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.  

Happy New Year!

I can hardly believe it’s already 2011!  Gosh that feels weird to write.  It was even weirder to spend my first New Years in…  6 years? not with my sister in South Carolina.  I was a kind of quite night, but still a fun New years.  Josh and I traveled down to the other side of the country to spend New Years with friends in Gaoua, a small city in the South-West.  A small city, but it still has running water, electricity, paved roads, and street lights, so not really that small of a city.  There, we met up with Shannon, Kyle, Austin, and a new health volunteer named Hailey.  We sat around until dinner time asking the new girl (her stage arrived in mid October) about what had happened back home since we had left and listening to new music.  All of us but Kyle had only been gone 6 months (Kyle a year), but being in the US seems like ssoooo long ago.  We were also eager to hear any new, or new to us, music that she had.  Finally at around 7:30 we decided as a group that we were hungry and called for a cab to take us into town.  While we waited for our food to be ready Hailey and I went out to stock up on sparkling wine, because what’s new years without a little champagne?  We ate a delicious dinner and I was amazed then the spaghetti came out with real cheese on top! (there is no cheese in this country…  Where did they get it?!)

After dinner we went back home and hung out some more until midnight.  A couple minutes till someone realized the time and shouted it it was almost the new year, we had to get ready.  We poured our glasses with champagne (rouge sparkling wine, it’s the only thing we could find), and as we tried to count down the time realized that everyone’s watch said a different time.  Not having a TV or watching a ball drop, having no way of knowing what the real time was, we made a group decision to just count down to zero and call it good.  Three…  two… one…. Happy New Year! 

After the New Year’s toast the men went outside to smoke cigars and try to be manly.  The conversation was mainly about football and sports, it was kind of funny.  Finally at 1 Josh and I decided it was late and we needed to go to bed.  We went to grab our bikes to head back to the hotel, only to discover that once again I had a flat tire.  We tried our best to pump it up just to get us home (hey, it worked on my Birthday), but neither one of us could pump the tire at all (The pumps we were given are real fickle and can be hard to work).  Fine, we’ll just walk our bike home.  After 5 or 10 minutes of walking we decided to try something we see Burkinabe do all the time- one person pedals while the other sits on the back of the bike and pulls the other bike along.  For reasons I now can’t remember, there was no way I was going to be the one on the back holding the other bike.  So I climbed up onto Josh’s bike (it’s a man’s bike and a lot bigger then mine) and tried to pedal while he sat on the back.  Nope, not going to happen.  Back to walking. 

When we were almost home, Josh was stopped by a Gendarme as we passed a bar.  He may have tried to stop me too, but when I’m walking out at night I put blinders on and walk with a mission to get home, so I didn’t notice him until he stopped Josh behind me.  “Give me money”, he said to Josh.  Taken off guard Josh relied “what?”.  “Give me money!” the police man said again.  He had clearly had a little too much to drink.  Thankfully another man saw this and intervened, and Josh quickly walked away telling me to “walk fast” before the Gendarme had anymore ideas.  We were both glad to finally get home and go to bed.               

Merry Christmas!

True to Christmas form, as soon as Josh, Lauren, and I woke up on Christmas morning we chowed down on the left over eggrolls.  We lazed around for a bit until Josh heard the Catholic choir start singing and we went off to church.  The Catholic church is just up the street from his house and was jam packed full of people.  There were about a hundred people huddled around the outside of the church and another 50 or so under a big baobab  tree across the street.  Apparently this is the normal church size for them.  Someone needs to come build them a mega church!  Josh has gone to the catholic church before, but there is never enough room and you can’t hear the service from outside, so he prefers the smaller protestant church across village.  

 

They had just gotten started by the time we got there, so we tried to sneak in the back.  But being the only two white people there, it’s a little hard to sneak in, and everyone turned around to check us out.  Or really, to check me out, since they are use to Josh coming to church and were curious to see who his femme was.  We sat down in the back row and tried to blend in.  The church was small and everyone was packed in.  There was a man upfront asking questions about the Christmas story to the congregation and giving bonbons to whomever answered, he explained to us in French.  I would have tried to answer them, since Josh had read me the Christmas story form Matthew and Luke just that morning, but I honestly couldn’t tell whether the man was speaking in French or local language.  The local language there is different then my local language and the French accent was slightly different too.  After the Q&A, the choir began to sing and everyone stood up to sing along.  The man who had lead the questions came to next to Josh and translate into French for us, since all the songs were in local language.  He explained that someone from each neighborhood of the village was going to come up to the front and lead the congregation in a song, however there are only 4 neighborhoods in the village and way more then 4 people went up to sing.  There was a drum or two, sort of like a bongo drum, that accompanied the singing.  For each song everyone stood and swayed, some people clapped their hands, a couple men had shakers, some people got down and boogied- there was a certain dance move for the women and one for the men, and some of the men got real into it, shacking their butts like a Ricky Martin video.   I don’t want to sound rude, but it was sort of hilarious.  I only recognized one of the hymns, when a big, well dressed women lead us in “Joy to the World” in French, all the rest were African hymns.  After about a half hour and all the people had stopped filtering in I realized that all the women were sitting on the right side, the children in the middle isle, and all the men on the left hand side of the church.  There was a man standing in the back who sat people as them came in, moving children around to make room for adults.  I was sitting on the left side with Josh, and wondered why they do the separation and what kind of cultural taboo I was causing.  No wonder everyone stared at me when I (we) sat down.  I said something to Josh and asked if I should join the women on the women’s side, but he insisted that I should stay right there next to him.  I’ll know better next time. 

After an hour and a half Josh leaned into me saying we should leave.  All the singing was still taking place, we had left Lauren home alone, and were expecting another PCV to come at any time.  I wanted to stay, but he said we’d be there at least another 2 hours, so thinking of dinner I agreed.  Outside we greeted the pastor, who had stepped out to salue  us, we thanked him and he thanked us for coming. 

Back at the home front Lauren and Shannon were waiting for us.  Josh and I went over to the chief de village’s house to wish him a joyeux noel and fetch the turkey.  After giving Josh the mission of getting us a bird earlier that week, he had asked the Chief where to find a turkey.  The next night when he went to the Chief’s for dinner, the Chief surprised him with a giant turkey, saying “I got you the biggest one I could find!” The Chief looked after the turkey for us until we were ready to kill it.  None of us had ever killed a bird before ourselves, so I encouraged Josh to ask for help.  I was thankful when the Chief sent 2 of his sons along with us.  Josh was determined to try is hand at butchering dinner, so he pinned down the bird as we had watched Chris do at Thanksgiving.  He had received a Swiss army knife from his parents for Christmas and was eager to use it, however the bird was big and the knife blade was small and it didn’t work as well as he had hoped.  After a good couple minutes of the bird not really bleeding out and still gasping for air, the three of us girls brought him a bigger, really sharp knife and insisted that he use it.  Finally one of the Chief’s sons stepped in and with one quick swoop slight the throat the right way. 

      

After it bled out the girls had the hot water ready and the cluster of children we had attracted were eager to pluck the turkey for us.  Fine by me.  Josh wanted to try and gut the turkey himself, but I was not about to have the intestines nicked and ruin Christmas dinner, so with my encouragement he asked his neighbor to help.  We watched carefully though, so next time he can do it himself (when we’re not hosting a big dinner for other people…)   He then light the charcoal, put potatoes in the bottom of a huge marmite, and put in the bird as I made up the first butter (well, Blue Band) baste. 

Three hours or so later the bird was ready, just as the girls finished up the rest of the cooking.  Josh had largely been in charge of cooking the bird and I have to give him props, it turned out very well.  We set the table- mashed potatoes and gravy (thank you, Aunt Vicki, for the gravy mixes!), stuffing, salad, challah bread, cooked beets and carrots, and, of course, turkey.  It was everything I had been dreaming of. 

           

Once we were all stuffed Shannon pulled out her Christmas surprise.  She had received a gingerbread man decorating kit in a Christmas package, so the three of us girls decorated gingerbread men.  Then to bring Christmas day to an end, I brought out the in-French storybook about a snowman that Aunt Sharon had sent me.  We passed the book around and took turns reading a page or two.  Here is Shannon reading to us in French.  And with that, to all a goodnight.    

  

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.