Zach's 2007 Year In Review

As the year comes to an end, here’s a list of some of my best and worst of the past 365 days or so. Enjoy.

Best movie: Top Gun…even better with wine and cheese.

Best music venue: Preservation Hall, New Orleans

Best sandwich: Softshell crab at Jazz Fest

Best Sunday San Francisco afternoon fun: Frisbee then Golden Gate Park drum circle.

Best Bay Area discovery that I wish I had discovered sooner: Fruitvale

Best picture: Abercrombie and Fitch at Bay to Breakers

Best last weekend in a city…EVER: Bar hopping with coworkers; skydiving with the gang; live music, burgers, and beer at Hotel Utah; Bay to Breakers with all of San Francisco.

Dizziest moment: Up-and-down swirly swings with Nick and Chelsea in the Cub Foods parking lot, Apple Valley, MN.

Most used Africa purchase: Buck knife - every night in the kitchen

Biggest waste of suitcase space: a three month supply of toiletries. Peace Corps recommended that we bring a three month supply of toiletries. In retrospect…we’re going to be here for two years. If there’s something you can’t find in the first three weeks that you can’t live without, it’s probably time to think about going home.

Biggest mistake: Not filling my iPod before coming to Burkina.

Funniest host family moment: Playing Frisbee with my host siblings.

Biggest rainstorm: 14 solid hours

Hardest thing to miss: Chelsea’s first day in Madison.

Best worst last words: “I know it’s a bad idea; that’s why we have to do it.” -Julia

Longest unintentional bike ride: 140km, 10 hours…see above

Best teaching moment: I couldn’t think of a mnemonic device in French for the order of mathematical operations (parenthesis, multiplication, division, addition, subtraction). I told the kids the first thing that popped into my head: “We’re in luck! PMDAS is my mom’s name!” She was an instant celebrity.

Favorite student: The girl in that back who is always smiling but never has any idea what’s going on.

Biggest oops: Asking the wrong lady to do my laundry. (Not as bad as it sounds, but embarrassing nonetheless.)

Best market find: Green onions. Well, they were exciting the first week. Now there are mountains of them everywhere.

Longest bush taxi ride: 3 hours “late” (whatever that means), minivan, 200km, 6 hours, minimum of 17-25 people…with a few on top.

Comeback of the year: Brett Favre.

Happy holidays and here’s to a healthy 2008! Miss you guys. Love, Zach

International HIV/AIDS Awareness Day: Curing my Type A Personality One Unexpected Holiday at a Time

Happy World HIV/AIDS Day! (I’m not sure if “happy” is the right word, but you know what I mean.) If you didn’t know it, December 1 is World AIDS Day. Find out more.

Though Burkina participates in the WAD awareness programs, we also had a national awareness day last week. The HIV/AIDS epidemic has not hit Burkina with nearly the strength it has in other countries (official infection rates here are less than 5% compared to 30-40% for some countries), but its obvious potency and global importance is enough of a reason for a second day of campaigning.

Thursday morning a doctor (his official title is Major…I’m not sure if that means he’s a doctor or health official or what) from our village medical clinic spoke to the students and staff at my school. Before he arrived, the students placed benches in the shade of a large tree and arranged a table from which he could speak. “That’s nice,” I though. “He and some of the students will be able to sit in the shade.” Wrong. He and ALL 500 students were in the shade. To be fair, it was a big tree, and we had the benefit of long, pre-noon shadows, but still… By the end of his speech the rising sun had significantly decreased the area covered by the tree’s shade; consequently, the students were either sitting on top of each other in the shade or miserable in the sun. (And remember, this is the cold season.)

The content of the major’s speech was very informative. He talked about the history of the epidemic, a little biology, methods of transmission, and methods of prevention. I’m not sure how effective the biology portion was; the kids have never used a microscope to view a cell, and most- except for possibly the oldest- probably really don’t understand what a cell is, let alone the immune system. But the information was good. The thing that struck me the most, however, was the audience reaction to his “prevention” spiel. I expected giggles when he discussed condoms; there isn’t a seventh grader in the world who can discuss safer sex with a straight face. But it shocked me to hear bold laughter - from students and staff alike - when he mentioned abstinence. Great. so we’re all old enough to have sex, but we’re not old enough to talk about doing it safely. That’s a dangerous combo in my book. Whatever little credibility I used to give to abstinence programs, especially abstinence only programs, decreased by about 99.9% in that two minutes. Let’s spend our time talking about how to buy (I found out you CAN buy them in village), store (keep them out of the Burkinabe heat), and use condoms.

The other interesting aspect of the morning was the wide difference in knowledge levels of the adults (teachers). The spectrum ranged from an inquiry about the microbiological differences between HIV and malaria to “Why should we support rich European and American companies by buying their condoms?” Keep talking; the message has not reached everyone.

The only negative aspect of Thursday’s day of no school was that I didn’t find out about it until Monday night. So much for the test I had planned for Thursday afternoon. Next available time? A full week later. Which is difficult because a week after that is the last day of classes. Aye. We probably have as many random holidays in the US (especially for school kids) as they do in Burkina; the only difference is that we have a calendar. The Burkinabe like to keep their holidays secret as long as possible. It’s a fun game, but one that has given my uber-Type A, planning-centric style a sick stomach more than once. Not anymore. I’ve now resolved to leave the house each morning saying “If we have class today, this is what we’re going to do.” It may not be the way I’d choose to live my life, but it works wonders on the stress levels. Besides, I tell myself, every surprise holiday is a new opportunity to re-organize the rest of the trimester.

T-minus five days to my six-month in-country mark. How am I going to celebrate? A luke-cool beer from my village buvette. Cheers!

Snippets

It’s been a while since I last updated my blog. Here are a few snippets of my life the past few weeks.

-I went to Bobo for the first time in the middle of October. It was wonderful. It has all of the conveniences of Ouaga (grocery store, internet, good restaurants…) with much less of the crowded polluted big city feel. The only difficulty was getting there and back: I took a bush taxi (small mini van) with anywhere from 17 to 25 other people hanging out windows or sitting on the roof or each others’ laps. (The range is necessary because we stopped about every 3km to pick up or drop off passengers…for you metrically-challenged people, that’s about once every mile and a half…which is why the trip took six hours.) Bobo deserves more of a description, so I’ll write more the next time I go.

-I got a refrigerator! …and a girl delivered it on her head. …ok, so to be accurate, the refrigerator is a small clay pot. But buried in moist sand, it keeps my drinking water refreshingly cool. Ask chemist Chelsea how it works.

-Towards the end of the fourth week of school, the last of our teachers arrived to complete the staff. There are six full time teachers, including me, plus the director, secretary, vice principal, accountant, and groundskeeper. All in all, it’s a pretty big staff.

We had our “back to school” staff meeting at that time and discussed such important things as the discipline policies, the school calendar, and the number of tests required in each class per trimester. You might be thinking that all those things would have been nice to know before school started…flexibility is very important here.

Interestingly, we did not discuss the random holidays that pop up every two or so weeks; I guess those are regularly kept secret until a day or two before they happen. It’s more fun that way. Also, I found out that the fall trimester ends December 7; this allows for two weeks of grade calculations before Christmas. “Two weeks!?” says you.

“300-500 students per teacher and no computer,” says I. Finally, the spring trimester is only seven weeks long. Bonus: we got chicken and beer after the meeting.

-I gave my firsts tests last week. The sixth grade average was 60%, and the seventh graders got about 40%. The seventh graders were rightly disappointed, but the sixth graders were thrilled. Like I said earlier, the system here is based on the French system that believes in showing students the areas in which they can improve. 50% is passing, so the sixth graders were happy…almost all of them. I gave three cheaters zeros. That’s the rule. And when you copy the only kid in class who draws a four-sided figure on the triangle question, then match his answers word for word on the rest of the test, it makes my job really easy.

-For the most part the kids are great though. The sixth graders fly out of their chairs when I ask for volunteers to do a problem on the board. They especially like correcting their classmates’ errors.

They also like goofing around, and it’s sometimes hard for me to resist cracking a smile at some of their antics. But sometimes discipline is easy: like when I send you to the vice principal to get a tardy slip and you don’t come back for an hour and a half. Give me a break kid.

-One of the things that has really struck me the past month is the noticeable lack of an outlet for student creativity in school. The kids meticulously copy notes from the blackboard so carefully that they use rulers to underline key words and start a new page if they make a mistake. There are no fun projects, music classes, or art classes. One of the ways I want to remedy this is by starting a math/science club after our holiday break. I say math/science but what I really want is math/science undertows with an emphasis on fun and games: Soduku, brain teasers, star-gazing, and Cribbage…that kind of thing. If you have any good ideas, please let me know.

-Another thing you can help with: Send me postcards if you go on any cool vacations. The history/geography teacher invited me to talk to one of his classes last week. They are learning about North America, and he wanted me to talk about the big American cities. The kids were floored to find out that everyone has electricity, people ride to work in underground trains, and buildings can reach the clouds. If you visit or live in any major American cities or other points of interest that they would have heard of (I’m thinking New York, Chicago, LA, Washington DC, the mountains, the beach, someplace with snow…), send me a postcard. Traveling internationally? London, Paris, Rome, Beijing, Tokoyo…send me a postcard. If it’s a really good picture I’ll pay you back with a beer the next time I see you. Sorry, the kids probably won’t recognize pictures from your trip to visit Grandma in Hodunk, Nebraska. But I always love getting mail, so send away anyways. Thanks!

-I’ve started sleeping outside again. It’s probably not completely necessary since the weather hasn’t been too hot recently. Don’t ask me what that translates to in degrees- my perceptions are all screwed up. I go to bed wearing only a pair of shorts and wake up twice every night: once to pull on a t-shirt, knit socks, and a sleeping bag; and once to shoo away the donkeys that like to make a rukus in the front yard around 3:30am.

I think that’s just about it for now. Happy Thanksgiving! How ’bout them Packers?!

Pencils, Notebooks, Protractors...Rocks, Sticks and Machetes

The school year has gotten off to a pretty good start. Despite Monday’s unexpected holiday, I think all of my classes will be ready for their first test in two weeks as planned. I’m teaching two classes each of sixth and seventh grade math. Both classes are about equivalent to their American counterparts: the sixth graders are learning about lines and angles; and the seventh graders are learning central symmetry. The Burkinabe school system puts algebra and geometry subjects in each grade, so the next unit in each class will be algebra-oriented. The sixth graders are especially fun; they are excited to be in middle school and are receptive to my sometimes foreign teaching methods- I borrowed an idea from a PCV friend and used a tent pole to demonstrate lines, rays, and segments. The seventh graders are a little more set in their ways and, like American seventh graders, have acquired the “cool kid” attitude that must be a universal phenomenon.

Last weekend was host to two big holidays. My Muslim-savvy readers know that Ramadan was last Saturday. (I know embarrassingly little about Islam, so if someone wants to learn me some stuff, that’d be great.) As far as I know, Ramadan marks the end of the daytime fasting period. How do people celebrate? With a feast, of course! Preparations began just after sunset on Friday and lasted literally all night. You know it’s important when every house in village uses their car battery electricity to blast radios all night. Quite the festive atmosphere! My neighbors killed a few chickens and roasted them over a small fire in the yard. Even more so than when alive, dead Burkinabe chickens make their American brethren look like steroid-enhanced gigantic super freaks. Or maybe the American birds are just well-fed. The biggest difference I noticed between Ramadan Saturday and a regular Saturday is that everyone was all dressed up: women in brightly colored pagnes, men wearing full-length traditional outfits…even the kids looked nice. Saturday afternoon my neighbors shared some of their feast with me: rice and couscous with peanut sauce and…chicken. Delicious!

The other holiday last weekend wasn’t so much a traditional holiday as a political celebration. Monday marked the 20th anniversary of Blaise Compaore’s presidency. The occasion warranted the day off from school…which I found out when I arrived to teach my first class at 7am. Thing is, the students were all there too. Why not just have class? I guess I’m not the only one without a school year calendar. The day also gave me the opportunity to talk American politics with several of my neighbors and coworkers. Most of them were shocked to find out that not only do I not like President Bush, I didn’t even vote for him. (Sorry to disappoint you, Grandma.) Their response: “But he’s the President. Why didn’t you vote for him?” They were even more surprised to find out that very few Americans like him or approve of his presidency. “If no one likes him, how is he President?” Good question.

A couple of other notable differences between Burkinabe and American school and life. The students spent their first few physical education classes clearing the fields behind the school. Since the rainy season is over, all the overgrown grass back there was dead and needed to be cleared so they could have a soccer field. Imagine my surprise when I walked out of my math class to see the eighth graders in the fields with their hoes, axes, and machetes. “Don’t forget your machetes for PE class tomorrow, kids.” If I had a dime for every time I heard that in an American middle school…

When I got home from class yesterday morning, there was a gang of 20 or 25 men standing around with sticks and rocks a few houses down. “Uh-oh,” I thought. “Somebody’s in trouble.” My gut instinct told me to run inside, but my curiosity got the better of me. I hesitated for a few seconds and was amply rewarded: in no time the group started hurling their rocks and sticks, and two pigs came squirting out of the crowd. Yup, I had stumbled across a hunting party. Though I knew the likely outcome, I couldn’t rightly let the party get away without seeing more. I ran inside and changed out of my work clothes (’cuz who knew what was going to happen). Jumped on my bike and took off after the crowd. They chased these poor pigs all around town, squealin’ and hollerin’ the whole way. The men were shouting strategy commands, and women and children helped when they could; they didn’t get too close though and ducked into doorways whenever the gang came into their yard. For my part, I stayed a decent distance away- close enough to see the action, but not so close as to get pelted by a stray stick if one of the pigs should take off in my direction. By and by they cornered one of the pigs. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say that a few sticks and rocks to the head later and that pig was ready for the fire.

I later got the scoop from one of my friends. As I’d noticed, people pretty much let their animals roam freely about the village. When someone wants to eat their livestock, they hire a group of men to go find it and kill it. Cows are the easiest because they barely move; goats and pigs require a small herd of men. The going rate for such a hunting party? About one dollar. (What would you do for one American dollar?)

...a Little More Action Please

Life has a certain charm when you live in a small African village and have nothing to do. I spent the month of September going on bike rides, reading books, and watching the shadows move on my front porch (I threw myself a party the day the sun moved far enough south to shade my porch the entire afternoon). Though it might sound a little dull, I had actually started getting used to this life. I enjoyed people watching and knowing that the most stressful part of my day was deciding whether to eat rice or couscous for lunch. That said, I was very excited this week when school started.

School technically starts at 7am, and though I had been warned ad nauseam about the school year getting off to a slow start, I showed up Monday morning promptly at 6:30. Right. The director rolled in a little after 8:00. Most of the students who were going to show up had showed up by then, so the vice principal started taking attendance at 8:30. One by one, he called the names of every student in every class. When their name was called, each student walked from the courtyard into their classroom. Then the VP read the next name. This thrilling process took about three hours. Luckily I realized about an hour into the ordeal that my presence was neither necessary nor required. So I left.

After observing the rigor of the first day, I showed up Tuesday mentally prepared to not spend any time in front of students. Much to my surprise, the director asked me if I was ready to go. “Hell yeah!” said I…in French. He took me to my first class and introduced me to the students, a class of about 80 sixth graders. In my opening spiel I mentioned that I had gone to school in California; no one recognized the state until I mentioned that the popular TV show 24 is set there. Then the faces lit up. Terrorist-fighting Jack Bauer is about as popular here as riding donkeys. Since most of the students don’t have text books, I spent the first class going over the program for the year. Yup, I spent half an hour writing out the table of contents from their math book. Very exciting. Then we went over classroom rules and grading. Nothing to crazy.

I actually got to teach on the second day of class. I started right in on the first chapter of sixth grade math. To my surprise and delight, the lesson actually went really well. I think the kids mostly understood my French, and they more or less paid attention. Something tells me that will change. I have two classes each of 6th and 7th grade math. The 7th grade classes are reasonably small; there are about 45 kids in each section. The 6th grade classes are more typical of Burkinabe sizes- each section has about 90 kids. Yup. 90 sixth graders and me. One of the classes meets every Monday and Wednesday from 3-5pm; can’t wait for the hot season. With the four classes I have 20 hours of teaching per week. Add in lesson planning, grading, and French practice, and I think I’m actually going to be doing quite a bit of work, especially this first year. I guess the shadows on my front porch will have to go on without me.

A Little Less Conversation...

Living in a small town in an unfamiliar country with people who speak unfamiliar languages and have unfamiliar customs provides ample opportunity for “cultural awareness experiences”. And when you sit on your front porch all day with only authors and crossword puzzle editors for company, those experiences are about as frequent as seeing the diarrhea-stricken neighbor boy poop in the front yard.

Two Burkinabe bike towards each-other. I swear this whole conversation occurs without slowing the bikes. This whole conversation happens without stopping or even slowing.

A: Good morning.
B: Yes. Good morning to you
A: How was your night?
B: It passed well. How is your family?
A: They are well. And yours?
B: Yes, everyone is well.
A: How is your health?
B: Excellent. There are no problems.
A: How is your left leg?
B: It is doing just fine. How is your grandfather’s second wife’s third child?
A: He gets stronger each day.
B: God blesses us all in many ways.
A: Yes, He does.
B: May He continue to look after you and your family until we meet again.
A: God willing you will remain in good health.
B: As will you.
A: Amen.
B: Amen.

***

I recently got electricity in the form of a car battery and two fluorescent light bulbs. Here are some words of warning from my Battery Storage Manual. These are direct quotations; the manual is written in English. Odd in a French-speaking country.

“The storage of battery of this type is far from bright fire.” Dim fires are OK?

“If you cannot use the battery of this type properly that will lead to exploding.” Duly noted.

“Suggest using the way of march charge the battery so that the use of the battery in function is the best.” What?

***

Though French is the official language in Burkina, few people use it regularly outside of the big cities. There are over 60 regional languages, and most people use one of these in their everyday lives. The people in my village speak Jula, and I have been trying (unsuccessfully) to pick it up.

Old Lady: Ini tile. (Good afternoon.)
Me: Mbaa. Heere tilena? (Good afternoon. Have you had a good day?)
OL: Heere. (Yes.) (Shocked that I speak Jula.)
Me: Somogowdo? (How is your family?)
OL: O ka kene. (They are good.) (Huge smile.)
Me: Heere. (Good.)
OL: (Lots of fast words that I come nowhere close to understanding.)
Me: (Smile and nod. Uh, that’s all I got lady.)
OL: (More words I don’t understand. Lots of laughing.)
Me: (Laughing, smiling, nodding.)
OL: (Huge smile.)
Me: Heere. Ini ce. (Good. Thank you.)
OL: (Laughing. Walks away.)

***

As a functionnaire (the “middle class” in Burkina), I am expected to do little in terms of household chores. As a man, I am expected to do even less. I’ve hired a kid to bring me water, and a lady down the street does my laundry. However, I do my own cooking and cleaning.

Burkinabe: Good morning.
Me: Good morning.
B: What are you doing?
Me: Cleaning my dishes/ sweeping the floor/ making dinner.
B: That is woman’s work. You should get a wife.
Me: Haha.
B: Do you have a wife?
Me: No. I’m only 24 years old. Besides, if I had a wife, do you think she’d let me leave her and come here?
B: That is plenty old enough. This is women’s work.
Me: In America, men and women often share household duties. A man who knows his way around the kitchen is thought to be sensitive. Women like that in a man.
B: (Puzzled look…so much for cross-cultural exchanges.) I will find you a wife.
Me: No really…
B: Here is my daughter. She will be your wife.
Me: Thank you. But she is much too young.
B: She is a strong woman.
Me: She looks like she’s 12 years old.
B: She has curved feet. (Good luck in Burkina.)
Me: Really, thank you, but…
B: You need a wife.

***

We have a medical clinic in town. I haven’t figured out what services they offer yet, but I talked to one of the nurses the other day…

Nurse: Are you French?
Me: No. I’m American.
Nurse: But you speak French.
Me: A little. I’m going to be a teacher at the middle school here.
Nurse: Ah, you will teach French?
Me: (Are you joking? Is this place really in bad enough shape that I could teach French?) No…
Nurse: English then.
Me: Actually I’m going to teach math.
Nurse: You know math?
Me: Yes. I studied math and biology at university in America.
Nurse: But how are you going to teach? You don’t speak French.
Me: But I’m speaking French right now…and didn’t you just tell me I should teach French?
Nurse: The students won’t understand you.
Me: …grr…

***

Me: Hello, I’d like a ticket for the 9:30 bus.
Worker: There is no bus today.
Me: Yesterday you said there would be a bus.
W: There was a bus yesterday. Today the drivers are on strike.
Me: Oh. (Somewhat disappointed.) Will there be a bus tomorrow?
W: (Blank stare.)
Old Man: You should come back this afternoon. There will be a bus at 2:30.
Me: Thank you. Do you work here? (What is this? The drivers go on a morning strike so they can have mimosas and a casual brunch in bed?)
OM: (Blank stare.)
Me: (to worker) So if I come back this afternoon there might be a bus?
W: (Already resumed sleeping.)

…4 hours later

Me: Hello is there a bus this afternoon?
W: (Obviously irked that I woke her.) The drivers are on strike today.
Me: Oh. Are all the drivers on strike, or is there another company I can try? I really need to get home today.
W: There are no buses today.

(Across the street at a different company.)

Me: Hello. Do you have any buses this afternoon?
W: Yes. It leaves right away.
Me: (Kiss of death.) Great.

Fifteen minutes later the bus pulls up. Except it’s really a van. Boarding the bus I notice that you can see the engine through the floorboards. There is a spare can of gas behind the driver’s seat. The ceiling is held up by three poles, and the wall paneling is held together with duct tape…at least it was ten years ago. Ten minutes later, still at the garage, the bus shakes and dies.

***

There’s no garbage service in Burkina. Actually there’s a noticeable lack of many public services- garbage, water, electricity, health care, sewage…- so people burn their trash. I had my first garbage fire last week.

Neighbor: What is that?
Me: Garbage.
N: What are you going to do with it?
Me: Burn it. Isn’t that what people do here?
N: Wait. (Calls over another neighbor.) We will help. (Dumps garbage into the yard.)
Me: Well thank you.
N: The kids like to play with these (tin cans) and these (plastic bottles). I could use this (old magazine, faded and in English).
Me: (But you don’t speak Engl…whatever.)
N: Here, take these (hands some torn plastic report binders to her kid, whose primary clothing is a “new” ratty headband I found in the bottom of one of the canteens in my house).
Me: (I guess I didn’t do that good of a job sorting through the garbage to save useful items. At least the things will be reused. This is nice: inhaling fumes from burning plastic, keeping the goat out of the “not-yet-burned” pile. The kid next door is taking a bath in the front yard and blowing bubbles in my old tomato past can. Something tells me I’m not in Kansas anymore.)

Let There be Light

My big news this week is that I now have electricity in my house! It’s a great convenience, but before you get too jealous of my luxurious life, let me explain.

Envious of my neighbor’s well-lit porch, I mentioned to him that I was interested in getting power installed in my house. He brought me over to the hardware store, which is run by a man and his one or two assistants (you never can tell around here). The store itself shares a building with one of the tele-centers in town and is a rectangle maybe twenty feet long and half as wide. Some pipes lie on the floor, and a shelf holding light bulbs, wire, and miscellaneous tools runs along one wall. Everything is covered with the signature layer of dust that inevitably accumulates on any item in this country not used for more than ten minutes.

I explained what I wanted to the electrician, and he showed me plans he had made for another customer. It all looked great except for the price tag- the equivalent of $500, or two month’s salary. A little pricey. I told him what I was willing to pay, and together we whittled down the existing plans, leaving me with a basic but extremely sufficient setup. At the end of an hour, I walked away with a 15W solar panel, a 12V car battery, 20 meters of wire, two fluorescent light bulbs, a wall outlet, and a light switch.

To my slight surprise the electrician showed up at my house the next morning only a couple of hours later than scheduled. You don’t get that punctuality in the States. Of course I was probably his biggest customer of the week, if not the month; very few homes in village can afford even the basic setup that I bought. The first thing he did was raid the garbage fire pit for a nice piece of charred ash. He used this to mark an outline of his plan onto my wall. No measuring tape. No level. No ruler. Just his eyeball. My grandfather, Mr. Fixer-Upper, would have laughed out loud if he had seen this inaccuracy.

With the plans etched in the wall, he went to town…with an axe! He chopped away at the cement layer of my wall creating a trough a couple inches wide and about half as deep. It reached down to the underlying mud brick and ran the height of one wall, along its base, around the corner, and up the next wall. He widened and deepened the trough about halfway up the first wall and at its top and bottom; these spots are where he would later install the light switch and wall plug, and where he would drill a hole through the wall so I could have a light outside. After laying the wire in the trough and cutting it to size, he cemented it all in place, filling in the trough and approximately smoothing the surface by hand. Again, no tools except for a wire cutter.

By this point the job was basically done. His assistant mounted two fluorescent light bulbs- one above my stove and one on the porch- and they added the cover for the wall socket and light switch. All said and done, it was pretty cool. All I had to do to get power was hook up the car battery to the wires that run straight out of the wall (right through the cement…no fancy cover or anything). When the battery runs out of juice, I hook it up to the solar panel and harness the sun’s energy from my front yard. The setup is a bit crude, and now I have the remnants of the trough to paint, but hey, it works! I’ve been using the light for an hour or two for over a week now and haven’t had to recharge the battery yet.

Does this mean you can come over, eat microwave nachos, drink a cold margarita from my blender, and watch a movie in surround sound? Not exactly. All those fancy appliances would drain my battery faster than you can say “Ouagadougou”. What it does mean is that I can make dinner (usually rice or pasta), read a book, and see my guitar music after watching the sunset. However, despite having access to this cutting-edge technology, my favorite nighttime activity is still sitting on my front porch and admiring the stars. I have yet to see a movie or read a book that equals the magnificence and splendor of Nature’s nightly feature.

Notes from Africa

The days that followed were considerably more positive than that first afternoon. There have been some rough moments, but on the whole, things are looking good as I adjust to life in my new ‘hood.

My house is mostly cleaned out. I’ve converted the second bedroom into a yoga/meditation/music studio, and the living room/kitchen is going for the “beach house without the water” look. As the fourth volunteer to live in my house, I’ve inherited a lot of crap, some useful, and some useless. Tops on the list include old lesson plans, a Peace Corps health manual from 2005, about 30 novels, and a slightly used tent. I also have a ton of my village’s famous pottery. The only thing I don’t have yet is electricity. After sunset I usually play the guitar in the dark before going to bed around 8 or 8:30. I don’t think I went to bed that early when I was five years old, but that’s life in Burkina.

It’s rained everyday except one that I’ve been in village. Most of the time this keeps the temperature pleasantly in the mid-70’s. I don’t know if this is a bad omen for what awaits me in the hot season, but the Burkinabe are now wearing winter coats. Yikes! They make San Diegans look tough. The rain has also allowed me to make an important discovery about my new house: the floor isn’t level. Usually the storms come from the south, the back of the house, so this isn’t a problem. One day, however, we got a storm from the front of the house, and the rain blew right in under my front door. It collected in a nice little…large actually puddle across the living room from the front door. Fortunately the living room is also the garage, so it wasn’t too tough to sweep the water out again.

The other unfortunate affect of the rain is the toll it takes on the roads. The nearest paved road is about 100km away, and all the dirt roads have been transformed into Swiss cheese. Despite this, I’ve taken several bike rides to neighboring villages. Between potholes, I’ve managed to make several observations. One, there are a lot of potholes. Two, add a little water and the Burkinabe countryside is actually quite beautiful. Three, kids are given a lot of responsibility here. It’s not unusual to have to steer around a herd of cattle being led to graze by a set of three year olds. Four, people walk a long ways to get to market. Check that, women and girls walk a longs ways to get to market; men and boys ride bikes, motos, or donkey carts. Not only do they walk it, but the women carry all their goods to sell on their heads.

Most days, town is pretty quiet. The bus stop on the main road sees four buses a day, two in each direction. We have a buvette and one or two restaurants. We also have a medical clinic which employs a doctor and nurse. The only person over there the day I stopped by was the mayor’s daughter and a friend, just hanging out. Town comes alive on market days though. Two big trucks bring in goods from the nearest big city. You can find everything from eating utensils to plastic sandals. Also: Britney Spears t-shirts and “real” Rolexes. Villagers bring in their crops, and there’s a huge meat section. With all the people and goods crowded into a small area in the center of town, sanitation is largely ignored. I walked by a cow head hanging out on the ground in front of the butcher’s stand.

All in all, life isn’t too bad out here. Since school hasn’t started yet, I have very little to do. Most days I take a bike ride, go for a walk around town, and do a lot of reading. There’s also the humorous half conversation with the servant/daughter of the family next door. She speaks less French than I do. There’s also plenty of time to watch the endless parade of animals that comes through my yard: cows, goats, pigs, sheep, chickens, roosters, dogs, cats, donkeys…As long as they don’t poo on my porch, I’m happy.

Affectation

Our swear-in ceremony was a very formal affair held at a hotel near our training facility in Ouahigouya. The regional director of education, some national government officials, our training staff, and of course our families were all there. As custom dictated, the last person to arrive was the US Ambassador, who had been escorted into the city by the Mayor and the PC Country Director. Multiple speeches were given, including remarks of gratitude by trainees in four local languages (none of which I understood) and French (which I did understand). At the end of the Ambassador’s speech, she asked the trainees to rise, and together we took the oath of Peace Corps service. Presto! I was officially a Peace Corps Volunteer. The months (and years) of waiting, planning, and training had finally resulted in my ultimate goal realized. Instantly my daily salary nearly tripled, and I became a sworn defender of the Constitution of the United States of America, “against all enemies, foreign and domestic”. Unfortunately we are not given diplomatic immunity.

After the ceremony there was time for a quick “mingle and eat” session. As a going away present my host family had given me a traditional Burkinabe outfit made from fabric hand woven by my host mother’s deceased grandmother. It’s a beautiful outfit, and I look pretty snazzy in it (I’ll get you pictures soon). It’s going to be hard to resist wearing it for a night on the town once I get back to America. I enjoyed the outfit even more once I discovered the exact angle to hold my arms for a full air-conditioning affect. Also, due to the thick fabric, sweat stains don’t show. Double bonus! Unfortunately we had to cut our time at the party short so we could get to the station to catch our bus down to Ouaga.

Since we were all traveling together, the bus company had made arrangements for us to have a private coach. This does not mean we enjoyed a nice spacious ride to Ouaga in the lap of luxury. The bus had six or seven rows of seats. When you fold down the aisle seat, there is enough room to fit four people, shoulder to shoulder, per row. With all the rows full, there was just enough space for the 26 of us, our three adopted kittens, and Jon’s electrical equipment. Plus two Burkinabe stowaways. About an hour outside of Ouaga we started having problems with the rooftop luggage rack. I didn’t see anything fall off, but the driver had to stop to make adjustments three or four times within the span of half an hour.

As we were driving down, I thought back to my first impressions of Ouaga, Burkina, and the Burkinabe three months ago. Ouaga seemed like a nightmarish war zone with loiterers lining the streets and no legal order. The Burkina landscape was barren, the closest thing this side of a desert I’ve ever experienced. And the Burkinabe seemed nice, but in desperate need of outside help. Three months later some of those perceptions hold, but others need serious amendments. Yes, stop lights are largely suggestions; yes, the majority of Burkinabe people are subsistence farmers; and yes, the temperature can be “hot as Sahel”. But now I’m also compelled to notice signs of hope. The HIV/AIDS infection rates are low, and people are talking about malaria prevention. Girls, especially in big cities, attend school almost as regularly as boys. Not only are the people nice, but they are also hard-working, uncomplaining, and generous. There are definitely problems- access to education, health care, and sanitation- but the situation is not without hope. It seems like just a few simple things would go a long ways, and I guess that’s why I’m here.

Our Ouaga weekend was full of all the good things in life. We had a pool party; consumed cheeseburgers, milkshakes, and pizza; and topped it all off at the wine and cheese bar. Saturday afternoon I was able to shop at the Marina Market, an Ex-Pat grocery store that feeds American. It even stocks M&M’s and Twix Bars.

Sunday was “go day”. Because we had all our luggage, Peace Corps vans were fanning out over the country and taking most of us directly to our sites. My van left the transit house around 7:30 and reached the outskirts of Ouaga about an hour later- after visiting several gas stations looking for air for the tires and stopping for a coffee break for the driver. We dropped Garrett off in his village then made our way along the back roads to mine. Along the way we drove right past Julia moving into her new house. We stopped to say hi, and Julia and I hugged like we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in decades. In actuality it had been barely two hours. Just imagine the scene when we all get back together in three months for our In-Service Training.

After leaving Julia’s the road got noticeably worse. We were on an unpaved path, and the rainy season had taken its toll. Potholes and puddles were everywhere. And when I say potholes and puddles, I mean canyons and lakes. It was a very bumpy 70km ride, but we finally saw the sign for my village.

The saying that some things “hit you like a ton of bricks” has never been more appropriate in my life. As we approached my new house, I thought back to the last time I drove home to a new home. It was almost two years ago. I was with Amy and Jordan. We had just dropped off my U-Haul in Berkeley and had picked up some things from the Ikea in Emeryville. Driving across the Bay Bridge, Amy and I noted how weird it was to be traveling west towards home in San Francisco, after so many years of crossing the Bridge in the other direction to get home to Berkeley. Fast forward two years. Now I was driving towards my new home through a remote region of Africa in one of the poorest countries in the world. It was then that it hit me, and it hit me hard. I suddenly felt very alone.

After the driver left, I quickly realized that I had to get out of the house. I went to visit my counterpart, a teacher at my school. Then I stopped at the telecenter to call my mom and let her know that I had made it safely. And because I needed to hear a familiar voice. Back at the house, I made it through the rest of the afternoon thanks to two saving graces. One, cleaning. I am an admitted Type A, organizationally-excitable person, so I started cleaning the house. After sweeping and mopping my bedroom I felt much better. Still alone, but better. Then, after dinner, I used my second lifeline. Before leaving San Francisco, my friends had given me a photo album, complete with notes of encouragement, friendship, and memories. I had kept the book locked up in storage throughout training, wanting to save it for a special occasion. If ever there was going to be a special occasion, I knew that this, my first night in village, was it. I opened the book and was immediately overwhelmed with happy “Mmmmmmmmmm-emories”: Bay to Breakers, skydiving, New Orleans, Yosemite, Point Reyes, the beach, birthdays, San Diego, Half Dome, cake fights, Burger Shack, Cal Band…I felt like everyone was here with me, and I realized that I’m not that far away. I can do this. Then I fell asleep.

End of Training

The last week of training is winding down quite successfully. I’ve had a nice mix of spending time with my host family, hanging out with my fellow trainees, and sitting through intellectually stimulating administrative sessions. It’s been a very relaxing way to end a crazy three months.

I want to start out with a story for the folks back home in Wisconsin. (Hi Grandma!) I have a couple of friends here who share parallel or reciprocal lives with me. Caroline grew up in Wisconsin then went to college in California; Lara grew up in California- and had my former roommate’s mom as a high school math teacher- and went to college in Wisconsin. Yes, I know I’m not technically from Wisconsin, but I think that knowing the words to “On Wisconsin!” at age three gives me some room for creative liberties. Caroline somehow came across a movie called “The Godfather of Green Bay”, and we decided that the three of us had to watch it. We went in with absolutely no expectations of grand cinematography or stellar acting, and were therefore not disappointed. The movie follows two comedians from Los Angeles as they make their way to Green Bay, WI to perform in a comedy club. To a horribly wonderful extent, it exaggerates every small town northern Wisconsin stereotype- deer hunting, mullets, bar fights, Packer fans, and of course, Chicago Bears hatred. It was hilariously awful, but it reminded us all of home, so we loved it.

Last Sunday my youngest host brother took me to meet his extended family. The family has two properties a short walk from our house in Ouahigouya. As we neared the first complex, my brother started pointing out his relatives on the streets. Just about everyone was somehow related. It turns out that the family is much more complicated that I originally thought. My host mother is the oldest (I think) of 12 children, ranging in age from roughly 35 to about 10. I now think both of the young girls who lived with us the past three months are actually my host mom’s youngest sisters, not her daughters. It’s confusing because if I’m right her children are older than her siblings.

Most of the family lives in a large housing complex together. They have a huge courtyard surrounded by a very tall fence. The house itself resembles a row of single-story apartments or condos, with maybe five or six separate small units. Across the street is the house of the family patriarch and his (I think only) wife. Their courtyard is huge, and with the tallest hangar I’ve seen, it feels very much like a warehouse shipping yard. My host grandfather was busy praying when we arrived, so we waited a few minutes with his wife in the circle of chairs they had setup for us. He came outside shortly and bounded over to us, greeting me warmly and asked about my health and family. He wanted me to thank my family for allowing me to come to Burkina. He echoed many people’s sentiments in saying that they are truly grateful for our help and eager to improve certain aspects of their quality of life. He offered me the following advice for a successful stay in Burkina: respect, diligence, and love. He promised that by practicing these three things my time here would be happy and fulfilling. I think that advice can be broadened to life in general.

The actual work we’ve had to do this week has been pleasantly minimal. We’ve had several administrative sessions, and I now proudly know how to request vacation time, receive my paycheck (oops…living allowance), and travel to my site. I’ve also been reminded several times that my actions as a Volunteer reflect not only on myself, but also on the entire Peace Corps and more generally on the United States of America…so don’t screw up. I don’t know if I can handle all the pressure. I wonder if President George ever received this lecture. Somehow I doubt it. I also doubt that anything I say or do here could manage to have more of a negative impact on our international standing than what he has done in the last six years. But that’s a story for another day. (For the record, I am free to discuss American politics, courtesy of the First Amendment; Burkina politics, however, are strictly off limits.)

Now I’m just enjoying my last few days with electricity and running water. And trying to pack up all the stuff the Peace Corps has managed to give me the past three months. Tomorrow is the swear-in ceremony!

I think it’s time for lunch; an avocado sandwich sounds delicious. All the best!

Model School

I blinked and suddenly the summer is over, with only a week left before I move to my village and begin service for real. Somehow the past four or five weeks have managed to fly by, and I have neglected to mention the most important part of our formal training: model school. Here goes.

For the past five weeks, the Peace Corps has hosted a model school for interested students in Ouahigouya. This is an opportunity for students entering sixieme through troisieme (sixth through ninth grades) to get ahead a bit in their studies before classes start this fall. For us, it was an opportunity to practice teaching for one or two hours per day in a much more relaxed, amenity-rich environment than we will find when we get to village. A little over 200 students participated, and they were split up into classes of 25-35 students. That may sound like a lot of kids, but compared to the 90-120 kids I’ll have in class in village, it was a piece of cake. The school we taught at was crazy nice by Burkinabe standards. Sure, most of the student benches were broken, and the classrooms heated up to oven-like temperatures after 9:00 in the morning. But they had electricity (a lone fluorescent light bulb atop each blackboard) and fields for playing soccer (no grass of course). Selfishly, I have to say that the biggest comfort was the teacher’s lounge: a TV, fans, and toilets that flushed every time.

Once the students got used to our funny accents and broken French, they were very eager to participate in class. Most students don’t have textbooks, and you can’t count on them to do any work at home, even if you give them class time to copy down a homework assignment from the board. I had to plan my lessons with plenty of examples and opportunities for students to come to the blackboard to do practice math problems. And that is one thing they LOVE to do. Before I could finish my question- who can help me with this problem?- I’d have 30 hands in the air, all full of snapping fingers eager to get my attention. A chorus of “Moi, monsieur. Moi!” quickly followed as I wandered through the class to pick my next helper. Board work is a great way to assess student comprehension, but sometimes it’s really frustrating. I often found myself with a kid at the board who didn’t know how to do long division during my lesson on divisors. If s/he didn’t know how to divide, chances are it is because s/he doesn’t know how to multiply. Unfortunately because it is summer school, I had to let it slide and hope that their teachers would work with them in the fall. Another thing they love to do is copy down notes from the blackboard. They use many colors of pens and rulers to underline important points. The result is that at the end of the school year, they have a beautiful notebook full of textbook definitions. If only they understood what the words meant and/or how to apply them to a problem they haven’t seen before. Most schools here don’t have science labs; students learn theory but are never able to apply it to real situations and experiments. It all comes back to money.

Writing and administering tests are another challenge. The education system here is based on the French system, which is to say that they believe in showing kids how much room they have for improvement (as opposed to the American system where we believe in positive reinforcement…often to the extent that somehow a kid gets to high school before someone realizes s/he can’t read). What that means in practice is that teachers write their tests aiming for a class average of 50%. I have major reservations about going that low, but apparently those reservations did not result in easy tests: my averages for both of my 5e tests were just under 40%. Whoops. 4e did much better with a 65% class average. Though the girls were noticeably more shy than the boys in class, especially in 4e, in general they did as well on the tests. A quiet girl in the front row even received the highest grade on my first 5e test, by a lot. Cheating on tests is a big deal here. Kids come up with all sorts of creative ways to do it- friends under the windows, scratching answers into their desks the day before, and of course the ever-popular all out copying their neighbor’s paper. It was pretty easy to watch the classes for model school because there was plenty of space to spread out 30 kids, but I can’t even imagine how difficult it will be to prevent cheating with a class of 100+ students crammed in at three to a bench.

Today we had a nice ceremony for the end of model school. The regional education director was there, and the ceremony started out with some speeches by him, the Peace Corps staff, and a representative from the volunteers. We presented certificates of appreciation to the city government and our Burkinabe teaching mentors. Then the fun part began. Each class was supposed to organize a skit, song, or other performance of some type. What actually happened was not at all what I was expecting. Each class chose one or two students to get up in front of everyone and lip sync to a popular African reggae song. Most kids barely even moved their mouths, so it didn’t matter that the cordless microphone was also powerless. The music was blasting, and all the students in the audience were dancing and singing along. A couple of the performers even pulled up a few of us trainees to dance in front of everyone. This brought down the house. So much fun. I’ll try to post pictures soon. Most of the performances were to high energy songs, but one kid picked a sappy love song that could have been in the soundtrack to any romantic comedy ever made. He even conned some girl into joining him on stage so he could have someone to serenade. Unfortunately for him, she got bored or embarrassed about halfway through and sat down, leaving him standing on stage alone, eyes closed arms outstretched, serenading the girl in his imagination. His heart was in it one hundred percent.

And that’s it for model school. The next time I teach will be in the middle of October at a school of four hundred students with no electricity, no science lab, and no classroom resources other than me, the blackboard, and my chalk. I can’t wait!

Blue Skies

To say that the sky in Burkina is huge or that the weather here is intense would be to belittle the power of those adjectives and demean their subjects. The sky is the Earth’s all-encompassing blanket, a complete entity in and of itself. It is on this stage that the clouds float and the stars sparkle, all beneath the watchful gaze of the sun and moon.

Clear, cloudless days are initially unappealing. The sun rises, traverses the sky, and sets. But despite this plain plot, I find myself completely enraptured by the day’s majesty. If you look straight up, you get the feeling you are trapped on an island the size of your sandals in the middle of the ocean. Water continues in every direction as far as the eye can see. Looking to the horizon you can almost feel the sky reaching down to hold the Earth in its delicately balanced position in the solar system.

Cloudy days are another story all together. The clouds here are not the low-lying fog of San Francisco or the instantaneous presence of their mountain counterparts. Clouds are tiered, multi-layered puffs of whipped egg whites, floating pleasantly overhead. As the sun sets and rises, its light bounces off the clouds to create purples, pinks, reds, and oranges that transcend the ability to be named. Wind rearranges the clouds throughout the day, and they morph into shapes and figures recognizable only to a child’s imagination. With a little luck one will temporarily pass between you and the sun, providing a momentary respite from its often brutal gaze.

When I first arrived in Burkina, the hot season was just coming to a close. The hot season: let me define. I checked my roommate’s thermometer one night as we were finishing dinner. An hour and a half after sunset it read 98 degrees F. Sleeping outdoors is virtually required as no fan in the world could cool the air in the mud-brick houses sufficiently for a decent night’s sleep. Daytime highs are well into the 100’s, a milestone requiring an asterisk since few people outside of the three or four largest cities have electricity. Air conditioning is almost nonexistent, and cold drinks are hot commodities sparsely scattered about even in the big cities.

By the middle of June the rains had come, and with them a significant (15-20 degree) decrease in temperature. We now go through cycles of 3-5 days, with temperature and humidity rising to a sudden drop mediated by a colossal storm. My guidebook described these storms as “apocalyptic-like”, and based on my experiences, that is an apt description. Thunder begins as a distant rumbling and gradually crescendos, frequently falling back on itself, to a monstrous climax after as much as 20 to 30 seconds. Rain doesn’t fall; the sky opens and throws sheets of water downward with seemingly enough force to knock a person off his feet. If you’re lucky enough to be indoors during the storm, your tin roof amplifies the fall of the rain to the decibel level of a small fleet of jet planes. All work ceases during a storm; no one is on the streets. Morning storms are the worst because the completely disrupt the daily schedule. You can’t shower during a storm in an outdoor shower and hope to ever dry off. If the storm lasts longer than a couple of hours, good luck in the outdoor latrine; toilet paper quickly becomes a mush of useless goop.

I’m told that it gets “cold” here in the winter. As a Minnesotan I question the use of the word “cold” inside 15 degrees latitude. I shudder to think that anything could be more amusing than watching Southern Californians bundle up in parkas, mittens, and scarves in the “frigid” Northern California winters, but I will keep you posted.

Pleasant sailing to all.

Food

Now that I’ve been here almost two months, I feel sufficiently integrated to write about food in Burkina. A traditional Burknabe meal consists of some type of grain with a sauce of meat and vegetables,, depending on what is available. In the large cities you can find grocery stores and restaurants that cater to the western palate, so there’s no danger of me going wit out a cheeseburger for the next two years. Despite the sometimes frustrating lack of variety and meager servings of meat, food here is pretty tasty, and I have no real complaints.

The basic staple of the traditional Burkinabe diet is “to”, a white jell-like blob made from millet. In the US, millet is used in birdseed, but once it is ground up, dissolved, and cooked, it is as edible as any other grain. To has no taste alone, but the Burkinabe add all sorts of sauces to liven up the dish: baobab, spinach, peanut, cabbage, and tomato are among the more popular ingredients. When not eating to, Burkinabe commonly eat rice or couscous with any of the sauces I just mentioned. Pasta with tomato sauce is also popular. As for drinks, Coca-Cola brand products (Coke, Sprite, and Fanta) are everywhere. There are four or five main types of beer, and tons of overwhelmingly sweet juices.

Most food and all sorts of gadgets can be found at the market places, which exist in most large towns and all big cities. As you get into the smaller towns and villages, markets become less regular and have a smaller variety of foods, but the Ouahigouya market place is the bustling center of the city. Shops are crowded in on top of each other, each shop getting a 12 foot by 12 foot room, some of which appear to have locking garage doors. Merchandize fills each shop, spilling out onto tables in the alleyways. This part of the market is basically African Walmart; you can find any plastic gizmo, cheap radio, machete, or kid’s toy you could desire. There are also people selling fabric for clothing; tailors found separately. Fabric is draped over the alleyways as a shield from the scorching sun, so this part of the market feels very enclosed, especially at the peak of its busy hours. Food is sold in a separate, open air part of the market. Women sell vegetables, dry grains, and spices, all arranged in neat piles on the ground. You buy spices buy the bag (about a palm full), and vegetables by the pile or individually. Depending on the season, you can find bell peppers, onions, garlic, tomatoes, eggs, fresh herbs, egg plant…very easily. If you can’t find something, you simply ask. If the vendor you approach isn’t selling it, she probably knows someone on the other side of the market who is and will gladly take you there herself. You don’t get this kind of service at Albertson’s. Animals, however, roam freely, so don’t ask about cleanliness.

I had my first grocery shopping trip in the Ouaghiouya market a few days ago. We had a nutritional practical as part of our training, so each group was given time and money to plan and prepare a full meal. Our group decided to go all out; we wanted to make onion rings, macaroni and cheese, tamale casserole, and crepes. We were able to get most of our ingredients at the market, for about five American dollars total. As you could imagine, a group of white people walking through the market attracts a bit of a crowd. Shopping was therefore an exercise in multi-tasking: speaking French, finding food, and fending off small children asking for a handshake or money. “Wend na kon loca” means “God will provide” in More and is an eternally useful phrase. We went to the supermarket (don’t get too excited…think gas station groceries) for cold milk, cheese, and baking powder.

Back at our instructor’s house, the PC medical officer and her PCV helpers rolled up with their portable kitchen. They had all the pots, pans, dishes, and utensils we would need; they also brought the propane-fuelled stove top and Dutch oven. Not even Rachel Ray could complain about this setup. L and C got to work on the onion rings and macaroni while G and I chopped veggies for the tamale pie. Unfortunately we forgot that beans take hours to cook, so we improvised and made vegetable surprise instead: thank you Spruce House cooking class. If only KFRC and Dusti Roads were here.

Everything turned out delicious. The onion rings were amazing, and the mac n cheese gave me hope for survival in this country (pasta = Zach staple). Veggie surprise was…interesting, but the crepes with a little mango jelly…wow. Basically I can’t wait to get to my village and cook for myself. The PC gave us a cookbook full of recipes we can make in village with (mostly) ingredients we can find here. I’m going to make a desert fridge and try drying some fruit and vegetables. I can’t wait to get started! I took a few pictures of our culinary adventure and showed them to my host family. They thought it hilarious to see me cooking and doing dishes. They still think I’m going to break here. Doubtful.

Burkinabe Transport

Transport in this country is so much fun that it deserves its own special entry.

There are several respectable and reliable bus companies, the kind that we are used to in the US…sort of. The garages are places of bustling excitement. The workers take luggage from passengers, storing it for the voyage. “Luggage” includes suitcases, bikes, packages of sandals to sell in village, wrapped fish, beds, and goats. Whatever doesn’t fit below is delicately balanced and tied on top of the bus. Buses like to stop for random reasons. We stopped to get gas and pick up passengers on the side of the road several times before leaving our starting city. I have no idea how passengers know where the “bus stops” are; they certainly aren’t marked. During the trip, the most common stop is for bathroom breaks. We’d pull to the side of the road, and the men all line up and take care of business while the women run into the fields a ways. The driver has very little patience during these stops, and he usually pulls away well before all the passengers are back on the bus. It’s quite an amusing sight to see a dozen people pulling up their pants while chasing after a departing bus.

The bus I took to my village was not nearly as nice as the one we took to Ouaga. This bus looked to be about 50 years old, with the seats torn and the overhead compartments threatening to fall on us with every bump in the road. The road to my site is unpaved and very bumpy, so I kept an eye on it most of the time. The bus was crammed full of people and their belongings, but luckily the windows provided excellent AC.

The van I took to visit J is yet another story. This was a full-sized van, with five or six rows of seats, five people per row. At one point in the trip a piece of luggage started to fall off the roof. One of the guys who worked for the transport company climbed out of the passenger side window, up over the pile of luggage, and saved the slipping garment bag- all while the bus was traveling full speed down the bumpy, unpaved road. This would certainly violate a million laws and safety regulations in the US. Oh well.

My favorite type of transportation; however, is the cabs we took in Ouaga. The drivers love to rip Americans off. Thus, every cab trip starts with a lengthy discussion of the fare. The drivers also like to cram as many people as possible into their cabs. I think they were nice to us because we are Americans because the most I had in one cab was four people, our bags for the week-long trip, and our four bikes. That’s nothing though. The condition of the actual cabs make cabs in the US look like luxury limos. One of our cabs had no interior paneling. My door sagged about an inch below the latch; also there was no door handle on the inside. There was no seating upholstery, and the dashboard was torn to shreds. Once we were all situated, the driver started the car by rubbing together two wires hanging from the steering column down to his knees. Pulling into traffic, the cab light on the roof of the car fell off; I noticed that it was powered via two wires coming in through the window and disappearing beneath the dashboard. It was raining and there were no windshield wipers. But the driver was as good as any other in Ouaga, and since we didn’t have far to go, I felt “safe”.

Intermission: Un Petit Tour du Faso

(Disclaimer: MTV moment about to unfold.) This is Zach from Minneapolis. I’d like to give a big shout out to Julia’s mom and all the other family and friends of fellow PC trainees who may be reading this. You guys rock! Especially Julia’s mom!

Training is halfway through! To celebrate, we had a week off from what had become our normal routine. We took a trip to Ouaga, met our Burkinabe counterparts, and travelled to our future sites. It was a great break from Ouahigouya. I love my site and can’t wait to move in after training. Also, after being in OHG for the past six weeks, Ouaga is a little slice of Heaven.

The week started off with a group excursion to Ouaga; it was our first attempt to master the Burkinabe transport system on our own. Transport here is a riot. I’ll spare you the details (see the next blog entry), but I’ll just say that after making four stops on the side of the road in OHG to pick up passengers, we found ourselves barreling through the Burkinabe countryside in a decent bus, windows open, reggae music blaring at full volume. What a trip. The driver made it in just over two hours.

First stop: Ouaga. When I first got to Burkina six weeks ago, my impression of Ouaga was that of a run-down city with few amenities. Wrong! We lived the good life when we were there. Our hotel had electricity, air conditioning, sit-down toilets that flushed reliably, and a pool. We were within walking distance of several good restaurants, including a wine and cheese bar (cheddar and jack only, but the wine was plentiful), and the American Embassy. Ah, the Embassy. There’s a honor-system library, TV with ESPN, and pool. The best part is that the restaurant serves cheeseburgers, bad burritos, and delicious milkshakes. It is definitely going to be a regular stop on my Ouaga excursions.

We had a counterpart workshop Monday and Tuesday. During this time, we met one of our future coworkers and discussed our future sites, the surrounding community, and workplace communication. My counterpart S is a history and geography teacher at my school. The school has 400 students in the equivalent of American grades 6 through 9. With me, there are four teachers, maybe five. 5Lengthy discussion in French that I did not fully understand.) Yup. Wow. I think I will have as many math and science classes as I could possibly want. The closest high school is 50km away in Dedougou, the regional capital. I saw a list of 29 students (including 9 girls) from my school who had passed the national exam required for high school entrance. I don’t know how many of those students will actually attend high school, as their families would be forced to pay not only for books, but also for lodging in Dedougou, food in the city (more expensive than in village), and weekly transport back and forth. Not to mention their parents would lose their daily help around the house and in the fields. I still don’t understand: I get cell phone reception in village, but there’s no high school.

My village, which we’ll call Yosemite so I don’t get any weird stalkers, is an unpaved road in the West of Burkina. Once we got there, after a five-hour bus ride from Ouaga, S took me on a five minute bike ride to my future house. It’s gorgeous. As we pulled up I could only think, “Wow, this has to be some sort of cruel joke.” I have two bedrooms, and indoor shower (bucket baths only), and a large living room/kitchen area. The house is well-furnished and decorated as I am the fourth volunteer to live there. The interior is painted a nice blue-green, and that combined with the high ceilings makes it feel very much like an airy beach house…without the beach. But don’t worry, it’s still Burkina. The town has no running water or electricity. We have a market every fifth day, where I’ll do most of my basic shopping. For more complicated things (and the Internet), I’ll have to take transit to Dedougou or Koudougou, stay overnight, and return the next day (one bus per day). I love it though. There are tons of trees, and the river is within biking distance. I can’t wait to move in.

Thursday morning I took a van a few towns over to visit J, a current PCV. We hung out in his village, and I got a glimpse of the lifestyle that lies ahead. The biggest benefit I see is that I’ll be able to control my food. The food hasn’t been bad with my host family, but I’m excited to be able to eat what I want when I want it. Friday morning we decided to bike into Koudougou. It was a pretty quick ride, but J realized halfway through it that he had left something at his house in village. He decided to go get it, and I decided to sit on the side of the road and read. Well-traveled road, middle of the day, lots of people, no problem right? Wrong. The only book I had was Stephen King’s masterpiece “The Shining”, and I was about halfway through. All I could think about was Jack Nicholson in the movie version. Jack and the axe that very closely resembles the hoe that every other person walking by me is carrying to the fields. Several people stopped to see if I was OK, and I was only able to manage a quick response, my eyes glued to their hoe.

Once in Koudougou, we decided to spend the afternoon at the pool. Are you noticing a pattern? We had a few beers, ate lunch, and basically chilled all afternoon. After that, we walked around town, saw the market and supermarket, and found our hotel. The next morning we took a bus to Ouaga, and I met up with some other trainees and headed back to OHG. As we pulled into the garage in OHG, the rain that had been threatening for the entire trip began to fall. By the time we got our bikes and luggage, it was pouring. I was mud-stained, soaked, and tired from four straight days of traveling. However, biking home I was happy. Most people were huddled in their houses or under overhangs on the side of the road. The only ones actually going anywhere were me and and a couple of kids herding four cattle through the streets near my house. And that’s life in Burkina Faso.

A Day in the Life

Contrary to my previous 24 years of life, my days in Burkina Faso end around 9:30pm and begin around 5:30am. If I sleep outside, as I do most nights, the resident rooster mercilessly wakes me around 3:30, two hours before sunrise.

Mornings, like much of my non-Peace Corps-run life, are quite relaxing given my early wake-up. I bring my bedding back to my bedroom and prepare for my bucket bath. This involves getting water from either a large basin or what appears to have formerly been an 80L gasoline barrel. We have a hose, but water rarely runs from it. I eat breakfast in silence with my host father while the kids watch from the patio or start their chores. Classes don’t start until 8:00, so I kill time by reading or writing in my journal.

The Peace Corps training headquarters is a conference facility five minutes by bike from my house. My immediate neighbors know my name and greet me with “Bon jour, Jacques” (close enough), but to the rest of the city, I’m just another “nasara” (foreigner) biking with a strange piece of plastic on his head.

We have four classes per day, a mixture of language, health, safety, cross-cultural, and technical training. Classes are in small (4-5) or large (all 26 of us) groups; the small language classes are often held at a group member’s home or a local restaurant. Full-group class topics from the past couple of weeks include survival Moore (one of Burkina’s 60 local languages), the Burkinabe education system, and how to make a MIF kit (for sending stool samples to the health offices in Ouaga). The heat forces the whole country to shut down from noon to 3pm for naps and lunch, so our 90 minute break seems brutally short, especially on the hot days.

After class, a variety of activities keep me busy until bedtime. Sometimes I go to the cybercafe or out for a beer with my fellow trainees. More often, though, I go home and practice my French or play soccer or Ludo with my host siblings. Ludo is a game similar to the American board game “Sorry”, except simpler, with a single die instead of elaborate cards. And, just like Sorry players, Ludo players take the game very seriously; games end with taunting and promises of future revenge.

I eat dinner with Mom and Dad while the kids and their aunt (who lives with us and does a lot of the housework) eat around the other side of the house. After dinner I watch TV, read, or help my oldest brother with his summer studies. Despite the problems with the Burkinabe education system, the students that manage to stay in school learn some very advanced material in their high school physics, chemistry, and math classes. Bedtime rolls around about 9:30, and I usually fall asleep under the stars listening to my family’s television or the neighbor’s radio, both of which play at full volume until well after midnight.

As I have experienced and observed it, life in Burkina is not particularly glamorous, complex, or technologically advanced. The Burkinabe live simple but happy lives. Unlike most Westerners, the approach daily tasks and problems in a manner that is both humbling and inspiring. A mother carries her child in a single cloth tied to her back. There are no flashy baby billionaire backpacks. Instead, this cloth (called a pagne) performs multiple duties, possibly serving as the next day’s clothing or that night’s towel. When something is dirty, you wash it with your own two hands. If you want to hear about a friend’s day, you walk over to their house. Things are personal and un-rushed.

None of this is to say that life here is perfect. Urban infrastructure, sanitation, health care, and education could all stand serious improvements. There is little industry, so money is scarce. This makes access to the existing social services even more difficult.

Most important is access to education. Nationally, 66 percent of primary school aged children attend classes; the attendance rate is down to 9 percent for high school students. While school is technically free, books, supplies, and household responsibilities all add up to a hefty price tag on a high school education, especially in rural communities. And especially especially for girls. Additionally, the education system is set up to ensure that only the brightest, most dedicated students pass from grade to grade. Unfortunately, there is no system in place that caters to the students who fail to meet the tough requirements. A student who fails twice is forced to attend a private school at substantial personal cost. More likely, however, is that s/he will drop out of school completely and end up working for the family kiosk or in the fields.

The desert-like climate forces life in Burkina to be both difficult and simple. As I adjust to lie here, I am humbled by its marvelous simplicity, and by the joy of its people, and deeply motivated to help provide basic human needs.

Voyage au Village

Our training group is split into two very distinct groups: those of us who can speak French, and those of us who cannot speak French. The non-speakers, like myself, are mostly secondary education volunteers. We are learning French, which we will use in the classroom, and teaching techniques. The French speakers are all girls education and empowerment (GEE) volunteers; they are spending training learning local languages so that they can better communicate with families in the villages. These trainees are getting an extra dose of cultural assimilation by living in rural villages while the SE volunteers live in the relative luxury of the city.

Last night many of the SE volunteers visited GEE volunteers in their villages. We left for village K around 6pm. Despite the complaints from the “village people” as we lovingly call the GEE trainees, the bike ride was quite nice. We followed the main road (gravel) for about 15 minutes after leaving the city then turned off into the bush. Really, there are only two ways to know where to turn: a pole about 50m before the turn, and a large hill in the distance. Once you are on the road, you can tell that it is a path, but if you didn’t know it was a path, it would be very easy to miss. The next half hour took us towards and around the hill and into K. It’s really a beautiful ride. The landscape is well-populated with trees and brush. You can see forever but can make out no villages or huts. The sky was a mixture of purples and pinks with a perfectly circular setting sun and a lightening storm brewing in the distance.

K has a population of 285 people and is geographically composed of five or six groups of huts, about 5-10 minutes walk from each-other. C, my trainee hostess, lives in the group of huts furthest from the main road, so we had a 10 minute ride after saying goodbye to the other village people.

Once we arrived at her hut circle, we met C’s extended family. She had a dad, two moms, and a bunch of siblings/cousins/who knows what. They were all extremely excited to see me and M, C’s other guest for the night, and we were promptly ushered to meet the elders. Due to the looming storm, our introductions were cut short, and we ate a quick dinner. C’s brother makes all of her food, and I am surprised to say that dinner (rice with a sauce of cabbage, tomatoes, and onions) in the village was one of the best meals I’ve had since burgers and beer with my real family in Minneapolis. As we ate, we watched the storm come in. The wind picked up, and it started to drizzle. I felt completely at ease, completely peaceful in the serenity of the village- cows, goats, and chickens clucking all over. Donkeys next door.

Actually, the cows and goats made me a bit jittery. They practically ate dinner with us, and when I went to take a bucket bath, I had to chase three goats out of the shower. But I could get used to it.

M, C, and I hid in C’s hut as soon as the storm began. We were quickly joined by ten relatives and began a ridiculous game of “Go Fish” en francais. After “Go Fish”, the locals taught us a game similar to “Crazy Eights” or “Uno”. It went very well until the end of the first round when we were counting up points based on the cards we had left in our hand. C had an ace; they gave her 11 points. OK so far. I had a 5, 10, and 2. After much debate, the family decided my cards were worth 37 points. Huh? I told them that I am a math teacher and their point system makes no sense. They didn’t seem to care and just laughed it off without an explanation. After the second or third round, we decided that the white people were getting “nasara points” similar to the inflated prices we pay as foreigners in the market.

When the storm died down, we decided to make the trek to Y’s to enjoy the box of wine one of the trainees had purchased at the supermarket (don’t get too excited, the supermarket is about the size of my bedroom). C had been in the village for two weeks and knew the way to Y’s hut, right? Nope. She had it narrowed down to “somewhere over there…or over there”. Good. We set off into the pitch dark Sahel with our flashlights and goblets (for the wine, of course) after politely declining an escort. Sand. Trees. Bushes? Pretty soon we could see neither our starting point nor our destination. Luckily Y’s family saw our flashlights and came to get us. We weren’t too far off target…

We joined the rest of the nasara club sitting on straw mats in front of Y’s hut. The wine was decent, but the company was better. We were surrounded by 15-20 members of Y’s family, talking to each-other, laughing, and watching the crazy nasara. A little ways away cows, goats, and donkeys said their good nights. The wind blew, and lightening flashed in the distance. After a short visit, Y’s family told us that we must leave because the rain was coming. From what we could see it was still a beautiful night. However, when they told us a second and third time, we decided that they (the locals) have never been wrong about the weather. They have timing down to within minutes.

C, M, and I took off across the fields. We hadn’t gone more than 100m when Y’s family started yelling. Apparently we were drifting too far left. We corrected our course and walked uninterrupted for another few paces before cries of “Nasara, nasara, a DROIT” drifted across the fields, telling us to correct our trajectory yet again. Glad to know they’re looking out for us. C’s circle of huts magically appeared in front of us, and we made it inside with seconds to spare before the rain. Never question the locals.

Many Firsts

Last night we ate dinner fairly late. After eating, Mom didn’t pull out a mango or an apple, so I was a tad disappointed. She said something about drinking, and I figured she was giving me the typical hard time about how much I drink at dinner. She doesn’t understand that I sweat it all out, so it doesn’t ruin my appetite. My novice French, however, missed one key word: bierre. Beer. She pulled out a beer (twice the size as they are in the US), and poured me a glass. Delicious. Refreshing. Tasty. Cool. Reminds me of home. I’ll take a Saturday night beer anytime.

As I left the table to go to bed, she told me that I could not sleep outside tonight. This was not good news. She said that it was going to storm and that I should go into my room and shut my doors and windows. Now the only thing worse than sleeping inside is sleeping with my door and window shut, so I was not a happy camper. She would hear none of my pleading, so I sulked off to bed like a disgruntled five year-old.

Barely had I shut my screen door when the sky broke loose. I heard the wind approaching as an oncoming freight train. Similar to my first earthquake, I didn’t know what to make of the situation until it was on top of me. Wind and sand are not a good combination. With no warning, the yard was transformed into the opening tornado scene from “The Wizard of Oz”. I closed my shutters and locked the door. Outside all I could hear was massive debris flying everywhere, and my tin roof amplified each sound ten-fold. After a minute, Dad came to my door and told me to bring my bike inside. Good thing. As soon as he left, the wind increased again. My electricity went out, and I was now getting dust in my room. What if my roof lifts off? It is only being held down by a few bricks. I could barely breathe and was covered in a layer of dust thickening by the second. I lay on the bed with a sheet covering my body; it was the only way I could avoid suffocation. I prayed for rain; at least then the dust would settle.

Finally the rain came. It makes a distinctly different, more pointed, sound on my roof. I still could not have had a conversation above the wind and rain, but at least I could breathe normally. I almost opened the door to wash the soot from my body, but I quickly thought better of that idea. The rain continued, and soon my fan came back to life. The storm lessened a bit, so I opened the shutters and my outside door. Cool breeze with the rain put me right to sleep.

After breakfast this morning I went to church for probably the first time since M’s wedding last summer. Mom and at least J and M are Catholic, so I went with the two kids to church. Biking through town, we got to survey the storm’s damage. Roofs were completely removed from homes. Branches were tossed about like toothpicks. But everyone was smiling; the temperature was 10-15 degrees cooler than yesterday.

Catholic mass is very similar to what it would have been in the US. The building is very large, shaped like a cross, and has high ceilings. There are no stained glass windows, but the existing windows and ceiling-to_floor doors allowed in plenty of light and outside air. There were well over 500 people, maybe close to 1000. Some were dressed in their Sunday best: women in colorful dresses made of fabric from the market; men in slacks and bright shirts. A choir occupied the first ten rows, and they sang frequently throughout the 90-minute service. Always behind the choir was the African drums. The band sat to the side of the choir and reminded me constantly that this was not Sunday morning mass in Minnesota. Off-beat drumming, singing, praying. The whole service was in Moore, so I understood not a word. I think that made it more interesting though.

We spent the afternoon lounging at the pool at the hotel. They have a pool and bar, so we treated ourselves to a day away from Africa. Unfortunately the pool had been trashed in last night’s storm. Dirt and dust everywhere, and the cleaning equipment was broken. No problem. We sat on the deck, talked in English, and drank a few beers. In there it is easy to forget the garbage on the streets, the half-clothed children, and the education statistics. In there we talked of cheeseburgers, banana splits, and margaritas. But we didn’t ask for the Hawaiian vacation or Peace Corps in Paris (sorry Grandma). So we had our break then biked back through Africa to our waiting families. A nice break, but paradise ain’t got nothin’ on Burkina Faso. Everyone in my neighborhood greets me now. The dogs in my courtyard bark knowingly at me when I return home. Dinner is good and much-appreciated. And I love falling asleep under the stars.

Mefloquine Dreaming

I don’t know if it was the mefloquine, the mango, the education statistics, or the burning trash, but I barely ate a delicious spaghetti dinner last night and was relieved to crawl into my outdoor bed at 8:30.

I woke up to the most terrifying real-life nightmare I have ever experienced. All the dogs in the neighborhood were going bananas. Barking. Growling. Jumping at fences. I knew the dogs in my courtyard know my now; so I was definitely not the source of their anger. I felt like I was in the “101 Dalmatians” movie, when the dogs are barking messages around the world. Except it was pitch dark and I was in Africa. I froze and my mind raced. My first, and only, thought: a lion. There is a lion in the neighborhood. I wanted to run into my bedroom and close and lock the door, but I was frozen solid in my bed. This went on for about fifteen minutes with no interruption from the dogs’ owners. Back to a restless sleep until sunrise. Needless to say, thankfully, the lion did not materialize.

Today was much happier than yesterday. Pleasure of the day: I discovered the small bags of cool, refreshing yogurt sold at the stand on the main road. Bonus: they agree with my stomach!

Now I am sitting on my front porch. The mosque on the far side of the soccer field just broadcast the call to prayer. I can’t see the people on the outside of my walls, but I know they are kneeling. There is a breeze tonight, and in the far distance lightening dances across the nighttime sky. At times it is in skinny streaks. At times the cloud cover causes a single bright flash that turns the dark night to day. I see the tree outlines. More singing from somewhere on the left. Inside the family watches cartoons on TV. Outside the day’s garbage burns beyond the courtyard walls. The dogs sleep on the patio. A five-year old car is in the courtyard. Dad rides in on his moto. The smell of the exhaust mixes with the burning plastic. Behind the house somewhere cows and goats greet each-other. So many worlds, all within an arm’s reach.

Dinner time. Purrell time. I haven’t given it up yet.

Tough Day

Today I had my first…not bad, but difficult day.

We had tech training in the morning. Aside from learning about the Burkinabe education system, we were given some of the educational statistics. The most sobering: for the 2007-2008 school year, the Burkinabe government is projecting a 1700-teacher deficit. 1700 teachers. And here we are, 17 of us. Are we really going to change anything? We’re barely a drop in the bucket. Nothing. I know, I know. We mean something to that one kid, or even two kids, or with a little luck a whole classroom. But really, am I just wasting my time here? 1700 teachers: how is that even possible?

After class this evening I played soccer with my brothers and their friends. I started to put on my shoes- brand new Nikes with bleach clean white Nike socks- and immediately felt awkward. The boys stared at me as I realized that they were going to play in the same 350Fcfa (0.75 US dollars) sandals that they wear around the courtyard and in which they bucket bath. There’s at least a patch of grass, right? Nope. The soccer field is more of a very large, five- or six-way intersection. The terrain is the same as everywhere else: red clay dirt, gravel, rocks, and garbage. Most of the larger pieces of debris had been pushed off the field due to many seasons of games. Garbage piles burn on the “sidelines”. Half-naked children play near the fires, barefoot and running through it all. I look towards the horizon and the setting sun. If I close my eyes and listen to the laughter, the teenagers playing their game, just as they play it in San Francisco, Boston, Madrid, and London, I can almost pretend I’m at home. But this is Africa, and I’m playing soccer in one of the poorest countries in the world. Somehow the worlds of the rich- cars drive through the field- and the poor- garbage burns on the sidelines- collide and coexist here. And everyone is happy. And the sun sets over the African Sahel.

I’m not sure how I feel right now. It is hard to hear and see evidence of people needing so much without feeling bad for them. Yet their lives aren’t all that bad. They have food, water, and family; and they enjoy life without all the modern American conveniences. So I guess I feel good. I’ll do what I can here, give it my best, and that’s all I can say. At the end of the day I’ll play soccer.

Homestay Begins

Today we begin our homestay program in Ouagihouya. I was adopted into a family with four kids; the oldest, J, is going to be my new best friend. He speaks English very well but is extremely patient with my French. As he showed my my bedroom, he made sure to point out the different parts of the room and tell me what they are called in French.

The family is very well off. They have electricity, a car, and I have my own room separate from the house. Having all the kids around (ages 8-16) is fun as well, but it makes me miss my own family a lot. I am very excited to learn the Burkinabe culture from them and to share a bit of American culture with them (read: these kids will be ultimate Frisbee experts by the time I’m done with them). Tonight it is hot, so I will sleep in a bed in the courtyard; the family sleeps there when it’s very hot (most nights, I’d imagine). The dogs, chickens, cat, and rooster sleep there as well. Ah, life in Burkina.

Going to Ouahigouya

Today we made the trip from Ouaga to Ouahigouya. Before leaving Ouaga, M took me to remedy my passport situation (misspelled name). The photo place was bustling with excitement. People were selling all sorts of things throughout town: portraits of President Compaore, Catholic jewelry, phone cards… I’m still amazed that more people don’t die here on a daily basis in moto crashes. Cars seem to generally obey traffic laws with respect to each-other, but interaction between cars and motos or cars and bikes is completely at random.

We took at chartered bus from Ouaga to Ouahigouya. Four people to a row, no room to move, but we had air conditioning! The landscape is barren but beautiful. There are more trees than I expected, but all the ground is red and brown and very dry. We drove past small villages that are little more than a few clusters of circles of huts. Everywhere people. Walking between villages. Biking. Carrying water, food, babies. Men in the fields. I don’t know what they are farming. What can grow in these conditions?

There was a huge celebration waiting for us when we reached Ouahgiouya. We drank water, a symbolic gesture of welcome. Women danced, and a band played: conga drums and a flute-like instrument. Women in red tops and blue skirts. This is Africa.

Before dinner we explored the city a bit. There are many buildings that are either half built or half destroyed. People lining the streets. Children running up to shake our hands. Most people were quick to return a smile and “Bon soir”. Garbage all over the streets with children running barefoot on the broken glass.

The temperature was 95 degrees F at 8:00pm, well after sunset.

Ouaga Fun

This afternoon we had interviews with the medical and language staff. My French interview was terrible. I know a total of seven verbs…but I don’t remember how to conjugate them. Looks like I’ll be in the beginner class, but that’s OK.

Dinner tonight was at M’s (the country director) house, in a very nice neighborhood in Ouaga. She and her neighbors all have gated yards with 24 hour security surveillance. The rest of the city is not nearly as nice. Caleb, Liz, and I went for a walk this afternoon. Garbage is strewn all over the streets, ground into the Earth by cars, motos, and feet. People on the sides of each street selling things, doing laundry, or just sitting. They have bikes, motos, and cell phones but no clean water. There are adorable kids everywhere. What kind of life will they lead? What kind of life did their parents lead?

The in-country staff (native Burkinabé) is incredibly inspirational. Z, the Girls Education qnd Empowerment Director was educated in Burkina and Europe. Yet she came back here because she understands that the Burkinabé people must help themselves. She spoke eloquently about giving girls the self-confidence to run their personal and professional lives.

This is exactly where I should be right now, despite the heat.

Welcome to Ouaga

After an eight hour layover in Paris- involving cards and much iPod craziness- we took a larger than expected plane to Ouaga. I'm in Africa!

I love it. We met the in-country staff on the tarmac and took a bus to the airport. The airport is a single room split into pre- and post- security sections that receives five flights per day. There were many employees in red coats who helped us with our bags. All the locals returning from their trips stood around chatting and patiently waiting for their bags. No stress; no impatience.

We all piled into vans and drove through Ouaga to the SIL, a hostel-like place where we'd be staying for the next two nights. Several observations:
-Stopping at red lights is completely optional.
-There are motos everywhere.
-Little shops/shacks/homes line the streets, which are wide paved roads (two lanes) that abruptly turn into a dirt shoulder.

Our turn off was a dirt road with no noticeable markings. SIL is very nice and even has bathrooms and electricity. It is very similar to living in an outdoors dorm. Not bad at all.

Staging in Philadelphia

Staging was a huge success. I arrived in rainy Philadelphia on Sunday morning with some time to kill before registration. Our hotel is about three blocks from the historic district of Philly. I was able to see the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and the Korean and Vietnam War Memorials. I felt like I was in a European city: brick buildings built close to the narrow streets. When William Penn planned the city, he made sure to include places for public recreation; several of these squares are now luxurious green parks whose trees offered shelter from the rain. For lunch, the obvious; Philly cheese steak.

Back at the hotel I began to meet my fellow trainees. (Aside: wow, the government pulled out all the stops for our hotel. Beautiful. I later realized that this was all an attempt to ease us into the Burkinabe villages gradually.) Despite the rain, everyone jumped into introductions and our orientation sessions with energy and enthusiasm. The trainees are a mostly young crowd with a few people out of school for only a couple of weeks and no one over age 31 or so. We are from all over the US, so listening to introductions was a lesson in great American accents, with an emphasis on the South. My favorite person so far is L, a 2007 UW Madison graduate originally from Lafayette, CA. Right away we have my two favorite cities in common: Madison and San Francisco.

Tuesday-Wednesday blurred into one long day of travel. We got to New York around noon but didn’t arrive at JFK airport until after 2:30. Our bus driver must have been a New York native because he took us on all sorts of crazy side roads through Brooklyn with great ease. In fact, I think we were only a fez blocks from A & J’s apartment. After a nice airport lunch with B & P, I boarded the plane: first stop, Paris; then on to Ouagadougou!