Tuesday, October 18, 2005
My 11 year old brother reading a Time magazine. Subject: The average life of a 13 year old
Entry #5 Lets get ready to rumble
The moment I graduated from High School I always felt bashful about recounting my athletic exploits. While in High School the football and wrestling teams were constantly visited by alumni. The majority of alumni were fine men who observed practices and games with a reserved sense of nostalgia. There were, of course, those individuals who left an indelible mark: This "type" of person generally came to multiple practices a week without being solicited by anyone involved with the High School. He tended to be 37 years old 50 pounds heavier than he was in High School, yet he still wore his letterman's jacket and was quick to point out how impressive of an athlete he was at the age of 17. It was, in a word... pathetic; it made me reject the idea of talking about myself as an athlete, unless I was playing on an organized team.
I now believe this stance might be a little harsh but I thought it was appropriate to provide a preface to the story of my return to athletic glory:
Each night during the month of October people gather to celebrate Ramadan with events called luttes. Boys as young as 6 years old ranging to men who are 60 gather at the house of the traditional war chief to wrestle. The village where I live is split by the paved road that goes to the capital. This road serves as a type of dividing line where the five families close to the road have formed alliance and have come a team to take on the other group of families who live further away from the main road. There is no bad blood between the two teams, but it is a bit like the Hatfields vs. the McCoys because the two different teams share different bloodlines and generally speaking it was the Sowadogos vs. the Oudragos. I happen to be a Sowadogo.
As I showed up to the house of the war chief the men were gathered in a large circle of close to 200 men and boys. The women were separated into their own circle whereperformedformed dances and sang songs to accompany the wrestling. There was absolutely no light other than the light that was provided by the half moon. Perhaps surprisingly, this was more than enough light to see your opponent and wrestle well. I came to the event initially as a spectator, though I knew that at some point throughout the night I would join in the festivities. My friend Ali made sure that the point at which I joined was sooner rather than later. Within five minutes of watching the bouts I had taken of my shoes and joined the camp of the Sowadogos. Before the wrestling began each team took a turn in intimidating the other team. On team would stay in a crouch while the other team sent out representatives to show how high they could jump, after the representatives finished jumping their entire team sprung to their feet and began running a circles around their squatting adversaries, clapping in their face and preparing for the battle. After the team had finished taunting it was their turn to be taunted and they assumed the crouching position.
The wrestling in Burkina is a bit different than what I was used to in High School. For example, there are no mats. There are 200 males creating a circle of hard clay earth with a considerable amount of pebbles and rocks. Secondly, the matches are very short, (10 sec. on average) It is basically a test to see who can get the leverage. Thirdly, if a stalemate occurred it was settled by seeing who could jump higher. I wrestled with men ranging anywhere from 19 to 27 years old. It was intense yet thoroughly entertaining and it put me back into the competitive mindset of a High School athlete. I wrestled more than 10 times, winning more than I lost but endistalemateemates as much as I won. My wins were met with cheers and losses were met with laughter though the truth in the end is that there was no official score. It was an event for the community and a personal challenge for the two men wrestling.
The next day it was the talk of the town; this is not because of performedformed but simply the fact that performedformed. It was a great opportunity to share cultures and integrate into the community. My only regret is that I had not been able to do it earlier as the time in village is coming to a quick end.
I now believe this stance might be a little harsh but I thought it was appropriate to provide a preface to the story of my return to athletic glory:
Each night during the month of October people gather to celebrate Ramadan with events called luttes. Boys as young as 6 years old ranging to men who are 60 gather at the house of the traditional war chief to wrestle. The village where I live is split by the paved road that goes to the capital. This road serves as a type of dividing line where the five families close to the road have formed alliance and have come a team to take on the other group of families who live further away from the main road. There is no bad blood between the two teams, but it is a bit like the Hatfields vs. the McCoys because the two different teams share different bloodlines and generally speaking it was the Sowadogos vs. the Oudragos. I happen to be a Sowadogo.
As I showed up to the house of the war chief the men were gathered in a large circle of close to 200 men and boys. The women were separated into their own circle whereperformedformed dances and sang songs to accompany the wrestling. There was absolutely no light other than the light that was provided by the half moon. Perhaps surprisingly, this was more than enough light to see your opponent and wrestle well. I came to the event initially as a spectator, though I knew that at some point throughout the night I would join in the festivities. My friend Ali made sure that the point at which I joined was sooner rather than later. Within five minutes of watching the bouts I had taken of my shoes and joined the camp of the Sowadogos. Before the wrestling began each team took a turn in intimidating the other team. On team would stay in a crouch while the other team sent out representatives to show how high they could jump, after the representatives finished jumping their entire team sprung to their feet and began running a circles around their squatting adversaries, clapping in their face and preparing for the battle. After the team had finished taunting it was their turn to be taunted and they assumed the crouching position.
The wrestling in Burkina is a bit different than what I was used to in High School. For example, there are no mats. There are 200 males creating a circle of hard clay earth with a considerable amount of pebbles and rocks. Secondly, the matches are very short, (10 sec. on average) It is basically a test to see who can get the leverage. Thirdly, if a stalemate occurred it was settled by seeing who could jump higher. I wrestled with men ranging anywhere from 19 to 27 years old. It was intense yet thoroughly entertaining and it put me back into the competitive mindset of a High School athlete. I wrestled more than 10 times, winning more than I lost but endistalemateemates as much as I won. My wins were met with cheers and losses were met with laughter though the truth in the end is that there was no official score. It was an event for the community and a personal challenge for the two men wrestling.
The next day it was the talk of the town; this is not because of performedformed but simply the fact that performedformed. It was a great opportunity to share cultures and integrate into the community. My only regret is that I had not been able to do it earlier as the time in village is coming to a quick end.
Entry #4 Bullet Proof
After spending the past two weeks outside of our villages and host families I was eager to return home. I, in a small way, missed my village. I missed my younger brother Siuba, I was eager to reconvene my training with language and technical sessions and I was ready to get back into the swing of writing. I returned home as the sun was setting, I made small talk with my parents and then took a shower just as the sun was disappearing and Venus was coming into sight. My dinner was satisfactorily disappointing and I was able to sleep without any problems.
The next day I went to class and my friend Diego relayed the message that there had been three strange deaths in our village since we had been gone. Death is not an uncommon thing in Burkina, but these three deaths were a little bizarre. A woman had an epileptic seizure and fell in a well, another man had fallen out of a tree and died, and the third case actually occurred on the night of our arrival:
A man had taken a medication he had believed would make him bullet-proof. He received this medicine from the local witch doctor that often provides such remedies. After taking the medicine his friend shot him in the head to ensure the medicine worked. Alas, in fact, the medicine did not work and the man subsequently died on account of, “defective medicine”, so said authorities. You and I probably find this level of ignorance to be staggering; not only because a man actually thought that he could have his friend shoot him in the head without any negative consequences, but also because the entire town is in agreement with him. It only gets worse when you realize how far this belief extends. Educated people will not write off this belief as patently false and the chief of police for the area of 35,000 people is actively pursuing the medicine maker. One of the highest government officials believes that the fault lies with the defective bulletproof medicine. There is no cultural relevance in this discussion, this is not simply another way of viewing the world, this is not just another religious practice, this is a way of thinking that defies science and even the most basic of common sense.
I should be clear that people in general do not take this medicine and believe they are invincible. It is more along the lines that they heard the medicine exists from a respected elder and out of deference to the village elder, they will not write it off completely. While it is possible to understand why they might have this perspective, I cant help but think of the real life consequences that are going to result on account of paying respect to a senile village elder who believes in superstitions and magic. The consequences are that a man is dead, the police are pursuing the medicine man who left out an ingredient, and peoples belief in the supernatural is only bolstered. In the vast majority of situations I find it is easy to reach reasonable consensus with my Burkinabe counterparts, but there are times like these that you just have to shake your head and laugh because it feels as though you have entered the Twilight Zone.
The next day I went to class and my friend Diego relayed the message that there had been three strange deaths in our village since we had been gone. Death is not an uncommon thing in Burkina, but these three deaths were a little bizarre. A woman had an epileptic seizure and fell in a well, another man had fallen out of a tree and died, and the third case actually occurred on the night of our arrival:
A man had taken a medication he had believed would make him bullet-proof. He received this medicine from the local witch doctor that often provides such remedies. After taking the medicine his friend shot him in the head to ensure the medicine worked. Alas, in fact, the medicine did not work and the man subsequently died on account of, “defective medicine”, so said authorities. You and I probably find this level of ignorance to be staggering; not only because a man actually thought that he could have his friend shoot him in the head without any negative consequences, but also because the entire town is in agreement with him. It only gets worse when you realize how far this belief extends. Educated people will not write off this belief as patently false and the chief of police for the area of 35,000 people is actively pursuing the medicine maker. One of the highest government officials believes that the fault lies with the defective bulletproof medicine. There is no cultural relevance in this discussion, this is not simply another way of viewing the world, this is not just another religious practice, this is a way of thinking that defies science and even the most basic of common sense.
I should be clear that people in general do not take this medicine and believe they are invincible. It is more along the lines that they heard the medicine exists from a respected elder and out of deference to the village elder, they will not write it off completely. While it is possible to understand why they might have this perspective, I cant help but think of the real life consequences that are going to result on account of paying respect to a senile village elder who believes in superstitions and magic. The consequences are that a man is dead, the police are pursuing the medicine man who left out an ingredient, and peoples belief in the supernatural is only bolstered. In the vast majority of situations I find it is easy to reach reasonable consensus with my Burkinabe counterparts, but there are times like these that you just have to shake your head and laugh because it feels as though you have entered the Twilight Zone.
