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.