Burkina By Bobby

Spiky Hair vs. Meg Ryan

2007-08-27T03:14:00.000-07:00

Spiky hair. Look at all that spiky hair. Holy God, there is so much spiky hair.

This is the internal dialogue I have with myself as I entered a nightclub on Chicago’s North Side this past December. All the girls were made up and wearing black pants; the guys were nearly as made up and wore colorfully muted dress shirts. Surely this was omnipresent before I left? What with all the talk of the modern man, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and so on. If anything, the novelty of the metrosexual was waning, wasn’t it? … Or did it transcend the novel to become normal?

Either way, I hope I am not mistaken for a metro-phobe – far from it.

Before leaving for Burkina Faso to join the Peace Corps I had shopped at their stores: Express and Banana Republic - I even owned square towed, ankle length boots with zippers. Zippers! Hell, I even had a metrosexual over to my house. His name was Mark. Is that something a metro-phobe would do? So I am no bigot, I mean... I have metrosexual friends.

Flaming metrosexual friends with leather wrist accessories.

Sure, I might have had the occasional dinner of pizza bagels and dry Apple Jacks with a Keystone Light, but that was the exception to the rule. I’m no dilettante to the art of knowing how to appreciate the finer things. So, why was I so taken aback by this posh scene and the legions of spiky haired young men? My first impulse was to blame the uniformity of it all. Sometimes an outsider unfamiliar with the dressing habits and cultural insularity of these people, might miss the nuance and perceive uniformity where it doesn’t exist.

But, I couldn’t be an outsider. These peop … Oh- My-God. Look at me using phrases like “these people”; perhaps spending two years away from my young, urban and professional friends has made me an outsider and what’s worse, insensitive to their culture. “THESE PEOPLE” are exactly that: People. Choosing a Metro-American lifestyle makes them no better or worse than you or I - If it is even a choice in the first place?

If you are asking yourself, “Bobby, Why are you writing about this and is it going anywhere?”

Or you’re concerned that this is one of those ‘Gee… things are different in America and isn’t that strange because I’m American and it shouldn’t be strange, but it is strange, and gosh - isn’t that funny?’ blogs.

Fear not, astute reader.

You see, that world I visited in December is the world to which I am returning. My friends and their friends are those urbane and well dressed bankers, analysts/ or whatever other (two years past entry level) position one holds after college. While I am proud of the work I have done and I think it is important, I have worn flipflops to work for the last two years and my appearance reflects a different social scene than most young 20 somethings.

In Short, I look like a disheveled Meg Ryan with a beard.

Fitting in is not the most important thing. I have an appreciation in being unique and apart from the rest of the crowd. However, I imagine that this appreciation is seriously tested when you show up to a job interview and are greeted with the plastered on smile and questioning eyes of a recruiter who is wondering why this bike messenger didn’t leave the package at reception.

All returned Peace Corps Volunteers make this readjustment, although with varying degrees of success. This ‘readjustment process’ is a popular topic of conversation among volunteers. We discuss what we hope to do, what will be tough to get used to and somewhere in that conversation we pay homage to the two legendary volunteers who left Burkina Faso a year before we arrived. Even though we never met them we know and applaud their story of “readjusting” to life in the United States.

Upon their return to the States these volunteers’ families or friends wrote to Elle magazine and told about ‘their arduous service of helping alleviate abject poverty in Burkina Faso.’ To paraphrase the article “These brave women went out each day in the hot African sun armed with little more than their wits and greasy sunscreen.” We find out later that this led to clogged pores, split ends and some sun damage. The girls were then assisted in the readjustment process, and then the article essentially becomes a makeover story that we have all grown so accustomed to.

It is this point in our conversations, after recounting the awe-inspiring lore of these volunteers, that the guys will lament the fact that this sort of thing couldn’t happen to them. It’s a pretty bold move for a guy to write into a magazine like Elle or Cosmopolitan and request a makeover and most of us decide we lack the nerve. We resign to the fact that we will not grace Oprha’s make-over chair or the pages of the magazines that the female volunteers leave strewn about our transit house.

But this must be the narrow view! Surely, those guys with waxed chests and hair full of wax pomade are evidence for the existence of similar publications for men … They must be getting this advice from somewhere. While they might be misconstruing some of the things that they are reading, magazines from Esquire, GQ, Men’s Health, to magazines like Playboy, FHM, and Maxim all offer advice directed at a gentleman’s upkeep.

It would be nice to get into one of these magazines - To write a short article on what it is like to readjust to the fast paced, highly stylized United States of America after living in its antithesis for two years. Also, it would be nice to get a new suit and a haircut before I step into that interview. But even if I don’t grace the pages of Esquire magazine or go down in the annals of Peace Corps Burkina history, this transition is going to take place.

If it is similar at all to the transition I made when I came to Burkina Faso, it will be similar in the sense that I will hold onto some beliefs and ways of doing things and I’ll let others go in exchange for a new approach. I have been trying for a long time to enumerate exactly what it is that I picked up or let go in Burkina. Each individual ‘way of doing’ something seems trivial by itself, but accumulated over time they form a pattern. Amenities become less important I become lower maintenance and more grateful for what I have; becoming more adventurous, trying things for the sake of assimilation, accepting and trying to understand the things I can’t change, appreciating different methods of reasoning, while having conviction in my own methods.

When you amerce yourself into a new culture, little by little, the ‘way you do things’, begins to influence the ‘way you see things’ and I suppose this is tantamount to changing as a person. I always cringe when I hear someone say, “such and such experience was life changing and made me a completely new and different person.” I do not believe that someone can be separate from their past. No amount of time in West Africa could undo the lessons learned from my parents and 13 years in the public schools of Peoria, just as living a faster paced life in Chicago will not replace or overshadow growing up from ages 21 to 24 in Burkina Faso. In the end, making sense of how all these experiences and ideas work together is what it means to readjust.

It will be interesting to see what I pick up and what I leave behind, when I transition back to living in the States. I imagine that I will have stopped blogging about Africa by the time I realize what has actually changed. So, feel free to write an editor of one of those fashionable male magazines and maybe we can read my story in Esquire detailing what it feels like to have spiky hair and how strange it is to readjust to my former life in the States because it is so different from West Africa and … gosh - isn’t that funny?

West African Dental Care

2007-08-27T03:04:00.000-07:00

During my Freshman year of college the Fighting Illini went to the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans. I went to this game and I learned a lot about life: Beer can be sold in 70 oz bottles, you can usually judge a guy’s creepiness by the amount of bead necklaces he has, and that losing in the least important BCS game is about the best the Illini will ever do.

In adition to these life lessons, I learned a little bit about the southern/Louisianan culture. Two nights during our trip we stayed with the grandmother of my friend Adam. She was a very nice and hospitable women who, in the spirit of Mardi Gras, baked us a cake. This cake was special because the baby Jesus was baked inside. I think the origin of this tradition is French and it worked its way into New Orleans/Mardi Gras culture via that lineage.

In any event, whoever gets the baby Jesus, wins! I am still a little unclear on happens when you win, but be sure that you do win. I don’t know how I feel about baking hard ceramic things into cakes, breads or other pastries- and the baking of the Christ child is another thing all together. Leave it to the French.

I bring this up because lately I have been wondering how pervasive the French influence of baking things into cakes and breads has been on her former colonies. In Burkina Faso, for example, they occasionally bake rocks and pebbles into their bread. This is somewhat disconcerting because one doesn’t expect there to be a rock baked into the baguette when he puts it into his mouth and begins to grind with his molars.

I have recently done exactly this, thus breaking one or my molars. I am only thankful that it wasn’t a ceramic Jesus.

I wish that I could say that this is the first time that I have ever eaten rocks in Burkina Faso, but unfortunately I have done a very similar thing only one year earlier, though that time it was a plate of rice. Finally my lifelong careless attitude of eating food without checking for rocks has caught up with me and landed me in the dentists office.

Which brings me to the title of this entry - I don’t want to propagate negative stereotypes of West Africa, but if you have the pre-conception that West African dental care might be less than stellar, this entry will do little to dissuade you. Let me preface - my account is probably prone to exaggeration as a fair amount of time has passed between my first traumatic visit to the dentist and writing this blog, but I proceed.

It was exactly like the Dentist’s office in the Little Shop of Horrors… No,no- in all seriousness, the actual dentist office, reminded me of a place I might go in the states. The chair was a bit aged and looked like it might have come from the 1980’s but this is only speculation as I am not abreast on the past or current fashions of dental equipment. It wasn’t the appearance of the office that was alarming, but the dentist’s assistant. The first thing that I noticed when he came to get me from the waiting room, was his dingy white apron splattered with a considerable amount of blood, seeing as he was a dental assistant and not a surgeon’s assistant.

I didn’t think too much about it, because this dentist was arranged by Peace Corps, and surely they will not have chosen an incapable person. I entered the room and sat down in the chair. After making small talk and my explaining my situation to the Burkinabé dentist, she went to work. She opened my mouth, looked around and began to ask me questions. This was the first time that I had ever done the awkward open mouth talking in French and I think that it might have compounded my problems. Eventually we were reduced to: “Does this hurt?” and “Aghhh”.

In the course of her questions she discovered that I cracked an old filling and some of the tooth on one of my molars. This would require drilling and then a new filling. I have done this before, and do not have an unusually low threshold for pain, so I had no reason to be concerned. She then tells me that she is going to shoot me with a local anesthetic. She prepares her needle and pricks my gum. She then pulls it out and said she didn’t do it correctly and makes several more goes at it before she injects the local anesthetic. That was a little unusual and painful, but in five minutes or so, it will set in and you wont be able to feel anything. “The worst part is over,” I thought to myself.

I thought wrong. Instead of waiting, she dove right in, picks, drills, dental gadgetry we probably outlawed at the end of the 19^th century. This would proceed in ten second spurts.

Drill, Drill, Drill

“Arghhh”

“Dose that hurt?’

“OUA HAA”

(three seconds elapse)

Drill, Drill, Drill

And so continued for 30 of the more trying minutes of my life.

The anesthesia eventually kicked in and it wasn’t so intolerable. After she finished she gave me a sucking candy. I wiped the tears away from my eyes and thanked her. When the anesthesia wore off I could feel that I had recently been to the dentist. I think it was during this period of feeling sorry for myself, I swore I would never eat rocks or visit the dentist in Burkina Faso again. Sadly, I failed at both.

Happily, my last dental visit in Burkina Faso has been scheduled for the August 30^th.

Immediate plans after my Close of Service

2007-08-27T02:25:00.000-07:00

It is official. I will be finished with my Peace Corps service in one month. I should be finished with all the paper work and ready to leave Burkina Faso, by the last week in September. While I will be leaving Burkina Faso in late September I will not be returning immediately to the United States of America.

I, along with four other friends, are going to take advantage of the fact that we all currently speak French and are accustomed to living on a couple dollars a day and see some of the other countries in West Africa.

Current plans are subject to change depending on election schedules and political events. But as it stands we are going to travel to the following countries:

Mali: We may head up to into the Sahara, see a friend who is working for an NGO, make our way to Timbuktu down to Bamako and into Guinea

Guinea: Working our way through the green hilly inland of guinea we will then travel to either Liberia or Sierra Leone. This depends more on time than security as both countries are currently politically stable.

Liberia: This is the Biggest question mark on the trip

Sierra Leone: We will either enter from Guinea or come up along the coast from Monrovia (Liberia) This is the biggest attraction for all of us. From Here we will continue along the coast through Guinea and then onto Guinea Bissau

Guinea Bissau: This is supposed to be one of the most beautiful countries in West Africa and it is politically stable though the Economist reports that it might be well on its way to becoming Africa’s first Narco state!!!

Senegal: This is supposed to be one of the most developed countries in West Africa, so hopefully we will be able to recharge after crossing all these countries by land on bush taxis

The Gambia: This is a sliver of a country within Senegal, but again is supposed to be one of the most beautiful countries in West Africa and is one of the most highly anticipated countries on our list. After passing through The Gambia we will be back in Senegal

Morocco: I will fly to Morocco from Senegal and then continue onto New York and Chicago after spending a bit of time checking out Casablanca, Fez and maybe Marrakech

So there you have it. I plan to be home by Thanksgiving so this is all pretty ambitious for 9 weeks of travel. It is pretty likely that plans will change slightly and we will cut some things out in order to see West Africa without it having it be a race against time.

I will write more on this later, and I hope to post some short blogs as we travel. Check out a map or some information on some of the countries and let me know if there is anything that I should be sure not to miss. Most of our planning is coming through our Peace Corps networking and West African guide books, but it is always good to hear from other sources.

Hirshel: a short story

2007-04-24T08:39:00.000-07:00

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;

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.”

The Letter From Kevin

2007-04-10T08:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Anachronism

2007-04-09T11:54:00.000-07:00

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.

The Homecoming

2007-04-09T11:47:00.000-07:00

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)

A vacation in Burkina Faso?

2006-09-11T06:17:00.000-07:00

I had never really expected it to work. I had told my parents of my plan, bought my costume, made my appointments at the salon and barber but in the back of my head I was sure she would see through my minimal disguise. In retrospect, it makes a lot of sense to fully think out how you are going to welcome a loved one to a strange and foreign land after not seeing them for a year. Speaking from personal experience, I advise against playing a practical joke where you change your appearance to resemble a third rate rapper who persistently asks his sister if she needs a taxi.

I had been looking forward to my sister’s visit for months. I had made plans and talked with my local friends and colleagues about how excited I was to see my sister after nearly a year. Spending nearly twelve months apart from my family had been the longest I had ever gone without seeing them. The importance of family is paramount in Burkinabe culture so my friends were empathetic to my plight and just as excited to meet my sister. I talked ad-nauseam about her pending arrival and all the things that we were going to do while she was in country. I made plans, rethought plans and reflected on how she might deal with some of the strange things that have become commonplace to me. It had been almost a year’s time since we last saw each other in person and I wondered if there would be much of a change.

Somewhere along the way I had gotten the notion that it might be funny to see if I could go incognito and make myself unrecognizable. As I pitched the idea to family and friends it seemed to catch hold as a generally funny and relatively harmless thing to do. I took my parents chuckles as an implicit endorsement and proceeded to put the pieces in place. Upon acquiring a giant read jumpsuit, translucent red sunglasses, pencil thin beard, cornrows, red bandana, and imitation Air Force One tennis shoes, I had transformed myself into something that would make Ali G envious. Sadly enough, I didn’t think much further than the completion of the outfit and when I arrived at the airport I was unsure at how I would welcome my sister. Instead of the natural enthusiastic embrace that is usually reserved for such events like … the reunions of families at airports, I chose a radically different approach.

The natural enthusiastic reunion is the normal and kind way to show someone how excited you are to see them, I could hardly contain myself but instead I chose to emulate a creepy taxi cab driver who repeatedly asked the new foreigner if she needed a ride and waited until she became frustrated to reveal that I was actually her brother. I suppose it struck me while I was waiting in the shadows at the arrivals gate; there is no a nicer way to say “I love you” than “you need a taxi or what.”

The lack of forethought shown upon her arrival was the first of several incidents to show how forgetful I had become of what it is like to be in Burkina Faso fresh from the States. The mixture of emotions was a bit overwhelming for my sister and she began to tear up as she wondered why her brother would play such a joke, when she was simply excited to be reunited. Hearing those words deflated whatever ill-conceived reasoning I had used to convince myself that playing the practical joke (as I had played it) would be funny. Fortunately, my sister is an incredibly understanding person; while she did not find the joke to be amusing, she understood how one could, possibly come to thinking it would be a funny thing to do. She did not hold a grudge for too long and within minutes we were hugging and carrying on in the manner that most reunited families carry on at the airport and we were happy to see each other again.

The rest of the trip had its shares of ups and downs: a 13 hour cramped bus ride followed by seeing a family of giraffes in the bush; sickness and tension to be followed by an amazing
day of climbing and magnificent views.

Since my sister’s visit, a wave of Americans has come to visit their sons, daughters, sisters and brothers in the Peace Corps. I have compared stories with other volunteer’s and even tagged along with a visiting family. These conversations and experiences have fomented a strongly held opinion that one can see and travel through Africa cheaply and one can vacation in Africa, but trying to vacation cheaply in Africa is more work than vacation. Especially if you hold on to the antiquated belief that vacations are supposed to be relaxing.
My sister and I finished the trip by spending the last two days in Ouagadougou. We shed the rustic African experience for a top notch hotel in the center of the city for around 90 dollars a night. We walked around Ouaga, but generally took time to enjoy a comfortable bed, hot shower and air conditioning. We sat and talked at ease– the location was irrelevant, spending time with my sister was a better vacation than traveling to all the exotic places in West Africa. I can’t wait to vacation again this December.

Digging Ditches

2006-09-11T05:55:00.000-07:00

Today my father’s greatest fear came to fruition; I dug a ditch in Africa. Truth be told it wasn’t a ditch per se; it was actually a latrine, which makes it all the worse. The reason my father fears digging ditches in Africa is not because of some inexplicable phobia of shovels, rather he feared that his son’s education in economics and finance would not be put to good use in the Peace Corps’ Small Enterprise Development program.

Two Christmases ago I was deliberating between to possible options for the future: A financial analyst position with Johnson & Johnson or the aforementioned SED program with the Peace Corps. After making the decision to join the Peace Corps my dad continued the struggle for another month. While watching the news he would note that J & J’s stock had risen two points; he would make off hand comments at dinner about how another Rotarian said Johnson and Johnson was one of the best companies to work for; and best of all, “Santa Clause” gave me medical supplies from my good friends at Johnson and Johnson. After another month passed he faced the facts and realized that I was going to move to Burkina Faso. This realization spurred a new strategy to ensure that my degree was put to good use. Each time we spoke about my impending service he would reassure me that is was perfectly acceptable to quit the Peace Corps if “they had me digging ditches”. This phrasing had always struck me as funny because in all the literature I had received from Peace Corps, the last thing I imagined myself to be doing with the small enterprise development program was, digging ditches. But there I was, eight feet deep in the ground shoveling dirt and the ancient remains from a latrine that had not been used for 15 years. I guess that father does know best.

I was in an eight foot deep hole because of the complex process of hiring people to do work in Burkina Faso. Two men came to my house and said that they could dig a three meter hole for 20 dollars which was cheaper than any other offer I had received. Unfortunately, I took them up on their offer and received what I paid for- a poorly dug latrine at roughly 2 and half meters. They did not finish the job in the day and a half that they said it would take. The rains continued to come and the walls continued to fall making the hole shallower. The younger of the two men would routinely come by my house to reassure me that the latrine digger would come tomorrow.

One Saturday I was so fed up that I told him that he and I would finish the work together. He looked skeptical and slightly perplexed, his facial expressions grew more quizzical as I jumped into the hole and began to dig for three hours straight. We finished the morning with a handshake covered in mud made from sweat and dirt. He then told me something that gave me an inflated sense of national pride. “Never... never would I have looked at you on the street and think that that white person would be able to work like that. There is no way a Frenchman would work in a latrine with me.” Perhaps it is my deep seeded cultural chauvinism that delights in being considered superior to the French or the simpleton like way I am taken in by a heartfelt compliment, but I left that day thinking -

“Gee, we American’s sure are grand, heck - I’ll role up my sleeves and work as hard as anyone to get a job done. We will even work along side a lowly African ditch digger without giving it a second though because we are so humble.” What was worse than my unwarranted bombastic self-conception was the belief that working alongside Arsene had forged some type of mutual respect or even trust.

My Dad should be able to take solace in the fact that this is the first time that I have, in fact, dug a ditch and I have already been here for 13 months. What is more important is that this latrine building should be considered more of home renovation rather than actual work, though it is sometimes tough to clearly delineate the two as work and home are constantly intertwined. This proximity between work and home are closer than they have ever been before as I have moved to what could best be described as my association’s giant shed.

One day I will move back to America and take for granted the wonderful amenities such as running water, washers, dryers, microwaves, ovens, refrigerators, internet and air conditioning but as for now I live in a mud brick house with a tin roof and cement floors. It is pretty Spartan and I miss the amenities. I’ve found that no amenity can compare to a toilet and living without even a latrine is a downright nuisance. This brings me full circle to the glowing pride and trust that I established with the young ditch digger on that fateful Saturday morning. Later in the week we decided on the next step for the construction of the latrine and I needed to buy 80 dollars worth of bricks. He told me he could get the bricks that afternoon as it was a relatively small errand. I handed him the eighty dollars over a month ago and have yet to see the bricks or the money. The complexity of all the events that transpired between my giving him the money and our current juncture would require a blog entry of its own, but here is the abridged version.

Suffice it to say that my patience and trust while overabundant at first have been whittled away with each successive encounter. Three days after I first asked about the money or bricks he assured me he would bring the money tomorrow. As each "tomorrow" passed without money I decided it would be best to have a talk with a more senior community member. Arsene informed me and the senior community member that the money would come by the next Wednesday. That Wednesday passed without money. Another sit down - he told us he had been lying, he spent the 80 dollars, but he can bring the 80 dollars worth of bricks, but that cannot happen until tomorrow. The saddest point of it all is that he had a chance to make a genuine profit and provide for his wife and child – instead he took eighty dollars, got drunk with his friends and hasn’t slept at his house for over a month.

No amount of charity or development can make someone responsible. I have learned this lesson well- another week has passed, I have no bricks but occasionally he will pass to tell me... “tomorrow”.

The Masked Marauders

2006-05-31T07:00:00.000-07:00

Masked men have been running through my city chanting, beating drums and evoking their natural right to beat anyone with a three foot long stick. Some masks are crudely made out of cardboard while others are more ornate. There are 12 separate groups of masked marauders and each group consists of nearly 100 men. These groups make the community cower in fear which is principally due to the aforementioned beatings; though there is some talk that they possess unnatural spirits which one is wise to avoid. Somehow the combination of spirits and beatings bring rain though I can’t say that I understand it - but then again, I didn’t major in meteorology.

I described these people as masked men but the term ‘men’ is a very liberal interpretation. In truth, the majority of this group is made children and young adults. If I were to estimate the percentage breakdown, I would say: 20% ages 3-9; 40% ages 10 -17; 30% ages 17 -24; 10% ages 25 and up. For imagery’s sake I invite you to picture 100 masked teenagers running through the neighborhood at 9pm chanting and yelling and waiting to beat someone to the point of drawing blood – should s/he be unfortunate enough to be caught outside their house.

It should also be stated that this is an ancient tradition that has the full support of the community.

What is described above is the Ciconsi, a right of passage into manhood that is considerably more extreme than a bar mitzvah. Each seven, nine, or eleven years (depending of the community) males wishing to become men take to the sacred wilderness for nearly three months. During these three months they sleep in the elements, learn the histories and traditions of the tribe and are ritualistically circumcised. During these three months communication is cut to anyone not inside their group. The participants including, children as young as three years old, leave their families and loved ones for three months. Participants postpone work, school, family and anything else that conflicts with this passage to manhood. During the end of this time they return at night for the running, chanting and beatings. At the end of the three months the members of the Circonsi returned to town during the day and lead a procession to mango tree and shaded area enclosed by a straw fence. The newly made men were all veiled as they entered the enclosed circle. It was at this time that the ceremony began, mothers and wives flooded into the enclosed area and attempted to find their loved one by finding the right covered person to unveil.

It was an exciting and truly joyous event for the participating family’s as they were now reunited with children they had not seen for three months. The participants truly vary in age from the very young to the very old, though I was struck at how many children there were. More to the point, the ceremony left me shocked at the number of mothers who willing let there three year old go into the wilderness for three months to be placed in the care of a relatively small number of responsible adults. Understandably, cultural norms are different and perhaps it is not entirely fair to judge traditions from an outside perspective, but I cannot help making the comparison.

While I was at the ceremony I tried to picture a soccer mom sending her little seven year old to live in the woods for three months to brave the elements and isolation with only several guys over twenty-five. This just could not happen in America. I recall mothers crying as they put their 12 year old on a bus for a two week summer camp. Mothers cry as their 18 year old leaves for a college two hours away, even though the child is assured to visit regularly and is equipped with a cell phone and internet, which make constant communication easy.

The idea of leaving a kid in the wilderness is extreme in any case and a bit more dangerous in Africa on account of the things that live in the wilderness. But maybe there is some method to their madness. Instead of keeping the youngsters extra close while they are young, they send them out into the wilderness. Instead of fighting the transition from dependence to maturity young adults are content and respect their parents in a way that went out of style in the 60’s. Instead of moving thousands of miles away to a poor country in a less than stable region of West Africa against their parents wishes, young adults choose to live with and help support their family; and instead of disregarding the elderly they are held in the highest esteem. I do not want to finish this entry with any big comparison or insight into which value structure is better or more important- because such a broad question can never be answered with meaningful results, so instead I will end with my approach toward child rearing that I may one day employ: I will neither send my kid into the African Bush to fend for himself nor coddle them in. Maybe if I can instill this notion of moderation they’ll stay away from inner-city schools and the third world of West-Africa.*

*The last sentence is a subtle joke referencing the paths my sister and I took in spite/or because of great parenting

Get Out of The Van

2006-03-23T14:01:00.000-08:00

"Get out of the van."
(A string out expletives)
"Get out of the van."
(Another string of expletives.)
Now despondently, "Why don't you get out of the van?"

I turn to man sitting half next to me and half on my lap, and I attempt small talk:

"Sir, Are you comfortable? No, you say? Well, I could have guessed you would have said as much and this shouldn't come as a great surprise but I share your sentiment. Why do you think we find ourselves to be so uncomfortable?"
"Because life in Africa...It's hard"
Now, That is an interesting comment, I don't know that it answers my question - but it is not really that important, because the question was rhetorical. Would you like to hear a list of reasons why I think we are uncomfortable? Again this question is rhetorical. You see - I believe our discomfort has something to do with the inefficiency and incompetency of the people running this transport. I think that it has something to do with the fact that we are sitting 25 people to a van designed to sit 12. I think it could be linked to the fact that carbon monoxide is leaking through the floor board. Perhaps our discomfort has something to do with all the broken windows and the red dirt road, whose dust has turned all of us orange.
"Yes"

"Certainly there are the crying babies and the oppressive heat, but I know perfectly well that you cannot control everything, and I don't want to complain. But now that you and I have been sitting here for the last twenty minutes, unmoved from our original seats, sitting 25 deep with you, still half sitting on my lap while the drivers unload luggage from the luggage rack - I can feel myself slipping into a foul mood and I don't know that I can help but complain."
"I see"

Of all the frustrating moments that we have experienced together over the past hour and a half together, I must say that I am most infuriated by the passengers inability to change their discomfort; now, right this moment. Look! - Just out there, there is shade, people selling cold drinks, space, sweet, spacious space as far as the eye can see. All we need to do is remind people that they are uncomfortable and inform them it is more comfortable sitting under shade drinking cold drinks rather than sitting in a cramped metal van in this hot, hot van. Which brings me to a genuine question of which I seek a genuine answer: Why have we all sat in this parked van for the last twenty minutes?

"Because, In Africa, It is like that."

(String of expletives)
"What? ... What exactly do you mean?"
"In Africa, It is like that."
"Respectfully sir, I disagree. Africa being woefully underdeveloped, lacking resources, having a harsh climate, being put upon: poverty, AIDS, colonialism so on and so on; you can read me a list of all the problems that are espoused by the world bank.- But all of these reasons have absolutely nothing to do with your inability to get out of this hot cramped van. Case and point, there are Africans NOT inside this hot cramped van. There are, in fact, Africans standing less then twenty feet away underneath that shade, being perfectly African. All we have to do is help our selves ... why don't we just help our selves?

"Because, In Africa...It is like this"
The driver enters the van; Starts the van; Drives the Van 500 yards; Stops the van; Passengers leave.

At this point there is no more conversation to be had. I have loved my time in Burkina, I have had many good experiences, but at this point I have nothing but a blank stare of fury and disbelief. It is numbness, a numbness that allows you to stare down a ten year old begger until he leaves.

I am still too close to this event to meaningfully dissect all the thoughts that were running through my head immediately after the event. I hope to do so in subsequent blogs, but let me start be saying I am extremely critical of anyone who is content at explaining away inefficiency as the way it is in Africa. Protocol and Tradition are a product of the decisions that people make and they change as decisions change. Let us be held accountable for our decisions, Let us have higher expectations for ourselves. If the man sitting next to me is correct and "Life, its hard in Africa" and "In Africa, it is like that" Let us see the connection between the two. Lets change the way we do things and maybe Life in Africa will be less tough.

2006-01-22T09:16:00.000-08:00

Dollar Bottles and Pork Ribs: A Ramadan Special

2006-01-13T04:52:00.000-08:00

There is a poster hanging up in my living room that says SPECIAL RAMADAN PARTY at the VIKING CLUB. The upper left and right hand corners of the poster are embossed with the figure of man dressed in Muslim attire dancing with a cigar in his mouth. The text below informs the viewer of the Date, Location, and extent of how much fun is going to be had by those who attend. For example: The music is provided by DJ MOUNE, there is a competition to see who is the most Sexy, a competition to see who is the best couple, a competition to see who is the best dancer. The cover at the door is 3 dollars per couple and 2 dollars if you are single. The text is flanked on the left by the picture of a man and woman dancing together. The right flank is a picture of a sultry woman wearing a bikini. Unfortunately, I missed this “Incredible extravaganza for the Ages”. I have been to the Club before with one of my Muslim friends. He told me it is the best place to listen to music, drink beer and we discovered they had some nice cuts of pork that went well with the beer.

I just recently celebrated the festival of Tabaski, which is a festival where you go to all your Muslim Neighbors houses, and they give you sheep meat and beer/rum/sangria. The actual purpose of the holiday is tied to the story of Abraham and his obedience to God when asked to kill his son. God replaced the son with a sheep and this is the reason we ate sheep. I am not sure how the booze worked its way into the holiday, but it definitely made the dinner conversation more lively. I suppose that this should not be that big of a surprise. I know Catholics who eat Steak on Fridays and waffle on the authority of the Pope; Southern Baptists who believe in evolution and refute a literal translation of the Bible. In regards to myself, I certainly shirk some of the dogmatic doctrines of the Christian Church.

This is not news, but I think it is important to see that this side of Islam exists. Intellectually, I am sure that we all know that Islam, like any religion, has a wide range of followers. Followers of Islam can range from the apathetic Muslim who does it as a sign of respect to his family and tradition to the fanatical Muslim who believes in a literal translation that condones the murder of infidels. When I told people that I was coming to Burkina Faso a country where the majority religion is Islam at nearly 60 percent of the population, I received many warnings to be careful and not let the terrorists get me. The statement that not all Muslims are terrorists is tired, stupid, and so patently obvious - that no serious person, should contemplate something that is reserved for a pre-teens first socially conscious thought. Instead I want to just talk briefly about how religion always exists in a context and the context in which it exists in the Middle East is very different from the way it exists in West Africa which is very different from the way it exists in America. In Burkina Faso there is a long tradition of the Animist religion and it is said that each person is a combination of percentages of their religion and 100 percent Animist. It is the culture and the history that the people share in common. Islam, Catholicism, and Protestantism are traditions that came in late and now worn like a sports jacket. You identify with this camp or that camp, you prefer this style of philosophy to the other but in the end it is not what you identify as. This approach makes people extremely religiously tolerant, to the extent that one family can have a Muslim father a Catholic mother and children who worship at the Protestant Church. I really respect the outlook that the Burkinabe have towards religion. I think they look at the world, their situation, and realize that there are so many problems; it doesn’t make sense to create more based on what traditional religious practices are better.

A Woman’s Work Is Never Done

2006-01-13T04:49:00.000-08:00

Throughout history, there has been a consistent and illogical connection made between biological capability and social and moral obligations. Somebody who follows this false logic might say something like this: Women are physically able to give birth thus it is their social obligation to be a mom and stay at home to cook, clean and raise the child. If the mother does not perform this function of being a “mom” as it is traditionally understood, she is failing her moral obligation. Hopefully you can spot the huge hole in the logic between physiological capability and social obligation. Why does physically giving birth tie a woman closer to raising the child than physically providing the sperm? True, women provide breast milk, but again, this physical process comes to an end like a term of labor and you still need to bridge the gap from physical capability to social expectation. Biological causes can only have direct biological consequences. (I have the capability to feel when my skin is being burned, so I pull my hand away from boiling water.) As we can see, Biology is something people appeal to give their argument for maintaining a certain social arrangement the appearance of irrefutable credibility. The piece that people insert to bridge the gap between biological ability and social obligations is social norms. Societal norms is just another way of saying social obligations, thus we see the false logic turns on it self, social norms propagate social norms, the whole thing is circular and there is no particular justification for why the social norm exists the way it does, or even if it is correct.

The reason for this brief exercise in logic that might be leaving some with the impression of leftist University Speak is to show that this type of thinking has real life consequences. This social norm is propagated again and again; women swallow it and in turn propagate it onto younger generations of women. Here are some of the practical consequences that come from when the social norm mandates that your gender role is to provide for your husband and children:

Ex- scission is the process of female gender mutilation. Often a trusted family member (grandmother) will come in the night time to take the girl just entering puberty, into an unsanitary room where a man uses an unsanitary knife to remove the clitoris and to prevent sex with anyone until marriage, the vagina is sewn shut. In many villages, like the villages that surround where I live, this is the general rule and not the exception. Girls education and empowerment volunteers purport that between 60 -80 percent of girls. This projection is taken from interviews with villagers, but there is not published survey that can support these projections. It is clear that this practice is not an anomaly and it happens quite frequently. When asked why, the response is often that it is not the role of women to have sexual pleasure and if they don’t enjoy sex they are more likely to successfully serve their role of being faithful and serving their husband.

Women get beat. It is socially acceptable to beat your wife. Educated people beat their wives. Women often have little recourse. I am reminded of a conversation I had with an English teacher at their equivalent of a Junior College, he is one of the most educated people in the city. We were talking about American women’s independence and their likely argumentative response if you told them to make your dinner. His response, “Do they want to be beaten.” I was pretty sure that he did not quite understand the use of the word, ‘want’.

Girls are not sent to school with the same regularity as boys. The reason is that it is not their role in society. As a result illiteracy is much higher amongst girls. Girls are less likely to be able to have the tools to be financially independent. Instead they spend most of the day, cleaning the courtyard, spending 3-4 hours at a time making meals and cleaning the dishes for several meals a day. During the wet Season their downtime, is spent doing back breaking cultivation with the use of only a small hoe. In this period the smaller girls take over chores of cooking and cleaning. Girls are frequently married off in their mid teens and usually have children by the age of 18. The social norms reinforce the role that women play in society. Some claim that this is their culture, but I believe that begs the question of whose culture? Are the women and men of this society choosing this structure from the same level of capabilities? Who knew that the capability to give birth would lead to all of these social expectations?
But who knows, maybe the women asking for social reforms are just frigid ice queens, maybe we will look back at these days as the good old days of Burkina Faso- when the divorce rate was low and there was no question about what constitutes a marriage. The point I take from it all is that sometimes being more uncertain of social norms is not such a bad thing. It might produce different challenges, but the new challenges are a welcome relief from the status quo.

No Place like Home for the Holidays

2006-01-13T04:46:00.000-08:00

Each year there are people who rail against materialism and proclaim that Americans have forgotten the “reason for the season”. I am not one of these people. The argument goes that we lose sight of what is important and replace family and faith with shopping, movies and television. Being away from home this year naturally makes one think about all the things he is missing. What I found is that I did not miss the material things, in themselves; rather I missed the modern day traditions that are signified by these material things. Christmas shopping with my sister for my parents, going to a romantic comedy with my sister, mother and grandmother and watching hours upon hours of college football with my dad and friends constitute the traditions that bring me close to my friends and family and these traditions have been with me for all my life
.
Fortunately, I was not the only person in Burkina who was missing these traditions. The other Peace Corps Volunteers do a tremendous job and banding together to enjoy the holidays, reflect and even try to emulate the traditions we are missing at home. What follows is an account of my holiday season:

I spent Christmas in my city of Fada with three female volunteers from nearby villages. I bought a pathetic plastic Christmas tree from a stand that sells liquor and stickers of the Virgin Mary. I put the girls’ presents underneath the tree. They were wrapped in notebook paper and then colored to resemble actual wrapping paper. Christmas morning began by waking up the girls with, Mariah Carry’s “All I Want for Christmas”. It was the only Christmas song we had, so we played it on repeat until we could not take it anymore. Shortly after that we opened the presents that we had bought for each other in the local market. I received a pair of white plastic loafers and a machete. We next moved on to making a huge brunch that included omelets, French toast, hash browns and fruit salad. While I am sure that I could find finer brunches in America, no brunch has ever tasted as good. All and all, Christmas was great; not as great as being at home with my family and friends, but the surrogate family we have created over here makes life much easier.

The next week was filled for preparation for our New Years Eve Celebration, which was a themed Moustache and Turtleneck Party. The theme was actually given to me by a friend who had to return to the States. It was a party that he and his friends created to College and continued well into the five years after his college career had ended. He so cherished this party that he and his friend went to tremendous lengths to ensure that it could continue even though they were now working in the corporate world where it is inappropriate and unprofessional to grow a beard or moustache. The resolution to their problem was found in charity.

One of his friends spoke with the ‘Make a Wish’ Foundation and organized all the paperwork for a “Beard-a-Thon”. Shortly after Thanksgiving the annual patrons of the Moustache and Turtleneck party took the fundraiser sheets to their respective bosses, thus forcing the bosses to say NO to the ‘Make a Wish’ Foundation. Without fail, no bosses could say “No”; the patrons raised money for charity and were able to continue the tradition. The reason I give the back-story of this party is to demonstrate the lengths to which people have gone to preserve it. I have already mentioned the importance of emulating American traditions in Africa; and for Kevin, it was important to bring this time honored tradition to Burkina Faso. In his absence, I wanted to make sure his vision was carried out to fruition.

We scoured the local market, which in all seriousness, is better than any thrift store in America. The girls were able to find one piece jumpsuits of crushed velvet and satin. I was able to find a red turtleneck and seersucker pants. The other Peace Corps Volunteers were able to find similar treasures at their local markets and thus, the themed New Year’s was a success.

The next morning I awoke cold and shivering. Africa changes you, the other day I thought that it was quite pleasant and even mild, maybe somewhere in the high 70s; I then came to learn that it was, in fact, 100 degrees. The point being, you get used to the heat and when it actually is in the mid 70s you are freezing. As the sun continued to rise over the steppe, it became warmer and more people began to wake up. New Years Day, was not filled with watching football, but instead filled with watching elephants. Any pictures that I post at a later time can not convey how amazing it was to be 100 feet away from wild African Elephants. Amazing is a word that could easily be replaced by intimidating or crazy, though these emotions are lost in the photo’s because pictures of wild elephants are ubiquitous on travel/adventure shows, and magazines like National Geographic. The experience of walking across the tall grass of the West Africa with my good friends and then coming upon a pack of elephants as the first day of the New Year began to break is an experience that I will be hard pressed to forget. With this, a very unique holiday season came to a close. I wish everyone a happy 2006 and I look forward to ringing in the next New Year in the United States.

What I do !

2005-11-29T12:44:00.000-08:00

This entry serves as a response to those interested readers who would like to
know what type of work my job actually entails. I hope I can provide this information in a readable if not a somewhat entertaining manner. I can think of no worse blog entry than that which offers a dry job description. Rest assured, there will be no mention of TPS reports or office politics. What follows is a general account of where I work, who I work with and the types of things I do; if I can convey the passion for my work in this entry, it should be a worthwhile read. Enjoy!

I work in an office. I have a computer. I have meetings every day. For better or worse, the Peace Corps can have a reputation for being incredibly exotic and unlike any type of work you might find in the States. There are cases of culture shock and local differences that can make life exotic, but in the end people are working for the same ends that we work for in the America. It follows that the modes of working are not always that far removed from the way we work in the States.

I work for the Union of Artisans of Gormul (U.A.G). U.A.G. is an organization that provides information and resources to all the businessman in the Eastern Region of Burkina Faso(Think of a region about the size of Central Illinois). An artisan is a loosely defined word that translates as almost any businessman. Everyone from Architects, home builders, carpenters and electricians to tailors, soap makers, weavers and restraunteurs are considered Artisans. My Job is to work with these Artisans in two ways:
As a consultant to U.A.G
Work as a business advisor to individual businesses and businessmen who have the drive to make their organization grow.
I am currently conducting an “Etude de Milieu” which means each day I conduct meetings with some of the following groups: staff members of UAG, local government officials, foreign development organizations and different groups of Artisans. After meeting with these groups I gain a better understanding of the business environment and the challenges that they face. I analyze the organization’s Plan d’action (Strategic Plan) and find a way to improve or help make some of their goals come to fruition. I am also learning the capabilities and histories of each organization, thus allowing me to make recommendations.

Here is an example of the challenges that face U.A.G:
For the past 10 years they have been financed by a Swiss NGO (non-governmental organization). They have grown dependant on the money given from the NGO and they have not developed a sustainable infrastructure. UAG is now in a position to become more self sufficient as the NGO is leaving/restructuring their relationship with UAG. There are currently no revenue generating activities conducted by UAG and there is not a cohesive/well functioning membership, thus, the benefits of the union do not reach the people they are intended to reach.

Here are just a few of the topics I cover with individual Artisan groups:
How do they communicate with UAG, Who are their clients, How do they keep records, Do they collect membership fees, Where does the money go, How do they save money, Do they work with the banks and take out loans for investing in their business, Do they market their product, what type of marketing do they use, How many members of the group speak French, how many members are literate, What do they think they need to improve their business. (Money seems to be a popular answer to the last question, but a poor answer that will not lead to a sustainable change in the vast majority of cases) This problem is ubiquitous in many aspects of the society. I frequently use the analogy of sand slipping through ones fingers as it relates to artisans who think their answer is more money. When one simply receives a donation it is like sand slipping through ones fingers. It is easy to think the solution to their problems exists as a grant or a handout from a foreigner. The last ten years have a rich history of guilty white people giving money to people without much planning. The money slips through hands, gets gobbled up in corruption and in the end helps nothing except for conscious of the beneficent giver. Start-up capital is certainly needed, but not without a satisfactory plan to make the money go toward something sustainable. Development is needed not charity.

In short, my job is to improve the way these organizations and businesses work; this is a daunting and perhaps impossible task. I am thinking big but picking reachable goals. I am finding motivated people to work with and I creating action plans. I am under no delusion that my time here will end in anything more than an improvement on an extremely micro economic scale, but I am learning much and I think that I can make an impact on the lives of businessman in Fada.

The American

2005-11-29T12:38:00.000-08:00

I have been meaning to write on this topic for quite a while but I have not found the appropriate vessel to carry the my point. The topic is being white in a black country. It would be fair to say that I am a minority in Burkina Faso. There are many shades of black, but I am not one of them.
In the local languages I am referred to as Bonn bonn Pinto (white thing), or nassara (foreigner). I also am frequently called Le Blanc, which is French for The White. While I know the following statement is a blatant contradiction, I would like to claim that it is objectively annoying to be solely identified by the color of your skin.

To be sure, I must take into account the context of the situation. There are older people who don’t know better and for them calling someone a nassara is a sign of respect. There are children who are acting as children and then there are adolescents and educated people who should know better. To be clear, I am talking about someone yelling these terms at you while you walk or ride your bike past them. It happens each day without fail, usually within five minutes of leaving my house and it persists throughout the day. I usually try to make a game of it, when someone calls to me as the white, I respond in kind by saying “the black”, I speak in the local language when I am called the Nassara and I respond to “The White Thing” by saying the “Black Thing” in Garmanchma. It is especially funny and taxing when the person calling you the white thing corrects you by saying he should be called a black person.

Does a rose by any other name not smell as sweet? Should I not be concerned with how people refer to me? Is this discussion of the ill effects of racial monikers merely a reaction to my politically correct, liberally biased education that I received at the communist ivory tower known as the University of Illinois. (sarcasm)
The truth is that I sleep well at night, so far it has not become an all consuming issue. It should be noted, that being described as something that you take no pride in - does, in fact, suck; it does not role off your back and you really want people to understand that there is a much better or more accurate description that can suffice.

Which brings me to the dance competition. The Tour de Faso, ended in my hometown of Fada. To celebrate the end of the Bicycle race, there was a huge concert/party with nearly 7000 people in attendance. There were also a dance competition and three other volunteers who knew of my reputation for sensational dance moves and an insatiable appetite for dance-offs. So, being white in an all black country it was easy to get into the competition. I climbed up a short flight of stairs onto the back of the stage. The Stage was the type you might find at the Heart of Illinois Fair. There was an adjoining trailer that I sat in before my big moment. It had some lovely wood paneling and I had a wonderful conversation with Miss Ouagadougou and the other 17 spokesgirls I was sitting with. When I was introduced, I said I was the American representing for my home sector - sector 1…

I danced like I never danced before, I pulled out all the stops and completely beat my opponent in the hip hop portion of the competition. Next, we danced in an African Style,… which he won, and for a tie breaker there was were several competitions which culminated in a contest to see who could kiss their spokesgirl the most times on the check. Alas, my French was not all that fluent at the time and I mistook him for saying change clothes. Luckily I started with my shoes.
It is funny when I think of the confusion that must have passed through the audience. “I know he is American, but why must he remove his shoes”, one might say.
So I won second place, a tee shirt and a baseball cap. The story does have a happy ending and it does bring the seemingly unrelated first half of this entry together: I made an impression on my community; and now children, adolescents, the learned and the old often replace the racial monikers with the word American. This suits me well.

2005-10-18T06:41:00.000-07:00

My 11 year old brother reading a Time magazine. Subject: The average life of a 13 year old

2005-10-18T06:39:00.000-07:00

my home... for the first 3 months

2005-10-18T06:37:00.000-07:00

My little brother Ooda

2005-10-18T06:35:00.000-07:00

Sandy Sunset

2005-10-18T06:33:00.000-07:00

a tree in Africa

2005-10-18T06:31:00.000-07:00

me and my brother

Entry #5 Lets get ready to rumble

2005-10-18T05:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Entry #4 Bullet Proof

2005-10-18T05:23:00.000-07:00

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.

Entry 3: September 6th 2005

2005-09-11T06:24:00.000-07:00

The first month flew by with remarkable speed. A lot of the initial shock and wonder has worn off. I am still amazed each day by something I have never seen before, but I feel much more comfortable and at home. Moreover, some of the things that would have seemed disgusting or strange on August 1st have now become normal and commonplace and actually quite good. (I am referring to things like rabbit soup, latrines and bugs). There is time to read, listen to music, write and actually be productive. I find all these activities to be superior to watching meaningless Television; though, I am unsure that if I were to return to the States that my love for TV would be fundamentally. I really don’t miss anything on television accept for college and professional Football. It would be nice to keep up on the Cardinals World Series chances, and it was always nice to actually have the news at your fingertips. Other than these things I think life is better without watching the latest episode of “Real World Road Rules Challenge”. It should be made clear that I and most other volunteers crave and speak wistfully about the glorious aspects of western culture. Great food, Movies, Concerts, TV, etc. etc., the list goes on and on. I think the wait will make these things that much better.

P.S. I am going to try to upload pictures later this week. I found out what city I will be living in for the next two years and I am initially optimistic about my chances of staying in closer communication with everyone in th States.

Entry #2: The Birthday Chicken – August 13th, 2005

2005-09-11T06:22:00.000-07:00

Today was the first of three birthdays that will be spent in Burkina Faso. It had easily won the title for most unique birthday before 1pm. I started my birthday by participating in a Muslim Baptism. (This was my first) I then had a French lesson under a massive Karite tree. We conjugated verbs and learned to negotiate with street vendors in front of a crowd of 30 children. It should be noted that it is hard to do anything without an audience of 30 children, because... well, this country has a bunch of kids. After we completed the lesson I sat in the shade and drank tea with my instructor and my friends Kevin and Diego. My instructor pulled out his cassette player and we listened to Dire Straights and Bob Marley as we told jokes and took our siesta.
As I relaxed I watched the children play in trash and animal waste. I am sure this might sound revolting to anyone who has not seen kids play in trash and waste - and it is in fact quite gross the first time you see it. But it is like so many things here, you see these kids with open sores, bloated stomachs, skinny legs, playing in filth as they are covered in flies and your initial reaction is to only see the horror of the situation. While this is very bad and there are very real very negative consequences to this kind of squalor it is also true that these are some of the happiest kids you have ever seen. In this moment they are playing, having fun and generally content. The children and Burkinabe in general don’t need sympathy and charity exclusively; they need to develop a better way of living that is not tied exclusively to money and aid. Bad times are bad but you can be content and improve the standard of living at the same time. It is strange to compare what makes a ten year old boy content here with what it takes in the States. In this regard it is tough to say we are more humble or content.
After our class was finished I was given a chicken by a classmates host father. I walked two miles carrying a chicken by its legs. When we reached my friends house we pulled out our space age technology of I-PODS, I-TRIPS and Shortwave radios. Within two minutes we had an audience of fifty 3-15 year olds at our gate. We had a kid fetch us two beers a piece and got ready for our chicken dinner, (which was the first of many to come). When it was time to kill the chicken I felt it was my obligation to prepare the chicken since it was my Birthday. My Burkinabe friend twisted the chicken’s wings behind it back, stepped on its feet and showed me the neck so I could kill the chicken in a way that is kosher with Muslim practices. As I pulled out my Swiss Army Knife my adrenaline raised a little, then with three clean strokes, I decapitated the chicken. I thought this was the standard practice for killing chickens but apparently this was some kind of feat because they do not usually remove the head. They generally use knifes that are not especially sharp, and it is something they just don’t do. After we all had a good laugh at my expense we began to prepare the chicken.
This was just another one of the surreal experiences that have become so commonplace. You have so much time to think that you are prone to introspection and then you realize you are sitting in the middle of Africa under the most beautiful night sky you have ever seen, you are drinking beer and eating chicken in front of a crowd of 50 children and you are listening to the latest hip hop on technology that is 30 years ahead of closest thing in the village. Once you start showing the kids how to do the “Robot” and the “Harlem Shake” it just gets plain weird.
On the way home from the fun birthday party we began to hear a heavy drum beat and chanting. Upon further inspection we came upon a Protestant Church. It was about 9:30 at night and the room was filled with… (What else?) children. The chorus director was the lone adult who was able to make these kids sing and dance with remarkable precision and clarity. The church was lit with one simple lantern for the entire choir. The modest confines in no way reflected the performance that we were given. These kids were skilled and it was especially moving to see people singing about being thankful for everything they have been given while singing in such a simple setting. It was a wonderful conclusion to the most surreal birthday that I have ever experienced.

Entry #1: Meeting the Parents – August 11th, 2005

2005-09-11T06:18:00.000-07:00

I think today was the first day that I truly saw the gritty side of Africa. To be sure, the hotels in Ouagadougou are gritty by American standards but there are toilets, running water and air conditioning. The Peace Corps is pretty clever in the way that they wean you off the luxuries that we have become so accustomed to in the United States. The first night was spent in something equivalent to one of the worst youth hostels in a bad part of New York City. The next week was spent in an African “motel”. Today, I moved to the village with six other Americans and the amenities that so flippantly dismissed in Ouaga decidedly do not exist in village. We will be living in a village of 5,000 people for the next three months and I will have my very own host family. Today there was a ceremony where we were matched with our host family. It was a somewhat strange process because we sat across from a panel of six Burkinabe men who had just come from their jobs (mainly cultivating) to pick up their new American sons and daughters.
My Dad was excited to meet me though there was little conversation on account that he speaks neither English nor French and I don’t speak the local language of Moree. The absence of conversation or any communication beyond hand signals was a trend that lasted throughout the rest of the night because I live in a family with exactly zero French speakers. If the events of my first night in village are any indication of things to come over the next two years it would be euphemistic to say that I will build character…
As I sat in my cramped one room mud hut, I sweat like I have never sweat before. It was almost like I was living in a tin roofed mud hut in Africa. As I sat sweating profusely over my piping hot dinner of Spaghetti and dirt, my brother brought in my kerosene lantern. For those of you not familiar with kerosene lanterns they give off light by burning oil. This is nice for staring at the dirt in you pasta but there is also a downside, because the lantern gives off heat. This makes matters worse if you are perspiring at an uncontrollable rate. When you add in the onset of diarrhea and your first experience with an African latrine – you have a nice little night planned for yourself.
I was feeling sorry for myself as I ran between the latrine and my sauna, but then I turned off the lantern, acclimated to the heat and fell asleep. As I was sleeping a funny thing happened: my brother entered my room lit the lantern and closed the heavy wooden door. When you wake up to this scene you think it is some type of sick practical joke. When it happens two more times the same night you cannot help but laugh at yourself and the absurdity of it all. My family is nice, incredibly hospitable and wants nothing more than for me to be happy and in time I am sure that will be the case.

Are You Excited?

2005-07-26T22:58:00.000-07:00

There are now three days left until I leave for Philadelphia. It is three short days in the city of Brotherly Love where I will get my fill of Yellow Fever and Malaria Vaccines, and meet my fellow volunteers. Leaving Peoria, the Midwest, and the general American culture is rapidly becoming more of a reality; and while I become a bit nostalgic for all these things that I love and make my life comfortable, it is my family and friends that I try to cherish the most in these last several days. Aside from all the sentimental mush that holds a place in my mind, there has been a funny/awkward situation that has been repeating quite frequently within the past week. To be truthful this situation has been happening since mid - January, though it has really exploded within the last 12 days as I have been a man about town on the Peoria social scene.

The situation goes as follows:
I am sitting at the bar of one of Peoria's most exclusive 19 and up drinking establishments. As I fix my ascot and order another snifter of Grand Mariner, DJ Jonathan Fienstien drops track #5 from "Now That's What I Call Music #18" After a spell of popping and locking, I run into an old friend from High school that I have not seen for a while.(The period of time ranges anywhere from 1- 4 years.) I begin by making small talk but the problem with small talk is that it generally leads to questions about future plans/what are you doing now. I feel a little bashful in this situation because I know what is coming next. They ask me what I am doing after graduation and then, WHHAAAP! - The trap has been sprung, breaking their leg and pinning them into a conversation about .... me. While I can show flashes of arrogance (i.e - dedicating a blog to myself, and asking others to read it) I don't want to be the focal point of conversation for an extra ordinary amount of time. We all know people who know no other conversation topic than themselves, and let's face it - we talk about them behind their backs. In any regard, I try to end the conversation when they ask me, "Are you excited?" I certainly am, for many obvious reasons, but when you hear this question enough you try to think of funny/disappointing responses - tell me if this one works well:

" Whatever..... It's a job."