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.

 

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.  

Wednesday, March 9th- My last day in Village

I woke up this morning and did my normal morning routine, only after each step I packed it up.  Brush my teeth, pack the tooth brush.  Wash my face, pack the face wash.  You get the idea.

  My morning wash station. 

After breakfast I walked to the CSPS and was greeted by a very joyful nurse.  She insisted I follow her around as she did her “work”.  I sat in as she did a few consultations and then she got up and declared she was going to the maternity to help the midwife with CPNs (Pre-natal consults) .  I was confused by this; it was Wednesday and we’d only ever done CPNs on Mondays.   Since I’m virtually useless during CPNs (I can only weigh the women, and even then I seem to mess it up) I thought I would go say hello to Roger at the pharmacy.  Once the nurse realized I wasn’t following her like a lap dog, she called me over and insisted I come to the maternity with her.

There were only a few women there and not much to do.  She asked me to take their tension and Sylvie, the midwife, right away piped in that I can’t do that, in her smite way, before taking the next women into the exam room.  “You don’t know how to take blood pressure?”  the nurse seemed shocked.  Nope, I’m not a doctor.  She told me how easy it was and said she would teach me.  She talked me through it as she did it on a women, but her explanation was lacking and I still didn’t understand how to do the counting bit.  Plus the final numbers they come up with are nothing like what I hear in the states (apparently they drop the first number?).  It was my last day in village and I didn’t feel like getting a lesson on how useless I was.  Thankfully there were only 3 women there and we were soon done with our work at the maternity. 

She had me follow her back to the clinic and into the consultation room, where there were no patients to see.  She sat down at the desk and wanted to chat.  She asked for all the details about the wedding, and then told me she couldn’t come.  She had been talking about coming to the wedding all week, so I was surprised to hear this.  She had just found out that the national meningitis campaign, where they go house to house, was that week and the Major would not give her the afternoon off to come to the wedding.  After our short conversation she leaned back in her chair and fell fast asleep.  I didn’t know what else to do and not wanting to wake her, for fear she’s want me to “assist” her for something else, so I sat there as she slept.  About 20 minutes later a young man came to the doorway and clapped (the Burkinabe knock).  She did not wake up.  He looked at me and I shrugged.  He clapped again louder.  This time she raised her head.  “When your work is finished, the Major wants you at the maternity”, there was to be a meeting with all the health agents to prep for the meningitis outings.  She said okay, then as soon as he left she put her head down on the desk and fell back asleep. 

10 minutes later one of the Community Health Agents came into the room, “we’re waiting on you for the meeting”.  “I’m working” the nurse replied.  The agent laughed and said something I didn’t understand.  “I’m coming” she said.  After she left the nurse again closed her eyes.  5 minutes later the same lady came up to the open window and said something I, again, didn’t understand, but I hope it was along the lines of “seriously, come for this meeting”.  The nurse took a few minutes to compose herself before walking over to the maternity.  I ducked into the pharmacy to talk to Roger before she could tell me to come with her.   

Conversation with Roger was pleasant.  I asked if he was coming to the wedding and he told me no, he was too villageois to come.  We proceeded to have a conversation about nothing in particular, where he informed me that the United States had 52 states.  When I said there were only 50 states he pulled out a Burkina news paper, which had printed in an article about immigration in Arizona that there were 51 US states.  Interesting.  Soon it got to be 11, then 11:30, and I started to anxiously watch the maternity for the meeting to end- I wanted to say goodbye to the Major. Despite being my counterpart, I had barely spoken 2 words to him in the last week since he was so absent.  Finally at noon Roger told me not to wait any longer, I had things to do and I should go home.  He’d tell the Major I wanted to talk to him and hopefully I could catch him on my way out of village that afternoon.  I lingered a bit, to show I gave it my best effort, then hurried home to finish packing. 

I made an easy lunch and then cleaned and packed up my kitchen.  Most of my house was already packed, just last minute stuff and cleaning.  One of the neighbor boys wandered over, one of the Chef’s sons, to see what I was up too.  Typical, he’s a usual, but he usually comes in a pack.  As I cleaned up I gave him a bag of plastic bags, which he seemed excited about.  He then preceded to fall asleep in the chair I had moved outside while I swept, still clutching his bag of bags. 

After a little while a little girl came by and saw Cadero asleep.  She checked to see how asleep he was, then grabbed his bag of bags and ran away.  A few minutes later Cadero’s bigger sister, Angina, came to claim him and take him home. 

After I was all packed up I piled all my belongings in the corner of the big room, ready to be packed into the Peace Corps car on the following Monday. 

  

This drew the attention of the neighbor kids.  They watched me for a moment and then sent Angina to me, knowing she is my favorite, coaching her on what to say, “Vous etes partir?” Not quite right, but I understood.  “Oui, Je pars”  Instead of being sad like one might expect (or hope) the kids seemed excited and ran around asking me for anything I still had out.  I gave away old magazines and all the boxes and bottles I had empty and they ran home with their “goodies”.  Just before 3 p.m. Roger stopped by to say goodbye and give me the 500CFA I had loaned him when he didn’t have change at the pharmacy.  He truly is a good guy.  He knew I needed to leave at 3.  He informed me that the Major had just left for one of the satellite villages, but he would tell him Goodbye for me. 

As I loaded up my bike and closed up my house I was bombarded by a few of the usual kids.  They asked for candy, and since I had it and was leaving I gave them some.  Then they wanted me to take photos. 

     

Finally at 3:20 I got on my bike and headed out of village.  I was already 5 minutes late for meeting Katie, my PCV neighbor, on the road and I still had to bike 4Km to meet her.  Just as I was passing the CSPS I ran into Roger.  He told me the Major had just returned, but if I was already late it was okay for me to just continue on, he said with a wink.  Sorry, I’m already late.  He gave me a warm goodbye and wished me a good marriage, and I continued on, biking out of village for the last time. 

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.

Day 160 in village

6: I awoke to a dull pain that ran from my ribs to my pelvis along my right abdomen.  An all too familiar pain these days.  Wonder what intestinal ailment lies in wait for my this time.  Refusing to get out of bed just yet I listen to the morning sounds.  A loud cry, wailing really, which only breaks for a deep chested cough.  My first instinct is that it’s a lost goat, their cries sound eerily like a baby’s, but the cough makes me wonder.  Do goats get chest colds? 

9: I go through my normal morning routine and am now forcing myself to go to the CSPS.  It’s been almost 3 weeks since I’ve been there and I MUST go say hello and show that I’m back from IST.  On my way out the door I wonder what is the point, what am I going to do there?  My Etude is over so I can no longer spend my time studying the CSPS documents or asking the staff questions for my report, so now what?  I suppose I now should be spending my time creating project plans and implementing them, but I only have 4 or so weeks left in this village and what can I really get done in that amount of time without a motivated counterpart?  Even if I had a really good idea I would need someone in the village to help me, especially with the language barriers.  That’s the Peace Corps philosophy anyways for sustainability, we train others so that they can continue on in our absence.  The CSPS staff can’t be bothered to attend a project design workshop with me, much less actually spending time on a project.  My time would be better spent studying French. 

On my bike ride to the CSPS I debate flat out asking the Major why I’m here.  Why the village requested a Peace Corps volunteer?  Did they not understand that PCVs work WITH the village, not FOR the village?  Every project we do is suppose to be with a counterpart to capacity build.  We don’t develop the village, we aid them in developing themselves, so to speak. And why a health volunteer?  Every time I’ve asked what the health issues are that they would like to address I get empty answers.  “Je ne sais pas”   When I asked what types of projects they would like to see happen I was told that I’d find out at my IST formation what to do, as if the Peace Corps dictates our projects.  Maybe they don’t understand, that’s not how this works.  They have to work with me to identify a priority health issue and we work together to combat it.   If the issue is not perceived, then behavior change will never occur.  It’s like addiction, the first step is admitting your are an addict.  The first step is admitting your child in malnourished, that malaria is a serious problem, that diarrhea can kill your baby.  To these people illnesses occur and are treated and that’s that.  Nothing seems to be of concern or of need of addressing. 

10: For the first time I was asked to help Madame Sylvie with baby weighing.  I’ve been trying for 6 months, 160 days, to help weigh babies.  My interest is in nutrition and my ideal project is with malnourished children.  Usually volunteers come away from baby weighing feeling accomplished- they actually did some hands on work- but Sylvie has a way to making me feel incompetent and useless.  She is impatient with me, with everyone really, and gets annoyed when I miss a beat.  Numbers in French, Burkinabe names, foreign paperwork, her speaking to the women in Moore- we’re not trained to do this.  No, I don’t know how to give a polio vaccine or take blood pressure.

I’m sitting next to her, writing numbers into each baby’s Carte de Sante as they are weighed and measured, trying to see the charts and scale since it’s easier for me if I see the numbers opposed to trying to hear her mumble them.  The growth chart says something like 100% is perfect, 85 and above is good, and the 80% bracket has been whitened out.  What should say something along the lines of caution your child is falling behind, bordering malnutrition, now has “normal” scribbled in.  75% and 70% fall into moderately malnourished, below that is severely malnourished.  80%, Sylvie tells me, 80%.  Baby after baby is 80%. “Normal”.  She doesn’t tell the women what percentile their children are in, nor does she explain how to feed their children healthy diets; she doesn’t say or explain anything at all.  Just moves on to the next child.  Finally there is a child that is clearly in the 75% bracket.  The child hasn’t been weighed in 4 months and from my reading of the scale has lost weight, but according to Sylvie has gained a little.  She looks at the growth chart, 75%.  I’m looking over her shoulder.  She hesitates and looks at the chart again, finds height then weight-still 75%.  She says something to the mother and feels the babies legs for swelling. The are speaking in Moore and from the mother’s body language I’d guess she is explaining why the child is under weight – money is sort, it’s not the harvest season, the child is having problems weaning?-  Who knows.  Maybe she pleads that the baby will be better next time.  Sylvie makes a clicking noise in the back of her throat and nods her head in agreement; an okay, I understand.  80% she tells me.  No malnourished children for village this week.               

13: A flock of guinea fowl scurry along the path as I bike home.  A group of young boys play with a bouncy ball in my kitchen as I make lunch.  Not my usual lunch-time visitors, but still children I know from next door.  I think they like my kitchen because of the cement floor and walls, good for the bouncing.  Sometimes they take to just sprawling out on the floor.  I think the cement feels cool to them, different from their mud floors.      

14: I retreat to my room and shut the door.  Shut out the children for a little while.  The harmattan winds are blowing strong today and I apparently have allergies.  I’m sure it’s from all the dust.  Upon returning home yesterday there was a layer of dust over my entire house, over everything.  Like in a movie where someone goes into an old abandoned house where white sheets cover the furniture, pick up a book, blow, and a puff of dirt clouds into the air.  Only I didn’t have the foresight to cover my belongings in white sheets.  I was only gone for 17 days.  The majority of yesterday was spent uncovering my life, beating the dirt out of my bed sheets and whatnot.  The children have left foot prints on my kitchen floor. 

16:  After a repose I am ready to face the world again.  Plus I am not sure if my tutor is coming today and he always thinks I’m not home if my door is closed.  No sir, sometimes I just need some peace and quite.  Within minutes a few small children are at my door.  “Je demand un bon bon” they say over and over again.  In the last 6 months I have never just given away candy, it has to be earned.  If you give things out freely then your not viewed as a real person, but as a vending machine.  After a few responses of “no, I don’t have candy.  I don’t give candy,” I take to just ignoring them.  After about 5 minutes they find something more interesting and go away.    

18:30:  It has been overcast all day and now it too cloudy to see the sun set.  No golden hour today, the last strands of sunlight slowly dimming, a warning time to wrap up what you were doing before the darkness comes.  Today just grey and instantly dark.  I’d say it was going to storm, but the rains won’t come again until after May.  The wind is cold and without the sun taking a bucket bath outside would be miserable.  Even if I heated up the bath water.  My stove will not light and I suspect my gas tank is empty.  A lunch time discovery.  Shall be an interesting problem to fix as I cannot get a new tank in village.  Will tackle that one tomorrow.   For now just worry about dinner.  In a world where there is no place to buy pre-made food, or fruits or vegetables or bread, what can you eat without a stove?                

Banfora

After New Years Eve Josh and I decided to make a little vacation out of our trip to the South West.  It’s a long journey to get down there so we thought we should explore the area a little bit while we’re there.  I read over my Lonely Planet, which pointed us in the direction of Banfora.  Getting to Banfora from Gaoua was an adventure in its’ own.  The Lonely Planet didn’t say much, so in the morning we headed to the gare hoping for the best.  Asked around the bus station and was told a bush taxi would be leaving at noon, so we bought a ticket, dropped our bags, and went to find some breakfast.  At noon there was still no taxi bus.  Josh was getting a little anxious and went to ask the man who seemed to work the gare.  First he was told that the bus was coming at 2, then he was told that we should just take a regular taxi for 40,000 CFA.  We didn’t have 40 mille.  We were short on cash as it was since we didn’t take into account that the New Years fete meant the post/bank would be closed for 5 days.  Worried that this meant no bush taxi was coming and that we just lost 10 mille on the tickets, he fetched me and we went to talk to the man together.  This time we were told it was coming at 12:30.  At one Josh got more nervous and decided to go for a walk.  “Don’t worry, it’ll come.  This is Burkina…” I said as I continued to read my book.  At 2:15 the man came to get us and gather up our stuff.  He had us sit on a wooden bench near the loading cars in wait, ready to go, and at 2:30 took us across the street to a bush taxi.  Finally, we’re on our way and the taxi loads quickly and departs by 3pm.  The taxi van is packed full, but thankfully over half of the people get off at a city an hour into the journey and we get an entire bench row to ourselves for the rest of the 5 hour journey.  We get into Banfora a little after 8, hot and completely covered in red dirt from the open windows, and are glad to find the Peace Corps recommended hotel and call it a day. 

Banfora is a lovely little city with lots of good eats.  It is one of the more touristy areas in Burkina, but didn’t really feel that way.  People there aren’t push or attack you for being a tourist as they did in places like Aursha, Tanzania, or even in Ouaga.  We only had a couple of days so only got in 3 of the sights in the area.  The best by far was the Domes of Fabedougou, about an 11K bike ride out of Banfora.  We took a wrong turn on the way and got lost in a maze of sugar cane fields, but when we finally found them it was well worth it.  Huge rock formations unlike anything I’d ever seen before.  We spent the morning walking through the park and climbing the domes. 

      

Next stop was the Cascades of Karfiguela, only a couple kilometers from the Domes.  The waterfalls were pretty, with 4 different levels of falls, but a waterfall is a waterfall and after seeing so many they all kind of look the same.  These reminded of the falls in Appalachian mountains meets the waterfalls in Western Australia.  But it was hot and we were ready for a swim.  We took the advise of fellow volunteers and found a “secret” waterfall that’s behind the second level.  It wasn’t completely private, another man found it before us and was taking a nap at the top of the falls.  He has the sweet life.  Still, it was the perfect setting and we cooled off in the water before having a late picnic lunch. 

   

The next morning we went to Tengrela Lake to see hippos, however the most excitement we got was from crossing a bridge on the way there.  The bridge was being repaired and we had been warned by other volunteers that there were men who would try to make us pay a fee “for the reparation of the bridge”.  Conveniently, Hippo Lake is just beyond the bridge and several tourists a day cross the bridge.  When we came to the bridge we followed school children down the left side to the water where there were a couple foot paths across.  We didn’t get very far before a couple of men noticed the 2 white people and stopped us, saying there was a fee to cross.  I told them “non, c’est pas vrai”!  They were instant, pulled out coins from their pockets to show us as if we didn’t understand, even held on to the back of our bikes so we couldn’t walk away.  I lost it a little bit and blew up at them like I had seen Kate do last summer in East Africa when people tried to rip us off, something I swore I would never do.  I guess 7 months of people trying to take advantage of you because your white wears on you a little bit.  We threw everything at them that we could think of, “we’re not tourist, we live here. we know there is not a fee” “how come your not charging any of the Burkinabe, just the Nasaras?” “if there’s a toll where is the toll station? The toll sign?” “call the police if we have to pay, or should we call the police because you’re falsely charging us?”  Nothing was working.  Finally we got across the stream and Josh told the men to leave me alone and deal with him, since I had retreated to screaming at them in English.  In most cases, people will leave the angry white woman alone, but in this case they weren’t easing up.  After about 10 minutes we got on our bikes and were slowly inching ourselves away, and they realized we weren’t getting any closer to giving them money.  The ring leader reluctantly let go of Josh’s bike, saying “fine, you can pay on your way back”. 

A few minutes later we were at the peage for the Lake, but unlike the Domes or the Cascades there wasn’t a sign with the park fees.  Again, the attendant saw 2 white people and tried to over charge us.  Once we pulled out our carte professionnelles and told him that we live in Burkina and know the cost he changed his tune.  By the time we got out on the lake it was almost 8 a.m. and our boat guy told us the 40 or so hippos that live in the lake had left and gone into the woods.  Now I don’t know a lot about hippos, but I know a little, and I know that Hippos normally go up on land to eat at night.  I’ve experienced this first hand near Hell’s Gate National Park in Kenya.  I also know that during the day, when it is very hot, Hippos prefer to be in water.  If he would have told us that we couldn’t really see the Hippos because they are only ears and noses in the water, I’d believe it, but I’m not buying that in 90 degree whether when it’s only going to get hotter they are chilling in the woods.  I suspect he just didn’t want to go searching through the lake for nostrils sticking out, but maybe at this point I had just lost faith in the good nature of the Burkinabe.  We still got a lovely 45 minute pirogue trip on the lake and it was interesting to see the fishermen. 

                    

We got lucky on the way home- we wasted no time at the bridge and went to the far, far left path.  The poll trolls were busy with another group of white people and we got across and on our way without any problems.  Despite all the hassles, I’d still recommend Banfora to anyone visiting Burkina Faso.  We didn’t see everything and it’s one of the only places I’ve visited that I’d gladly return to.