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.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
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.
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.
“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.
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.
Monday, August 3, 2009
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!
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.
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.
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 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 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.
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.
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!
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
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
