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.
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