Burkina Blast #3

Here is the latest from my wonderful friend Elizabeth, who is doing Peace Corps in Francophone Africa.

Recently, I've gotten a few emails requesting, "just give me a 'day in the life' over there". So here goes Burkina Blast #3. It's more of "a night in the life"....


By candlelight, I'm writing you from Tenado, a small farming village two hours south of the capital - my site assignment for the next year and a half. Its after 8pm, and sweat is still dripping down me. Welcome to what's known as the "hot" season in West Africa, a lovely period between March and May when average daily temperature is around 115, dipping down to about 96 at night. I want to sleep away the awareness of this still, unwavering heat, but lately sleep hasn't come unless Benadryl-induced. Tonight, I feel out to prove that I haven't fallen dependant on any antihistamine, so I'm trying without - and it's not working yet, so I'm writing and hopefully my stories for you will be so boring that even I myself will fall asleep.

I've had an interesting evening. At dusk, I noticed three giant legs poking out from behind a picture frame mounted on the mud wall. The legs moved, and out came the biggest spider I've ever laid eyes on. The kind that can turn color. The kind that make you shiver with fear. It was a quick death by flip flop for him. I did my best not to scream along with the thunderous slap of the flip flop, as lately that has been a source of continual humor for my family ("Haha. Look how hilarious it is that she's afraid of a little scorpion!")

I then went to find my old gym bag to pack for my trip to Ouagadougou tomorrow, only to discover that termites living happily within my mud floor had eaten the entire bottom of the bag. This is a side note, but I read somewhere that scientists are trying to use termite juice as a potential alternative energy source. I think this is the height of human brilliance and I applaud whoever had that bright idea. These African termites have enough bite to fuel an airplane, I swear to god.

Well, I gave my bottomless old gym bag to my family, as I do most of my trash because they love to weed through it and reuse things we would never question tossing. They said they were going to patch it up quickly and turn it into a "propre sac du voyage" and was I sure I didn't want to keep it. It doesn't take a lot to be a regular Santa Claus around here.

With only minutes left of sunlight, my windchimes rang. I had bought windchimes in Fanueil Hall with my dad just before leaving for Burkina Faso, imagining that they might be a bit of a novelty in Africa. I was right. No one in my village really gets their "purpose". You explain, "You know, so that when the wind blows, the wind can make music for you", and they nod slowly but squint their eyes at you as if you may have a screw loose upstairs. They've all independantly come to the same conclusion: it must be a doorbell. If you hit it a bunch of times, I'll come to the door. I gave up explaining. Tonight, as always, it's easier to play along.

At the door was Clairisse, a 16 year old girl that I barely know, who'd come asking for help with her English homework. The assignment: write, in English, whether or not you think it is possible to make the rain fall. When I asked her to explain to me what she thought the answer was in french, she smiled and lowered her head bashfully. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why she became so shy all of a sudden. I pressed her to answer. She looked up and said, "When the teacher asked us what we thought in class today, we were divided. Some in the class thought it wasn't possible to make rain fall. But others said that they've seen people make sacrifices to the ancestors in the fields, asking for rain, and the next day it rains, so it's possible". She looked to me to choose a side. It was such a revealing moment - exposing something about kids her age here, conflicted by the handed-down beliefs from their parents and what they are learning in school. I responded, "Ca depend de toi" (That depends on you), not up for shoving my own western beliefs down anyone's throat tonight. She went to ask her smarty-pants brother what he thought, and apparently, the technology exists to make rain and they fly planes up into the clouds with seeds, etc. so that got me out of confronting the awkward subject with her. Most aren't willing to talk much about animism to white people anyways...I think they think we are all opposed to animism and just could never "get it", so they keep quiet about it and play along just like I do with my windchimes.

Clairisse left, and I went to talk to my boss/father about my trip tomorrow before resigning to the wooden chair I sit on now. "Bonsoir", I said as I approached him. He was still exploring the wonders of his new, bottomless "sac du voyage". Joseph is this cute old farmer with at least 11 children, two wives, and no front teeth. He's a man ahead of his time - fascinated by solar power and sustainable development. But while he can chat with the best and brightest about the environment, he also loves to drink beer with the locals and they love him for it. I love him for it. He kept calling me Bernadette when he first met me, and then he gave up on trying to remember Elizabeth altogether and gave me a new name, "Yi De Pen ", which means "God will Protect".

He wished me a good trip tomorrow, and asked me to research online the solar-powered projectors that MIT is developing for Mali literacy centers right now (really cool! Check it out: http://kinkajou.designthatmatters.org/ ), before heading off to bed. Tonight, he'll sleep on a plastic rug outside on the ground. I'll sleep outside on a plush double mattress inside a mosquito net tent. In this long "cultural exchange" known as Peace Corps service, I desperately want Joseph to see him and me as equals. And I wonder if it's even possible for us to find a common ground. I keep telling him "nous marchons sur la meme terre" (we walk on the same ground), but now we're sleeping on the same ground tonight and nothing feels equal about it.


Ok. Time to give sleep another try.