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

Happenings in Aribinda with my Parents

Live from Spain, what's cracking? I'm just getting a little R&R after close to 7 months as a volunteer. It's Easter Sunday here in Utrera. Andalucia is cool. The food is incredible, partly because of a dearth of tasty treats for culinary Western snobs, comme moi!

So, my folks spent 13 days in Burkina. It was fun, they were tough. I did a week at site with them. While they were here it was the break in-between the second and third trimesters. It was perfect timing, besides the fact the temperatures were ramping up to their inevitable high point which comes in April here. The parents had a problem with the heat and the Ouaga fumes. I had never noticed the fumes in Ouaga that much. But, if you stay in centre-ville for a few days, it's much easier to notice them. I'm usually at the transit house or in the bureau off Charles De Gaulle. They stuck it out though wherever, in Ouaga, in Dori, and most importantly, at site in Aribinda, au Sahel.

We did a lot, had a lot of visitors. It was good, most of the time spent at the house. The heat was really a shock to them, coming from Spain and Oregon where the temps can be right around freezing. Personally, I didn't think it was that hot, but I have become Burkinabe. Yeah, that's right. I am a little African now folks, for better or worse.

One of the nights, we attended a wedding party. I took a cadeau for the couple and told my folks we would stay for 15 minutes, give the gift and leave. Well, we stayed for 2 and a half hours, my moms camera go some use, and we were honored more, I felt, than the wedding party. It was strange, the PCV and his parents, the foreigners, being honored so much by these wonderful people. I didn't like the feeling that our presence superceded everything. We were there to celebrate the union of two people, but they wanted to honor the guests. It was interesting. More to come on that experience later.

I took my folks over to Consta's house to meet his family two days later. One of the village handy men, Consta Kobre, had been bugging me to come to his house to meet the fam. He was good friends with the other volunteers in Aribinda before me. So, I told his son Hamadoum to come and get me and I would bring the folks over, you know, really honor them with my folks presence too. We went over there, I translated, and my mom took pictures. It was cool, but and eye-opener for my mom. We stayed a half-hour then went home. When we got home, my mom started crying. She talked about how beautiful the people are, how they are stuck, they don't have much. It was a teary moment, my eyes and my pops getting moist. I told her she had to tell everybody back in the States about it. I also talked to her about how they just become accustomed to that life. It is difficult, so difficult I can't even describe it sometimes...

My driver flaked on me, so we had to stay another night up there, but it ended up being fine. They got to take Salif's taxi-brousse. It was more packed than it had ever been and for the first 45 km of the trip, I sat up on top of the cab with Salu, Salif's son, as he and I bracketed the bikes on the roof. My folks sat shotgun. It was an interesting ride, starting at 6:30 from Aribinda and ending around 11:30 in Dori. Yaneth's neighbor at one point told me my French wasn't good. That bummed me out, but I was so sick of trying to carry on conversations with people. Everyone wants to talk to the nassara and when there are multiple nassaras, it's like a party. Yeah, she's right I need to work on my French, but yeah, I didn't appreciate that. Stuggling, that's what a PCV does.

Segue to the night before the taxi-brousse ride. I am walking by the transport gare in Aribinda. I see this truck with a few nassaras in the back. The guy sees me and, grinning really big, emphatically waves to me. I said, OK, let's go talk to these people. I walk over and start a conversation in French. After a few seconds really, I make a reference in English. I could tell they weren't French because of the accent. Then, the girl says, "Oh, good, English!" They were a Dutch couple and had been in Aribinda since Monday, a day after I pulled into site with my folks. We lamented over how we had not crossed paths and now they were leaving. They were extremely friendly. I was very disappointed that we hadn't met earlier. They talked about their stay for a second, then proceeded to tell me that the people love me. They said they talked about me alot, that they are proud they have a hard working volunteer, and they were very happy that I spoke so much to everyone. I was so happy about that. Sometimes, I just get lost in it all. I don't know if the people like me that much, should I be doing more to integrate myself, etcetera. But, that really reassured me. As the truck rolled away, I told the couple to enjoy Burkina, bonne route, and they yelled back see you later and keep up the good work. That was so refreshing, something I really needed. I have only been at site for 7 months now. I still have work to do, but I guess I have done a lot to ingratiate myself with the people. Satisfying, to say the least!

More stories soon, hopefully in April. Hot season, I think it's gonna be around 120 degrees at site for close to two straight weeks. Eek, I am gonna be so lazy, just hope the kids are going to like an introduction to functions and the beginnings of algebra.

Take care, beaucoup d'amour de l'Afrique de l'Ouest!

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.

Comedy and Incredulity at The Black Mamba Corner

This blog was written 01/06/08

As you all know, I recently took my first Xmas break as a teacher in the Peace Corps Burkina Faso. I wanted to trip to Morocco to see my sister who is teaching English in Andalucia, Southern Spain for those of you who don't have your degrees in geography. Due to monetary shortfalls, I tripped to Ghana with friends Becca, Clay, and Adlai while my sister ended up in Amsterdam for New Years. The details of my sister's trip not yet heard, here is a story of a crazy German woman who lives close to Busua Beach. She is married to a looped-out Rasta named Alex and owns The Black Mamba Corner, a picturesque guest house and home that sits on the rock outcropping that marks the west edge of Busua Beach. What follows is a tragicomedy, maybe even a travesty. You have to decide.

Becca, Clay, Adlai, and I went to this place and placed our order for dinner. Gabriella certainly showed us hints of here sociopathic side right there. She dominated the conversation, talking about everything from movies, Ghana, and the guest albums, where patrons leave their indelible marks for this woman who, frankly, I believe, brings disgrace to the gender! We left after making our dinner order to go have some Castle Milk Stouts at the Orkowye Tree Restaurant on the beach, which sits next to the Black Star Surf Shop:

We returned at 7, the time at which we requested our pizzas to be done. She was chatting up a nice Austrian couple in German. And there was a Rasta, at first unseen on the periphery, choppin' something. Chop is to eat in Ghana. We sat down, and this Rasta starts hollering, "Go and call the police. She will poison you!" Turns out this Rasta is Alex, her husband. Gabriella told us about this Alex's inability with automobiles. Well, apparently this Alex also has a good rapport with marijuana, booze, and whatever other kinds of mind-benders he partakes in.

So, we all get up to saluer this guy. He gets up, we shake his wrist and he says, “I’m eating here.” Then, Gabriella comes and sits with us, a look of morbid dread on her face. She says, “Please, help me. Just ignore him.” Then, Alex starts telling us to call the police. “Yes, they will come here to get you.” Gabriella then tells us never to marry a Rasta! I was incredulous! This is your husband?! Why do you put up with this?! He’s obviously high as a kite AND probably drunk! Why?! Of course, all these things are swirling around in my head.

So, we start exchanging pleasantries while Alex continues to eavesdrop and then drop seemingly incongruous retorts.

“Yes, call the police.”

“You are not safe here!, she will poison you!”

The whole time this is going on, I am thinking, “C’est une grande plaisanterie!” She gets up to get us our food. I felt a surge of relief in me, thinking there’s no way this woman will just sit here and talk to us while we eat. Well, I was wrong. BIG TIME! And the conversation seemed to digress. She would make aversions, Alex still chopping away at the other table, still throwing insidious remarks our way. The typical broken dialogue was of Gabriella’s nonsensical bullshit, the quartet’s furtive glances and looks at one another of WTF? and then Alex, in all his great ignominy, kept the tragicomedy/farce going like this:

“I tell you never mary a Rasta. Please, just ignore him. They have these magic mushrooms here. It is so difficult.”

“Call the police! You are all foreigners here!”

“Yes, we are all foreigners. Look at him, he needs a father… These people don’t know how to read and write (where’d that come from?!)… They are sitting on gold and diamonds, it is so beautiful here. (?!)

Further degeneration of the conversation. I wish I could’ve captured the looks on Clay,
Becca, and Adlai’s faces:

“Yes, I used to have 14 dogs… and 70 pigs.” She shifts in her seat, adjusts her crappy looking moo-moo, fidgets with the now broken glasses that abut a bizarre vertical 5-inch cylindrical bun that springs from the crown of here defunct, crazy head. “Now, grain is so expensive, I am getting rid of the pigs. I have 4 dogs now, and they eat a lot of pork.”

Then, Alex spouts gold: “And look at me while I sit here and eat this slop! I’m a human being, not an animal!” I almost lose it. I can barely contain myself.

“Please, oh, this is so difficult. Please, help me, just ignore him.” She then keeps weaving a beautiful loom of discursive, utterly ridiculous statements. Alex gets up, walks by us We are all incredulous listening in awe to this long gone European specimen. Alex, who put on a bou-bou, walks by, and says it:

“You and your fuck money.”

I notice Becca blink and hold, bite her lipe to stifle the internal laughter, wrinkles and creases furrowing her brow. “You foreigners.”

Gabriella, once again distraught, asks for our patience. She then continues with her craziness.

“So, I am in Mexico for two years and I never have one of these tacos! (WTF?!) Are they like pancakes?” (Are you delirious woman?!)

“And so, why do men have breast nipple? (?!) It is because woman came first. (?!?)

My patience was gone. The humor was no longer with us, the disgusting comedy in the form of Alex was passed out somewhere in a chair, a bong precariously jutting from in-between his scrawny legs.

Then, the crazy one became the crazy cashier/accountant. “Please, please help me, this is so difficult.” The same old bullshit, melodramatic to its very core. She told us of a 15% tax we had to pay (?!), did the math that looked correct, passed the calculator to Adlai(?), and he did the calculation. His was close but didn’t match hers. She snatched the calculator from him and sets it in front of me. Well, I messed up bad somewhere. She gets an air of angriness and snatches the calculator from me. Adlai calls me out. At this point, I was infuriated, so I tried to come back at Adlai nicely. We owed about 58 Cedi, Ghanaian currency, nearly $1=1 Cedi. $58 for this crap? She used imitation cheese that came in triangles, so she couldn’t even cover 50% of the pizza surface. Plus, the tomato sauce wsa too sweet. And, Alex’s words rang out with prescience: “She will poison you!”

Later that night, Becca puked and Clay got la diahrrea! We each dropped about 16 Cedi, gave her a little extra so we could shut her up real quick and bailed. Turned out we were stuck in that time warp for nearly 3 hours! We could’ve been eating fresh lobster, had 3 Castle’s, and been flirting with the Charlotte, the cute Ghanaian chica who worked at Orkowye Tree Restaurant for under what we spent a la Madame Folle’s!

What an experience. She was so quotable. However, I never wish that on anyone else. Another Burkina PCV, my buddy David (with Jenny, PCV stationed in Gorgadji and his buddy Jonathon) had a funny experience with her as well. She spoke about a trip to the health inspectors’ office for a test to get a license to do business in Ghana. She told them she had eaten something funny, probably going off for 10 minutes on the topic. She described her leftovers as her toilet. “You should have seen my toilet, it was terrible! Alex asked me, ‘What have you been eating woman?’”

PLEASE, NOT WHILE WE’RE EATING, YOU CRAZY BITCH!

Because she was so quotable, Becca and Clay would bust out at random times with her or Alex’s maniacal quotes on the latter part of our adventure. Best sixteen bucks I ever spent to get a wonderful view… of crazy.

Just don’t go to The Black Mamba Corner when you go to Busua. Get a board at Black Star or a sea kayak at the hotel, or plant your ass in a chair in the shade of the Orkowye tree and have a Castle. Don’t try and sell crazy here, we’re all filled up.

Oh Ghana!

Well, well, I have now seen even more of West Africa. I hope to get to about 8 countries in this part of the world. Ghana is definitely a high-light spot, with great jungles and rainforests, good wildlife, beautiful beaches, and more great people and West African culture. It is different from Burkina, but not that much really. At least in my eyes. I will explain. You'll just have to read this and see if you agree with me or not.

We started (a bunch of volunteers and I) by taking a bus on a Saturday morning from Ouagadougou to Kumasi, the cultural capital of Ghana. We all arrived at about 6:30 to get on a bus that was supposed to leave at 7. We got on and had to hanker with the workers about how much to pay for our bags. That was ridiculous. We all sat on this bus for about 3 and a half hours, wondering why the workers weren't loading the damn thing. Well, at about 10:30, another, full bus pulls up. We got off the original bus and got the worst seats in the rear on this other crowded bus. An ominous start huh. The trip to Kumasi was long and hard. I thought transport was just bad in Burkina. Turns out transport is worse in Ghana, in my opinion. It is even worse in Togo and Guinea I have heard. We stopped at about 8 pm somewhere south of Tamale. I get off the bus and the first thing I hear a Ghanaian say to me is 'Hey white, hello, come here!'. Just like Burkina in a way. I just freaked out laughing and he joined in with me, the white boy and the black African exchanging cultures.

We get into Kumasi and quickly realize they don't speak English that well. Things like 'What do you say' and 'Why, why, why, why, please!' were uttered early on and I found myself having to repeat many things. They also say please at the end of things often, like when you ask for a milk stout. 'Do you have milk stout here?' 'Yes please' is the response. They also speak like Yoda, that is, they invert things very often. They also pre-empt your speech. You say 'hi' and then they say 'I'm fine.' They say 'You are welcome' as a greeting. I like that. That's just their diction. Overall, the level of French in Burkina is better than the level of English in Ghana. Just my opinion. One awesome thing they say is to chop is to eat. So, we started using the term to chop really quickly instead of to eat. It was awesome to see the way the Ghanaians reacted to us when we would just blurt out 'I want chop something.' Hilarious.

We arrived in Kumasi at about 4 am and we were on a tro-tro at 5:30 am bound for the coastal port town of Takoradi. A tro-tro is a large vehicle, sometimes a typical old school Toyota van, sometimes a big boxy Mercedes rig, that Ghanaians love to cram into. They are sometimes extremely uncomfortable. The Ghanaians are also smart about transport. They wait for it to fill up, so sometimes you may have to wait for 30 minutes to an hour just to get to your spot. Kinda sucks, but that is better for the environment. We made our way from Takoradi to Agona Junction to Ezile Bay, an awesome secluded hide-away that is close to the village of Dixcove. We stayed a night then packed it up for Busua and checked in at Dadson's Lodge. Busua was awesome.
Most of our time was spent throwing disc on the beach, swimming, and drinking the aforementioned milk stouts. Frankie and the other guys at Black Star Surf Shop were great guys and Charlotte at Orkowye Tree Restau was awesome. We were eating jollaf rice and plantains, fresh lobster, curried lentils. It was a delicious change-up to what I eat in Burkina, let me tell you. We kept getting accosted by this guy, the juice man. We called him Daniel the Pancake Man. There is this spot in Busua where you can get good breakfasts, run by a dude named Daniel. Well, this little guy was the juice guy, and he wasn't Daniel. He loved to try and rip us off, it was ridiculous. Right when you came out of your room, he'd be outside, grabbing you by the wrist, trying to sell you a half-liter of juice for $4! We found out he wasn't the pancake man when the real Daniel introduced himself after we did a little sea kayaking. That was hilarious. That impostor was terrible. We kept joking that he was following us around Ghana with juice, calling him the juice man formerly called Daniel. What an ass. If you hit the beach in Busua, watch out for the juice dude! Then, Gabriella, the German lady who is known for her pizza and beach bungalow at the Black Mamba Corner. Aye aye aye, a piece of work mes amis. That's for the next blog...

I saw two former slave castles, one at Dixcove and the other a ruins at Butre which is eroding away on the top of a hill that abuts the Butre River. We walked up to Butre with Steve, the concierge of Dadson's lodge and we got a guy named Anthony to take us on a hollowed-out ride up the river. We turned around and then they took us to a spot where they make palm liquor. It was a cool setup, with two fifty-five gallon drums full of fermented palm juice. They would fire the drums with a wood fire and run the distillate through a set of coils which were submerged in water to cool the liquor. They would make palm wine with it. Tried both, the palm liquor was sweet and damn rough. I made a face, as I always do when drinking hard A. There was a real cool spot at Butre called the Hideout, a little resort. That is definitely worth checking out later.

The next morning, we packed it up and headed to Accra, the bustling capital of Ghana. It was a madhouse. The market was going full steam when we arrived and we had a hell of a time getting through. Ghanaians will also grab your wrists when they feel it is appropriate. I think I looked hard and salaciously at a woman's peppers. She had these ridiculous green, yellow, and red chilis sitting there. So, she grabbed my wrist to try and make the sale. I jerked my arm from her violently and made my way through the mob. Then, she and a few other Africans responded with shouts of anger and disbelief. We stopped off for a quick chop, then got to the tro-tro station and hopped transport to Hohoe in the eastern Volta section of Ghana. The ride was good actually and it was very beautiful when we crossed Volta Lake, the world's largest man-made lake, at a bottleneck point close to the southern end. We made it to Hohoe a little late and crashed at the hotel.

The next day, we packed it up once more and made our way to Wli falls, the highest falls in West Africa. Our guide Charles was way cool. There are over 200 different species of butterflies that call Ghana home and our path was continuously dotted with the beautiful little things. We checked out the lower section of the falls then decided to get up to the upper pool. Little did we know the trail was rough. After a hell of a trip up, we got to the upper pool and stopped for a dip. It was beautiful. We lingered for a while, made our way back down and then chilled in the bottom pool. We met two German volunteers who were teaching in Ghana for 6 months. We told them we would be in country for a little over two years and they were very surprised, even incredulous. They thought that was a little too long. But that's what makes the Peace Corps Hard Corps! And, we get the most authentic, get-to-know-the-culture experience. That night, we went to the hotel/restaurant at Wli and had a grip of milk stouts. The whole time, we Americans were book-ended by a flock of British girls and two German couples. Well, the German couples didn't like us much. They muttered some profanities toward us, but we never confronted them on it. We turned into the typical American loudmouths, you know, the ones who don't respect other cultures. Well, we broke into shouting about the crazy pizza lady's antics, and at the climax, I leaned back on a plastic chair and I snapped the two back legs at just the right time. It was so hilarious. I got a new chair and we heard the British girls mocking us. Damned Americans. We work hard and play hard too damnit!

We then camped a cold, very uncomfortable night by the Wli falls trailhead. I maybe got an hour of sleep. Once again, we packed it up for Mount Adjufato, the highest peak in Ghana at about 900 meters. Our guide Alex was pretty good and we made it up the medium difficulty trail in about 40 minutes. Due to the seasonal winds in this part of Africa, visibility was bad. We could look over into Togo which we were very close to, but that was about it. Overall, transport was expensive to the mountain and it wasn't a very good hike and I wouldn't recommend it. If visibility was better, maybe. After that, we made it to the monkey sanctuary at Tafi where we got a decent room and a package deal that was pretty good. We ate, woke up early, fed a few monkeys bananas, did a jungle walk, and took off. Overall, wouldn't recommend that either. I have seen monkeys in Belize and Guatemala that made the single species that dwelled at the sanctuary look puny and boring.

Then, we decided it was about time to get back to Tamale to get transport back to Burkina. Man, traveling in the east of Ghana is not fun. It was tro-tro ride for 40 to 50 km at every village. We had to embark/disembark so many times it wasn't cool. We also payed hefty prices. At one point, we told the guy we were not going to pay $2 for the ride to the next village, which was a measly 5 km away. We started walking. Then, after 2.5 km, a group of Ghanaians asked us where we were going. We said to the next village. Then, they tell us that the next village was 35 km away! Just don't understand the language block in this country, but it can be bad. I guess we were not clear enough with the dude at the station. Then, luckily enough, a tro-tro stopped and picked us up. We ended up paying 2 bucks for the 35 km ride. From there on out, it was 40 km, 2 bucks a pop. We started getting ragged, money going short. We had to make a tro-tro stop cause Adlai and I had to take a piss real bad. Then, we got hit up by the most insistent beggar who didn't understand a drop of English. A weird thing in the east of Ghana too is that the people will laugh at you when a beggar just won't leave you alone. In Burkina, middle-aged people will shoo beggars away. But man, that guy was so persistent. We all had to go to the bathroom often, but it seemed as if there were no bathrooms. So, we would pee on the side of the road. Well, at one point, Clay and I had to go bad and couldn't find the latrine. So, we walked down a ways from the station at the behest of a Ghanaian who told us to pee on the side of the road down the way. I went by some derelict tires which were filled with cobwebs. I peed only on the ground. I see Clay coming back up and I see a bunch of Ghanaians laughing. I ask Clay if he went and he said the Africans told him not to go on the side of the road. Then, the same Ghanaians who were laughing at us started screaming at me. One guy seemed to start my way but all I did was look back at them and shrug my shoulders and give them a 'What Did I Do' look and hand gesture. They kept screaming at me and I thought I would be in trouble... if they came after me. Turns out they were too lazy to come after me. It's weird that they would do something like that, cause they pee anywhere, anytime. Double standards suck.

But transport in the east is bad. They kept giving us the 'white price', not the right price. The waterfall is definitely worth seeing, but if you travel in Ghana, always take the oft-traveled Accra-Kumasi routes. That will work better. I am definitely going back to check out the beach at Busua and Butre, then hopefully get a few days in Takoradi, Accra, and Kumasi. It was such an awesome place. Just the travel. I now realize Burkina actually has some of the best transport in West Africa. But, it's all relative. Hey, I am lucky to be doing this at all, n'est-ce pas?!

Yeah, if you're coming to West Africa and you speak English, Ghana is the place to be. It is beautiful and the people rock. Twi and Ewe are fun to practice and Ashanti culture is cool.

Until the next episode... Beware the Black Mamba Corner...

Cultural Misunderstanding

I want to preface this with a few notes. Much love goes out to Nick and Jaci in Bend and Mo Zainy. Thanks for the packages guys. It means so much. I do live OK, but having a few extra little things in the diet and some reading material are great. I love to hear about some of the things that are going on back ho

me. I love you guys. Also, a little note, I get Newsweek for free out of a Peace Corps bureau thing, so I would especially love the Economist, Time, maybe a New York Times from time to time, maybe even a Washington Post, if you feel like recycling them in Africa!

I would also like to add some prefatory remarks to the front of this shorty. I have a great fondness for the Burkinabe. Their culture is very interesting, new nuances I discover daily. However, some things become annoying and make me angry. I know the women have it worse, but here goes.

As for cultural misunderstandings, this is brief. I usually travel to Belehede where my closest neighbor Christina lives for some good conversation and some R and R around a fellow American. Fellow PCVs are like a cultural extension, something that all PCVs need. Well, my proviseur (the director at my high school) as well as others think we are romantically involved. This is absolutely not the case. She is like my sister. I love her to death, but it's ridiculous. He always says to me en Francais:

"Et Belehede?" et ma reponse:

"Ouais, ouais, elle va bien." Ouais, for non-Francophone individuals, basically means, yeah, OK, right. It can mean 'I know what you mean' or 'uh-huh, whatever.' They just don't understand my thoughts on the issue of intra-PCV relationships and the fact that Christina is my sister for Pete's sake!

Then, when Christina comes to my village, people come out of the woodwork talking about 'I'll give you a Caranfe wife... If you give me her!' Heh, you fucking prick, piss off. And it's funny, cause they always say we are friends, this Burkinabe and me. Many of these cats I don't know. Beaucoup de visages, n'est-ce pas?

Also, I love it when Muslims are wearing things that have drug paraphernalia on them. No offense, they just aren't exposed to or have no clue of a bud leaf that they wear on their beanie! That is haram my friend. My French is just not good enough to tell you how yet, but soon!

But, yeah, a few more experiences Burkinabe. Hey, Merry Christmas goes out to everybody. My family in all Spanish speaking areas, I love you. Drink a Dos Equis loaded with lime for me, esta bien? (couldn't find the upside down question mark for the front, doh!)

Big up big up!