’t that much different.  Tuesday we refused to go so early, since on Monday we were one of the first groups there, only to be yelled at by the Gendarm in charge of us for being late, so Wednesday we settled on getting there between 7 and 7:30.  All the days consisted of mostly standing around, leaving our area to find food and shade, being told to come back and stand around, and then having a few “media” practices.  Before the actually parade the President and the media would drive down the road past us to their places in the boxed-in bleachers, and all the groups marching were to be standing at attention in perfect lines facing the cameras.  Naturally, this required several run-throughs each day where military officials would drive past us in hummers and correct our lines or tell us to take our hands out of our pockets or whatnot.  Then we would file into the road, usually have to back up a block or so, switch lanes in the road, then maybe back up some more, and then finally start marching towards the stadium, stop and wait for 5 or 10 minutes, march again, randomly switch lanes again (it seemed like the officials couldn’t decide which lane was the best placement for the marchers), pause some more, then as we approached the viewer’s stands and the band military officials would start shouting out “Gauche!” to get us in step, we would pass the important-peoples bleachers and then fall out of step as we finished the rest of the parade march and ended at the stadium where they gave us water and we waited for the Peace Corps car to rescue us. Lucky for us, Thursday was to be a full parade practice requiring that we bring no bags with books and music, which we had started to bring to entertain ourselves for the hours of just standing around, and had to wear the clothes-toed black shoes that we had been told were a requirement.  Who brings close-toed black shoes to Burkina Faso?  Only a handful of the volunteers had them so most of us had to buy hideous black, late 80’s style heels from the marche and Thursday’s practice was the debut of our fabulous new shoes.  Once we got there on Thursday we realized that almost none of the Burkinabe groups were wearing black shoes, only the American’s were fool enough to fall for that.  I was lucky enough to find black flats, but most of the other girls walked the second half of the parade barefoot and carried their shoes because of the blisters already forming.  

Saturday was the big show.  All the groups marching were given one of several 50th anniversary pagne designs and the group was to get matching outfits made.  For the Peace Corps, girls had simple completes complete with a foulard (traditional head wrapping) and the boys had simple outfits that looked like a pajama sets with white “International Volunteer day” hats.  Here is Josh and I modeling our parade gear, getting ready to head out for the parade.         Luckily there were a few girls that knew how to tie up the foulard, which was a whole pagne wrapped on our heads.  We arrived at the parade grounds by 6 am, before sunrise, and anxiously waited for things to get started while eyeing everyone else's outfits.  This is the Gendarm that was assigned to be our grill sergeant.  Thankfully he was really nice and patient with us.                

Here is a group shot before the parade activities started.  Corps De La Paix American looking snazzy in our matching completes.  Before anything started we were given water and a box of sugar cubes by the parade committee.  When asked what the sugar was for, they told us to eat it before the parade to help us march well.  Apparently the breakfast provided by the Parade Committee was a box of sugar.  We waited around until 8 when we were called into our lines, then waited another hour until around 9 when we were told for real to get in our lines.  Around 9:20 a convoy started to pass by, first an SUV full of military men heavily armed, then a few other cars with perhaps important people, then a green hummer with President Blaise Compaore standing in the back.  He didn’t wave like a beauty queen, just firmly stood and looked at us as he passed by.  He was literally about 15 feet in front of me, the closest I’ve ever been to a President or State official, it was kind of cool.  After his car was another SUV full of heavily armed men, one with his AK47 sticking out the window ready at a moments notice.  Once the President sat down in his seat, we filed out into the road and got ready to march.  This was almost exactly like practice- stand and wait, move back, wait, walk forward a bit, wait, switch lanes, switch back, wait- But everyone seemed to be in a joyful mood.  We were sandwiched between “the community of foreign people” and the “Lebanese Community” and the three groups traded off cheers, singing of our respective national anthems, and dancing as we waited for the parade to start.  We were even joined by a few festive parade goers like these boys who were decked out in full body paint and these women were in white face and came around to the groups to dance and pump them up.  There was even men on stilts.  For a second, it almost seemed like a fun parade and not the strict, military-esk parade that it was.                  

When the parade started it went exactly as practice had gone, including the pauses and switching lanes, but we all marched in perfect step before the president.  Once we got to the football stadium we tried to watch the end of the parade, but unfortunately we were more towards the end and didn’t get to see that many groups.  I tried to get photos of the more interesting groups before we B-lined to the Peace Corps car to take us home and out of the uncomfortable completes, but could only really get these two.  The first is of two Peuls girls.  The Peuls are knowen for being herders of cows and sheep and the women for selling the milk in calabashes,  so as the girls walked the carried the traditional stacks of calabashes on their heads.  It was really cool to watch, but unfortunately they were too far ahead of us to get a photo of them walking.  These men on horses were really interesting to see as well, all decked out in traditional dress.  I’m not sure which ethnic group they were, I couldn’t find their banner, but I’m guessing they were Peuls as well.  A few of the men had traditional drums on their horse with them and they all trotted to the beat of the drums, very cool.           

Happy Thanksgiving!

I made the journey to Kathy’s house for Thanksgiving, my roommate from stage.  She lives in a fairly big town that on a map looks to be maybe an hour to the east, but traveling in Burkina it takes 5 hours and two buses with a layover in Ouaga.  When I got to her village I was amazed at the paved streets and electricity.  She, herself, lives in a beautiful home inside a family compound with electricity, a running water shower, and a toilet!  She recently bought a mini-fridge for her house, so she could have ice for gin and tonics- Oh, the perks to being a Small Enterprise and Development volunteer. 

Kathy hosted 5 out of the area volunteers for the fete and her site mate.  We got there mid-afternoon and sat on her porch for a while drinking refreshments and catching up.  Finally at dusk we decided we should start making our Thanksgiving feast.  Sadly, no turkey.  But we had a hen!  Thanks to Chris and Kathy, I got my first butcher lesson.

     

Chris started us off by cutting the hen’s throat and draining it.  The blade of the knife wasn’t as sharp as one would hope, so it took a little doing…

  Then you put the bird in just boiled water, to loose up the feathers, or something like that. 

Kathy and I plucked her.  The feathers came out easy and it was actually kind of fun, in a bubble-wrap-popping kind of way.  Yes, that’s the head I’m holding.  We were going to throw it away but were told to keep it –“someone will want it”.  I don’t want to know what for. 

  Then Kathy did the honors of eviscerating it. I didn’t pay too much attention to this because it grossed me out, but I know she cut in from the back by the spine and then just kind of cut the insides out, being careful not to nick in intestines.  And that’s how you clean a chicken! 

Around this point Burkinabe started to show up at Kathy’s house and I discovered that she had invited all the people she works with as well as all the people her site mate works with for the fest- around 10 Burkinabe besides us American- and dinner was just getting started.  Needless to say, I spent most of the evening in the kitchen with a bottle of wine tending to the cooking while Kathy and the others played hostess.  Fine by me, I dread making small talk in French, but this also means I didn’t actually get a plate or really eat any of the meal.  It was fine though, we had a nice quite Black Friday and made an even better meal for just the 7 Americans, including Israeli salad and stuffed green peppers! Yum! It was a wonderful Thanksgiving surrounded by friends. 

 

The sunset from Kathy’s house and Josh and I pause for a photo after he watched me rip apart the bird.  Happy Thanksgiving! 

My morning as a voyeur

I pulled out my camera this morning to pack it for my Thanksgiving trip to Kathy’s house, and decided to snap a few photos from my house.  Just a few updates from village.  I’m still trying to hide the fact that I have a camera from the children and from the villagers- everyday I hear “I demand water to drink, I demand a book, I demand this or that…”  from the children, I don’t want to add “take my picture” to that.  So I had to snap these in secret from my window.  I felt a little like the lead man in “Rear Window” spying on my neighbors from my window, but you got to do what you got to do.

First, here is an update on my house.  I finally got some furniture!  Bought a bookshelf for clothes and a mattress.  Rob brought me a chair since his PC tour is almost over, and Roger brought me a small table which I use as a little desk.  The kitchen has received only one improvement, the most amazing fry pan in the world, but nothing to write home about.  My house is finally starting to come together as a home. 

      

And here are a few pictures from my window.  The millet and sorghum have been harvested so I can actually see the neighboring compounds.  The first photo is a man putting new thatch on his roof.  Apparently now is the time to make thatch, and everyday there are men weaving thatch under the big tree in central village.  The second is children passing my house as they walk to school.   

Then there is the Cheif de village, that’s him in the orange hat under the tree.  A new Gourounsi radio station just came to our area, so every morning he and a group of men sit under his tree and blast the radio, which I can hear perfectly from my house.  I don’t know this woman, but she stopped to talk to another woman (you can’t see her, she’s in her courtyard) on the path while walking by.  I love this picture because it’s everyone Burkinabe woman- bright color pagne skirt, carrying things on her head, and lots of sass.   

 

And the head lady!  I found out she lives in the compound behind me and was lucky enough to catch her in action!  This is her walking into her house. 

Lastly, my best friend Angina, the little girl and has asked if I’ll be her mother and if she can sleep at my house.  She came to see me off this morning. 

 

I am thankful for processed foods

It wasn’t quite Thanksgiving yet, the weekend before, but Katie had made a pit stop on her way home from our district capitol to chez moi.  I’m on her way home, sort of, only ~8K round trip off the road, but after biking 30k to town and back what’s 8 more kilometers?  She had gone to the post and picked up 5 care packages- yes 5- it seems the post had been hoarding all the packages sent to her in the last 3 months and delivered them all at once.  I had recently been living off of care packages myself, since it seems the well has run dry and the village marche has all but nothing to offer- boiled potats, or white sweet potatoes, and if I get there at the right time and am very lucky, watermelon.  While our marche is always small, right now is in between harvests.  Since Katie had an abundance of delicious things to share, we decided to make a mini- Thanksgiving feast.  Someone had sent her a brick of Velveeta cheese, so we made real mac ‘n cheese with collard greens (a very lucky find at the marche, and the only time I’ve been able to find them) and watermelon for desert. 

While we were cooking we were both bubbling with the anticipation of eating Velveeta macaroni and cheese, and once the food was prepared we couldn’t sit down fast enough to eat.  We both sat in silence as we gobbled up the delicious meal.  Once we had gone back for seconds and all but licked our plates clean, the conversation picked back up.  We both admitted that in the States we never ate Velveeta, too processed.  I, like my grandmother, am weary of orange cheese- just seems unnatural. Nothing in nature is that color.  But in Burkina, a brick of Velveeta is like a brick of gold.  A gift from God.  I have dreams about Velveeta cheese. 

At home and on a local level, I am all organic and natural.  I’m the girl who would only eat locally produced, organic, free-range, hormone-free animal products for the last year and a half before the Peace Corps (I question the health benefits from main stream American meat and dairy industry), but now, if you can find a way to send me any kind of meat or cheese I’ll love you forever!  Now, I couldn’t be more thankful for food science and the ability for foods to spend weeks being shipped in over 100 degrees and still be editable.  Pump those chemicals in if that means I can receive it in Burkina!  So this Thanksgiving, Katie and I are thankful for processed foods, and our loved ones that send them to us!                     

A lesson from “Foreign Policy”

The last time I was in Ouaga I was walking down the street and saw a Michigan T-shirt hanging from a stall of a street vender.  I didn’t go to U of M, but I still got a little excited, a slight feeling of familiarity and recognition, from spotting the shirt.  It might not be my school, but it’s still my state.  I get that same twinge of excitement whenever someone talks about Asheville, NC, or a shot of the reflecting pool and the Lincoln memorial are portrayed on TV or in a movie and I think “Hey, I played ultimate there!”.  Well, now Burkina has joined the ranks of places I call home and get excited when they get a shout out in the media.  Unfortunately, the media I spotted Burkina in was a Foreign policy magazine issue on failed states.

It seems that every year the magazine puts out their rankings on the top 60 failed states in the world.  How is a state determined to be a failure?  It’s based on an index of 12 indicators- demographics, refugees, illegitimate governments, brain drain, public services, inequality, group grievances, human rights, economic decline, security forces, factionalized elites, and external intervention.  My beloved Burkina Faso was ranked the 35th failed state in 2010.  Not too bad, we are better off then Haiti, Iraq, and North Korea! And according to a world map titled “mapping crisis,” Burkina is “In Danger”, but that’s better then being “Critical”! Lets just say that Peace Corps volunteers have their work cut out for them- this is definitely a country that needs us and we can feel good about working here. 

Unfortunately, Burkina was mentioned a little more in the issue.  In a article by George B.N. Ayittey titled “The Worst of the Worst,” he goes through all the men in charge of the failed states, saying that they are dictators and ranking “the worst of the worst”.  Blaise Compaore, president of Burkina Faso, in power for 23 years to date, was placed as number 18.  Ayittey writes:

“A tin-pot despot with no vision and no agenda, save self-perpetuation in power by liquidation opponents and stifling dissent, Compaore has lived up to the low standards of his own rise to power, after murdering his predecessor, Thomas Sankara, in a 1987 coup.”       

If this is true, it would seem rather unfortunate for the Burkinabe as this is an election year and, on November 21st, Blaise was reelected for 5 more years.  I’m not allowed to follow politics in BF, as a volunteer, nor do I have a political opinion.  Politics has never been my cup of tea anyways.  This is in no way my own opinion, nor am I routing for or against Compaore; I give the respect any political leader deserves- It’s a hard job. I am only reiterating what I read in a Magazine for my friends and family, this is only that one authors opinion.  I was one of the people who had never heard on Burkina Faso until a week before I got my assignment, and I know most of my family knew very little about the country, so now whenever I see it highlighted in the media, for good or bad, I feel it is good to educate those who are invested in my life here. 

The election was rather anti-climatic.  Campaigning was all but non-existent with a few meetings here and there and some posters decorating the bigger cities.  There was a campaign part in my village but I was not in town for it, not that I could have gone anyways, but afterwards a bunch of my petites were sporting Blaise gear.  As a PCV, we are not allowed to be involved in politics in any form; we’re not even suppose to associate with US military for fear that it will be thought we have a political agenda.  The day came and went like any other day and Blaise was reelected to no one’s surprise.  Voting took place at our local school, but I had a flat tired so I didn’t leave my house and in downtown village there was no excitement.  The only sign of the election was a dyed fingertip that I spotted when Roger came to help me with my bike- I believe either you vote by dipping your finger in ink and giving a fingerprint (this could be because some people can’t read or write their own name, so a fingerprint is the alternative to a signature) or you have to dip a finger in dye to mark that you voted, I couldn’t quite understand what Roger said.  But elections wise, everything was quite on this front.             

For more information on failed states or the articles I read, please see Foreign Policy July/ August 2010 issue.