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.)