Pictures!

My little brother in my hat.



The French teachers staying with us and my host sisters.



My room in Toma.



My host sisters and brother!




It's a bit hard to upload pictures here so these will have to do. I will get some more up and some more posts next time I have the internet (in a month or so). Until then take care!

Moving In

August 27th, 2009

After a much needed night of sleep I spent today dusting, scrubbing, sweeping and cleaning. My room had collected a large amount of dust in everything from several months of vacancy I was determined to get it as clean as possible before starting to get it dirty again! I started by cleaning out all the furniture which consisted of a closet and a table with a draw which was inhabited by a lizard of some sort. I dusted the surfaces that I could find and swept the floor. One room down one to go! Next was the bathroom. I had bought some Ajax in Ouaga for exactly this purpose and set to work with a brush, cleaning the layers of grime off of the once white tiling. It made a big different. Next I did what I could for the toilet and sink with some success, but still not “clean”. And then I was done for the day. Time to go use that internet that I’d been looking forward to!

My computer lab is just a short walk away from my house and is connected to the cyber. I went to ask one of the frères what I needed to do to use the internet. And so the bad news began.

“The internet isn’t working today.”

“Oh,” I said remembering the many times the internet in all of Oahigouya would cut out for days at a time, “how long has it been down?”

“About a month”

“Oh” I said, a bit more worried now, this didn’t seem like your small breakdown in service, “when will it be up again?”

“I don’t know,” was the response followed by a description that included such words as the government, 1,000,000 CFA, payment, and company.

I later found out that not only was the internet at CAFT out, but it had been the only source for internet in a 45km radius. And all my dreams of being in touch with the world went out the window. There would be no Skype and no email. I wouldn’t have access to US or world news. I couldn’t depend on Google and Wikipedia to answer all my random questions about the world. I was cut off, isolated, and more so than I had ever prepared myself for.

--------------------------

Update: There is hope that the problem will be resolved. From what I can tell the ministry of education of Burkina was paying to keep that connection up as part of a country wide program to provide internet access. Apparently every year the connection gets cut for a certain period of time, but it should be back up sometime in the first half of next year.

Until then if you want to get in touch with me you can send me a letter at:

Bovard Tiberi
s/c Frères du Sacré-Cœur
Province de Nayala, Toma
BP 166, Burkina Faso

Or if you feel like searching around on the internet for a while for a good calling card to Burkina (you can get about 30 minutes around $5) you can give me a call at 226 (country code) 75273642 (phone number).

I would love to hear from you!

Ride to Site

August 26th, 2009

“Beep, Beep, Beep” My morning had begun with the sounding of my phone alarm and, quite to my surprise given the activities of the previous evening, I didn’t even snooze the alarm. After the swear in ceremony the previous evening we went out on the town, stopping at a restaurant for dinner and drinks with the largest group of Peace Corps volunteers that I had ever seen then continuing to an empty dance club where we danced the night, and most of the early morning, away. And now as the jeep lurched and bumped its way down the highway I was really paying the price.

In our jeep rode three other volunteers which we would be dropping off today. I was the last stop along the way. Chris was first. Like me, he is a SE-IT (Secondary Education – Information Technologies) volunteer. Chris has a degree in English Literature and has spent the last few years doing web-based programming in a small company that was being slowly run into the ground. His site is Yako, just a short 90km or so from Ouaga and on the paved road, which makes transport easy. Tyler and Jessi are next, a married SE and GEE respectively they are the closest volunteers to me from my stage, living just 45km to the north in a town called Tougan. Jessi and Tyler met in college and married just after graduation, spending the last year trying to get into Peace Corps in a country that spoke Spanish as they both spoke it. Unfortunately for them and fortunately for all of us here, they weren’t able to find a timely placement and so decided to start completely over and learn French!

The ride was a long one, juxtaposed with abrupt goodbyes as first Chris, then Jessi and Tyler were dropped off. And then it was my turn. We pulled up to CAFT as the last rays of light were fading from the sky. The driver, Issouf, was supposed to make another 100km that day to meet up with the next group of volunteers he was ferrying to site and was a bit flustered at running late. Things had not gone as planned. As we hastily unpacked my belongings from the jeep, my bike, two trunks for storing valuables, two duffle bags and two backpacks, a sense of excitement and loss came over me. Training (or stage) was over and now it was time to start all over again. And with a last wave, the red white and blue Peace Corps logo on the back of the jeep was gone. And I was alone.

Swear In

August 25th, 2009

We sat in the first two rows, under the reaches of the branches from the several large trees in the courtyard, their branches and leaves outlined against the night sky. Surrounding us in the US embassy courtyard were hundreds of people. Host family parents, trainers, Peace Corps staff and admin, other volunteers and embassy officials made up most of the crowd. Tonight was the night that we had been working toward for the last three months, tonight was the night that we would officially become Peace Corps volunteers and officially start our two years of service.

Several of our group had given speeches in as many different languages, French, Jula, Moore, Fulfude, and others but now the speaker was the top-ranking embassy official, who was speaking to us in perfect French. Near the end of the speech he switched to English and addressed us directly. He said that there were many reasons why were where all here but that found in each of us was a form of idealism. I think he was right. Then it was time.

“I, Bovard Tiberi, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies, domestic and foreign, that I take this obligation freely, and without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that I will well and faithfully discharge my duties in the Peace Corps, so help me God.”


And with that officially began my life for the next two years as a Peace Corps volunteer.

By the Pool

August 23rd, 2009

I felt like I was back in the states. The blue water of the swimming pool caught the strong rays from the sun, causing the surface to shimmer. Surrounding us where several multi-story buildings, blocking out the noise and smells of the street. On one wall was painted a mural of an African landscape – hippopotamuses, giraffes, elephants and oddly painted birds played in the sun. And in the middle of all of this we sat at one of the white poolside furniture sets, looking at the bounty set before us.

We were in Ouagadougou, or for short Ouaga (pronounced “wa-ga”), hanging out for a few days before swear in. We had some last few sessions going over the condensed rule book given to each of us and stocking up on some last minute medical supplies but besides that we were free to spend time together in what will be the last time we are all together until our COS events at the end of our service. In just a few days time we would all hop on a bus or Peace Corps car and leave for our sites. The image of the Peace Corps car leaving us and all of our stuff behind was something that we were all a little worried about and trying not to think about for the next few days.

Leslie had splurged and bought a meal that she would have had almost every day during her time in Italy - a decent bottle of red wine, high-quality, packaged European crackers, a generous cut of delicious looking brie cheese, and a bar of Swiss chocolate. She had been generous enough to share a little with me. I like food, and I appreciate good food, but never have I been so transformed or perhaps dislocated by the taste of food. I was back in the United States, hanging out by the pool with good friends. And that was a wonderful feeling.

The next few days were spent eating some amazing and expensive (by Burkina standards) American-style food, hanging out by the pool, relaxing and enjoying the end of a very successful stage (32 trainees were due to be sworn in out of the 32 that had arrived).

A last look at my room

August 19, 2009

I turn the skeleton key in the lock for one of the last times as I open the door to my room. I can’t believe that it is almost over. I open the door, looking thoroughly over my room for the last time. It’s dirty. A thin layer of dirt covers the floor, a combination of dirt tracked in by my sandals, blown in by the wind and fallen from the ceiling. Every so often during stage I motivated myself to sweep it all out, but I hadn’t done so in about a week.

In the center of my room is my bed, an old metal frame which creaks and groans with my every move. A lone sheet lies on top of my mattress which is covered by my completely oversized green mosquito net supported by four pieces of wood attached to the legs. For some reason, the higher-ups decided to give us all mosquito nets that would easily fit over a king sized bed. Needless to say there is a lot of net when used on a twin.

On the left wall leans my makeshift closet, a precarious construction made of nails and pieces of wood dragged into my room from our courtyard. It consisted of two upright large dead trees, one leaned into the corner, and the other carefully balanced against the wall. Into these two pieces is nailed several different sizes and shapes of nails, onto which I have somehow managed to mount two branches, running parallel to the floor. These branches now hold my towel, shirts and pants and also serve as a drying wrack for the times when the rain decides to arrive just after I finish washing my cloths. I often wondered if having this hastily constructed mess in my room was such a good idea, as the slightest wrong tug would pull the whole structure down on my head. It probably wasn’t, but I made it without incident!

On the floor rests a yellow and green fluorescent looking metal chest, which has held my most valuable belongings for the last three months: electronics, money and letters. The top is cluttered with some dirty cloths and random papers from class. It’s a good chest, but it will be staying here, picked up by the PC for use in the next stage.

The only other pieces of furniture in the room are a table and a chair. The chair has had the honor of holding my backpack since I discovered the small lake that appears on my floor when it rains. The table contains everything else that I have brought home. Books, medical supplies, water filter, bike helmet, anything that I had pulled out of my two duffle bags which are tucked away safely at ECLA.

Packing this all up is going to be a chore.

Excision

August 13th, 2009

We gather under the hanger at ECLA as the last rays of light fade from the sky. This is one of the few times that all thirty-two of us get to be together as evident by the excited air of conversation that fills the air. Tonight we have a guest speaker coming in to talk about excision or female genital mutilation. I feel like the label of excision gives it some sort of cover or legitimacy. I’m not quite sure why they have decided to use it.

The speakers are two men from an agency that has been educating people about excision for several years now. First they spoke of its history. Excision was practiced on practically everyone born before 1985 though government efforts to stop the practice began a few years before that. Since then the government hopes that there has been a decline, and has evidence that there has been a decline in the cities. The villages though are both hard to collect data from and difficult to educate.

Then they gave us some of the reasons that they have heard from people defending the practice. Some reasons where religious, some sexual, and some superstitious. The two men said that this all boiled down to the fact that people are not very educated about the subject.

Then they brought out the models. The first was what a healthy normal women looks like. The next were absolutely shocking. I’ve heard about excision, I’ve read about excision, but nothing had prepared me to see, even in model form, the horrific mutilation and terrible side effects caused by excision. It was unfathomable to me what could posses someone to allow that to be done to their child, for someone to want that to be done to their child.

It comforted me to realize that this is part of the reason we are here. Directly confronting communities and engaging them in a discourse about excision falls more in the area of the GEE sector, but there are things I can do as well. And I certainly intend to.

Bucket Baths

August 11th, 2009

“Splash” the plastic bucket impacts the surface of the water as I grab the rope. It’s always a struggle for me to get the large plastic bucket to fill with water, but after several more splashes, I get it to fall on its side. After the water has filled the bucket I start to pull the bucket to the surface. It takes a little longer than usual today which isn’t surprising given that we have not had rain for several days now. I squeeze the bucket through the opening in the top of the well and recover the opening. I’m not sure if the wooden plank I place across the small opening is to keep things out of the well or to keep what is growing down there from getting out. And there are a lot of things growing down there.

I glance into my bucket and shivers run down my spine as I watch the hundreds of small worms wriggle in the clear water. I only recognize the mosquito larva the rest I only can guess at, though I prefer not to. I place the dirty sheet that we use as a filter over my bucket and slowly pour the water through it. As the last drops fall through the cloth the former residents of the water go into a frenzy, desperately trying to wriggle their way into some sort of water. I make sure they do not succeed.

I grab my soap and towel and make my way to the stall that serves as the shower, careful not to spill water all over me on the way there. With my free hand I move the piece of roof that serves as a door and squeeze my way in, letting the roof slam back down on the wall. As I place the bucket down the smell of sewage wafts up from the drain. The latrine is directly next to the shower. It took a while to get used to the smell while taking a shower but now it doesn’t bother me – as much.

I pour the first cup of water over my head, making sure to not get any close to my eyes or mouth. I only trust that the water is clean enough to wash away the dust that has caked my skin over the day. The cool water feels good after the heat of the day. It seems the no matter how careful I am here I end the day hot, sweaty, and dirty.

I finish much cleaner than I started, but still feeling slightly gross.

The French Leave-taking

August 7th, 2009

I am absolutely exhausted. This week has been rough. Planning and teaching ten hours in French was hard. A whole week of my stomach hurting and a small appetite made it harder. I think I picked up some parasite along the way. I’m going in to get tested on Monday.

The medical care here is the best I’ve received in my life. Upon arrival we were given medical kits containing almost every medicine I have ever used in my life and some I haven’t. On top of that twenty four hours a day I’m a text message away from a doctor. And I’ve needed to use almost all of it this week. It has been a long one.

Tonight is the last night the two French teachers, Vanessa and Sophie, will be staying with us. They are leaving early in the morning. I will be sad to see them go. They have been a wonderful influence on my family. We’ve started eating at the kitchen tabled as opposed to on the couch. We’ve had bread with dinner. They have changed so many of the things I have wanted to change, but have not the words to do so. They have even started to teach Belguissa the alphabet and numbers.

Tonight is a night of gift exchanges. My family gives two matching custom fitting dresses, matching purses and jewelry for the French women and they give the children journals, balloons and candy in return. My dad gives a speech about how happy they have been to host such great people. I understand about half of it, smiling through the rest.

My mind wanders to my own departure from this house, exactly two weeks from now. Time here has gone by quickly, and not quickly enough. I’ve learned a lot, mostly just how much more I need to learn. My communication has gotten better, but to date I’ve had only one meaningful conversation within these walls, with Sophie about politics, Obama, and Euro-American relations. There have been good times here and bad. I think I’m ready to go.

Independence Day

August 5th, 2009

We sit on vibrantly colored mats beneath a clump of trees. It’s hot, but not nearly as hot as under the direct gaze of the sun. We’re learning about the history of Burkina, translated into English by the strongest French speaking trainee, Coleman. I used to think of America as a very young country but after a couple hours of learning about the history of Burkina Faso I no longer do so.

The French first claimed Burkina in 1895 and added it to the French West African colonies. The next decade saw several campaigns aimed at quelling resistance in what the French called Upper Volta. The French remained in control, with not much changing until after World War II, when the French could no longer afford to have so many provincial governments. Upper Volta was dissolved into neighboring countries in 1932. The colony was reestablished in 1947 and peacefully proclaimed independence from France on August 5th, 1960.

The following twenty four years saw many different leaders, and many military coups. The transition from French rule was difficult, as now that everyone was free, each group of peoples wanted representation and sovereignty. On August 4th, 1984 Upper Volta went through a facelift which pleased most of the population. The countries name was changed to Burkina Faso, which combines two of the countries three main languages and means “The land of the upright people” or something close. The inhabitants of Burkina Faso were to be called Burkinabé, which makes use of the third major language.

Since then Burkina has had a few democratic reforms under the leadership of Blaise Compaoré. He was elected to serve the maximum time of two seven year terms, after which the constitution was changed so that presidents served five years terms and could serve a maximum of two terms. Blaise’s party, who have held a large majority during this time, decided that since Blaise had not served any five year terms, he was eligible to run for two five year terms. The first of these five year terms will end during my time here, in November 2010. It should be an exciting election.

Class

August 4th, 2009

“Where is the Title Bar?” I ask for the third time. My student points at the task bar. I shake my head. Literally ten minutes ago we reviewed the parts of a window. Apparently he wasn’t paying attention. I point to the Title Bar and ask him to click and drag on it to move the window. He grabs the mouse in his hand, moving it slowly toward the top of the screen.

This week we’ve moved to teaching two hours a day, this is my second two-hour session and it is pretty draining. The frustration from not being able to communicate relatively simple concepts is a constant companion in class, as well as the myriad of ways students manage to break their computers. Also some students get it the first time, while others take ten times longer than you would expect.



Somehow he has managed to right click during the process of moving the mouse. An option screen has appeared on the screen. He looks at me questioningly. I ask, “How do you close the options?” another process we went through only a few minutes ago.

“I don’t know” he says.

“Click here” I say, pointing at the background. He manages to move the mouse, and right-clicks.

“Left click” I say. He right-clicks again.

“Press the left mouse button” I say. Another right-click.

“Look at the mouse, where is the left button?” He points to the correct one and clicks it. Good.

“Now move the pointer onto the title bar and click and drag.” He moves the mouse onto the title bar, right clicking again in the process.

Teaching IT is harder than I thought it would be. We’ve been using the mouse everyday for a week now, and half of the class still can’t use it correctly. I was told to expect something like this. I never dreamed it would be.

I realize now that planning lessons I have been putting myself in the place of the students, and have expected them to learn new things on the computer about as fast as I did. This would probably work for people who had similar exposure to computers as I did, but it certainly doesn’t work for someone who has only seen a computer a handful of times in their lives and probably never used one.

It’s hard and sometime frustrating process, but I am getting better at it.

An American Dinner

August 2nd, 2009

After having French cuisine for dinner one night, my parents joking asked if I wanted to prepare food. I think they were pretty surprised when I said that I would. I think they were even more surprised when I actually followed through.

To start out I had to buy everything at the market. The food market is open air, with rows and rows of vendors selling vegetables, spices, medicine, and random other things. Almost everything is sold on a tarp that rests on the ground, which provides at least some sort of protection for the dirt, dust, and who knows what else that covers everything.

I went to the market with Bernadette to ensure that I am not getting too ripped off. Besides the spaghetti itself, tomatoes and lettuce are the most expensive for the quantities that I want to buy. Most everyone is friendly, giving me a crooked smile and a few kind words with each transaction. I’m not looking for too many ingredients. I’m making a salad with lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and peppers, a salad dressing with oil, vinegar, mustard, and pepper, garlic bread, and spaghetti with spaghetti sauce with garlic, onions, peppers, spinach, tomatoes, and spices. It takes about an hour to buy everything.

The first thing I do when I get home is wash everything, cut them up, and wash them again. Bernadette helps me with this. There are no cutting boards here and the knives are incredibly dull. Initially I’m a little annoyed at how hard it is to cut things, but I am thankfully for their dullness when I find myself using my hand as a cutting board.

A can of kerosene with a burner attachment serves as my stove which works fine for the spaghetti and sauce, but eliminates any possibility of toasting the garlic bread. After an hour or so of work, dinner is served.

I tell everyone to come to the table. I’ve prepared enough chairs that Bernadette (18) will get to sit at the adults table, and have enough chairs and places at the kids table that Belguisa will get to eat as well. There is a place for everyone. I tell everyone my plan. Faniel (3) comes to sit at the adults table. “Faniel isn’t a child” says my mom. I grimace.

Faniel eats, and drinks everything with us, including alcohol. In fact the little guy drinks more than I do. Every night we have beer he inevitably ends up drunk. Those nights I go to bed early and listen to my iPod to drown on the sounds of his angry demands, crying and general screaming. I’ve started to tell my mom that alcohol is not good for kids, the first thing I have told her that I know she doesn’t want to hear. As I’m paying for the entire meal on my less than meager trainee’s salary, there is no beer tonight.

After everyone is seated, I serve the salad first. Spinach? In the salad? What a bizarre concept. Spinach, probably the most vitamin-rich vegetable I’ve seen here is very cheap here and looked down upon. My mom asks me for more, but asks me only to give her the most expensive ingredients, lettuce and tomatoes. The dressing, which didn’t quite turn out as planned due to the scarcity of mustard and the fact that I used all the pepper in the sauce actually tastes better than I thought it would. A mixture of oil, vinegar, mayo and salt, it tastes better to me than our regular dressing of oil and mayo. Everyone seems to enjoy it.

Next comes out the garlic bread, which turns out to be a huge success after an initial bump when someone dumps a ridiculously large quantity of the garlicky-oily mixture I prepared over their piece of bread. I bring out the enormous pot of spaghetti next, I’m made close to two pounds for the thirteen people that are eating tonight. My mom looks at her plate skeptically. I can almost read the question in her eyes. Where is the oil?

Everything here is doused in oil. Spaghetti soaked in oil, rice in oil, oil macaroni, fish with fish oil in oil, and oil in oil. Well maybe not the last one. I look down at my plate, no oil in site. It looks great.

No longer paying heed to the world, I dig into my plate. It tastes delicious. I eat until I can’t anymore and am surprised that almost everyone seems to like it. My sisters come back for thirds, something I have not seen in my two months here. I’m quite pleased with myself.

Garbage and Chickens

August 2nd, 2009

I am just getting up for my morning bucket bath when I see the chick, hobbling around the courtyard. This chick and I have been through a lot. About a month ago, it got all tangled up with the fake hair used by the two boarders to make their braids. Apparently the chick had walked through it, getting it all tangled around its legs, connecting them in a handcuff of sort. Then a piece of metal got stuck the middle. I chased the chicken around then, finally catching it and pulling off all of the hair that I could. I couldn’t get it all off though, I needed scissors which I didn’t have at the time.

There isn’t any garbage collection here, at all. Garbage is thrown on the floor, whether you are in your house, courtyard, or out walking around. Courtyards and houses and cleaned daily, and the trash is piled up to burn. Trash on the street is just left to blow around until it finds its way close to one of the many burn piles.

This morning the hair had caused more problems. As the poor thing grew it had constricted more and more until today it was limping around. After chasing it around our courtyard I finally caught it. Armed with my toenail clippers I went about pulling every last piece off of the chicken’s leg.

I finish with chicken blood on my hands and a satisfied feeling. Every last strand was out, even the one that had cut into its leg. Strangely I was reminded of Captain Planet. The Power is Yours!

Hawa’s Story

July 31st, 2009

All the SE volunteers are gathered under the hanger for another session. The hanger is one of the cooler and cleaner spots to gather for class. Unfortunately it usually has a bunch of mosquitoes hanging around, at all hours of the day. They often find a tasty meal in our sandal-clad feet. Bites on the feet here are one more common and more annoying places to be bit. After an hour or two under the hanger almost every stagier is scratching at least one bite, if not more.

Today our session covers a wide topic of things, from gender inequality to strategies to stop cheating. I doubt that we’ll cover it all in the short two hours we have for the session. We open with gender inequalities in education. Vincent puts up a poster of an average Saturday for an average girl and average boy. Activities for boys include waking up, washing, eating, walking around, eating, napping, visiting friends, eating, going places with friends. Activities for girls were starkly different: waking up, washing, cleaning the house, preparing breakfast, eating, washing dishes, washing clothes, preparing lunch, washing dishes, watching TV or napping, washing clothes, preparing dinner, sweeping the house, eating, washing dishes.

One of our LCFs (Language and Cultural Facilitators) takes the opportunity to tell her our story. Hawa is one of the few math and science teachers in Burkina Faso. She is one of the best teachers I have ever met here in Burkina. For example in her last class, the lowest score on the BAC (equivalent to the GED, but mandatory for high school graduation here) was a 15. Given that a score of 10 is passing, and that only 3% of students that start school pass the BAC, this is absolutely phenomenal. Her story, or all that I can remember of it (or understand of it, she told it in French), goes like this:

“Every day I had to get up at 4am to make breakfast for my family and brother, who was expected to do nothing. Some mornings when I was very tired I would ask him to help but he said that I was the girl and so I had to do it. We would catch the 5am bus to the city where I attended school.

When we returned in the evenings, I would try and study. My mother would scold me, saying, ‘Why are you reading those books? You need to clean the house, wash the cloths and make dinner’ and she would take away my books if I didn’t do so. The entire time my brother was out playing with his friends or sitting on the couch listening to his walkman. How is that just?

My mother never understood why I wanted to be a teacher. She thought a women’s place was in the home, washing, cooking and cleaning. She did not support me in my studies. It was only when I invited her to the ceremony which I was to get the award for teacher of the year was she proud of me. She said ‘I am sorry Hawa, I didn’t know.”

She finishes her story with a sad laugh; I think to stop any tears from running down her cheeks. I know that I certainly struggling to stop them from running down my own. Gender inequality is so engrained in this culture it is hard to know where to begin to tackle the problem. The good news is that it is getting better. And I am part of the solution. And that is something that I’m very proud of.

French Dinner

July 27th, 2009

Sophie and Vanessa have decided that they are going to cook for the family for a night and I am quite excited to have some different food. The food here is good, and there is always a lot of it. My family always has some sort of salad with the main meal, which is excellent. There are a few downsides though. First there is rehydrated fish, in almost everything. Sometimes when the first isn’t in something they use fish oil to make it, which makes it end up tasting like fish anyway. And there is oil in everything except for the bread.

So I am really excited for dinner tonight. I am not sure what they have made, but I trust that it is going to be tasty. Dinner time is almost here and they gather everyone together to have drinks and a snack. Some sort of explanation accompanies this, from what I understand they say this happens before every meal in France. Everyone in the family is invited, which now puts us up to eleven people (four in the family, the two French people, the two boarders, the servant girl, a neighbor and me). It is a little difficult to fit around one table, but we manage. Drinks are served – Fanta for the kids and beer for the adults. Faniel starts to cry. He wants beer. Sophie tells him that tonight we are in France and in France three year olds don’t drink beer. It doesn’t help much. His mom says something sharp to him in Mooré and he settles down.

Next the crackers come out. They taste almost as good as Ritz crackers from the states. They are delicious. Faniel picks through each one, only taking those which meet his standard of roundness. I silently wonder where his hands have been today but don’t say anything as there is nothing that can be done now.

Dinner is brought out, a giant pot of plain, beautiful, non-oily, white rice and another pot that contains a cream-based mushroom sauce with meat and onions. After everyone is served I take a bite. It tastes delicious. After finishing my second bowl I take a look around the table at unfinished plates, everywhere. Even Faniel, who usually eats almost as much as I do hasn’t had but a few bites from his plate. My mom asks the servant girl to break out the Tô.

Tô tastes very similar to Cream of Wheat, but blander if you can imagine that. It is the stable food of Burkina. Tô is served piping hot with an equally hot sauce, which is usually made of different leafy vegetables or leaves of trees or bushes. Not quite a food you’d expect to find in the US, but after trying it ten or so times, it isn’t so bad.

I look at my mom’s discomfort and can’t help but remember the many times in the past month I must have looked exactly the same. Oh how the tables have turned.

By the end of the diner I have eaten four plates and am absolutely stuffed. It has been decided that I will have to cook for the family in a week. I am looking forward to it. American food! I hope it turns out.

First Communion

July 26th, 2009

The first thing we here from the inside of the church is the drums. Two French teachers who are now staying with us, Vanessa and Sophi, and I have come to see Dorine and Gidoni’s first communion. As we get closer the sound of hundreds of voices drifts to us across the air. The language is different and the style of music is different, but there is something about it that reminds me of church music.

The church is the largest building I have seen in Ouahigouya. Inside there is room for well over a thousand people, with about a hundred or so gathered around the entrances. I doubt that there are usually this many people here, this is a special weekend. Glancing into the interior, I see the attendees of honor, about one hundred young girls and boys, all in matching outfits made from the same set of religious pagnes.

The music has a rhythmic energy, and most of the church goers are dancing with the music. I think back to my experiences of church back in the states. I think it would have been much more fun with a little dancing thrown in. The image makes me laugh out loud.

The initial charm of the church wears off as the heat increases and the minutes turn into hours. Three hours go by before Gidoni and Dorine take their turn at first communion. I’m a little late getting up to the front to take pictures and only catch the after party dance around the alter. Thirty or so girls surround the alter all of them jumping, dancing and singing their hearts out.

Another thirty minutes goes by and the service has ended. A mass of people stream out the doors, headed straight to their motos. Soon the air is thick with moto exhaust and the voices of hundreds of people making plans for later or saying goodbye. We hop on our bicycles and take our leave.

The Bus

July 19th, 2009

My space bubble has been crushed over and over again over the past three hours. I’m sandwiched in between one of the PCVFs, Aaron, and a Burkinabé who seems intent upon maintaining constant contact with me. As soon as I sat down he splayed his legs so that one was pressed against the window and one was halfway across my seat. Vincent, another PCVF, told me I just have to push back to get my room. And so it started.

I tried pushing my leg to the border of our seat, holding for a bit, and then moving my leg back to my space. His would stay there for all of a minute. Then I tried pushing a little past where my space was, and then moving back. This failed spectacularly. I was just going to have to accept the fact that for three hours his leg would be constantly pressed against mine. Good times.

I grasped my head with both my hands, trying to calm myself down and gather a little of my composure. Poke. He moves his elbows all the way back up against the chair so they are stabbing me in the side. I look at Vincent, he motions for me to push my elbows back there so his aren’t stabbing into my side. I do so and he moves his elbows. I move my elbows to more comfortable position. Poke. This is going to be a good ride.

Eventually I regain composure by framing the situation differently. Instead of him invading my space I think of the situation more of me defending my space. Not a big realization really but it helps.

After three long hours and countless stops the bus pulls into Ouahigouya, just as the rain hits. As the bus pulls into the station the windows are completely covered in water. The bus stops. No one moves. I am in shock, compared to the mass of humanity that was getting on at Ouagadougou, this is very unexpected. Vincent says “They don’t want to get wet” as he grabs his bag and gets off.

A minute or so of grabbing my bag and pulling out its rain jacket and I leave behind the crowded smelly bus and step into the cleansing rain. There seems like no better way to be welcomed back from a bus ride like that than with a nice, cool shower.

My House

July 15th, 2009

The metal gates swing open as they are released from their lock by the young gatekeeper. We have arrived at CAF/T. The first thing I notice is the trees. There are big trees, small trees, fat trees and skinny trees. Most of all there are just lots and lots of trees. We pass a basketball court and a soccer field before pulling into a compound with four or five buildings. This must be my home.

I hop out of the truck and am led to one of the buildings. I open the door and the smell of fresh paint assaults my nose. A thick coat of white paint is drying on the wall, along with the green trim of the doors and windows. I move quickly between the three windows, opening each one. They all have screens and are large enough to get a decent breeze.

This room must be my bedroom – it is fully equipped with a bed, desk, chair, lounge chair, closet, and table. Most importantly though, there is a light and light switch, an electrical outlet, and a ceiling fan. I am absolutely blown away. I expected to find a bare-bones room, not a fully furnished mansion! This is much better than I expected.

Next I move to the bathroom where I find, much to my delight, a shower, a toilet and a sink, all in working order. Glorious! I knew there would be a shower here, but I had no idea there would be a working sink with a mirror and a western-style flushing toilet. I think I am going to be very comfortable here.

Tougan

July 15th, 2009


There are literally hundreds of flies, maybe even thousands. They swarm around a myriad of fish, lying in the hot sun. Every time one of the fish vendors waves her arm, hundreds of flies jump into the air. It’s a wonder that they don’t knock each other out of the sky. I have seen a lot of flies here in Burkina, but never have I seen this many.

And yet I’ve never seen fish that looks so good. Fish here is the staple meat; I would say it is probably in four out of five of my meals. The fish that we get in Ouahigouya is usually dried and then rehydrated in some sort of sauce. I eat it, for the protein. This fish on the other hand, looks fresh, even with the flies. I look at the catfish, perch and chunks of other fish I don’t recognize and start to wonder if I can justify eating some.

Beside me, my new “brothers” (Catholic frères) argue with the fish ladies. It seems that the first vendors want a bit too much money. I have just met Frere Jean-Baptiste, who seems to be the one in charge. My counter-part, Frere Prosper, told me that Jean-Baptiste will be our supervisor. The good natured bantering goes on for a while until Prosper looks up the horizon. The rain is coming.

The brothers start telling the fish ladies to hurry. There is a pot of boiling oil in the midst of their tables, and they drop the chunks of fish in that we selected. That should take care of any bacteria the flies may have left on the fish right? I’m not quite convinced, but I think I will try some anyway.

Nervous glances at the horizon continue as the fish finishes cooking and we jump in the truck. Jean-Baptiste hands me a chunk of fried fish, it is scorching hot. I take a bite and am blown away. This is the best fish that I have ever had in Burkina. Mmmmmmmm… I almost drool on myself as I take another bite, I really hope I don’t get sick from this.

I finish the fish soon enough and glance out the window of the pickup we are riding in as the town of Tougan starts to disappear. Buildings and garbage heaps are replaced with trees and bushes and we are in the bush. The drive to my site, Toma, will take forty-five minutes. I’m excited.

A Day in the Life of a PCT (Peace Corps Trainee)

July 13th, 2009

So I figure that when things are about to drastically change, as they are going to after site visit, that I will post my schedule of what things have been like. Or perhaps I will just periodically do so. In any case, here is the first five or so weeks of pre-service training (PST).

6:00 am Wake up to the sound of my phone alarm, if I’m lucky. Many mornings I’m awoken to the sounds of roosters crowing, dogs barking, or the mosque praying (loudly).

6:15-6:45 am I go out the well and pull myself up a bucket of water for a bucket bath. My well has recently started to house mosquitoes, so I must first pour the water through a cloth to act as a strainer. After I’m done I flick the tens of mosquito larvae onto the ground. After, I take a bucket bath.

6:45-7:00 am Breakfast. Breakfast everyday is bread and butter with tea and sugar. When I’m lucky there is powdered milk to put in my tea. It doesn’t last long though as my siblings enjoy eating the powered milk by the spoonful.

7:00-7:15 am Bike to school. The trip usually only takes ten minutes, but just after a rain it can take up to twenty minutes.

7:15-7:50 am Language tutoring with one of the LCFs, usually Awa. I came in with a French language level of Novice Low, the lowest you can get. I do a lot of tutoring to try and catch up with everyone else.

8:00-12:30 pm Classes. Probably about 50% of the classes are language classes, the rest are a mix of technical, cross-cultural, security and other miscellaneous sessions.

12:30-2:00 pm Lunch Break! Usually the first thirty minutes is spent eating lunch, and the next hour is spent napping, playing cards, or just hanging out, relaxing.

2:00-5:00 pm More classes.

5:15-5:45 pm Another tutoring session.

5:45-6:30 pm Hang out at the school with the other trainees.

6:30-6:45 pm Bike home in the quickly fading light.

6:45-7:15 pm My evening bucket bath. It is usually taken in the dark, usually with a lot of mosquitoes. It’s a wonder I don’t get bitten more.

7:15-7:45 pm Dinner. Dinner usually consists of some sort of salad or green vegetables followed by ride or spaghetti finished off by some mangoes!

7:45-8:30 pm Hang out with the family. Usually I have some sort of conversation about what I learned at school today around the dinner table. Then I hang out with my sisters and brother, playing one of their many games, or answering questions about America. Their favorite question? In America, is there someone named . I tried to explain to them that there are 300 million people in America and I don’t know them all.

8:30-8:45 pm Get ready for bed.

8:45 pm Go to sleep. Almost every night I’m in bed before 9pm. Most nights I’m in bed right around 8:30.

So that’s my day. I think it is going to change drastically after site visit. For one thing we have model school in the morning every morning. I think my day is going to be centered around that and preparing lessons in French. I’ll be teaching an hour a day for the first week, and two hours a day after that. I think I’ll be learning a lot of French!

The Infants

July 12th, 2009

I sit in our living room, typing. Faniel (3) jumps screaming off of the table, Gidoni (7) dances and sings while he does so. Balguisa (12) sits at my side, singing a different song to me, asking me to sing back to her. Dorine (8) sits at my other, saying things in Mooré to me. I turn to Balguisa to sing a line back to her. As I start Gidoni starts hitting Faniel, who hits her right back. Soon they are both screaming, then Faniel is crying and running from the room, chanting “Mamamamamamamamama” over and over. He runs from the room.

Meanwhile Dorine has been repeating the same Mooré phrase to me over and over for the last minute. I saw “Laafi” which means good. She and Balguisa laugh. I have found that “Laafi” serves as a good answer in most situations with Mooré, as the first few minutes are an extended greeting. In which both parties are required to inquire about each other’s health, family, and day. Apparently it isn’t the best answer for anything an eight year old may ask.

Faniel has returned, and is now attempting to uncross my legs. I let him succeed the first time, which he finds hilarious. I cross them again and he again tries to uncross them with less and less success. Eventually I pull my leg from his grasp. “Mamamamamamamamama” he goes crying from the room.
Meanwhile as I try to type Gidoni starts asking me questions about my computer reaching out to touch the screen. I tell her not to touch it. She does anyway. Sigh. Another smudge is now on my screen. Faniel has returned, his fake crying stopped as neither his mom or his dad is home to give me attention. So instead he runs up and hits Gidoni, trying to displace her from her perch next to my computer. This, of course, is met with violence from her, which starts Faniel’s Mamamamama motor going again.

Meanwhile Dorine has managed to steal both my ear buds from me, which had served as my only sanctuary from the wall of noise produced by their squabbles. As Balguisa tries to steal one from her, I take both back for myself and let music save me.

Living with kids is interesting. It has usually been a good experience, but when I am home alone with them sometimes things get a little out of hand. I’m glad I will only be doing this for another month or so.

In Village

July 12th, 2009

I dip my cup in the warm water, filling it to the brim before dumping it over my head. The warm water feels good in the chill of the morning. It rained last night and sun is not yet high enough in the sky to start baking us again. I look up at the blue sky. It feels like it has been months since I have seen a sky this big and this blue, even with the multitudes of fluffy white clouds crossing the sky. I make a mental note to come to village more often.

I’m here visiting the GEE trainees of our group. Once or twice a week they make the thirty minute bike ride to Ouahigouya so this weekend we decided to come see them. The trainees are spread out over three different villages, none of which are larger than a few hundred people. Right now we are in Pagouya Z (sp?) at Jon’s host family’s house where the guys of the group spent the night. Half of us slept outside, despite the rain. Luckily the rain only lasted for a couple minutes, long enough to cool things down, but not long enough to soak us through.

I look out over the short clay wall and am once again surprised to see green. There are so many trees here and a green felt covers much of the ground - the beginnings of grass in some places, crops in others. In several places a cow is lead by two or three teenage boys, plowing rows into the dark brown dirt. The plows are heavy sticks, with a rusty, misshaped wheel in the front and a cutting instrument in the back. I wonder how long they have been plowing.

The rainy season here is supposed to drop between 700 and 800 cm of rain in a several month period. We have had a late start and so far we have had about 100 cm. Some people are a bit worried that there will be a drought. It is too soon to tell, but when the rain falls is just as important as how much rain falls.
John’s house is in the middle of a mini-city of sorts. There are a dozen or so mud buildings tightly clustered together, creating a small maze. The walls themselves are made of a brick/mud/concrete mixture that seems to be slowly disintegrating. I’d told they need to rebuild them every so often. I wonder how much concrete here costs.

I finish my bucket bath and towel off before rejoining my fellow staigiers, they are finishing up the usual breakfast of tea and bread. Coleman has found a mango somewhere and is meticulously carving out slices with his Leatherman. It looks good.

Class

July 10th, 2009

“Bonjour classe” I say in my loudest voice, trying my best to project to the back of the room. Normally this would be no problem for me but today it’s raining. The thousands of fat raindrops hurling down on the ceiling make it sound like we’re in a stadium full of thousands of cheering fans. I look around at the students in the room, taking stock of my future students. Because this is the IT class we have students of all ages, from a boy I would guess to be 15 to a man who looks as though he is pushing 60. They stare at me expectantly.

I dive into the French headfirst, trying my best to be heard over the rain. I tell the students who I am and my plans for this summer (teaching them in Model school) and for after (teaching IT in Toma). This is my first time talking to real Burkinabey students. I look around the room and am thrilled to see looks of recognition, they understand my French! I smile, but then remember that I’m going to have to read half of the lesson I had prepared today. This is going to be painful.

In the back of the class sit the other IT trainees as well as our IT PCVFP (Peace Corps Volunteer Facilitator Permanent), Vincent. During training a large number of PCVFs cycle through telling us their experiences and facilitating our discussions. The PCVFs usually stay a couple of weeks, PCVFPs do the same thing, but stay for six weeks. Vincent points up, signaling that I need to project my voice louder. I feel like I’m almost screaming, but I manage to put out a few more decibels, straining my voice.

After reading a sentence I look up to confused Burkinabey faces. I realize that I’m talking quickly, but can’t seem to enunciate, go slowly and yell. I try for two out of the three. I’m teaching today about the basics of mouse use, moving and clicking. Many of these people have never seen or held a mouse in their lives. It’s hard to put myself in their shows. I think using a computer is one of my first memories.

The fifteen minutes I need to teach today passes by slowly and painfully. Reading French is painful. I give up halfway and retreat into my somewhat small but familiar memorized vocabulary. I can’t say quite everything that I wanted to say, but at least it seems like more people understand me. For a few moments, I almost forget that I’m teaching in French as the lesson seems to click together at the end. I think I could get used to this.

Site Placement

July 9th, 2009

The excitement in the air is palpable. This is the day we’ve all been waiting for. I look around the room at the thirty-one other faces. It’s hard to imagine that just one month ago all these faces were unknown to me. Time here is a funny thing. I feel as though I have been in Burkina forever, yet at the same time it feels as though I just arrived yesterday. During the day, the US seems like a distant memory yet a glance at a letter from home brings the memories rushing back as though I just left.

After some pomp and circumstance we are told to go outside where our fates await us. On the ground is a giant outline of Burkina Faso with thirty cities marked out. One of those cities is soon to be mine. The SE volunteers are going to go first. As a blindfold is tied over my eyes I take one last glance at the map. I am overwhelmed by a sea of unfamiliar names.

Once we are all blindfolded we are lead to our locations by our language teacher. Awa grabs me by the arm and I step forward, paper crinkling under my feet. After a few steps I come to a stop, waiting, listening. Everyone is in place, take off your blindfolds. I look down, Toma. It means absolutely nothing to me. Much the same as Burkina Faso meant nothing to me three months ago when I opened my invitation, but this time I can’t turn to Google for information, not that I’d be likely to find much.

Looking around, I notice that one of the married couples, Tyler and Jessi are my closest neighbors. They seem to have the same look of excitement and bewilderment that I must have on my face. I smile at them, they smile back. Someone takes a picture and we step off of the map. Awa gives me a map of Burkina and an envelope. In it, my site description:

“Congratulations, you are on your way to Toma, the capital of the province of Nayala! The Center d’Animation et Formation de Toma, or more simply the CAFT is a private school with two fully equipped computer labs and a dynamic staff. Tired from a hard day at work? You are just a two-minute stroll away from your cozy studio with private tied bathroom and scenic view. You can cool off with a shower, or you can take a nap with your ceiling fan running. There is internet (in your lab), a post office (just down the hill), and a couple well-stocked supermarkets (in the center of town). Telecel, Telmob and Zain are available in Toma, so you can easily keep up on all the PC gossip. Need a break from site? There is daily direct transoport to Dedougou (your regional capital), Koudougou, Ouagadougou, Tougan, and Bobo-Dioulasso, but watch out! It’s a bumpy ride no matter which way you are going.
San is the local language, but you might be able to get by with Djola or Mooré.”

I smile. It sounds wonderful.

The Storm

July 7th, 2009

The wind hits without warning, the dirt it carries stings my eyes and makes breathing difficult as I hurry to clean up the remains of our medical session. The light had slowly faded from the sky in the last few minutes as the storm approached and though it was just after midday, an artificial night had fallen over Ouahigouya. I had seen several storms before but I had never seen darkness like this. Another gust of wind hit, overpowering our feeble kickstands and knocking over several of our bikes. This was going to be a big one.

Today we got a break from the usual class at ECLA and were meeting for a medical session at the house of Ryan’s host family. Medical sessions are always one of the more popular ones, as the PCMOs (Peace Corps Medial Officers) usually brought treats. Today we had been sipping cold orange juice under the thatched-roof porch while learning some basic first aid for situations we were likely to encounter here. We were learning basic do’s and don’ts with snakes and spider bites, scorpion stings, acid-beetle burns, dehydration, car accidents, cuts and some other basic first aid stuff.

As we went through the last scenario in the safety of the living room the power cut plunging us into darkness just as the first few drops of rain hit. Within seconds thousands upon thousands of drops were pounding in the tin roof above our heads. I looked out the window to see a tree bowing to the wind, looking very much like hurricane footage from Florida.

“So this is where hurricanes come from,” Ryan remarks. We all nod our heads in agreement, awed at the sheer power of the storm. After a while, conversations start up. After a month of being here, the topic on everyone’s mind is site placement. We’re scheduled to find out on Thursday where we are to spend the next two years of our lives. Some really want to be in the rainy green south. Some want an area where the local language is Djoula, some want Mooré. Personally, I hope that I get a site where I can learn Djoula but I would be fine learning whatever local language I need to.

There are two different types of volunteers in our staging group, secondary education (SE) and girls’ education and empowerment (GEE). As one of three dedicated IT people, I am one of few likely to end up in a large city with a house with internet.

We talk for several more minutes before the sticks holding the water-soaked thatched roof have had enough and one of them gives way with a loud crack. Heads snap toward to door as wire, thatch, and sticks fall to the floor. I look around at the others, glad that no one was out there. They seem to be thinking the same thing.

“Clang, clang, clang” something a little more solid strikes the roof. Hail? Here? I laugh to myself, trying to remember the last time I actually saw ice. I look outside to see pea-sized hail bouncing off of the fallen thatch. Someone ventures out to grab a couple pieces and passes them around. They melt quickly. It is nice to feel ice again. I close my eyes, trying to remember what it feels like to be cold.

In time the storm passes. I step outside to breathe the air, cleaned by thousands of raindrops. I fill my lungs with deep breaths. It feels good.

Biking

July 3rd, 2009

I shift my bike up to 20th gear and it feels like I’m flying down the road, whizzing by both motos and bikes. My blue and silver Peace Corps’ issued Trek 820 ST sticks out like a sore thumb among the many other bikes on the road. The wind blowing through my cloths and drying the sweat on my arms and face feels glorious. I love biking on the paved road here. Unfortunately up ahead is my turnoff to go a home. I hop my bike off of the six inch drop off, which probably isn’t the best idea for the longevity of my tires, but I do enjoy it so. My bike immediately starts to kick up dust and rocks, just like every other vehicle here, but my mud guards protect me from most of it.

“Nissahara! Nissahara! Nissahara!” I see five toddlers waving and smiling at me up ahead to the left, chanting the Mooré word foreigner. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this the first time I heard it, but I’ve decided to think of it as my theme song. The smiles on the faces of the children who chant it show that they really do mean me well. Being recognized here is something to be strived for, and I think that is part of the reason why every kid I see says it. Also they just seem like they don’t really see a lot of foreigner’s whizzing by on a bike, wearing a helmet and sweating buckets. I wave to them, smile and say “Bonsoir!” as I pass them, careful to keep my distance, which is careful in the tight alley. Kids here see it as a badge of courage to come up and shake one of our hands, and I’ve had a couple try to dive at me and touch my hand while I was on my bike!

The rest of my two mile ride home is on dirt roads between rows of houses. Every house here has a walled courtyard, partly to keep animals in, partly to keep people out. There is a garbage pile for almost every third house, which is burned on a regular basis, usually in the morning as I am biking to school. Most houses have a dog sitting outside, and many have goats or a cow standing outside, munching on random things they find on the ground that look sort of like food.

The road itself is pretty bad shape, but is easily navigable during the day. Dry stream beds from the latest rain rut the road in random places, exposing rocks that look like they would like very much to shred my bike tires. Usually there is a pretty smooth trail that people have formed throughout the course of the day, and sticking to this is usually the best idea, I usually only leave it to pass someone or get out of the way of an oncoming moto.

The road opens up as I get further from town and the ruts start to get deeper. I pass a couple dirt fields on my way, inhabited by a random assortment of broken objects, garbage, rocks, sticks and dirt. There are very few plants here. I’m told that there will be more by the end of the rainy season, but I’m not getting my hopes up.

I cross the last field to get to my house. There are several small shops around the perimeter of the field, selling little bits of everything. I haven’t visited any of the shops as I’m saving up for a guitar. I’m hoping to get one when we go to the capital in a couple weeks. I pull up to the dusty red door of my courtyard and push my bike inside.

Benga

July 2nd, 2009

I scoop some beans up from my bowel of rice and beans. It feels hot in my hand, even compared to the heat of the day which I take as a sign that everything was cooked properly. Most of the eating here is done with hands, and at this benga (beans and rice) vendor my friend Chris and I do the same, though mostly because we don’t trust the cleanliness of the spoons provided here. This particular stand offers two choices, chickpeas or rice and kidney beans, mixed with a small amount of vegetables, a bit of oil and some salt. At 100 CFA (1 USD = 465 CFA), it is one of the better deals in town for lunch.

Sounds of motorcycles idling and accelerating fill the air - this benga stand is located next to one of the few traffic signals in town. It seems the majority of the population here has motos as they are called here. The rest have bikes or walk, and a very few have cars. Occasionally a truck or two rumbles by, billowing out thick black smoke. I was never quite explained the full rules of the road, but the rule I follow is to yield to anything that is bigger than I am.
We are usually joined by a few locals on the rickety benches around the small wooden table beneath the make shift tin roof that looks relatively stable. Because we are in a larger city, most people here speak French as well as Mooré, one of three widely spoken local languages. My French isn’t good enough to carry on any sort of conversation beyond the basics of name, location and occupation, and for the most part none of them seem especially anxious to talk to us.
Today we are joined by a few goats as well, seeking shelter from the sun. Animals here are allowed the roam free for the most part. I’m not quite sure how everyone keeps track of their animals, but it seems to work. The goats here and a bit skinnier in the states, and they look as though they wish that they didn’t have so much hair.

The two ladies that operate the benga stand are almost constantly busy, serving benga, fish, and fried cakes to a steady stream of customers. There is usually a clump of people in front of the two tables that serve as the serving station, some waiting to be served, others chatting with the ladies who run the stand. We are so conditioned to the US concept of a line that for the first few times we came here we just waited behind the group of people. After a few minutes of doing this the ladies running the stand laughed at us for waiting so long and mentioned for us to come forward to be served.

Across the road from the stand is one of the few large open areas in the city, and I’ve heard that it serves as a parade ground for the military, though I’ve never seen anyone out there in the midday sun, let alone someone in full combat gear. The heat radiating from the sun-baked concrete makes it seem especially uninviting. Despite the sweat running down my face from the bike ride here, I’m starting to get used to the heat here. A policy of staying out of the sun whenever possible and a regiment of hydration have both helped a lot.

After eating we don our helmets and hit the road. Peace Corps requires that we wear helmets, and I think PCTs and PCVs are they only ones in Burkina that wear a helmet while riding a bike. When we travel in groups on our bikes we must be a strange site indeed.

An Evening in Ouahigouya

June 30th, 2009

I’m lying on a bench on the concrete porch outside my house on my back. The cool night air flows over me, giving me some respite from the heat of the day. The bench feels cool, especially in comparison to the dirty hot concrete floor I have just been standing on. I can see the moon above next to the concrete overhang - its full brilliance obscured by the clouds, dust and smoke that seem to permanently reside in the skies above.

Inside, Bernadette, the other boarder at this house, scolds Bulgeisa, the serving girl. Her usually soft and kind voice takes on a sharp tone as she scolds in Moore. I hear the sound of the tables being set. One table will be for Bernadette, Bulgeisa and my two host sisters, Gidoni, 7, and Dorine, 8. Their table is a proper kitchen table with six chairs. The other table is for me, my parents, Jacques and Felicete, and my brother, Faniel, 3. It’s not an arrangement that I hope to keep for the whole three months that I’m here, but at the moment I lack the necessary language skills to say anything else.

Geckoes crawl on the wall behind me, their small feet clinging to the wall so effortlessly, for a moment I feel as though I am hanging upside down, looking down at the floor upon which they crawl. Four of them appear from around the wall in a line, as if waiting for the leader to make sure that the coast is clear before venturing any further themselves. Their large black eyes shine the light of the florescent bulb which is their goal. Or more correctly, the insects and moths that fly haphazardly around the bulb.

Lizards here are very common, so far I’ve managed to identify and find names for three kinds: margouya, geckoes and salamanders. Margouya are by far the most common – when I’m outside they are a constant reminder to me that I am indeed in Africa. Not that I really need a reminder, the constant heat around me is reminder enough. Most of the time when I talk to people in the states it is hard to know where to begin. The heat is usually where I start. The first week here you can hardly stand it, sweating all day and all night. My skin, so used to the dry, clean Montana air, does surprisingly well the transition. Other trainees haven’t faired so well. Cases of heat rash, caused by the clogging of overworked pours, are fairly common, evident by red itchy bumps appearing on the skin. Spiny heat afflicts a few more. I’m told it feels like being stabbed by small needles every time pressure is put on the affected skin. It doesn’t sound fun.

Patience, our dog walks cautiously up to me. I hold out my hand to him, not expecting him to come much closer. To my surprise he does, and allows me to pet him. He is a good dog, but you can tell he has had a rough life. Scars cover his face from fights with neighborhoods dogs. He’s skinny, like everything else around here, despite the fact that he is fed every day. I think a lot of it is the need to have a large surface area to volume ratio to lose heat. He looks at me with his big brown eyes as I pet him, his tail slowly wagging. It took me a while for him to get used the idea of getting petted. Apparently dogs here aren’t petted. I asked Dorine why she liked Patience, she replied that he was a good dog and that he guarded the house. After a couple minutes of petting he has had enough, and curls up on the floor to sleep. I’m never sure if he comes to me for the attention, or the chance that I have food.

Part of the courtyard around me is visible in the all too familiar fluorescent light. This corner of the courtyard is home to the only tree, as well as the ominous hole which marks the opening to the well. The hole looks a little small for me, but seems a perfect fit for my three siblings. They seem weary of it, though the sisters do get water from it almost every day. The rope to the bucket is tied to the tree and looks strong enough to hold their weight. I’m fairly certain I could pull them up if need be.

Dinner is served and it is time for me to go inside.

Blag!

So I’ve decided to start a blog. I’m going to use this as a place to share my experiences here to give you a taste of what life here is like. I certainly can’t convey everything, even if I tried so I’m just going to describe small windows into my day. I think this is probably the best way to tackle the enormity of describing my experience here. A couple things to keep in mind while reading this:

1. The contents of this blog are not in any way affiliated with the Peace Corps and do not represent in any way an official view or opinion of the Peace Corps in regard to anything. This blog is for my personal use and is to share my personal experiences, and are not representative of the experiences. The contents of this blog can be read and used personally, but cannot be used or linked to commercially or in an official capacity without my express written consent.
2. The purpose of this blog is to share with you the culture and experiences I find myself in everyday. Respect diversity!
3. My English, which is already bad, will probably get worse as the months and years of speaking French bass by. I’m quite aware of this already!
4. Post comments! Post something lets me know that you are reading this and I’ll be much more likely to keep posting regularly if I know people are readying what I write. Also if you want to hear about something in particular, just let me know and I’ll try and get something posted about it.
5. Enjoy!

So I hope this can somehow share a part of my life with all of you. Also, I’d love to hear from all of you and what you are doing. Shoot me an email anytime! I’m going to be pretty busy for about the next two months so don’t expect an especially speedy response, but life is going to slow down for me a lot after that and I should have more time for correspondence. If any of you way to send me letters just let me know and I’ll give you my address. I’m hoping to get Skype up and working when I get to site, but for now I do have a cell which you can call me on, just let me know and I’ll get you my digits.