un melange la pluparte triste

This blog was written on 14 April, 2008 and concluded on 18 April, 2008

Just finished with a training in Ouahigouya today. Two of my colleagues went with me, Compaore and Guire. There are both cool guys, both biology teachers. We were doing a formation on Life Skills. Well, they dropped the HIV/AIDS hammer on us. We had to do the wooden penis-condom thing, the whole shebang. Everybody knows about that. Well, it was especially good for my colleagues. They hate Aribinda and it was good to get them outta site. Plus, they learned a lot. It was definitely frustrating at times. Sometimes they act like I don’t understand a word of French. That is particularly annoying. I’ll give you an example. We had a conversation regarding a plan of action for site. Well, I understood them perfectly clearly and they told me I didn’t understand. So, we discussed it for another 5 minutes. Then, I had my APCD come over. Seb speaks English well, and of course, his French is great. He’s Burkinabé, a great guy. I am lucky to have such a good boss. They explain the exact same thing to him and he tells them the same thing I said, just in much more concise, cleaner French. Seb gets up to walk away, thanking the guys. I get up. We give each other the same look, one of those ‘Man, sometimes it just ain’t easy.’ We laugh, shake our heads, then me and the guys made a new plan, my French a little sharper.

Something different. The other day we had some people come in who were HIV/AIDS positive or their family’s had been ravaged by the virus. It was sad. I saw how close I was to it. But it’s just worse in places like Lesotho, South Africa, Swaziland, Mozambique, etc. 70% of all people who die from AIDS in the world are from Africa. I need to talk to my students about it. It’s so important to use that condom, or to practice abstinence. But with this whole la vie chere thing (expensive life: this is the price augmentation scheme the government here has enacted that has been affecting all the poor people), it’s too damn expensive to buy condoms. C’est grave ici. On doit trouver une solution. So many problems, sometimes I can’t see the light. And these people are so strong. They call me strong, but I will only live here for about 2 years. They’ll be here all their short or long lives. Mon Dieu, s’il vous plaît, aidez les gens vivant…

The other day I arrived in Ouahigouya. I went to Emily’s house and we shortly left to go eat at Maison de Jeune, a popular buvette. They got good benga (beans in Mooré), what can I say. There were three Japanese volunteers there. Emily knew 2 of them and we striked up a little discussion. I told them I lived in the Sahel, in between Djibo and Dori. The first thing one said was ‘al Qaeda?’ I was rather astonished but tried not to show it on my face. Al Qaeda, WTF?! Are you that prejudiced? She went on to talk about the muslims there. I really couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The muslims there treat me very nicely. Yes, they treat me curiously, but they are very kind people, Mossi, Peul, and Fulse people alike. I told her yeah most of the population was muslim. She then mentioned al Qaeda once again. We ended the conversation and Emily and I went and found our own table. We looked at each other like “What was that?” I didn’t like that exchange. I don’t think the Japanese volunteer meant anything bad, but I could feel the skepticism as she spoke. Muslims, for the most part, are wonderful, kind people. They are just like Christians, Jews, Animists world round. Most are beautiful, empathetic people. A few bad apples spoil the whole group some people think. Let’s stop the prejudice people.

Let’s change gears. So, there I was, getting infinitely frustrated again. They switched us from a taxi-brousse to a small truck for the ride to Aribinda from Dori. Well, needless to say, this truck is too small for everybody to fit… comfortably. My colleague Thierry and I, being fonctionnaires, were expecting to ride up front. As I waited for the transport haranguing to end, I noticed a group of white girls and what looked to be some African-American girls. I thought, “Eh, just some French people touring.” I remained leaned up against the truck, laughing about the travesty I was once again having to endure, Burkinabe arguing in Fulfulde, laughing and carrying on. Then this group of girls make their way over to me. One sees my shirt (Umpqua National Forest Fisheries, yeah!) and says, “Oh, tu connais l’anglais.” I nod my head yes, give them a brief once over. Americans, I figured, given her American-accented French. Then, I say, “What the hell are y’all doing here?!” One girl, a huge grin on her face through the American laughter coming from the group, shoots back, “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer.”

“Oh. We’re teaching [something or other] in Ghana. Are you going to Gorom-Gorom?”

“No, I’m headed to my site, Aribinda. How you guys like it up here? Having fun?”

“Yeah, we’re having a great time, except the guides won’t give us a good price.”

“Yeah, those fuckers. The white price, not the right price!” Laughs come from the group. “Well, have fun and don’t let them get to you too much.”

They take off, walking away from the gare (French for station). I continue to wait. Then, after another 20 minutes, I get crammed into the back seat of the cab. The ride wasn’t bad, but I hate transport here!

Just yesterday, I took the STNF bus from Djibo to Ouahigouya. I got a good window seat and the trip was actually one of the better bus rides I have had in a long time. Yet, there was still something that bugged me. Here, I am a celebrity. No one knows me by my name except for my Burkinabé friends, my fellow vols, or Peace Corps staff. So, I constantly hear nassara, tubaku, or tubak. Why can’t I just be another face in the crowd. In Spain, I was just another stupid American giddy. Nobody cared. Here, I am nassara. It is just cultural. But man, I can’t stand that either. Sometimes being called nassara is funny. But when Burkinabe sit there, talking to each other in their not hushed tones, casually look your way then refer to the nassara, it is annoying. Why can’t I just be lui, something that doesn’t make me stand out so much. But now it comes to me. I signed up partly for this feeling. I wanted to know what it was like. I just have to endure, sois dur.

Here is the part of this blog that I felt I had to write. While my folks were here, my dad bought a goat and beers for all of my colleagues and we had a little party at my house. It was cool. My mom and dad met Mathieu, Issoufou, Koueta, Bama, Barry, Guire, Compaore, Igor, Jean, Boukary, and a few of my other colleagues. Guire and I became locked in a conversation about the kids. He started to tell me about those students who ate once a day. I don’t know what my problem is. Here I am, living like a king. I eat 3 squares and snack chaque jour. However, some kids here are underfed. At that point, I realized it still hadn’t hit me. Until you actually see it, smell it, touch it, it’s not real. Since I haven’t run into this problem head on, I just ignore it. Convenient, to say the least. We went on to talk about the issue. It is the most serious of things to me. You must eat to survive. Everything depends on it. On Saturday, I was reading outside underneath my hanger. One of my students, Moussa, a regular at the house, came to see me. We started the typical dialogue, asking how things were, what’s going on. Then, he asks me for some oil. I tell him I can’t give him any oil. If I gave him oil then I would have to give everyone oil. I start quizzing him more. As we go along, I become more and more heart-broken.

He goes on to tell me he eats once a day. I continue to prod. I ask him what the situation at home is like. He is living alone. I remember when he told me his last remaining grand parent died. I ask him if his mom is still in Belehede. He says she moved to Bobo for the time being to get work. She is a nurse. That means he gets no money, her being so far away. He has one can of beans left, eating a mere handful at noon everyday. Also, getting water is not easy in this part of Burkina. I am struck, this kid having to persevere like this. His average is almost 13 out of 20, a decent if not good average compared to his fellow students. His average in math is in the bottom third at around 6. If his average in math were better, maybe his overall would be around 16, which is a top 5 out of 90 placement in this part of Burkina for kids at CEG or lycee or equivalent middle school + high school in the States. He tells me that’s why he does so poorly in math class. I tell him of course, if you can’t eat, who gives a rat’s ass? I tell him that if he were eating more he’d do better, be right up there competing for the top moyenne (average en Francais).

I sit there, dumb struck, trying to ease his mind. Then I cook up a plot. I tell him I am going to give him a little bit of money today, like around 50 cents. He can have a decent meal and buy a little oil to help his calorie intake. I tell him to keep it secret. So, we go eat together. He pays for his meal with the money I gave him. Then he buys a little oil and he goes home. Later that day, I finally realize that that’s it. I need to do something about this. This kid is the future of his country. For him to actually be doing so well is remarkable. Now, I have decided to make him my bon, meaning make him my errand boy. He can wash clothes, help me clean the house, get water for me, and I’ll pay him for it. That would help both of us out. I just wish I could do the same exact thing for more kids than one.

To my family, spread out in Oregon and Spain, your African son and brother loves you. I know I saw most of you very recently, but I miss you like hell. Especially you mon frere. You fly safe. Remember I think about you all everyday. Stay well, I’ll be home soon!

Hasta la Victoria, Siempre!

Realizations Revisited

What an adventure I just had. Started with the day in January when my folks called me. I was doing well. They tell me they are going to Spain to see my sister. Hell, they had just gotten back to Oregon from Mexico, where they were for a month. Being retired must be fun huh? Back to the story though. They tell me first they are going to Spain, hang out with my sister for two weeks, then they are coming to Burkina for two weeks. Then, my mom tells me they want me to come back to Spain with them for a little while to take a vacation with them and see my sister. Of course, I was stoked. February was the hardest month for me. The peaks and valleys have gotten fewer and further betwixt the past few months in Africa. I seem to trudge through desert valleys, figuratively, climb a small hill and peak for a few minutes, then start trudging again through an arid wasteland of frustration, feelings of not belonging, sadness. I just have to get out of village more huh?

Having already talked about some of the things my folks and I did while they were in-country, I turn to Spain. A small preface to Spain has to include mentioning olives. Aye aye aye, what olives! I ate so many, maybe the best olives in the world. Riding the fast train from Madrid to Seville and regarding all the olives groves, the varied landscape, that was a breath of fresh air. Spent most of my time in Utrera at my sister's house. Utrera is about 20 minutes south of Seville on the fast train. I would like to thank Amanda right now, my sister's roommate, for putting up with mine and my parents' shit. Cheers girl, I hope we didn't bug you too much! Utrera was a cool little town, the streets lined with orange trees, some trees bursting with them. I wanted to pick the oranges, but my sister told me no one does that. They are of a variety no one eats. Everywhere you look, splatted oranges on the ground. Seemed like such a waste, coming from Africa. But, that's the life here. As far as walking around Utrera, well, I had just come from Africa. Therefore, I looked like a 'giddy.' Don't know if I spelled that correctly, but that is someone who is dressed strangely, or not in the rather metro/fashionable way that most Europeans do prefer. It was funny to watch the Spanish heads turning about 270 degrees, tracking your every move, probably thinking 'That person doesn't know how to dress. Lousy American(s)!'

But Utrera was beautiful. The weather was great, but I was cold. That's not a stretch of the imagination, me being African and all now. Heat is a constant thing for me, avoiding the sun a must. I drank and ate (too much!) to my merriment. Had a blast. It was good meeting Devlin, Sam, Claire, Ellen, Amanda, Amanda's friends Abbie and Andrea, and finally Colleen (hope I spelled that correctly, and I hope you are feeling much better girl!). We went to Seville for two days. Man, La Catedral was awesome. Giralda tower was way cool. Wanted to pee on the purported grave of Cristopher Columbus, but there were too many other tourists around, hehe! Went to the main bull fighting ring of Seville. I didn't know it was so complex. Interesting, and OK, if you eat the bull after you toy with it. Then, I was in Madrid for three nights with my folks. Good times, probably the best times were when we went to the Prado and Thyssen Museums. Saw Goya, Modigliani, Dali, Picasso, Monet, Gaugin, Rodin, Van Gogh, all that and more. I think Goya and Dali blew my mind the most. I knew Van Gogh and Gaugin were ridiculous already, but Goya's dark stuff was incredible. I mean, when I get back, I want to get some copies of Goya and Dali, jeez!

But, as I always do, I am going to harp on the fortunate people, comme moi. We can do almost whatever we want to do. My neighbors and friends here, the villagers, some will never set foot out of the reality, the harsh reality, that they live day-to-day. They are tough. Some tell me I am tough because I come here to live a communal life with them. Bullshit. I will be here for another 17 months roughly, that's much different than a whole lifetime spent sitting on a cart lashed to a donkey, steering the poor ass towards the water pump. There I was, one day, walking through the Prado, listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers on my MP3 player. The next day, there I was back in Burkina. I realized how good I got it when I was flying over Aribinda. We probably flew really close to right over my village. Man, what a life I live. I am truly blessed.

Again, think about somebody less fortunate than you and give thanks to your parents or whomever for hooking you up. And all countries like the US, France, Belgium, China, they all exploit poor countries like Burkina. For all of those who feign indifference, get it right. Your government, if you're American, killed Patrice Lumumba and propped up Joseph Mobutu for so long. Thanks, Dwight Eisenhower. That's just continuing the suffering that the Congolese had to go through, also thanks in part to Belgium and King Leopold II, another known scumbag. There, I said it. Enough of my diatribe.

Do your part. Give to someone less fortunate, reduce your carbon foot print, there are a lot of things you can do. OK, much love goes out. To my family, I miss you already. Know how much I love and cherish you! I will see you all again soon.

bilfu