Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Hirshel: a short story
Hirshel’s parents called him at 1pm on Sunday afternoons dutifully without variance or exception. The conversations passed more or less without incident; they would inform him of local news and sports. He gave them a version of the truth that did not challenge their expectations. By employing such choice phrases as, “it’s hot” and “yeah, I am keeping busy” Hirshel was able to mask the general dissatisfaction with life in his little corner of West Africa. The calling card usually ran out after 35 minutes and six more days would string together before they could do it again.
Today’s call started out like any other’s:
“Hello”
“Well, hello son”
“Hello father”
“Oh okay, Yeah – Diane … I have your son on the phone.”
“Hello, you there?”
“Yeah - still here dad”
“Well, we went to the Carver game last night and that Tyshaun Griffin had twenty and fifteen!”
“Wow, he is really something else”
“And I am guessing that you saw the Pats won again”
“Yeah, I hadn’t - but it sounds like they might have a shot this year”
“The picture on this new ‘High Def” Projection Television is really pretty impressive. Your mother thinks it’s excessive to spend money like that on television, but I figured with all her remodeling and this new addition, she hasn’t room to talk.”
“Uh-Huh” …
It is not that Hirshel was such a dour and unhappy individual – In fact, new acquaintances often considered him pleasant and outgoing. He had many opportunities to make friendly acquaintances: Workshops, conferences, retreats, institutes; since Jr. High he had been enrolled in these “leadership” programs. These programs were the “nurture” that accompanied his very impressive nature, or North Eastern breeding. He became a student of how people interacted with one another and developed a knack for imitating it - He knew what it took to win friends.
It wasn’t always this way. Before the classes and workshops he was known as the rich kid. Too young to be so nicely quaffed and pressed, most of the other 10 year olds would make fun of him by calling him names like,
“Richy Rich”
The poor kids from broken homes called him,
“Fag” or “Prick”
After learning what these insults meant, he wasn’t particularly angry or sad, which is a testament to just how self–contained he was. It’s just that his natural inclination was to be disinterested in what others had to say. He lacked the empathy and inter-personal curiosity that make a person naturally likeable or a decent conversationalist.
As for today’s Sunday conversation, both sides were doing their part.
“Seems like Romney might take a shot at the Republican nomination.”
“Really? You think he has a chance?”
And so it continued for thirteen minutes with slight interruptions and repetitions to make certain details were made clear over the static. While certain details were made clear, much was left unsaid. This fact, by itself, isn’t particularly telling since most normal, well adjusted young adults have somewhat detached if not tenuous relationships with their parents.
But for Hirshel the fact that these individuals were related by blood had nothing to do with the non-committal fashion he went about half heartedly listening to them. Hirshel was a closed system. He was not particularly concerned with introspection either, so certain character flaws were left unchecked.
Usually the thirteenth minute would pass and shortly there after the question would come,
“And how are things over there?”
Today, without giving it much thought, Hirshel launched into his week’s worth of events and stories in reverse chronological order – when he was struck momentarily dumb.
This speechlessness was something completely apart from the taciturn indifference he employed to convey the vague aura of superiority. This silence had no ulterior motives but was simply the byproduct of what happens to somebody that has unexpectedly been confronted by a thought that is hard to reconcile.
He had started his exposition by regaling his parents with an amusing anecdote about his neighbor’s “Yamaha Z 660” Motorcycle. His neighbor had come to his house early in the morning with a newly purchased second hand motorcycle. Motorcycle is actually too generous a term for Nasir’s 1989 Peugeot Moped adorned with crudely made Yamaha Z 660 stickers, half-hazardly slapped onto the side of the bike.
Nasir had woken up early and couldn’t help himself from knocking. As the door opened, his big jaundiced doe eyes filled with a look of excitement verging on pride. It is a look normally reserved for parents, teachers or other authority figures who can give you that rare sense of affirmation. And then he asked,
“ Mr. Hirshel, Qu’est que tu pense de ma Nouveau Moto”
It was in retelling this story that a façade was shattered. It happened as he was re-enacting the stifled cough of a laugh that was his response to Nasir’s ‘acceptance seeking’ question. In this instant - Hirshel became overwhelmed - This precise moment, this split second of time that was over before he could swallow his truncated laugh is all it took. He was left speechless.
This façade had never been shattered before but occasionally holes would appear. Nobody could ever quite put their finger on it; but it was a cause of frustration to girlfriends, a puzzling estranged feeling to “life long buddies” and an unmentioned uneasiness in his parents. Behind each of his relationships lied an apathetically cool and dismissive attitude to what they had to say. This wasn’t so transparent that it made him socially awkward or abrasive, though it kept things at a certain superficial level and thus defined his relationships with boundaries well short of their titles.
This moment - powerfully silent – was all-pervading, and what it lacked in duration was made up for in clarity. Extraordinary clarity is the single impression he could express to you today. He was dumbstruck by a thought, or thoughts - images, instantaneous memories that didn’t pass before his eyes like a filmstrip; but instead hit him, all at once, - like a vivid collage that he knew a priori.
He knew every piece of this collage immediately, its position, its shape the way different parts intertwined before ever seeing them. Each fragment had a back story, context and emotions that colluded and lead him to this suppressed laugh on a dusty, clay red road in the heart of West Africa.
In this moment, his mind unstuck of time, the collage washed over him.
…
He saw himself at twelve years old with the bashful expression of false modesty betrayed by his exceedingly proud eyes - a look that can only be described as welcoming a poorer classmate’s parents to your family’s estate.
He saw himself trying and failing to muster tears as he finished a two year relationship with an unsuspecting college girlfriend.
He saw real tears streaming down his face as a seven year old. In the middle of the department store his face is reddish purple, his shrieks are manic and high pitched and his mother looks lost and inconsolable as he chokes on his snot while telling her he hates her and wishes she was dead, for not getting him the snow patrol GI Joe.
He saw himself having just shaken the hands of a High School classmate’s family. The incongruity between the numbness of the Tupper’s grief and his condescending smirk as “Tears from Heaven” plays at their son’s closed casket visitation.
He saw himself poolside at the club.
But the most poignant image in this collage is the Molotov Cocktail.
…
Hirshel had always been a bright boy so it came as a surprise to many family associates when they saw his name in the police blotter. Especially adept at taking standardized tests, he had received scholarships to prestigious colleges that his family could have gladly agreed to pay for. His intelligence, being the strong insular breed was a corollary to his manner or handling people. This mixture of intelligence and apathy inevitably results in decisions and activities with a distinct brand of egocentricity:
Seeking out and living with a group of malleable, similarly reared young men;
Today’s call started out like any other’s:
“Hello”
“Well, hello son”
“Hello father”
“Oh okay, Yeah – Diane … I have your son on the phone.”
“Hello, you there?”
“Yeah - still here dad”
“Well, we went to the Carver game last night and that Tyshaun Griffin had twenty and fifteen!”
“Wow, he is really something else”
“And I am guessing that you saw the Pats won again”
“Yeah, I hadn’t - but it sounds like they might have a shot this year”
“The picture on this new ‘High Def” Projection Television is really pretty impressive. Your mother thinks it’s excessive to spend money like that on television, but I figured with all her remodeling and this new addition, she hasn’t room to talk.”
“Uh-Huh” …
It is not that Hirshel was such a dour and unhappy individual – In fact, new acquaintances often considered him pleasant and outgoing. He had many opportunities to make friendly acquaintances: Workshops, conferences, retreats, institutes; since Jr. High he had been enrolled in these “leadership” programs. These programs were the “nurture” that accompanied his very impressive nature, or North Eastern breeding. He became a student of how people interacted with one another and developed a knack for imitating it - He knew what it took to win friends.
It wasn’t always this way. Before the classes and workshops he was known as the rich kid. Too young to be so nicely quaffed and pressed, most of the other 10 year olds would make fun of him by calling him names like,
“Richy Rich”
The poor kids from broken homes called him,
“Fag” or “Prick”
After learning what these insults meant, he wasn’t particularly angry or sad, which is a testament to just how self–contained he was. It’s just that his natural inclination was to be disinterested in what others had to say. He lacked the empathy and inter-personal curiosity that make a person naturally likeable or a decent conversationalist.
As for today’s Sunday conversation, both sides were doing their part.
“Seems like Romney might take a shot at the Republican nomination.”
“Really? You think he has a chance?”
And so it continued for thirteen minutes with slight interruptions and repetitions to make certain details were made clear over the static. While certain details were made clear, much was left unsaid. This fact, by itself, isn’t particularly telling since most normal, well adjusted young adults have somewhat detached if not tenuous relationships with their parents.
But for Hirshel the fact that these individuals were related by blood had nothing to do with the non-committal fashion he went about half heartedly listening to them. Hirshel was a closed system. He was not particularly concerned with introspection either, so certain character flaws were left unchecked.
Usually the thirteenth minute would pass and shortly there after the question would come,
“And how are things over there?”
Today, without giving it much thought, Hirshel launched into his week’s worth of events and stories in reverse chronological order – when he was struck momentarily dumb.
This speechlessness was something completely apart from the taciturn indifference he employed to convey the vague aura of superiority. This silence had no ulterior motives but was simply the byproduct of what happens to somebody that has unexpectedly been confronted by a thought that is hard to reconcile.
He had started his exposition by regaling his parents with an amusing anecdote about his neighbor’s “Yamaha Z 660” Motorcycle. His neighbor had come to his house early in the morning with a newly purchased second hand motorcycle. Motorcycle is actually too generous a term for Nasir’s 1989 Peugeot Moped adorned with crudely made Yamaha Z 660 stickers, half-hazardly slapped onto the side of the bike.
Nasir had woken up early and couldn’t help himself from knocking. As the door opened, his big jaundiced doe eyes filled with a look of excitement verging on pride. It is a look normally reserved for parents, teachers or other authority figures who can give you that rare sense of affirmation. And then he asked,
“ Mr. Hirshel, Qu’est que tu pense de ma Nouveau Moto”
It was in retelling this story that a façade was shattered. It happened as he was re-enacting the stifled cough of a laugh that was his response to Nasir’s ‘acceptance seeking’ question. In this instant - Hirshel became overwhelmed - This precise moment, this split second of time that was over before he could swallow his truncated laugh is all it took. He was left speechless.
This façade had never been shattered before but occasionally holes would appear. Nobody could ever quite put their finger on it; but it was a cause of frustration to girlfriends, a puzzling estranged feeling to “life long buddies” and an unmentioned uneasiness in his parents. Behind each of his relationships lied an apathetically cool and dismissive attitude to what they had to say. This wasn’t so transparent that it made him socially awkward or abrasive, though it kept things at a certain superficial level and thus defined his relationships with boundaries well short of their titles.
This moment - powerfully silent – was all-pervading, and what it lacked in duration was made up for in clarity. Extraordinary clarity is the single impression he could express to you today. He was dumbstruck by a thought, or thoughts - images, instantaneous memories that didn’t pass before his eyes like a filmstrip; but instead hit him, all at once, - like a vivid collage that he knew a priori.
He knew every piece of this collage immediately, its position, its shape the way different parts intertwined before ever seeing them. Each fragment had a back story, context and emotions that colluded and lead him to this suppressed laugh on a dusty, clay red road in the heart of West Africa.
In this moment, his mind unstuck of time, the collage washed over him.
…
He saw himself at twelve years old with the bashful expression of false modesty betrayed by his exceedingly proud eyes - a look that can only be described as welcoming a poorer classmate’s parents to your family’s estate.
He saw himself trying and failing to muster tears as he finished a two year relationship with an unsuspecting college girlfriend.
He saw real tears streaming down his face as a seven year old. In the middle of the department store his face is reddish purple, his shrieks are manic and high pitched and his mother looks lost and inconsolable as he chokes on his snot while telling her he hates her and wishes she was dead, for not getting him the snow patrol GI Joe.
He saw himself having just shaken the hands of a High School classmate’s family. The incongruity between the numbness of the Tupper’s grief and his condescending smirk as “Tears from Heaven” plays at their son’s closed casket visitation.
He saw himself poolside at the club.
But the most poignant image in this collage is the Molotov Cocktail.
…
Hirshel had always been a bright boy so it came as a surprise to many family associates when they saw his name in the police blotter. Especially adept at taking standardized tests, he had received scholarships to prestigious colleges that his family could have gladly agreed to pay for. His intelligence, being the strong insular breed was a corollary to his manner or handling people. This mixture of intelligence and apathy inevitably results in decisions and activities with a distinct brand of egocentricity:
Seeking out and living with a group of malleable, similarly reared young men;
Deciding, Thursday night should be spent drinking absinthe and watching “Rambo: First Blood”; Imitating a movie;
Making a fully functional Molotov cocktail -
These are the decisions and actions that end up leaving one unstuck in time watching the consequences fall in place as you are struck speechless on the phone.
…
He saw the glass bottle filling with gasoline, the rag being half stuffed inside
He saw the clock on his cell phone change to 1:46 a.m. as the group of six approaches the parking lot of the Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins joint franchise
He saw the lighting of the rag, the lob of the bottle, the subsequent explosion, the burning and destruction of Kumar Mayawati’s Yamaha motorcycle, the ensuing consequences of destroying the habitually sparklingly clean machine that sat parked in front of the store for 16 hours of the day.
Those consequences:
Mr. Mayawati’s shock, alarm, emergency 911 call, tears, frustration, undecipherable words and sadness.
Hirshel’s personal arrest, a class four felony weapons charge, a meeting with a family friend and attorney, a confession and implication of his “friends”, a reduced charge, a plea, probation and community service, a misdemeanor to be expunged from his record in one year’s time, an inability to apply to law school.
A chance to redeem his credentials, an application to Peace Corps, a flight to West Africa, a passing of time, disingenuous friendships with volunteers and locals.
A flash – a blaze of recognition, an inability to speak, a shattered façade as it becomes clear who you are when you catch yourself laughing when Nasir’s face lights up to show you his new Yamaha z -600 motorcycle.
…
Hirshel swallows his laugh. The moment is over. He finishes the story. His parents laugh.
Hirshel tells them that it reached 120 degrees today and he’s busy but work is going well.
His parents ask him, “What’s next?”
He tells them, “Nothing has changed. The plan is the same - law school.”
Making a fully functional Molotov cocktail -
These are the decisions and actions that end up leaving one unstuck in time watching the consequences fall in place as you are struck speechless on the phone.
…
He saw the glass bottle filling with gasoline, the rag being half stuffed inside
He saw the clock on his cell phone change to 1:46 a.m. as the group of six approaches the parking lot of the Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins joint franchise
He saw the lighting of the rag, the lob of the bottle, the subsequent explosion, the burning and destruction of Kumar Mayawati’s Yamaha motorcycle, the ensuing consequences of destroying the habitually sparklingly clean machine that sat parked in front of the store for 16 hours of the day.
Those consequences:
Mr. Mayawati’s shock, alarm, emergency 911 call, tears, frustration, undecipherable words and sadness.
Hirshel’s personal arrest, a class four felony weapons charge, a meeting with a family friend and attorney, a confession and implication of his “friends”, a reduced charge, a plea, probation and community service, a misdemeanor to be expunged from his record in one year’s time, an inability to apply to law school.
A chance to redeem his credentials, an application to Peace Corps, a flight to West Africa, a passing of time, disingenuous friendships with volunteers and locals.
A flash – a blaze of recognition, an inability to speak, a shattered façade as it becomes clear who you are when you catch yourself laughing when Nasir’s face lights up to show you his new Yamaha z -600 motorcycle.
…
Hirshel swallows his laugh. The moment is over. He finishes the story. His parents laugh.
Hirshel tells them that it reached 120 degrees today and he’s busy but work is going well.
His parents ask him, “What’s next?”
He tells them, “Nothing has changed. The plan is the same - law school.”
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
The Letter From Kevin
The following is an email I received from my good friend Kevin Sweeny, only days before I returned to Burkina Faso:
I arrived in the capital on Tuesday afternoon, I woke up Wednesday morning and needed to visit the market downtown to pick up a few things. Once downtown I noticed that it was much busier than normal and a lot harder for me to find a cab.
Back at the infirmary, which is inside the Peace Corps office building, I noticed a sign on the door from the US embassy stating,
"THERE IS CURRENTLY AN ARMED CONFLICT BETWEEN POLICE AND MILITARY DOWNTOWN. GUNSHOTS HAVE BEEN HEARD THROUGHOUT THE CITY. ONE MILITARY OFFICER HAS BEEN KILLED. THE US GOVERNMENT STRONGLY ADVICES AMERICAN CITIZENS TO AVOID DOWNTOWN OUAGADOUGOU AND SURROUNDING AREAS."
Hmmm....that explained why it was tough to get a cab. But there are often warnings of this sort in Ouagadougou (the capital), usually over-cautious, so I didn't really give it all the attention it deserved. Burkina Faso has been a very stable and peaceful country since 1987 (at least relative to the rest of West Africa) and the culture looks down on direct confrontation, so I just assumed that things would be fine if given a little time.
I returned to the infirmary, and my friendly Peace Corps nurse told me that me test results showed I had Giardiasis, which was easily treatable. She gave me medicine and told me that I could leave the infirmary and stay at the Peace Corps house, just down the road. I asked about the situation downtown and was told that things had quieted down a bit and seemed like there was nothing to worry about.
I got back to my room, packed up my bags to head over to the PC house, but then discovered a copy of A Christmas Story sitting by the TV. Deciding not to break a long-standing holiday tradition, I popped it in and sat down to enjoy one of the greatest Christmas movies of all time. Once the movie was over, I grabbed my bag and started to walk out of the now empty PC office.
It was around 6:00 at night, and the office folks had all headed home, except for our country director. As I was walking out I heard her run out of her office and ask who was there.
"Kevin," I replied.
"Are you going back to the house?" She asked.
"Yep."
"OK, tell whoever is there not to leave tonight. Stay around this area. Apparently the fighting has started up again. I just got off the phone with Malcolm (a volunteer), he's stuck at a bus station downtown where there is fighting going on all around him. We're trying to figure out how to get him out of there, but in the meantime we can't have anyone leaving the area."
"Wow. OK."
I walked the short distance from the PC office to the PC house and told the 10 or so other volunteers that were staying there. Minutes later Malcolm walked through the door, really shaken up, "That was the scariest shit I've ever been through!" The bus from his village dropped him off downtown and as he was leaving the station, he heard a bunch of gunfire and had to run back into the station. After a couple of minutes, things calmed down, and he was able to catch a cab. While driving back to the house, a military officer pointed an assault rifle at the cab and demanded that they stop. The officer then went to the passenger sitting next to Malcolm, placed the barrel of the assault rifle against that passenger's head, and demanded to see his ID. The passenger fumbled a bit, the officer got angrier by the second. The passenger finally found his ID, showed it to the officer, who then told the cab to turn around because they couldn't stay on that road. Malcolm, understandably upset by the situation, got out of the taxi at a safe place and called someone from the Peace Corps staff to pick him up.
It was now about 7:00 at night and a group of us were getting hungry. I asked Malcolm if he thought is was safe for us to head to a restaurant just down the road to grab some food and a couple beers. He said yeah because most of the bad stuff was going on downtown, about a 15-minute drive away. So four of us, Malcolm, Giorgio, Jake, and I, headed down to the Desert Rose for dinner.
So there we were happily drinking our beer and eating our meat on a stick, when the waiter comes to us and tells us to hurry up. They were closing the restaurant early because of the events. Jake and Giorgio still had most of their beer left and insisted on staying until they finished it. Malcolm and I insisted that this was a bad idea and I provided an analogy about when a rainstorm is about to arrive in Burkina.
A lot of volunteers here have had the experience of one of our local friends telling us to go inside because it's going to rain or because an insane dust storm was about to descend and us not heeding the advice because it didn't seem like the weather was going to change. "It's just a little wind" or "it's only sprinkling a little" are our typical responses. Usually, though, the locals are right and torrential rains or insane dust storms ensue and we get soaked or blinded by the dust.
I mentioned that our not leaving when everyone else was seemed very similar to this. Everyone had a couple of laughs at this comparison but continued eating and drinking outside. I haven't mentioned that, other than in the best restaurants in the city, Burkinabe restaurant seating consists of plastic chairs and tables and is outside. At any rate, my comparison, when locals leave, you should follow, would prove to be accurate.I sat there thinking to myself over and over again, go home, leave, get out of here. My gut instinct has proven to be remarkable over the past 28 years, this time was no exception, I should have listened to it. I looked around and noticed shops closing, traffic dying down, restaurant staff quickly folding table cloths, gathering tables and chairs. "OK seriously, let's get going boys," was the last thing I said before seeing a woman who was sitting on the street grab her baby and sprint away from the road.
I stood up, ready to announce that I was leaving and I'd see them back at the house. A second later, traffic stopped and we heard the sound of a motor-bike (the transportation of choice in Burkina) honking its horn incessantly. I was facing the major thoroughfare, Charles de Gaulle, and saw the silhouette of two men on a moto with assault rifles their hands driving on the wrong side of the road laying on the horn. I watched them until I saw they were slowing down to turn at our corner.
As soon as they turned at our corner, I dove behind a table. I heard shots go off and yelling "EVERYONE INSIDE, EVERYONE INSIDE!" At this point I army crawled from under the table to hide between a row of motorcycles in front of the restaurant, where I could make a run for it as long as these guys dressed in camo didn't see me.
They saw me.
One of them went the opposite direction, toward the restaurant, the other walked quickly toward me, gun drawn. "What are you doing?" he yelled at me.
"Nothing, nothing," I said back.
"Get up!"
I slowly stood up. So this jerk with a big gun, dressed in camo, yells at me to get up and, "Allez chez vous," which is French for, "Go to your house." Interestingly he used the "vous" form of "your" instead of "toi", where "vous" is the more respectful and formal form. I reflected for a moment on how this was nice of him and then calmly, but quickly, got the hell out of there.
As I was jogging away I looked behind me and saw Malcolm being shoved in his back by an AK-47 into the restaurant along with the Frenchies and what I thought was Giorgio and Jake. I turned again and kept jogging to the house, when the sound of assault riffle fire turned my jog into the best sprint I could manage while carrying the giardia parasite in my gut.
As I was sprinting back to the house I was able to engage in a cultural learning experience, yet another to add to the now millions I've amassed. Apparently, a white guy running from gunfire in Africa is hilarious to everyone not white. As I was sprinting away from then men in camo, firing kalashnikov assault rifles, I couldn't help but to overhear groups of Burkinabe laughing hysterically and pointing out that the nasarra, aka white guy, was running away from gunfire. What was even more interesting to me, culturally speaking, was this guy sprinting away from the gunfire, who was right next to me, having a hard time keeping up because he too was laughing at me.
Once back at the house I saw the PC country director discussing the situation with some security guards. She asked me where I was and I told her a quick version of the story you've just read. One of the security guys then says that he was going to get them, to which the director replied, "Be careful out there. Don't put yourself in trouble!" in a very leading-lady sort of way, as he was leaving our courtyard.
I went inside to splash some water on my face and to check my boxers (everything was OK). As I was walking back out to the courtyard I heard Giorgio's voice, which brought a little bit of reassurance as I had no idea what had happened to him, or the others, after the gunshots were fired. He told me that he took off in a sprint once he saw the guys with guns but hadn't seen Malcolm or Jake. Luckily it was only a few minutes before the other two got back to the house and recounted the story of what happened to them. They didn't run. When the guys with the guns rolled up they did what one of them was yelling, which was "EVERYONE INSIDE!" and they went inside the restaurant. One of the French tourists wasn't moving fast enough and so the armed man kicked him in the back and knocked him to the floor. Once inside, people were telling Jake and Malcolm "this way, this way," and showed them to a back door that led into the alley. They went out the back door and ran home the same way I did.
They told me that while they were running, people were laughing at them too.
We continued to hear gunfire in the streets, which seemed to come from all around, for the rest of the night. The gunfire continued to get worse and worse. It sounded like there were major battles going on, with thirty seconds of automatic gunfire followed by another twenty seconds automatic gunfire coming from another direction. We began distinguishing the types of gunfire we heard. Some of it was clearly automatic, some of it wasn't, some of it was incredibly loud, more than hand held weapon, and then we began to hear what sounded like mortars and explosions.
I went up on the roof of the house to see what was going on and saw explosions and fires in the distance. Then the power cut off. The fighting seemed to get worse for a while, but then began to die down. And then, after a short while, the power came back on again. It seemed like everything was calm, with only sporadic individual shots going off, and so I went off to catch some sleep.
The next morning I was more than a little curious to find out about what had caused this eruption. I walked down to the office and hopped on the internet. I was able to find out that the police and the military don't really get along, and haven't for a long, long time. The military thinks of the police as their "little brothers" and don't feel the need to abide by trivial "laws" such as stopping at traffic lights, not shooting people, and in this case, and the reason for all of the violence – not giving up good seats to a concert they had free tickets too.
I'm not kidding, this is the reason I can now say that I sort of know what a war zone sounds like. A couple days before all this happened there was a concert here in Ouaga. Some non-uniformed soldiers wanted to get into the concert for free. OK, not a problem. But then they wanted the best seats, which was crossing the line for the police. It turned into a big argument and sadly the police shot and killed one of the soldiers, three other soldiers were wounded.
The ridiculousness that followed was the military retaliating for one of their own being killed. On top of scaring the shit out of everyone in the city, the military also burned down a police station and shot up another. The cherry on top of this garbage sundae is that some idiot soldiers then went to the city jail and released 600 prisoners. Cute.
As I'm writing this all is calm in the city now, and I should be able to get back to my peaceful little village tomorrow. Don't be too worried by this exceptional event. I still feel that Burkina is an incredibly safe place to live and I'm fairly certain that this was, and will be, a one and only type of thing while I'm here.
I know that the tone of this was a bit light. But to be honest I've never been more scared in my life. It was a moment, while horrible to experience, that makes me really appreciate the good things I am blessed with. That being said, I'll be thinking about all of you this Christmas. Please know that even though I don't get a chance to talk or write to you as much as I'd like, you are definitely a part of me here.
…
This email was edited in small parts but is essentially untouched and is a good indication of the situation that I was coming home to. Things, as he said, did start to calm down. Though there were several days when it could have gone either way. While the free tickets were the apparent spark to this fighting, it was not the sole reason. It was merely a spark tossed upon a gunpowder barrel of pent up hostility and instability. Things are safe now, but it would be naïve to think a similar scenario is impossible of happening again.
I arrived in the capital on Tuesday afternoon, I woke up Wednesday morning and needed to visit the market downtown to pick up a few things. Once downtown I noticed that it was much busier than normal and a lot harder for me to find a cab.
Back at the infirmary, which is inside the Peace Corps office building, I noticed a sign on the door from the US embassy stating,
"THERE IS CURRENTLY AN ARMED CONFLICT BETWEEN POLICE AND MILITARY DOWNTOWN. GUNSHOTS HAVE BEEN HEARD THROUGHOUT THE CITY. ONE MILITARY OFFICER HAS BEEN KILLED. THE US GOVERNMENT STRONGLY ADVICES AMERICAN CITIZENS TO AVOID DOWNTOWN OUAGADOUGOU AND SURROUNDING AREAS."
Hmmm....that explained why it was tough to get a cab. But there are often warnings of this sort in Ouagadougou (the capital), usually over-cautious, so I didn't really give it all the attention it deserved. Burkina Faso has been a very stable and peaceful country since 1987 (at least relative to the rest of West Africa) and the culture looks down on direct confrontation, so I just assumed that things would be fine if given a little time.
I returned to the infirmary, and my friendly Peace Corps nurse told me that me test results showed I had Giardiasis, which was easily treatable. She gave me medicine and told me that I could leave the infirmary and stay at the Peace Corps house, just down the road. I asked about the situation downtown and was told that things had quieted down a bit and seemed like there was nothing to worry about.
I got back to my room, packed up my bags to head over to the PC house, but then discovered a copy of A Christmas Story sitting by the TV. Deciding not to break a long-standing holiday tradition, I popped it in and sat down to enjoy one of the greatest Christmas movies of all time. Once the movie was over, I grabbed my bag and started to walk out of the now empty PC office.
It was around 6:00 at night, and the office folks had all headed home, except for our country director. As I was walking out I heard her run out of her office and ask who was there.
"Kevin," I replied.
"Are you going back to the house?" She asked.
"Yep."
"OK, tell whoever is there not to leave tonight. Stay around this area. Apparently the fighting has started up again. I just got off the phone with Malcolm (a volunteer), he's stuck at a bus station downtown where there is fighting going on all around him. We're trying to figure out how to get him out of there, but in the meantime we can't have anyone leaving the area."
"Wow. OK."
I walked the short distance from the PC office to the PC house and told the 10 or so other volunteers that were staying there. Minutes later Malcolm walked through the door, really shaken up, "That was the scariest shit I've ever been through!" The bus from his village dropped him off downtown and as he was leaving the station, he heard a bunch of gunfire and had to run back into the station. After a couple of minutes, things calmed down, and he was able to catch a cab. While driving back to the house, a military officer pointed an assault rifle at the cab and demanded that they stop. The officer then went to the passenger sitting next to Malcolm, placed the barrel of the assault rifle against that passenger's head, and demanded to see his ID. The passenger fumbled a bit, the officer got angrier by the second. The passenger finally found his ID, showed it to the officer, who then told the cab to turn around because they couldn't stay on that road. Malcolm, understandably upset by the situation, got out of the taxi at a safe place and called someone from the Peace Corps staff to pick him up.
It was now about 7:00 at night and a group of us were getting hungry. I asked Malcolm if he thought is was safe for us to head to a restaurant just down the road to grab some food and a couple beers. He said yeah because most of the bad stuff was going on downtown, about a 15-minute drive away. So four of us, Malcolm, Giorgio, Jake, and I, headed down to the Desert Rose for dinner.
So there we were happily drinking our beer and eating our meat on a stick, when the waiter comes to us and tells us to hurry up. They were closing the restaurant early because of the events. Jake and Giorgio still had most of their beer left and insisted on staying until they finished it. Malcolm and I insisted that this was a bad idea and I provided an analogy about when a rainstorm is about to arrive in Burkina.
A lot of volunteers here have had the experience of one of our local friends telling us to go inside because it's going to rain or because an insane dust storm was about to descend and us not heeding the advice because it didn't seem like the weather was going to change. "It's just a little wind" or "it's only sprinkling a little" are our typical responses. Usually, though, the locals are right and torrential rains or insane dust storms ensue and we get soaked or blinded by the dust.
I mentioned that our not leaving when everyone else was seemed very similar to this. Everyone had a couple of laughs at this comparison but continued eating and drinking outside. I haven't mentioned that, other than in the best restaurants in the city, Burkinabe restaurant seating consists of plastic chairs and tables and is outside. At any rate, my comparison, when locals leave, you should follow, would prove to be accurate.I sat there thinking to myself over and over again, go home, leave, get out of here. My gut instinct has proven to be remarkable over the past 28 years, this time was no exception, I should have listened to it. I looked around and noticed shops closing, traffic dying down, restaurant staff quickly folding table cloths, gathering tables and chairs. "OK seriously, let's get going boys," was the last thing I said before seeing a woman who was sitting on the street grab her baby and sprint away from the road.
I stood up, ready to announce that I was leaving and I'd see them back at the house. A second later, traffic stopped and we heard the sound of a motor-bike (the transportation of choice in Burkina) honking its horn incessantly. I was facing the major thoroughfare, Charles de Gaulle, and saw the silhouette of two men on a moto with assault rifles their hands driving on the wrong side of the road laying on the horn. I watched them until I saw they were slowing down to turn at our corner.
As soon as they turned at our corner, I dove behind a table. I heard shots go off and yelling "EVERYONE INSIDE, EVERYONE INSIDE!" At this point I army crawled from under the table to hide between a row of motorcycles in front of the restaurant, where I could make a run for it as long as these guys dressed in camo didn't see me.
They saw me.
One of them went the opposite direction, toward the restaurant, the other walked quickly toward me, gun drawn. "What are you doing?" he yelled at me.
"Nothing, nothing," I said back.
"Get up!"
I slowly stood up. So this jerk with a big gun, dressed in camo, yells at me to get up and, "Allez chez vous," which is French for, "Go to your house." Interestingly he used the "vous" form of "your" instead of "toi", where "vous" is the more respectful and formal form. I reflected for a moment on how this was nice of him and then calmly, but quickly, got the hell out of there.
As I was jogging away I looked behind me and saw Malcolm being shoved in his back by an AK-47 into the restaurant along with the Frenchies and what I thought was Giorgio and Jake. I turned again and kept jogging to the house, when the sound of assault riffle fire turned my jog into the best sprint I could manage while carrying the giardia parasite in my gut.
As I was sprinting back to the house I was able to engage in a cultural learning experience, yet another to add to the now millions I've amassed. Apparently, a white guy running from gunfire in Africa is hilarious to everyone not white. As I was sprinting away from then men in camo, firing kalashnikov assault rifles, I couldn't help but to overhear groups of Burkinabe laughing hysterically and pointing out that the nasarra, aka white guy, was running away from gunfire. What was even more interesting to me, culturally speaking, was this guy sprinting away from the gunfire, who was right next to me, having a hard time keeping up because he too was laughing at me.
Once back at the house I saw the PC country director discussing the situation with some security guards. She asked me where I was and I told her a quick version of the story you've just read. One of the security guys then says that he was going to get them, to which the director replied, "Be careful out there. Don't put yourself in trouble!" in a very leading-lady sort of way, as he was leaving our courtyard.
I went inside to splash some water on my face and to check my boxers (everything was OK). As I was walking back out to the courtyard I heard Giorgio's voice, which brought a little bit of reassurance as I had no idea what had happened to him, or the others, after the gunshots were fired. He told me that he took off in a sprint once he saw the guys with guns but hadn't seen Malcolm or Jake. Luckily it was only a few minutes before the other two got back to the house and recounted the story of what happened to them. They didn't run. When the guys with the guns rolled up they did what one of them was yelling, which was "EVERYONE INSIDE!" and they went inside the restaurant. One of the French tourists wasn't moving fast enough and so the armed man kicked him in the back and knocked him to the floor. Once inside, people were telling Jake and Malcolm "this way, this way," and showed them to a back door that led into the alley. They went out the back door and ran home the same way I did.
They told me that while they were running, people were laughing at them too.
We continued to hear gunfire in the streets, which seemed to come from all around, for the rest of the night. The gunfire continued to get worse and worse. It sounded like there were major battles going on, with thirty seconds of automatic gunfire followed by another twenty seconds automatic gunfire coming from another direction. We began distinguishing the types of gunfire we heard. Some of it was clearly automatic, some of it wasn't, some of it was incredibly loud, more than hand held weapon, and then we began to hear what sounded like mortars and explosions.
I went up on the roof of the house to see what was going on and saw explosions and fires in the distance. Then the power cut off. The fighting seemed to get worse for a while, but then began to die down. And then, after a short while, the power came back on again. It seemed like everything was calm, with only sporadic individual shots going off, and so I went off to catch some sleep.
The next morning I was more than a little curious to find out about what had caused this eruption. I walked down to the office and hopped on the internet. I was able to find out that the police and the military don't really get along, and haven't for a long, long time. The military thinks of the police as their "little brothers" and don't feel the need to abide by trivial "laws" such as stopping at traffic lights, not shooting people, and in this case, and the reason for all of the violence – not giving up good seats to a concert they had free tickets too.
I'm not kidding, this is the reason I can now say that I sort of know what a war zone sounds like. A couple days before all this happened there was a concert here in Ouaga. Some non-uniformed soldiers wanted to get into the concert for free. OK, not a problem. But then they wanted the best seats, which was crossing the line for the police. It turned into a big argument and sadly the police shot and killed one of the soldiers, three other soldiers were wounded.
The ridiculousness that followed was the military retaliating for one of their own being killed. On top of scaring the shit out of everyone in the city, the military also burned down a police station and shot up another. The cherry on top of this garbage sundae is that some idiot soldiers then went to the city jail and released 600 prisoners. Cute.
As I'm writing this all is calm in the city now, and I should be able to get back to my peaceful little village tomorrow. Don't be too worried by this exceptional event. I still feel that Burkina is an incredibly safe place to live and I'm fairly certain that this was, and will be, a one and only type of thing while I'm here.
I know that the tone of this was a bit light. But to be honest I've never been more scared in my life. It was a moment, while horrible to experience, that makes me really appreciate the good things I am blessed with. That being said, I'll be thinking about all of you this Christmas. Please know that even though I don't get a chance to talk or write to you as much as I'd like, you are definitely a part of me here.
…
This email was edited in small parts but is essentially untouched and is a good indication of the situation that I was coming home to. Things, as he said, did start to calm down. Though there were several days when it could have gone either way. While the free tickets were the apparent spark to this fighting, it was not the sole reason. It was merely a spark tossed upon a gunpowder barrel of pent up hostility and instability. Things are safe now, but it would be naïve to think a similar scenario is impossible of happening again.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Anachronism
The word, Anachronism, is one of the most fruitful words one can employ when describing life in Burkina Faso. The gleaming 2006 Toyota Four Runner anachronistically whizzed past throngs of subsistence farmers cultivating by hand. The anachronous presence of donkey carts in the parking lot of the modern medical facility was a strange sight to behold; Something out of time – a person, thing, idea or custom that seems to belong to another time in history. After living in Burkina Faso for a while, you see enough people who have never had the good fortune of proper dental care talking on cell phones to wonder whether; ‘Anachronism’ is not the perfect word to depict a society leaping forward several generations of technology yet standing still in many other ways.
Having grown up with this technology and the advertising that accompanies it, I sometimes view certain situations through the lens of a television commercial. In trying to relate the next story I will use this paradigm. I think that this approach will relate well most of the readers because as Americans we are surrounded by advertising – but I realize that some of the pop culture references might be lost on some people like…my dad. So, I apologize for obscure references in advance - though you should take comfort that they are inconsequential to the story.
To start… imagine this:
“ Alright, Alright – Put your body in motion” chants the singer as a some vaguely techno beats accompany a scene of some young twenty-somethings hopping into their new Volkswagon Jetta. The car rotates as if on a turntable and then heads off to the club or whatever trendy locale it is that fun, independent, intelligent and marginally unique Jetta Drivers go to. This add campaign makes driving a Volkswagon, cool. This is branding, it works and there powerful albeit ephemeral appeal that makes Me want to compute on a Mac and drive a Jetta.
I would now like to offer an ad campaign for Peugeot Trucks. Because I am unfamiliar with the particular model I will narrow it down to models that came out in the late 1980’s and had the misfortune of getting beaten up enough to finally land in the second poorest country in Africa:
From the opening second music is playing – something of the fun upbeat punk/pop variety. Start with a wide shot with the dilapidated truck sitting in the dusty gravel parking lot in the center of the frame. The car rotates first 45 degrees clockwise and then 405 degrees counter clockwise all in harmony to the beat of “Sum 41”.
As the song moves into the hook, you see “the crew” enter the frame, in a jaunty fashion, as if we are an excited group of friends getting ready to go on kayaking trip or something like that. Entering from the left we see the driver, wearing oversized obnoxious Oakley sunglasses and a Kangol hat. Also, entering from the left are a heavyset African mother dressed in traditional and ornate clothes and shaggy Peace Corps volunteer jeans, button down dress shirt and a backwards ball cap. Entering from the right we see the high commissioner dressed in a western style business suit with slight regal touches and a military security guard wearing a red beret, green fatigues, and strapped with an AK 47. Winks and nods are shot from one passenger to the other and the camera moves effortlessly to show the fun that this group of movers and shakers is going to have on there two hour joy ride over unpaved and ungovernable dirt.
The camera moves to the front of the car showing the broken headlights, cracked windshield and crumpled hood. The camera zooms closer, past the windshield and shows the expressions on the passengers faces - The smiling albeit toothless driver, the complacent and slightly drowsy high commissioner in the front seat checking his cell phone. In the back left the festively plum wife looks out the window. In the back right the stern military man looks straight ahead. Awkwardly squeezed in the middle is the white bearded guy. He has a slightly apprehensive expression on his face as he looks down the barrel of an AK 47 that is pointed in his direction as it rests insecurely between the security guards thighs.
(The music ends on a high note)
And off we go.
Trail of Dust in the air.
As the dust dissipates, words emerge: Peugeot: The Only Choice
…
This is how I started writing this entry several moths ago. Since then I have hit a bit of a writers block. The cause of this impasse was my inability to reconcile humorous creative prose with real life morbidity. Of course, this is not such an inherently difficult or new problem to solve. It is this combination of creative and comedic story telling combined with tragic events that is at the heart of many of my favorite dark comedies. So it is not that I am incapable of emulating this type of story telling, it is just that whenever I tried to recreate the tone – it felt false. The scenario in question is as follows and it seems too serious to be played for laughs:
After the “off we go” and “the trail of dust in the air”, we drive for nearly two straight hours. All the while, we listen to French Pop songs from the 1960’s. An hour and a half into it I see 50 plus vultures congregating around something. As we pass by the town’s center at 30mph, I am hit with a series of revelations. These revelations are lightning quick: That something is a man, we should do something, we are not stopping, nobody is doing anything about it, I’m in the car with community leaders, the fact we are doing nothing is not an accident, in some way they have chosen for this scenario to play out as it does, oh my god a man was shot and left for the vultures. When I say lightning quick, I mean all pieces of the puzzle were put together in under one second.
The remaining 30 minutes of the car ride were strange: me, sitting squeezed between a the AK 47 and the well fed wife trying unsuccessfully to tune out the laughter and discussion about how that bandit got what he deserved, while I keep repeating in my head, “Ashen black heal, and a blue jumpsuit, covered by vultures, Ashy black heal, blue jumpsuit covered by vultures, ashy heal, his ashy heal, indifference, laughter, we continue, his ashy heal. The image though seen for only several moments as we passed going 30mph is seared into my memory.
It is a morbid and tragic scene. I don’t know any of the specifics of the case and I don’t mean to suggest that anyone in the car was involved directly or indirectly. All I mean to say is that two radically different worlds exist over here. There is the developing world of new cell phones, internet, cars, new schools, better medicine etc., and then there is the world where, although 99% unnecessary, I am exercising a bit of self censorship on account of how things can work in the judicial system. A world where it can be acceptable to execute a man and leave his corps in the town square as a warning for others without so much as a trial. This world and the myriad of organization, structural, judicial shortcomings that produce it are more reminiscent of the wild west than the 21st Century. In Burkina Faso the modern day conveniences clash uncompromisingly with the context in which we Americans use them. What seems like an anachronism to me is all too often the reality here.
I don’t know that there is any grand take away point from all this. Perhaps it is overblown and quixotic to think that there is some universal idea or principle to be learned. I think it is most likely the case, that it is simply a hard slog to be truly developed. But if I were to indulge myself I would say that as we look outward on the roughly 70 percent of the world that is developing it is a mistake to underestimate the markers that are hard to gage. No matter how much foreign direct investment; or how large the GNP, true development is predicated upon certain institutions and systems or governance that can not be obtained with economic development alone.
Having grown up with this technology and the advertising that accompanies it, I sometimes view certain situations through the lens of a television commercial. In trying to relate the next story I will use this paradigm. I think that this approach will relate well most of the readers because as Americans we are surrounded by advertising – but I realize that some of the pop culture references might be lost on some people like…my dad. So, I apologize for obscure references in advance - though you should take comfort that they are inconsequential to the story.
To start… imagine this:
“ Alright, Alright – Put your body in motion” chants the singer as a some vaguely techno beats accompany a scene of some young twenty-somethings hopping into their new Volkswagon Jetta. The car rotates as if on a turntable and then heads off to the club or whatever trendy locale it is that fun, independent, intelligent and marginally unique Jetta Drivers go to. This add campaign makes driving a Volkswagon, cool. This is branding, it works and there powerful albeit ephemeral appeal that makes Me want to compute on a Mac and drive a Jetta.
I would now like to offer an ad campaign for Peugeot Trucks. Because I am unfamiliar with the particular model I will narrow it down to models that came out in the late 1980’s and had the misfortune of getting beaten up enough to finally land in the second poorest country in Africa:
From the opening second music is playing – something of the fun upbeat punk/pop variety. Start with a wide shot with the dilapidated truck sitting in the dusty gravel parking lot in the center of the frame. The car rotates first 45 degrees clockwise and then 405 degrees counter clockwise all in harmony to the beat of “Sum 41”.
As the song moves into the hook, you see “the crew” enter the frame, in a jaunty fashion, as if we are an excited group of friends getting ready to go on kayaking trip or something like that. Entering from the left we see the driver, wearing oversized obnoxious Oakley sunglasses and a Kangol hat. Also, entering from the left are a heavyset African mother dressed in traditional and ornate clothes and shaggy Peace Corps volunteer jeans, button down dress shirt and a backwards ball cap. Entering from the right we see the high commissioner dressed in a western style business suit with slight regal touches and a military security guard wearing a red beret, green fatigues, and strapped with an AK 47. Winks and nods are shot from one passenger to the other and the camera moves effortlessly to show the fun that this group of movers and shakers is going to have on there two hour joy ride over unpaved and ungovernable dirt.
The camera moves to the front of the car showing the broken headlights, cracked windshield and crumpled hood. The camera zooms closer, past the windshield and shows the expressions on the passengers faces - The smiling albeit toothless driver, the complacent and slightly drowsy high commissioner in the front seat checking his cell phone. In the back left the festively plum wife looks out the window. In the back right the stern military man looks straight ahead. Awkwardly squeezed in the middle is the white bearded guy. He has a slightly apprehensive expression on his face as he looks down the barrel of an AK 47 that is pointed in his direction as it rests insecurely between the security guards thighs.
(The music ends on a high note)
And off we go.
Trail of Dust in the air.
As the dust dissipates, words emerge: Peugeot: The Only Choice
…
This is how I started writing this entry several moths ago. Since then I have hit a bit of a writers block. The cause of this impasse was my inability to reconcile humorous creative prose with real life morbidity. Of course, this is not such an inherently difficult or new problem to solve. It is this combination of creative and comedic story telling combined with tragic events that is at the heart of many of my favorite dark comedies. So it is not that I am incapable of emulating this type of story telling, it is just that whenever I tried to recreate the tone – it felt false. The scenario in question is as follows and it seems too serious to be played for laughs:
After the “off we go” and “the trail of dust in the air”, we drive for nearly two straight hours. All the while, we listen to French Pop songs from the 1960’s. An hour and a half into it I see 50 plus vultures congregating around something. As we pass by the town’s center at 30mph, I am hit with a series of revelations. These revelations are lightning quick: That something is a man, we should do something, we are not stopping, nobody is doing anything about it, I’m in the car with community leaders, the fact we are doing nothing is not an accident, in some way they have chosen for this scenario to play out as it does, oh my god a man was shot and left for the vultures. When I say lightning quick, I mean all pieces of the puzzle were put together in under one second.
The remaining 30 minutes of the car ride were strange: me, sitting squeezed between a the AK 47 and the well fed wife trying unsuccessfully to tune out the laughter and discussion about how that bandit got what he deserved, while I keep repeating in my head, “Ashen black heal, and a blue jumpsuit, covered by vultures, Ashy black heal, blue jumpsuit covered by vultures, ashy heal, his ashy heal, indifference, laughter, we continue, his ashy heal. The image though seen for only several moments as we passed going 30mph is seared into my memory.
It is a morbid and tragic scene. I don’t know any of the specifics of the case and I don’t mean to suggest that anyone in the car was involved directly or indirectly. All I mean to say is that two radically different worlds exist over here. There is the developing world of new cell phones, internet, cars, new schools, better medicine etc., and then there is the world where, although 99% unnecessary, I am exercising a bit of self censorship on account of how things can work in the judicial system. A world where it can be acceptable to execute a man and leave his corps in the town square as a warning for others without so much as a trial. This world and the myriad of organization, structural, judicial shortcomings that produce it are more reminiscent of the wild west than the 21st Century. In Burkina Faso the modern day conveniences clash uncompromisingly with the context in which we Americans use them. What seems like an anachronism to me is all too often the reality here.
I don’t know that there is any grand take away point from all this. Perhaps it is overblown and quixotic to think that there is some universal idea or principle to be learned. I think it is most likely the case, that it is simply a hard slog to be truly developed. But if I were to indulge myself I would say that as we look outward on the roughly 70 percent of the world that is developing it is a mistake to underestimate the markers that are hard to gage. No matter how much foreign direct investment; or how large the GNP, true development is predicated upon certain institutions and systems or governance that can not be obtained with economic development alone.
The Homecoming
Before coming back to Burkina Faso in early January I had a fair amount of family and friends ask me whether or not I was ready or even wanted to return. My standard line at the time was, “Sure, I am actually excited to get back – I only have nine more months left.”
Oh, how misplaced this excitement was.
While I am trying to reign in the melodramatics, I feel comfortable saying that it was the worst homecoming I’ve ever experienced and it was the toughest January to date. I understand that I am still relatively young and I am sure there will be Januaries to rival this one…but man… it was tough.
Now, it is April, more than two months have passed and I can look back at January with a smirk. The things that conspired to put me in a funk have passed and I can now look at the absurdity of choosing to come home to such a rotten situation.
To begin- it is necessary to understand how The United States of America are, and more specifically, the Great State of Illinois is- the most amazing and wonderful place to be. I will take time to elaborate on this point when I come home in October, but America is home and there is no place like it.
In addition to having family and life long friends that are unconditionally there for you…It is clean - The streets, people, buildings… everything is remarkably clean. It is structured, there is order, there are fixed prices, people are generally safe and secure, and people are also free to do as the please. Almost as important, the food is amazing. There is an endless amount of choices with each ethnic option represented within a 15 minute delivery radius. There are Burritos as big as your Head and innovations such as Irish Nachos, this is truly God’s county. In three weeks time, I easily put on 15 pounds – I was inspired.
So, now there is the contrast of this glorious situation with that of the circumstances that awaited me shortly after I got off the plane. The place is dirty, the uniquely pungent odor is everywhere. After being greeted by friends we haggled with an irritating taxi man for five minutes before we agreed on an acceptable price. While in the car I learned a very close friend was being forced to leave the country for violating a policy while she was entertaining friends from America. I also learned that only a couple days earlier that the main bus company between Ouagadougou and Fada (my home) had been held up at gunpoint at 9am in the morning and a passenger was fatally shot.
Upon arriving at the house I learned how the country had been going through tumultuous times. Policeman fighting the military, prison doors near where we live in Ouaga were ripped off the hinges and 600 prisoners escaped. I heard stories about volunteers watched tracer fire from the roof top. Even more disconcerting was one volunteers story of negotiating a chaotic scene that was essentially described as a fire fight. And then, I learned that the girl I was dating was no longer dating me.
(Enter the blues guitar solo- here)
All of this was completely reversed from the calm, happy and contented situation that I left in mid December. It was as though I had come home to a poor replica of the place that I left.
That was, in essence, the end of the Homecoming.
But rest assured that it wasn’t all gloom and doom. In fact, it started looking up as soon as I reached my home town of Fada. As I walked home long faced and unhappy, I opened my gate to find closest friend Michel welcoming me back to Burkina Faso. I couldn’t help but smile and when he told me I had gotten fat and truly resembled an American – I was truly on the road to realizing that is wasn’t all that bad. Michel had been through all the same things that I had been, the political problems were happening in his country, I have yet to negotiate a problem as serious as Polio, and he has lost friends to worse places than the United States.
So now, I can look back and smile at being the caricature of the down and out. Three months on, things have normalized, political problems have settled, security has been restored and friends are doing well in America. It's tough to wrap this entry in a way that doesn't smack of the clichéd wisdom of a Hallmark Card. But it is true: the tough times passed - and things got better.
(Enter conflict resolution music from, Full House - here)
Oh, how misplaced this excitement was.
While I am trying to reign in the melodramatics, I feel comfortable saying that it was the worst homecoming I’ve ever experienced and it was the toughest January to date. I understand that I am still relatively young and I am sure there will be Januaries to rival this one…but man… it was tough.
Now, it is April, more than two months have passed and I can look back at January with a smirk. The things that conspired to put me in a funk have passed and I can now look at the absurdity of choosing to come home to such a rotten situation.
To begin- it is necessary to understand how The United States of America are, and more specifically, the Great State of Illinois is- the most amazing and wonderful place to be. I will take time to elaborate on this point when I come home in October, but America is home and there is no place like it.
In addition to having family and life long friends that are unconditionally there for you…It is clean - The streets, people, buildings… everything is remarkably clean. It is structured, there is order, there are fixed prices, people are generally safe and secure, and people are also free to do as the please. Almost as important, the food is amazing. There is an endless amount of choices with each ethnic option represented within a 15 minute delivery radius. There are Burritos as big as your Head and innovations such as Irish Nachos, this is truly God’s county. In three weeks time, I easily put on 15 pounds – I was inspired.
So, now there is the contrast of this glorious situation with that of the circumstances that awaited me shortly after I got off the plane. The place is dirty, the uniquely pungent odor is everywhere. After being greeted by friends we haggled with an irritating taxi man for five minutes before we agreed on an acceptable price. While in the car I learned a very close friend was being forced to leave the country for violating a policy while she was entertaining friends from America. I also learned that only a couple days earlier that the main bus company between Ouagadougou and Fada (my home) had been held up at gunpoint at 9am in the morning and a passenger was fatally shot.
Upon arriving at the house I learned how the country had been going through tumultuous times. Policeman fighting the military, prison doors near where we live in Ouaga were ripped off the hinges and 600 prisoners escaped. I heard stories about volunteers watched tracer fire from the roof top. Even more disconcerting was one volunteers story of negotiating a chaotic scene that was essentially described as a fire fight. And then, I learned that the girl I was dating was no longer dating me.
(Enter the blues guitar solo- here)
All of this was completely reversed from the calm, happy and contented situation that I left in mid December. It was as though I had come home to a poor replica of the place that I left.
That was, in essence, the end of the Homecoming.
But rest assured that it wasn’t all gloom and doom. In fact, it started looking up as soon as I reached my home town of Fada. As I walked home long faced and unhappy, I opened my gate to find closest friend Michel welcoming me back to Burkina Faso. I couldn’t help but smile and when he told me I had gotten fat and truly resembled an American – I was truly on the road to realizing that is wasn’t all that bad. Michel had been through all the same things that I had been, the political problems were happening in his country, I have yet to negotiate a problem as serious as Polio, and he has lost friends to worse places than the United States.
So now, I can look back and smile at being the caricature of the down and out. Three months on, things have normalized, political problems have settled, security has been restored and friends are doing well in America. It's tough to wrap this entry in a way that doesn't smack of the clichéd wisdom of a Hallmark Card. But it is true: the tough times passed - and things got better.
(Enter conflict resolution music from, Full House - here)
