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?)
