An Island of Plenty in a Sea of Destitution

I want to preface this blog with a few observances and notes. I hear three languages at site outside of French. Koromfe is spoken by the Fulse, the main ethnic group in my very near area. Next, there is the ever-present Fulfulde, spoken by the Peul. Some people will know them as the Fulani, the cattle raising, nomadic herders of the Sahel. They inhabit Burkina, Mali, Guinea, Senegal, Cameroon, amongst other African countries. Lastly, there are many people in village who speak Moore, the most common language of the Mossi, the largest ethnic group in Burkina. My French improves on a day to day basis, but I still have a long way to go. Les choses complexes, or the complex things wreak havoc with my tongue. I have also finally decided to abandon the ‘ne’ of the ne…pas negating scheme when I can feasibly do it. OK, to the main blog body.

Also, a book I want to recommend to everyone. Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. This masterpiece drew me in and never let go. Oh my goodness, parts ring true in it for volunteers, as far as the living and many other things about the culture. If you have time, do check it out.

This blog was written 03/05/08

Village life for me is hunky-dory when compared with the bereft individuals that box me in. On a chilly January day in Djibo, I stepped outside of Hotel Massa to go and check out Salif’s taxi-brousse for my trip back to site. First thing I see is the cute little African kids with their back packs. They are toting their lunch pails to school as well, being in Djibo most are well dressed. I step onto the cool earth, my flip flops smacking the ground. I round the corner next to the gas station and check out the early goings in the marche. Then, I see the ultimate contrast: the destitute. The well-off versus the have-nots, the well-dressed versus the tattered-sporting, way oversize just-to-cover-myself-up kids trying to stay warm, the hopefully well fed versus the body-aching hunger that I hope I will never know. The truly hungry kids are following the women who precariously yet expertly balance a tray with gateaux or a large bowl with freshly-made rice inside. I myself received 7 packages that weekend, the kids and others gawking at me as I make my way to the taxi-brousse gare.

Later on, I get on the taxi-brousse. Needless to say, it takes a while for us to take-off. I see poor Muslim fellas stepping up to the cab where Salif le Patron sits. He sees them, knows what they want… and desperately need. He gives each one I see come up to him 100 francs, enough to get some benga (beans in Moore) for a good breakfast.

I see the kids whose stomachs are distended in Aribinda a lot. That means they aren’t getting enough protein in their diet and their bodies are struggling to rein in the mass of their internal organs. People eat the To, the complex carb, protein-free (to the ire of many Peace Corps Volunteers) over protein, fiber-rich benga because of the status recognition. Benga is the food of the truly poor, whereas To is more high class. What?! Personally, I think To is disgusting. I love benga and I push the protein-rich diet on people when I can, trying to be a health volunteer where the people truly have a need of realization.

Back in December, the recently finished former Country Director Marily Kniereman visited me in Aribinda with the cool chauffeur Pare. I got to hitch a ride to Dori with them (always good to catch a ride in a white Land Cruiser when you can!) to see Yaneth before I had IST formation. She had given me a care package with raisins in it. We stopped at the hotel and Marily and Pare went inside. A poor kid sees me in this 4x4 vehicle and makes a B-line right for the window. He puts his face right up next to the window, silently urging me to give him those raisins. Two thoughts come to my mind: ‘I am gonna knock you out because I want to eat my delicious raisins in peace’ AND ‘Oh man, this kid is hungry. Give him the raisins. I gave him the raisins and started on a mandarin. I ain’t hurtin’. Then, there’s this crippled dude who lives in Dori. The first time he accosted me, telling me he lost his dad, his mom. A truly sad story. He has get to be in his 40s. At first, I reject his initial requests. I didn’t have change, honestly. He gets angry, as if I owe him something. Well, that really got me pissed. I had to go into the supermarche and get a few things. I acquired change after buying this and that and gave the guy around 130 francs. I thought he didn’t show enough appreciation and his initial overtures set me off, so the next time I saw him in Dori, I told him to get lost. I can’t give money to everyone.

The donkeys, the fighters and workers of Burkina, needing water. I show up at the pump by the lycee one morning to get water to do my laundry. There is a group of like 7 donkeys hanging out, waiting for someone to pump a little extra so they can get a share of precious desert l’eau. One of the donkeys was anathema to any of the other asses getting his water. I watched him jut those ever present teeth out, pin his ears back and nip at the back of a donkey that wasn’t having any of the tough guy routine. This donkey gave a little typical rear-it-back and kick. Good old double-up my hooves to your muzzle you jerk. The animals are also left to fend for themselves in this harsh environment.

Then, there are the little brats of Aribinda. When I say things like this, I mean no offense to the culture. But, these kids stole my Solio solar charger after a week at site, they have stolen a bucket of mine and my bike lock. You stole the Solio and my bike lock for what? You can’t possibly use them for anything you morons. They come into my courtyard sans permission. That really messes with me. Nassara will get no peace I think sometimes. These kids are among the bereft, wanting cans for toys. They have nothing, so they know nothing of propriety or of maintaining a useful something or other.

The latest episode is disgraceful, so of course, it doesn’t involve me. It involves another Nassara (Moore for foreigner, by the way). This nassara sired two children by a poor Mossi girl. One day, my colleague Mathieu and I are walking to the bar. This woman wakas us, tells us to come here in Moore. Luckily, Mathieu is Mossi so he speaks Moore. I can see they are talking about another nassara. They carry on, she makes a ‘wipe my hands clean’ expression, which basically means being done with something. In this case, that involves leaving, so called dereliction of duty. This prick had two kids with a poor Burkinabe girl and then just takes off. We spoke some more with a blind 90+ year old woman about it. They wanted to know if I knew anything about this nassara, because, bien sur, I am a nassara, so maybe I know about this scumbag. Damn, that irks me. A different experience, let me tell you. Two Mossi women, quizzing Mathieu et moi. A weird and shameful experience for that individual as well.

Yeah, it’s tough. Unless you’re me. I have enough to eat and more than enough money. Praise be, I have my health, my family back home, all my beautiful friends, a great African fonctionnaire house. I just need to poke my head above the clouds every once in a while to get a dose of that sunshine when I get down. I realize how much I have. Be grateful for what you got my people. So many don’t even know what a good pair of shoes feels like.