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.