Care Packages

First and foremost, I want to thank everyone who has sent me things.  THANK YOU!  All the letters, magazines, clothes, home goods, and, most of all, all the food items.  I have been truly blessed with wonderful friends and family and am unbelievably grateful for everything I've received. 

I’ve been at site for 47 days now and feel that I finally have a pretty good grasp on what my resources are here and how/where to get things.  While getting simple things, like toilet paper, can be a challenge and requires planning far in advance, I’m learning that everything I really need to survive can be found.  However it takes some work.  I live in the bush, quite literally. To get to my village requires a 4-7K bike ride on a bush road that, when it rains, can be impassable in a car. The marché in my village is usually really small, around 10 ladies, and on a good day I can get okra, eggplant, and tomatoes.  I have to bike 7K to get to a larger market, and about 16K to get to the best market around, which offers whatever is in season and some simple food staples, such as powdered milk and margarine, and a selection of African home-goods (nails, small mirrors, etc).  Anything that is more Western, like cereal or jam, or that you would want nicer then is offered at the marché, has to be purchased in Ouaga, which can be expensive (for Burkina), and requires quite the trip. 

That being said, I’ve been getting lots of questions of what do you need/ what can we send you.  Here are some care package suggestions.  The number one thing is food items- I’m a fat kid at heart and LOVE to eat, which is a problem here since getting food is a hassle and the diet here is extremely limited and bland (Would you like beans and rice, or beans and rice?). Also I divided up the list into items I have not seen in Burkina Faso, or are extremely rare, and items I can find, but are a different brand/ just not the same as in America, and things that would just make my life a little bit better -none of which I desperately need, but would love to have sometimes.  I know the list is a bit long, but most items are adapted from the generic “care-package” list.  Plus I have a lot of time to think about and crave all the foods I miss.   

Things I can’t buy here:

Brownie Mix 

Sun dried tomatoes

Dried or dehydrated fruits or vegetables (Banana chips and dried apricots are a favorite, berries would be amazing)

Granola bars/ breakfast bars/ energy bars/ bars of any kind

Granola

Trail mix

Beef Jerky

Parmesan cheese

Salsa con quaso/ nacho cheese (I’ve been lucky enough to have 2 dinners with another volunteer who had cheese in jar/can, and it made the meal so much better)

Cheese, really any type or form  

Vanilla

Any type of garlic spice

Basil & Oregano and the like

Spices: Lemon pepper, cumin, Mrs. Dash or All Spice, Taco, anything that makes food delicious  

Sauce/gravy/dressing/spice/ any type of flavorings

Nuts (NOT peanuts, pine nuts would be amazing)

Hair things (bobby pins, headbands- not to be fashionable, but it’s hot here and I have to do something with it)

Things I can buy here, but not American Brands:

Salsa (I LOVE Tostitos Mild, so if there is ever extra room in a flat rate box this would make my week!)

Cake Mix (for birthdays/holidays or breads)

Condiment packets ( can buy condiments here, but there is no way to refrigerate after opening)  

Quaker oatmeal squares/ delicious cereal

Instant oatmeal or grits (strawberries and cream or cheesy grits are my favorite)

Flavored drink mixes (I like the ones that have protein or something, so I feel like I’m adding more than just sugar to my bleach water)

Mac’n Cheese

Tuna in a bag (the tuna creations and steaks are infinitely better than anything here)

real Peanut Butter (not “All Natural”)

 

Things that would just make life a little bit better:

S’more Pop Tarts (they aren’t good for you, but they are delicious…)

Grains/carbs other then white rice, couscous, or macaroni (Israeli couscous, quinoa and orzo would be a welcome change!)

Candy/sweets (dark chocolate doesn’t seem to melt!)

“Just add water” type mixes (these have been wonderful!)

Soup packets (I’ve been craving Miso)

Bread mixes (banana, pumpkin, corn bread)

Instant mashed potatoes

maple syrup

cookies

Magazines of any sort (They are like currency to PCVs)

Any interesting news articles (I can’t even get radio signal in village, so I’m totally in the dark)

Clothes Magazines (to take to the tailor as models- I especially like Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters)

Good Books

Dr. Bronner’s magic Soap

Any Burt’s Bees product

Stationary and envelopes

Any delicious, simple recipes (especially for eggplant or okra)

Goodies for a Thanksgiving dinner, especially canned pumpkin (I’m planning ahead, because I love to eat)

Note on Packaging: Unless you are sending anything extremely light, I strongly suggest a flat rate international box. Also, taking items that are individually wrapped out of their outer packaging can save space, such as drink mixes or granola bars.

BOOBS!

I was sitting in the waiting room of the CSPS, doing my new job of taking everyone’s temperature, and couldn’t help but admire this Peul woman sitting with her baby.  She was very tall and slender, as most Peul women are, and she had exquisite soft yet defined facial features. I couldn’t help but thing, “America’s Next Top Model could do wonders with this women”.  Yet there was something off, and I didn’t know what it was until she stood up and I realized that she had abnormally large breast… that hung around her stomach like a pool float.  I couldn’t help but analyze the situation the hole rest of the time she was at the CSPS- She was skinny with such large boobs that if they were in the right spot she would be a life size Barbie.  But her boobs sagged so low she actually had to life them up when she adjusted her pagne skirt.  Her child, about a year old, could lay with his head in her lap and breast feed.  This made ne notice all the boobs in the waiting room- I see a lot of them. I mean A LOT.  

Breast feeding here is used like a pacifier at home- if a baby starts to fuss just wave a tit in it’s face.  Women walk around all the time with a boob out, just chilling, for her child to grab at any time.  Or sometimes they will be peeking out from under neither her shirt, like a game of peek-a-boo, and she may walk around like that (Why bother with a shit at all?). And the children know that they can just go up to their mother and latch on, holding a tit like they are sucking a water balloon.  I’ve even seen some babies prod and pull on their mothers breast, like they are trying to milk her into their mouth.  One little girl at the CSPS the other day was actually suckling on one tit and tweaking the nipple of the other.  Every couple of minutes she would switch boobs. If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve seen more boobs in the first month I’ve been here then most 17 year old boys.  And it’s totally no big deal for me to take a babies temperature, via the armpit, while it’s attached to a breast, or for the Major to examine a baby while it’s still on the boob.  Breast feeding is the best thing for the child, so it’s good it;s so widely accepted here, but it’s slightly odd that women are not allowed so show their kneecaps, but going topless it totally fine. 

And bras? Who needs them?!  The only women here that wear them are wealthier women that may come from functionaire families or really young mothers, like my age or younger.  No doubt that is because this is the demographic that would be most interested in Western culture.  This leads to a lot of very unfortunately shaped breasts.  One women bent over the other day to tie her biega on her back and her one breast flopped out of her shirt and hung there perfectly shaped like a sausage link.  It was all I could do not to stare, but it was long and perfectly round and looked exactly like a bratwurst.  Most women have unbelievably saggy breast, which remind me of my sister singing “do your boobs hang low” when we were children.  You know how usually you have to hold a baby up to the breast, well not here.  They have to lift the boob to the baby as it sits on the lap. Older women’s breasts hang on their chests like deflated balloons, stretched out and drained form a countless number of children.  And there is hardly a trace of breasts at all on grandmothers, they’ve almost completely been dissipated. 

No wonder I look so funny to these women, My ta-tas are in the anatomically correct position.                

The Village People

It’s hard to say that I’m really making friends in village, since I can’t speak the same language at 90% of the people around, but I’m making “friends”!  Here is a run down of the most memorable people in village:

The Major of the CSPS (the CSPS is the village health clinic), my counterpart, is a serious but friendly man.  He is middle aged, I’d say in his 40’s, and is a very hard worker.  He is nice and very patient with me and my French, but doesn’t really go out of his way to make conversation or anything like that.  I think he is a bit introverted, and leaves me to do my own thing, which is fine by me.  That said, he is quick to smile and will crack jokes, sometimes.  

There are two other immediate staff members at the CSPS, Emanuel and Sylvie.  Emanuel is another nurse/doctor type.  He is not as hard working as the Major, probably why he’s not the Major, and seems to get annoyed with people sometimes, but he is always nice to me, in a when-I’m-busy-don’t-both-me type of way.  He seems slightly more extroverted and when the CSPS is slow he tries to make conversation- usually an English/French lesson.  As long as the CSPS isn’t filled with lots of sick people, he’s a good person to ask questions to and enjoy.  Sylvie is Burkina’s version of a mid-wife/OBGYN, and is always beautifully dressed in a Comple, a full outfit made out of pagnes.  She seems the type that does not want to do any extra work/seems a little annoyed that she has to work at all.  She often has to fill in and do the Major/Emanuel’s job if one or both of them are away.  She is generally nice and patient with me, but I get the impression she views me as more work when I am sent to help her in the maternity, because of language barriers.  As a women working in Burkina she seems to has a tough, no bullshit exterior while she is working but lightens up a bit if patients aren’t around.   She is also the only functionaire woman in village, that I’ve really meet.  She passed me on her moto the other day, and she was in front driving while a man road on the back.  Now this is something you rarely see in the States, much less Burkina, so I’ve decided she must be a badass.   

Roger, the pharmacist, is the person I could actually call my friend.  He’s the one person I interact most with, as he’s the person that helps me with everything.  He is young, mid to late 20s, and has a great smile and happy personality.  Everyday he comes to my house to help me get water (You try carrying a 20L water jug on your bike!) and sometimes he brings me things that you can’t buy in village and have to “know somebody” to get, like eggs and guava.  He speaks a little English, took it in school, so between my French and his English we can usually hold a decent conversation/ he helps me understand what the hell is going on most of the time.  I’m very grateful he is around and so friendly, but I pray that he really is married, not that it matters here, and his “gifts” are not something I need to worry about. 

Then there is Allen, Claude, and Ellie, the three guys that help with some stuff at the CSPS.  I don’t see or interact with them much, but they at least speak French and know my name, so when I do s'ee them we can at least have a superficial conversation (i.e. greet each other).  It’s nice to hear someone say “Bonjour Ashley” on the street then always “nasara”.

There is one young woman I’ve meet, older then me but not by a whole lot, who I hope get to know better.  Her name is Sally and we met at the Major’s fete.  She speaks very good French and has a list of American friends I believe she said she worked with, meaning she is well educated and must either be a functionaire or come from a functionaire family.  She also had her nose pierced(!), however she is Muslim so it might be a religious thing.  She speaks Fufalda and was sad that I did not, so I’m guessing her ethnicity is Puel, so the nose ring might also be a Puel thing.  I’ve only seen her one other time and I believe she lives in a satellite village, but she is one of the only women I’ve meet that I can really speak to, outside of the CSPS, and she is very nice, so I hope to run into her again and become friends.    

I don’t know anyone else’s names, so I have given the people that I recognize and like nicknames.  First there is the "Sassy Grandma”.  The first time I meet this women she came into my yard as I was dumping a bucket is dish water and asked me why I was wearing a bar.  No joke.  At least, I think that’s what she was saying- it was all in gestures, since she speaks Moore, but she did something like folding her chest up and confining it and making the why motion and pointing at me- so clearly asking why I wear a bra, right?  Well, lady, so my boobs don’t look like yours.  The next time I saw her she tried to say something to Katie and I in Moore and all we got was eye, doctor, and money, but she spoke with such sass that I expected her to snap her fingers and say “oh, no you didn’t!"  Last week I passed her coming out of the maternity with a brand new, white baby that she proudly showed me. (Note of observation: when white babies are born, they are pink.  When black babies are born, they are white.) Now I’m pretty sure that was not her baby, unless she is the skinniest pregnant lady ever, hence “Sassy Grandma”.  She is a hoot.   

Then there is the “Head Lady”.  I’ve only seen this lady a hand full of times, but every time I see her she asks why I’m not carrying things on my head.  usually she asks why I am not carrying my water jug on my head (as translated through Roger).  Are you crazy, lady?  I can barely life a full water jug, much less put is on my head.  And then I saw a 10 year old girl carry one on her head…  The last time I saw her she asked why I had nothing on my head and told me that she was carrying sticks on her head, and she was, in fact, carrying a woodpile on her 70 year old head.  She has a big toothless smile and I love seeing this old woman. 

Next there is the “come woman” (come means water in Moore, pronounced like comb).  I think her husband is currently living at the CSPS with a bad head injury, and she has been there to care for him.  I’ve seen her there everyday for about the last 2 to 3 weeks, and she is always followed around by a 4 or 5 year old “little man” whom I presume is a grandson.  He is rather cute as well, a shy yet self assured little boy.  When there are people in the waiting area is a bashful, but when no one is around he warms up to me.  I think he is bored at the CSPS all day everyday and just wants someone to play with.  The first time I met “come lady” she was highly amused that I carried water with me in a nalgene and then kept offering me her water because she knew I wouldn’t/couldn’t drink it.  Everyday for the first week I saw this women she would greet me and then rub her arm and point at mine and then make the “leaving” hand gesture.  I can only infer something about me being white and either when am I going back or why did I come.  Anyways she always jokes about me being white, like how babies are scared of me, and now anytime I have any marks on my skin, like the heat rash I’ve acquired on my neck, she always points it out.  She seems really amused that there is a white girl living in village.  I actually have no idea what she’s saying ever, besides the greetings, but she seems completely good natured and always seems happy to see me. 

I have 2 favorite older men.  First there is my “Moore teacher”.  This man has been at the CSPS everyday for the last good while, and I think his daughter or someone is there with malaria.  He only speaks to me in Moore, even though I’m pretty sure he secretly speaks French well.  He tries to teach me something new in Moore every time I see him, often several times a day.  I’ve got head, stomach, hand, nose and mouth down.  He’s very friendly and really appreciates my efforts.  My second favorite older man I don’t really have a name for, but he really amuses me.  He is very tall and sturdy, in his 60s or 70s, and reminds me of an African “Big Bob”.  He always wears long pants and a long-sleeve button up, despite the heat, and wears a nit winter hat loosely on the top of his head and carries around a messenger bag from some vaccination campaign USAID did that always appears to be empty.  He always stops in the side of the path to shake my hand and smiles big with is missing nubbins for teeth that are always orange from Kola nuts.            

Then there are all the “petites”.  There are a lot, a lot of children that mill around my house all the time.  And often there seems to be one or two new ones that I don’t recognize, a new face.  There are a couple that I don’t mind in a small group, but more then 5 gets to be too much and makes me feel like a sideshow attraction.  There is one little girl that doesn’t come around that often, but I love running into her.  I call her my “African Ava”.  She is about baby Ava’s age and has a very similar, adorable personality.  Without sounding racist, She actually looks a bit like a black version of Ava.  I just learned her name is Emma, and doesn’t “Emma and Ava” just sound like they should be friends and play princesses together. I could actually see her twirling in a princess dress, but I doubt she has ever seen a TV, much less knows what Disney is. 

My favorite petite is a 5 or 6 little girl that is named Angle or Angela or some form there of, and is at my house most often.  She is the granddaughter of the Chief de Village, and therefore lives in the neighboring compound.  She is too little to speak any French and doesn’t speak Moore, so I literally have no way of talking to her besides sign language.  She is very sweet and cute, slightly shy, and always smiling at me.  She is happy to just sit next to me in my courtyard while I read or write, which I like opposed to other children that try to ask me for things or want to show me things or speak in some language at me that I can’t understand.  She is usually accompanied with one of two other little girls, one of which is named Kristine, but she is my favorite. 

There is also one little boy, maybe 7 or 8, that I get a kick out of.  He speaks a little French, so we can communicate a tinny bit.  He seems a little mischievous and is full of personality, but in a fun way, like the kind of little boy you can tease and play with, but know that it’s all in fun and when you politely ask him to leave he will.  I have a hard time getting the petites to leave me alone sometimes. 

And then there is my mouse, Jared.  When I first found him I thought he was kind of cute and told him not to run away from me.  I even would leave him my leftovers in a tuna can, thinking if I gave him food he wouldn’t get into mine, and we could be friends and I’d call him Gus and he’d sing to me and make me a dress for the ball. False.  So I named him Jared instead, after my favorite Pike Floyd song.  Now every night when I lock up my kitchen I play the “What will Jared Eat” game, a game I use to play with Big Bunny only I was actually trying to feed Big, and take everything I think he will eat into my other room.  Attempt number one to get ride of Jared failed- I mixed up a rat poison and foods he usually eats concoction and left it out for him, but he just ate the cheese off the top and moved on to eat my tomatoes on the table.     

There are tons of other children and people, but those are the ones that stand out.  It will be amusing to read this in two years and see what my thoughts are about these people and all the new people I’ve meet. 

FML

My life, it seems, has turned into a series of FML moments. (For my family who isn’t up with pop culture, FML is an expression used when something awkward, ironic, or bad happens to you but in a comical way. Kind of like “my life is a joke”) The joke that there should be a Peace Corps FML website started during Stage when a couple of my friends and I biked 5k to our favorite “American” restaurant only to be disappointed that everything we actually wanted to eat was “finished,” then we biked another 2k to find internet, during which time we got caught in a rain storm.  My friend Austin was wearing blue printed pagne pants that he got made here in Burkina, and the dye from the fabric started running and staining his skin blue, inspiring this comment, “I just biked several miles to eat laughing cow cheese smeared on a stale baguette and then get caught in a torrential downpour causing my goofy-ass, badly tailored pants, made out cheap made-in-china pagnes, to literally turn my balls blue, in the middle of West Africa- FML!”  It’s true, as PCVs we’re constantly put in situations what are strange, bizarre, and totally ridiculous to the average American, leading us to ponder is this seriously my life?

It was confirmed that my life is now a joke on 13th day of being at site.  It started off just as any other day- woke up at 6 a.m. to the sound of the Chief de Village’s wives pounding corn in the neighboring compound, got dressed, ate my cornflakes and powdered milk, and was to work at the CSPS just after 8 a.m.  Despite the CSPS “opening” at 7:30, the staff straggled in around 8:20. After helping prepare the supplies for the trachoma campaign we had been doing that week in all the surrounding villages, I was told that the satellite village they were going to today was “too far” (12K- less then I have to bike to buy groceries) and the route was pas bon, and I was to reste ici for the day. I suspect they just didn’t want to wait for me to ride my bike while they were on motos, but I needed to go to the marche in a neighboring village anyways so I was fine with not going.  After about an hour of sitting awkwardly in the consultation room watching the Major see patients, he told me I should go to the marche now, because today was the end of Ramadan and he was having a fete at 12 or 1 this afternoon.  Alright, that sounds like a plan; so I hopped on my bike and start the 7K ride, not thinking too much about the midday heat.

Now my trip to the neighboring village was two-fold: first of all, I desperately needed a washbasin so that I can finally do laundry, and secondly I needed to confer with Katie, the volunteer that lives there, about going to the district capital on Monday.  After about 45 minutes to an hour of peddling, I roll up to Katie’s house, only to find it empty.  I had rode past her CSPS on the way and didn’t see her bike, so I knew she wasn’t there… balls! I wait about 10 minutes hoping that she’d show up, I’m hot and sweaty from the ride so I finish off the last of the water that I had brought and I search for cell service, which you can usually get at her house, before I give up and bike over to the marche- maybe she’s already there?  Once I get to the marche I’m disheartened to find that the marche is also empty.  Then it occurs to me that today is the end of Ramadan, this area is predominantly Muslim, and all of the venders are probably within that huge group of people I saw flocking to the mosque on my way into town.  My Major is Muslim, and has lived here for years, couldn’t he have tuned me into the fact that everything closes down for the end of Ramadan before sending me on my way?

So I turn around and head home, empty handed, completely failing at both things I had biked there for.  I got just to the outskirts of Katie’s village and finally picked up just enough cell service to receive the text she sent my the day before, telling me that she would be out with the trachoma campaign in the morning and that I should come in the afternoon.  Perfect.  Wish I would have known that before i left for my failed mission. 

As I’m biking into my own village I run into Roger, the pharmacist.  I tell him where I’m coming from and he immediately tells me that there, in fact, would not be a marche today because of the Ramadan fete.  Hmm…  so that common knowledge… I asked him about the Major’s fete and he told me he’d come to my house between 12 and 1 to get me and we’d go to the fete together.  Great, less awkwardness for me! I get home just before 12, down some water and wash up a bit, as I’m a sweat mess, and wait for Roger.  And wait.  And wait.  Finally at 1:30 I get a little anxious about being late to the fete (maybe I miss heard Roger say he’d come get me?), and start to make my way over to the Major’s house, which, mind you, I’ve never been to before and only vaguely know where it is.

I get to his house with relative ease and discover I’m the first guest that isn’t family there.  okay, so I came over a half hour late and was still the first to arrive; I’ll keep that in mind for next time.  I’m ushered into the house and asked to take a seat in the living room with the Major, while the children and some people I don’t know sit outside.  The Major’s wife serves me beesap (delicious hibiscus flower juice), chicken, and prawn chips and I am told to eat, alone.  I am relieved a few minutes later when the other 5 men that work at the CSPS/ help with sorties arrive and join me on the couches.  I’m so excited to eat meat, haven’t done that in 13 days, and the chicken looks real good, but I reserve myself from looking like a fat American in front of my new colleges and try not to inhale the entire plate in front of me.  I limit myself to only 5 pieces, comparable to what the men took.  As I’m sitting, silently, in the Major’s living room, listening to the men talk and me not understanding a word, I realized 3 things.  First, there were no other women in the house, except his wife who was cooking and serving us.  At one point, Alice, the lady who cleans the CSPS, came and ate inside, but not in the circle we were in.  Second, I realized this was a preview of the next 2 years- me with a bunch of men, in a man’s world, feeling awkward because I can’t understand what they are talking about.  This shall be a fun adventure.  Third, about 30 minutes after being there and eating I realized that something wasn’t settling right in my stomach and I was going to be sick, not vomiting sick, but sick none the less.  Almost immediately after eating I could feel it in my entire GI tract, from my esophagus to the anus.  My stomach felt like a rock and I had gurgling in both my upper and lower intestines, everything felt bloated, and I could feel my esophagus, which I think is heart burn?  After about 2 hours of sitting, silently, very uncomfortable, I excuse myself, primarily because I need to bike as fast as I can to my larine.

After hovering over my latrine for a few minutes I looked at my watch and realized I really needed to go- I needed to bike out to the main road to make a phone call, and if I waited much later I’d be biking home in the dark, which is a death wish on my road.  I had planed to meet another volunteer in Ouaga that weekend, however we were doing the trachoma sorti at the CSPS and I needed to push back our plans a couple days.  Seeing as today was Friday, I really needed to firm up those plans.  I pop some Pepto and get on my bike.  On the bush road to the main road, a man passes me on a moto and stops.  I, like a normal person, turn my head to see why he stopped, and the next thing I know I run into a tree stump and am being hurled over my handlebars.  It was like a scene from a movie when a man passes a pretty girl and turns to stare and runs into something, only I just wanted to know why he had stopped just behind me.  I didn’t suffer any bad injuries, just a bleeding toe and my right thigh had been ejected into the metal handle bar and had a nasty burse already forming.  As I picked myself up and got back on my bike I couldn’t help thinking how this day keeps getting better and better.  Finally, after the 4K ride on the bush road and then another Kilometer on the main road to actually find cell service I am able to make my call, all the while thinking “this guy better really appreciate this phone call, I just went over my handlebars while biking 5K to make it AND my intestines feel like they are dying.”  After a less then 10 minute call, I turned around biked the 5K home.

Now there is one part on the bush road I call the swamp monster, because anytime is rains the whole large section turns into a swamp and is almost impassable.  You his this part of the road and it literally eats your bike.  I’ve only made it through is part without getting stuck in mud or wading through a puddle a handful of times.  So of course this time I try for the driest entry point and immediately the mud is too thick for me to peddle through.  So I get off and drag my bike to the nearest spot with firm looking ground, only to discover that in the process of getting stuck my chain fell off my bike.  It’s already getting pretty dark and my stomach is gurgling, but this seems like a perfect for a bike lesson on how to put the chain back on.   

Nothing notable happened that evening, I cooked dinner and got ready for bed, until about 9 p.m. when I got the urge to run to the bathroom.  It was pitch black out and I barely had time to grab my head lamp and the very last of a role of toilet paper, but I made it.  When I tried to exit my latrine, however, I realized that in my haste I had pulled the latrine door too far shut and now the out side latch was stuck in the doorframe.  I pushed and I pulled and did every little jiggle I could think of, but that door was not opening.  I half expected to spend most of my night in the latrine anyways, but couldn’t I at least get some more toilet paper first? At this point I remembered that my headlamp battery was in the red.  This is just great, I’m going to be stuck in my latrine all night with no light and no toilet paper. I thought to myself, “ok, let me get this straight- I woke up this morning to women pounding shit next door, I made a 14K round trip to a closed marche with no Katie, then I went to a fete where I got sick off the food, to then get thrown over my handlebars on the 10K round trip just to make a freakin’ phone call, and now I’m stuck in my latrine… FML!” Out of sheer panic I yanked that latrine door so far back that broke off the outside latch and bent the tin in a way that has still not recovered three weeks later.                                

Chez Moi!

The descriptions I was given of my house seem pretty accurate, and I will try not to be too repetitive here as I have already described bits and pieces of my house.  But I know everyone at home is curious to know what my “hut” is like.  First, it is not a hut.  The inside:

   

I was pleased to find that the top half of my walls were painted a teal color, which really helps to brighten up the place.  These pictures are of my smaller room.  As you can see, or maybe not, it’s still a pretty good size.  As you can also see, I have no furniture except my “bed”, which serves as an interesting challenge since I can’t readily buy furniture in village and I can’t very well bike furniture to my house.  Can you rent a donkey cart for a day?

 

My hanger area is just outside my bedroom door.  It’s a decent size, about the size of my little room, and I can easily keep my bike out here during the day and sit in the afternoons to catch a slight breeze or keep the petites from crowding my front door.  The square looking thing in the corner is a rabbit pen!  Or an attempted rabbit pen. Rob had a rabbit that he was given as a gift to eat and decided to keep, and Roger built him this pen for the rabbit (it originally had a tin roof).  Unfortunately it was not kitty proof, and the rabbit’s first night in the pen he was attacked by a cat and died (which is odd since I have yet to see a cat in village, maybe because people eat cats around here).  I’m not sure what I’ll make of it, since I cannot bear to lose another rabbit after Mr. Big, but for now the children like to sit of it when they come to stare at me. 

There are two downfalls to my hanger.  The first is that there is no door.  This means I cannot shut the petites out.  I’ve been trying to teach them that if I am outside, they may be under the hanger with me; this is not all that bad, sometimes they sing or play games for me.  But if I am inside they may not be under my hanger, and, for the love of God, they cannot crowd around my door and watch me.  This has been hard to convey since I cannot shut them out and since only a few of the older ones speak a little French, most do not even speak Moore, and I cannot ask or explain to them my boundaries.  Shooing them away works sometimes, but often is confused for a twisted game of peek-a-boo.  Not having a hanger door also allows animals to wander about at will.  When it rains I often have goats or dogs seeking refuge under my hanger.  While I’ve never seen a cow or donkey actually under my hanger, they are often in my courtyard and I have to skirt around them to get to the latrine.  Also these little guys often come to visit a lot:         

The other downfall to my hanger is that I have to go out and around it to get to the kitchen, since my rooms are not connected by a doorway.  Unfortunately there is only one entrance to my hanger, and it’s not in the direction of my other room.  My other room, or the big room as I often refer to it as, is quite large for my standards:

I tried to take a panorama of the whole room, but could really only get about half.  Buts lets just say I’m pretty sure you could fit all of Katie’s house in my big room.  As you can see, the big room is nearly completely empty.  Thankfully Roger brought me tables, so I’m not cooking on the floor, but it’s still pretty comical to cook in the big empty room.  The down sides to the big empty room, besides being empty, is that there are no real windows and no screen on the double door or the ceiling vents, meaning bats come at night.  I don’t mind them though, they eat the mosquitoes, that also come in at night.  Hence sleeping in the little room. I am starting to mind, however, Jared, my mouse, who also comes in at night.  He was alright, kind of cute, until this morning I found mouse poop in my Special K, which cost more then 3 or 4 dinners and I can only buy it in Ouaga, which I’m not okay with.  Biting into my tomatoes and cheese is one thing, but NOT the Special K!  Anyways, back to my house, I have high hopes for the big room, once I figure out how to get a big kitchen table and maybe some chairs.  It would be perfect for hosting holiday gatherings, like Thanksgiving (Except for the whole biking-in-all-necessary-supplies-since-I-can’t-buy-anything-here part).          

Just outside my house is my latrine and douche.        There is not much to it- on the right is the latrine and on the left is the shower area.  They are separated by a cement wall.  The latrine, as you can see, is just a hole in the ground.  The douche looks exactly the same, only there is no hole in the ground.  Instead the is a hold in the base of the back wall, so that the bath water can drain out.  The whole set up is actually not that bad.  I mean, yes, a toilet is a treat, but squatting under a full moon and a bright nights sky has it’s upside too.  And I love to bucket bathe just at dusk, when it’s still hot from the day so the cold (a.k.a.room temperature) water is delightful and I get to watch the last of the day’s light turn orange and pink over the palm trees. 

    

       (view from the kitchen)

Right in front of my house, or I should say just down the path, is the marche and dolo bar, which happens ever 3 days.  It’s just past that building with the blue door that claims to be a telephone (there is no electricity here… how can there be a telephone?), where you can kind of see the stick and thatched roof hangers.  On a good marche day I can buy eggplants, corn, okra, tomatoes, and limes.  I’ve also seen hot peppers, what they call “local eggplants,” and I once saw cabbage and these small yellow round things that I’m not sure if it was a type of melon or squash.  Next time I think I will buy one and experiment.  The marche ladies only speak Moore, so buying from them includes a lot of pointing, nodding, and them picking the correct amount of money out of my hand.  The dolo bar (bar as in log benches under thatched hangers) is always popular on marche day, but despite the only butcher being in the dolo bar I try to avoid that area.  I haven’t quite the courage to try the butcher, perhaps because he is drinking dolo while cutting up unidentified meat on a rock slab outside, or to try the dolo (local beer).  I’ve been told there is also two boutiques in that area, that look exactly like the building in the photo with the blue door, with the very, very basic necessities, but I have yet to go to either.    

Other then that I only have two neighboring compounds. To the front left of my house is the Chief de Village compound.  I’m not sure how many people live there; there seems to be a swarm of children and maybe his son, who is at least in his 40s, and every morning at 6 a.m. there are 2 or 3 women out front pounding something in giant mortars and pestles, I can only assume for To.  The Chief himself is an older gentleman, somewhere in his 60s I would guess, and seems to always be sitting in a chair under the big tree on the left in the left-hand picture below, wearing a bright orange hat (the hats that are not hats that Muslims wear, I can’t think of what they are called).  He and most of his family, including a number of the children that often find themselves in my courtyard, only speak Nounie.    

   

My other neighboring compound is off to the back left, and I have yet to meet them or figure out who lives there.  They keep to them selves, or maybe it’s empty?  I couldn’t get a photo, but I snuck the Chief’s house from my window.  While I don’t really have neighbors, I’m still right in the middle of “town” because I’m near the marche and right off of 2 heavily used paths.  I can’t share what the outside of my house looks like because I don’t want anyone to know I have a camera, but I do enjoy the fact that there is actually a sign out front that it is a cereal bank.

The CSPS is a short bike ride away, and there is a primary school that is also a short bike ride away.  My village itself is very small, around 800 people, but the CSPS serves about 10 other neighboring villages as well.  The first week I could find a bar or two of cell phone service, but now all the spots I found seem to be dried up and I’ve resorted to biking 5K to the main road to make any phone calls or send a text message, and even then the reso is not great.  I am, however, very lucky to have close PCV neighbors.  I see Katie once or twice a week; we started visiting each other every Sunday to have lunch together and make upcoming plans, then I try to make it once a week to the marche in her village, since it is bigger then mine.  We also head down to our district capital about every 2 weeks, more or less, to go to a grand marche and the post, as well as seeing 2 or 3 other volunteers.  Overall, Village is not a bad set-up!     

Affectation

August 29th was the big day, the day that each volunteer both looks forward to and dreads, the day the Peace Corps SUV unpacks all our belongings and leaves us, alone, in an unfamiliar village in the middle of an unfamiliar country, which does not speak English.

I was the second volunteer of three to be unloaded from my car.  When Lauren and I left Katie, standing in her courtyard with several men fussing over her house, I felt a slight pang –“oh no! I’m next!”- and had to take a few deep breaths to fight off a slight panic.  It wasn’t long before the Land Cruiser turned off the main road and into the bush.  We seemed to be on that dirt, pothole-filled, road for a good bit of time, and while I was filled with nervous anticipation and excitement, all I could think about was This road is going to be fun to bike on…  good grief!  No wonder all the cars here are off-roaders! 

Finally we pulled up to chez moi! It is a good size, government built building (meaning it’s built out of real construction materials and not mud-bricks), with high ceilings.  It’s right in-between a “road” and a heavily used path.  My burning pit is right next to my house, but as it is the rainy season it is filled with green stagnant water. my Latrine and shower is just off to the right of the front of my house; neither of which are the nicest I’ve seen, but certainly could be way worse.  As soon as the car pulled up we were swarmed by 20 or so “petites” and a couple women.  They didn’t say anything, just stared at the two foreign white chicks and were probably wondering which one of us was moving in.  Finally after a short wait the Major (my counterpart) came with the key to my house.  Since I live in a cereal bank facility, I have 2 rooms, one small and one large, that are not connected.  The Major only had the key to the little room, which was to become my bedroom since it’s the room with windows and screens on the door.  We unpacked my things from the car, the driver changed the lock on my one door, he gave the Major a little spiel about how “I was now his daughter” (or something like that, it was in French), gave me a little pep-talk where he kept repeating “du courage”, I gave Lauren a huge goodbye, and then watched the Peace Corps car drive away as 20 or so strangers stared at me. It was all over in the blink of an eye.                    

The Major told me to sit down under my hanger, but the only piece of furniture Rob had left me was a broken chair, so the Major sent a man to fetch a chair.  Once he returned the Major, this man, and I sat in my courtyard for what seemed like forever.  It was past noon and I was tired, overwhelmed, and starving, but we sat, mainly in silence, with a crowd of children watching us, I’m guessing waiting for the key to my other room to show up (which apparently was with someone in another village).  Another man came with a 20L jug of water, then left and returned with a baguette and 2 cans of sardines for me.  It was only slightly awkward and uncomfortable, especially when the men started talking about my bike (the PC gives us pretty nice, brand new Trek mountain bikes).  Finally then men left me to settle in, after about an hour or so,  …but not the petites. 

I went inside my room and set up my lit pico (woven cot) and started to organize my belongings.  I couldn’t put kitchen or food items in the kitchen, because that door was still locked (it’s PC policy that your stove cannot be in the same room you sleep, so by default the big room was the kitchen), so I just created a “kitchen pile”.  I also didn’t have any other furniture, so I couldn’t unpack my clothes.  So really “unpacking” consisted or moving piles of things into other/more piles of things, all while a group of children watched me with curiosity with their faces pressing against my screen door.  We had been told that we had to set boundaries with the children from the very beginning, but me being timid and quickly learning that the children really don’t speak French, I didn’t know how to politely ask them to leave my hanger.  After one older girl tried to actually open my screen door I had had enough and told them “Bilfu” (Goodbye in Moore) and closed my metal door.  Finally alone, I didn’t know what else to do but curl up on my bed that take it all in (a.k.a. nap). 

A few hours later I head men talking and commotion outside.  I took a little peak and someone had come with the other key.  I didn’t really feel like more awkward interactions in broken French, so I kept my door closed and hoped they didn’t need me.  After a little while, and after the commotion seemed to simmer, I built up the courage to face life.  Also, I really had to pee.  Only one man was left, the one who had brought me water and the food, and he was sweeping out my autra chambre.  I soon learned his name was Roger.  He gave me the key and showed me how to lock the door (the door handle is…  almost finished), and also set up my gas tank and stove (which is on the floor, since I’m sans table).  Then he asked if I needed anything else and bid me goodnight.  The rains soon followed- good omen or bad? 

It was already dark and actually making dinner seemed like a daunting task at that point in time, so I ate a meal bar from a care package I had just received (THANKS MOM!) and curled up on my bed with my head lamp and a book. What a day!               

Swear-In!

After our final Moore class, after the last French technical session, after a talent show, after our last dinner at the training center, after packing for the second to last time, we headed into Ouaga for our swear in ceremony! 

On my 74th day with the Peace Corps, I became an official Peace Corps volunteer!  We arrived at the US Embassy a full hour early.  We did a quick little run through of what we had to do and then were urged to sit in our seats and wait.  and wait.  and it was dreadfully hot and we were all starving and in need of water (or at least I since the timing of the thing hit where there was just enough time for breakfast but not for lunch before we had to get ready and bussed out).  Finally after everyone arrived and were seated the ceremony began.  There were a good number of important people there, including representatives from some of the major aid organizations in Burkina Faso, like US AID, and the US ambassador and the first lady of Burkina Faso.  All the current PCVs that had helped with our training were there and also some other PCVs that just wanted to come.  Our Country director spoke, and then a few volunteers gave speeches in their local language, then some other speeches, and then finally we took the oath.  The oath is the same oath of service to the US government that the president takes when he swears into office.  And the a few other speeches and a dance troop, and then all the new volunteers are presented to the important people by standing in a line, a very long line, and everyone shook our hands one by one, including the first lady!, as they entered into the reception area. 

After the ceremony was over we all made a mad dash into the reception hall to find a bottle of cold water (and maybe a glass of champagne…) and the finger foods that were floating around.  There were a couple cakes with the Peace Corps/Burkina Faso emblem on them that i was lucky enough to get a piece of and were delicious.  The reception only lasted a little over an hour, that that was all it took for the drinks to run out (the food ran out with in the first 15ish minutes), and once all the dignitaries left there was lots of picture taking and we started to get a little loud and silly.  Promptly at 19:00 our Country Director shooed us towards the Peace Corps vehicles that were waiting for us. 

Once back at the hotel the celebration continued.  For whatever reason our dinner plans at a nice restaurant were canceled in favor of ordering pizza, but I didn’t mind because this was the best pizza is all the BF (it had real blue cheese on it!).  Then after much attempt to get people mobilized, a large group finally made our way to downtown and to a restaurant/bar/hookah bar/ really delicious ice cream place to kill a little time before the dance clubs opened up.  From there we went to a club that happened to be only Peace Corps volunteers and we all flooded the dance floor.  It was a blast to meet the current volunteers and see all the new volunteers open up after weeks of training. 

After a little time there most of the club decided to change venues since the DJ kept talking too much.  What was suppose to be a short walk (we were being lead by old volunteers that knew the city) turned into what seemed like forever, but we finally made it.  This club was jammed pack with Burkinabe.  There were a lot of men and a few couples, but also quite a few prostitutes.  This was a down and dirty club in the BF (one girl had her purse yanked out of her hand, but she got it back), but was a ton of fun.  I was sitting at the outside bar with friends drinking a water (no seriously, I was sweating balls dancing in the hot club and only wanted water) and two of my guy friends who were sitting on the other end of the bar alone were approached by 2 prostitutes, it was really interesting to watch.  It’s good to be reminded that even though we are a bunch of American's and we’re all together, we’re still in the middle of Africa. Inside the club all the PCVs grouped together and danced like crazy.  The music was just right, even the melody of the 3 world cup songs that was played over and over again. 

The clubs here don’t start until midnight, and don’t seems to shut down until dawn.  Finally at 4ish I looked at my watch and thought “oh crap, I got to go to bed”, and joined a group that was headed home.  Tomorrow is a big day- I had to buy all the necessary things for my house as I get shipped off to site early Sunday morning!