to young and old meek and the bold

Happy Christmas from Burkina Faso! The place where it always feels like summer and there's no air conditioner.

However, I've had the illusion of a cold winter during the nights when I'm nestled in my bed and have visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. It's been cold during the night for the past three weeks or so, and I've been keeping myself warm with two pagnes as sheets and sockies on my feet. And when I'm biking to school a little before 7 in the morning, the breeze makes my toes freeze! But by the time 8 A.M. rolls around, the sweat makes its reappearance. At least it does with me. But most of the Burkinabe are wearing heavy winter jackets, beanies and gloves until 10 A.M. I suppose this is the unofficial "winter" season, though Burkina really only has two seasons: the hot hot hot and the rainy.

In honor of Christmas, I'm reading A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, for the first time. I know I probably should have read it earlier in life (Mom always puts her copy with the lovely cover on the coffee table when we put out the Christmas decorations), but somehow I seemed to keep myself occupied during this glorious season with other choses a faire--like making cookies, wrapping presents, decorating the tree, rewatching the great Christmas cartoons, listening to holiday music, etc. Here in Burkina I'm able to listen to Chirstmas music. But while I'm listening to The Little Drummer Boy and simulataneously yelling at kids to stop sifting through my trash and at those damn goats to stop eating my mango tree, I somehow manage to lose that Christmas feeling.

So now I have A Christmas Carol, courtesy of Kindle. It was a delightful read, and I was impressed how the Disney version (the only version of A Christmas Carol I've known until now) was pretty true to Dickens' original, save for the swapping of humans with farm animals.

Well, the first trimester of school is finished. This year I'm a PP (a Professeur Principal) for one of the ten classes at my school. My responsibilities are as follows: I must calculate the overall grades for this one class, not just in my subject area, and I have to rank the students and figure out which students should not return for the upcoming trimester. I then voice my findings at the conseil, the meeting where students' fates are decided. Dun Dun Dun! I'm also in charge of disciplining the students in this one class, or at least I have to be present at disciplinary meetings. But that hasn't been necessary...yet. Dun dun dun!

Anywho, calculating grades was fun. It would've been even more fun if I had Excel on my computer. As it is, I was cheap and I didn't purchase the Microsoft package when I bought my laptop in August. But I was able to calculate grades and averages using the nifty calculator on my cell phone. I did have to postpone calculations for a few hours when my phone died and I brought it into town to be solar charged. But by golly I got it done!

And I left most of my students in a chipper mood for Noel because they recently received letters from my correspondent in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Each student who wrote a letter in October received a letter from Madame G.L.'s French students. Most of her students attached pictures of themselves or eye-catching magazine articles. Mom! There were several football attachments, and quite a few Eagles fans! Not surprising considering the location of Doylestown, but splendid nonetheless. And now my Burkinabe students will support the Philadelphia Eagles, even if don't completely understand what American football is. One picture attachment that I found particularly cool was a set of pictures from what I believe to be National Geographic, featuring migration patterns of birds and buffalo. My students were so indescribably happy with the letters they received--I don't think that they could believe their luck. It certainly was something to see.

To receive a letter and a picture from someone in a different country is the ultimate Christmas present to them. How many Americans can say that?
I helped my students decipher the English sections of the letters they received. I had to describe skiing, horsebackriding and cheerleading (they got a kick out of my "woo woo!" impression. I apologize to all the cheerleaders out there) and pizza (they were not impressed with this dish). I also helped them pronounce their correspondents' names and explained that unlike in Burkina, we write and say our prenames before our family names.

I had a hell of a time trying to explain what a park is, though. That one's a stumper. At first my students thought that a "park" meant a "parking lot." Then I said that a park was like a zoo but without the animals, unless you count the screaming kids. That didn't register too well. So I had to go to the basics. I said that a park had grass, trees and flowers. You can go there to sit and relax. There is room to play football, and sometimes there's these contraptions that you can spin around on (merry-go-round) or swoosh back and forth through the air (swings). I lost them after football, but I think they got the general idea.

I had my students write second letters (written in French, a little in English and a little in their local language!) and I am just about to mail them. I also took individual pictures of each of them with my digital camera, which I'll upload and send the link to Robi. Also, with the help of Brenda who will create a diversion, I'm hoping to be able to take some pictures of the Bouroum-Bouroum marche without getting attacked. So I'll be uploading those as well, just so Robi's students can get an idea of what my students' lives are like.

Okay, I'm done for now. I hope everyone is enjoying the holidays and eating lots of delectable delights! Matt, Remus or Nathan: One of you must watch the original version of Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and then you must tell me all about it.

Merry Christmas!

Well Hell's Bells. What you trying to sell?

They say brown liquor make you sleep all right. Cocaine make you grind your teeth all night.

I easily forgive grammatical errors in songs if I very much adore the song. And Hell's Bells by Cary Ann Hearst is adored. Seeing as how I don't have a taste for brown liquor or cocaine, I can't relate to their purported effects on the body. But I can deduce that brown liquor, being a depressant, would make a person sleep like a baby. I have no such insights to draw on the effects of cocaine on teeth grinding. Interesting Ms. Hearst, very interesting.

Apparently I used to grind my teeth when I was younger, though it wasn't brought on by cocaine usage. Just a phase perhaps. I know I used to grind my teeth because Remus and I shared a room until I was 16, and she was quite annoyed with my sleeping habits. I breathed too loud, I grinded my teeth, I ignored Remus when she yelled at me to get up. Silly Remus. Anywho, I used to grind my teeth but now I do not. That is all.

This past week we celebrated Tabaski. We celebrate Abraham's offering of his son Isaac (if I were Isaac I'd be a bit peeved at having daddy making a sacrifice out of me) by making our own offering of sheep. I don't much like euphemisms. Sheep were slaughtered left and right, they were cooked, and then subsequently eaten by me. It was delicious. Being a sheep on Tabaski is kind of like being a turkey on Thanksgiving. After the feasting I returned to my house. As I dismounted my bike I heard a quiet shuffling noise behind me. I turned. There were two sheep hiding out in my chicken coop. They escaped. I told them they could hang out with me for the rest of the day, but they baaahed at me and ran out of my courtyard.

I often have sheep with my rice in peanut sauce. Sometimes I just have the rice and peanut sauce if the sheep are lucky. I eat at a buvette in town owned by a woman named Elise. I like Elise a lot--she makes me chuckle and she lets me leave my bike with her when I go to Gaoua or Diebougou (I have to bike 2 km into town from my house to catch the bus). Elise has a little two-year-old girl named Leti who is only now starting to like me. She was always so wary of me before, but now when she sees me she giggles and smiles. When she sees my sitemate Tyler she is stony-faced and she starts to cry if Tyler comes anywhere near her. Elise tells me it's Tyler's hair that scares her, which is funny considering Tyler is darker in color and I'm the huge white girl. I'd bet that my pale skin and mousy brown hair would be more foreign to Leti than Tyler's full head of black hair, but that's not the case. Curious.

Some parents tell their kids that us whities are going to eat them. Cruel, you think? More amusing than anything else. For example, when eggs are in season (they aren't right now) I eat omelets at this table owned by a nice man with twin boys. The boys used to be deathly afraid of me because they thought that I'd eat them. But it's been over a year and I still haven't made my move, so now they approach me and touch me all the time. And they talk. Oh the talking. And the drool and the spittle and then they touch me. I think I prefer the days when they feared me.

The twins' mother is actually a student of mine. She's in my English class and like most female students, she rarely speaks up in class. It's a little strange having her as a student because the previous year I've been calling her "Madam" and she's made me food and I've thought of her as my elder even though she may be about my age or younger. It's probably the whole Mom-thing and running a business-thing. She seemed older somehow. But now she's my student and I've taken on the elder role. It's just a little awkward I guess, but I'm slowly getting over it. I just hope that she never does anything for which I'll have to reprimand her--my favorite form of punishment is having students sit on the floor--and I don't want to have to do that to my elder. But I will if she forces me.

Anywho, it's Ibe's birthday and I'm in Gaoua to celebrate with him. I made him a card, treated him to a lunch of petit pois and coke (a-cola that is) and bought him some American movies dubbed in French. I'm hoping he likes Star Wars with the koalas.

For tomorrow: Happy Birthday, Silly Matt! And Jillian too!

i am the one hiding under your bed (this is halloween, yo)

I had an interesting conversation with the mayor of my village a little while ago. We were sitting at different tables at the local buvette drinking beverages--a coke for me and for him a blend of sprite and beer (several shades of nasty in my opinion, but to each his own). When the night reached the late hour of 7:30 I decided that I needed to go to bedfordshire. But before I could get up to leave, the mayor hollered over (as we were conversing across several tables) that I should pay for his bill as well as my own. I replied with the usual "Mais Monsieur, je suis une volontaire. Je n'ai pas beaucoup d'argent." Which I suppose isn't entirely true since the Peace Corps provides its volunteers with more than enough funds to get by each month. But I prefer to buy drinks for the people who don't ask for them, and especially for those who can't afford them on a regular basis.

Anywho, the mayor laughed at my reply and then he explained to me why I as a volunteer should pay for his drinks. The following is a summary of his lecture and is also insight into the Burkinabe social system: I am a volunteer. The word "volunteer" means that I work without pay and that perhaps I don't have a lot of money to blow. I am a poor child with only a small amount of money to offer. So I should give all or almost all of my money away to someone who needs it more than I do. I should pay for the mayor's drink because I don't have a lot of money to use in the first place. [Okay. Here I asked if a person with more money who can afford to give it away can pay for his drink.] No! Having someone with a lot of money to burn should not pay for his drink because it would mean nothing. There's no sacrifice involved. It's not noble.

The example he used was Bill Gates. The mayor wouldn't want Bill Gates to pay for his drink because it would come as no loss to good ol' Bill to spend that money. He said something along the lines of, "A person who has $10 to his name should give $5 or more of it away to someone who has $0." This person with $10 has a good heart because he gives away what little he has to help someone who's just a little more sorry than he is. But a person with a million buckaroos wouldn't miss the 700 CFA (I apologize for mixing currencies) he'd spend on a sprite/beer cocktail for the mayor. It would be like nothing at all to the millionaire. In the case of the millionaire, there's no test of goodness (is that a word? I'm losing my ability to speak the English). There's no helping your fellow man at your own demise. The mayor has informed me that the test of a truly good person is whether he'll give all his money away. I'm talking ALL of it. Or at the very least, as much as you could give away to be at the same level of poverty as the person you were aiming to help.

To make a long story short: I should pay for the mayor's drink. Bill Gates shouldn't.

After this conversation I really got to thinking about life here in Burkina Faso and the abject poverty and the fact that we're either the 2nd or the 7th poorest country in the nation. My apologies--I'm not certain which it is.
The mayor is not the only one in Burkina Faso who believes that men, women and children should give their earnings away to those who are more desperate. Women walk miles to the market, sell their goods and then give the money to the family chief who uses it as he sees fit. Now you should understand the differences between families here in Burkina and those in the U.S. The families here are huge, absolutely gargantuan. Aunts, uncles, cousins (even distant ones who live far away in Ouaga or Cote d'Ivoire) are all referred to as brothers or sisters and are treated as such; for some families there are several wives and lots of kiddies. We're talking tons of people in each family, and the breadwinners are expected to support the entire family, even the distant cousins and even the ones they don't like too much. It's an obligation. So when you make money, you don't keep it for yourself and your own (what we probably call a nuclear) family. You give it to the head of the entire family and it's divided to support everybody.

Now I understand that it's expected of the Burkinabe to give themselves for the "greater good" and to work for those who can't support themselves. But I wouldn't call it noble. I think a better word for it is just plain sacrifice. Or maybe it's just leveling the playing field so that everyone has the same amount of income and no one has too much. Every person is poor, give or take a few degrees (the difference between market sellers and teachers, perhaps). Or maybe it's just socialism in the extreme. The ones with the ability and the intelligence to make money and settle themselves comfortably in a home with their nuclear family can't do it if it means the whole entire family can't live in the same degree of comfort.
So it goes, almost everyone in Burkina is poor. Or at least they're not comfortable in the way that I have been comfortable my entire life, thanks to my parents and thanks to the country I grew up in. The Burkinabe are only as comfortable as their neighbors. Here in Burkina, there is electricity in only a few places, there's no good waste management system and no clean water which means that there's more disease and death and either no resources for medical care or no money to pay for it. There's little money to send kids to school through university and very few role models to help them to realize the possibilities. There are few who can inspire these kids to want anything more than what they already have.

And that's considered normal. And it's not my place to change what doesn't want to be changed. I only offer my support where it's needed and then I move on to the next. But this conversation with my mayor really opened up my eyes to the Burkinabe psyche. Self-sacrifice is lauded and any form of selfishness is simply unheard of.

I don't get it. I can't see that it helps anything. But then again, I'm a pretty selfish person.

somewhere a clock is ticking

That somewhere isn't in Burkina Faso on my right wrist. My battery died. I was hoping it would last another year, but alas. I guess two years was the battery life. You were right, Mom. I should've fixed it while I was home. Boo. No bueno for me.

So scratch what I said last time about teaching English this year. No English. No Billy Joel’s “For the Longest Time” and no impressing the students with my dulcet tones. Well I suppose I could still sing, or hum at the very least.

We had to change the school schedule four times. That’s 4x 6 hours = 24 hours of discussing which teacher will be teaching which class at what time. Very tedious indeed. Though here’s an interesting side note: At the third rescheduling, which occurred last Saturday, I was asked to come to the school to work out my classes. When I arrived only the director and the male teachers were in the room, but I didn’t think much of it so I just plopped myself down in a seat and took out my notebook with the blue whales on it. Time to begin.

Oh no no. I was asked to leave the room and go across the school grounds to one of my female colleague’s house. I asked why, and the director responded that all the ladies needed to cook the chickens for the meal that night while the men sorted out the schedule. I don’t cook. Everyone knows I don’t cook. But I waddled my way over to the house where 10 dead chickens were waiting to be plucked. I didn’t pluck. Instead I peeled onions and garlic and I chatted with the women while the men did the heavy lifting in the salle de professeurs. I was fascinated by the chicken preparations though. The plucking and the removing of organs. I especially liked the intestines. But for most of the three hours I was there I mainly just sat and watched because the women wouldn’t let me do anything other than peel vegetables.

We the Women had to cook last Saturday in preparation for the feast that night celebrating the beginning of the school year. The event was attended by Bouroum-Bouroum’s mayor and all the teachers at the CEG. And Tinkerbell. Tinkerbelle is one of my village’s foule or crazy person. She’s not really crazy, though, just a little odd. She wears strips of pagne for a skirt (hence the name), is always topless, and wears a calabash on her head. She’s my favorite foule because she always gives me a warm welcome and she likes to build fires. She attended the dinner from a distance, but she was always within sight waving enthusiastically at me. The chicken was delicious.

I have had a bat living in my house for about a week now. He flies about from room to room at night and he doesn’t make a peep during the day. I just hope he doesn’t crap on me or touch me, ever. He’s a fast bugger and he doesn’t seem to want to leave just yet (I’ve opened my door but he ignores the exit). I’ll just have to wait it out it seems.

School started this past week. On the fourth try it was decided that I will teach three math classes. We were still rearranging the schedule on Monday and students were still lined up on Friday outside the director’s office hoping to register, so not much teaching was done this week. Instead I played the KenKen math game (thanks Mom!) with my students and I had each of them write a letter to send to students at a middle school in Doylestown, PA. I just had the students introduce themselves and describe what activities or work they do, what languages they speak, etc. Most of the letters are the same and I had a hell of a time trying to get more than one-word answers out of them. The reply I got to the question, “What do you like about living in Burkina Faso” was “because I was born here.” That’s lame. There’s very little creative or individual thought among these kids, so I’m hoping that the letters they’ll receive from the American students will inspire more in-depth and original responses the next time around.

Hmm, what else? The boutique where I always get my cokes didn’t have any change one day and I only had a 10 mille note on me, so I just gave George the 10 mille and now we keep a record of how many cokes I drink at the rate of 400 CFA/coke. I can get 25 cokes for 10 mille and it’s a sweet deal with giving George 10 mille upfront because now I never have to worry about change. Magnificent.

folded folded folded folded

Howdy ya’ll! I’m back in Burkina. That means that I am now without green chile, ice cream, enchiladas, sushi, cold drinks, strawberries and raspberries, pretzels from that one sports bar, bowling, drinking from the tap without worrying about giardia, diet coke, slushies, turkey, chicken, steak, wheat bread, pizza from Saggio’s, banana drop cookies, chips and salsa, salad (bet you didn’t expect that one from me), the Owl Café and/or Route 66 Diner, oatmeal squares, Costco, cheetos, string cheese, strawberry yogurt, adobe bars, and lots of other goodies.

Just a quick recap of the last two weeks:

I was prepared to be utterly depressed when I came back from glorious New Mexico, so much so that when I actually returned it wasn’t too bad. I wasn’t really depressed and I haven’t been sick. And I’ve been doing things at site so it’s not like I’ve been twiddling my thumbs.

I’ve met Jillian’s GEE replacement, my new sitemate. Her name is Tyler (aka Brenda) and she comes from Los Angeles but went to college in Pennsylvania. Some small liberal arts college (like me!) in the middle of the state. Guess what? She doesn’t have white skin or brown hair. She’s the perfect replacement because all Bouroum-Bouroum has ever seen has been white girls with brown hair. Poor Tyler. She’s had to deal with Burkinabe telling her that she doesn’t look like the typical American. Well no wonder they think that! People who don’t know me still call me Colleen or Jillian when they see me passing by on my velo. But now BrBr has Tyler and a better understanding of how different Americans can be from one another.

I’ve also met with my director and teachers within the last week or so. When they first saw me, they all exclaimed “Ah! Tu as grosse!” They’re telling me that I’ve gained weight. Yes, thank you, so kind of you to let me know. They congratulate me on it, actually. Saying that they prefer me like this because I’m more en forme. Go figure.

My classes this year: I’ll be teaching two math classes (one 4eme and one 5eme) and one English class (5eme). I have no idea how to teach English. And right now my director is out of village and he’s the only one who has access to the textbooks. So I have to wait until he returns before I can start lesson planning. But I’m interested in teaching my students songs. For one, I can impress them with my awesome singing abilities and two, it’s a fun way to familiarize oneself with language. But it’s imperative that I only teach my students songs that are grammatically correct. Otherwise I’d be teaching them incorrect English and that would be no bueno. No bueno! Tyler suggested I try Billy Joel’s “For the Longest Time”. A great tune and a perfect example of the conditional tense! Oh wait, I believe it’s conditional. I really need that English textbook.

And for those of you who have been informed of the creeper situation of July, you’ll be glad to know that the creeper is no longer creeping. He no longer calls or texts, but he does continue to buy me cokes. And I simply cannot turn those down because it’s rude and I love cokes. But all is well in the neighborhood.

I’ve realized that I have about 10 months left as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Cool beans.

Les Photos

Here are the links to my pictures from Burkina Faso, Mali and South Africa:

BURKINA FASO:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2062076&id=17700354&l=5efcf0bf8e

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2062093&id=17700354&l=c7096266a9

MALI:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2062072&id=17700354&l=21d22792f9

SOUTH AFRICA:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2062024&id=17700354&l=f071a04754

In Albuquerque...

And it is glorious!

not so afar

Oh my, August is here! August means green chile, ice cream, enchiladas, sushi, cold drinks, strawberries and raspberries, pretzels from that one sports bar, bowling, drinking from the tap without worrying about giardia, diet coke, slushies, turkey, chicken, steak, wheat bread, pizza from Saggio’s, banana drop cookies, chips and salsa, salad (bet you didn’t expect that one from me), the Owl Café and/or Route 66 Diner, oatmeal squares, Costco, cheetos, string cheese, strawberry yogurt, adobe bars, and lots of other goodies. I intend on gaining 30 pounds while I’m home.

August also means seeing my family again (with the exception of Dad, Shelly and Nathan—I love and miss you!) after 14 months. I’m so excited to see you! And of course, my animals: Waketa, Quasita, Susan and Kermita.

Alrighty then, moving on.

Last Saturday was Jillian and Ibe’s wedding, and it was a spectacular mix of American and Burkinabè culture. Jillian already had her mosque wedding a few weeks ago for Ibe’s family—a ten-hour fete of dancing, eating, and of marrying the two families. Jillian wore a traditional boubou and covered her head and mouth. That wedding wasn’t so much about Jillian and Ibe, but rather it celebrated the union of their two families. So for her official wedding—the one that’s recognized by Burkina and the U.S.—Jillian wanted it to be about her and Ibe. Understandably.

Jillian had a white dress made and Ibe a tux. The bouquet was thrown, the garter was removed, confetti was showered upon the happy couple. That part was actually quite amusing. Jillian and I made little bundles of shredded paper wrapped in mosquito netting for the confetti throwing, and then Emma and I passed them out before the start of the ceremony. No explanation necessary for the Americans who attended, but it was a little tricky trying to explain the purpose of the confetti to some Burkinabè. But it all worked out, and it was hilarious as some guests walked over to Jillian and Ibe and simply dumped the confetti right on top of their heads. Jillian told me later that she had a hell of a time trying to remove all the paper from her hair. I’m just grateful that no one threw the bundles at them—the confetti was at least removed from the netting before Jillian and Ibe were assaulted.

Typically the actual marriage ceremony has to take place inside the mayor’s office. But the interior design of such offices aren’t exactly aesthetically pleasing, so Jillian requested and argued for her wedding to be just outside the mayor’s office. And so Jillian and Ibe had an outdoor wedding that overlooked the hills of Gaoua. Under a champagne-colored canopy fashioned using pieces of wood and ribbon (we found all the materials in Gaoua!), Jillian and Ibe were married with Jenny and Issa as their witnesses. The guests sat under a larger striped tent that reminded me of the circus. I quite liked it! The morning of the wedding a few of us went to the mayor’s office to make sure Jillian had an aisle to walk down (by the end of the ceremony there was no longer an aisle. Not too surprising.) and to attach balloons to the wedding tent. When we arrived we saw men from the prison clearing the area for us (snakes are no bueno) and singing tunes while they worked. Ibe was there too, helping to set up. Poor kid, he looked exhausted. When we argued with him that the tent had to look a certain way or that one of the sticks of wood was lopsided, he’d sigh good-naturedly and say, “Oh, les americains…”

For the wedding Jillian selected a pagne for the guests to wear if they so desired. Lots of people had complets or boubous made with this pagne, and I even had a dress made. I promise to post pictures eventually. Since I was with Jillian a few days before the wedding, I had jabe done on my feet. I believe that this is traditionally a Muslim custom, but really anyone can have it done in celebration of a wedding. Designs are made on the feet and/or hands using tape and are then subsequently stained with ash. Emma, Jenny, Colleen and I have triangles on the tops of out feet and zebra-like stripes on our toes. Jillian has a more intricate flower and vine design on both her hands and feet, and it turned out just lovely. Now I’m just wondering how long this stuff is going to stay on my feet. Maybe I should get a pedicure when I’m home, though I don’t know if anyone will want to touch my feet. At least my toenail’s grown back.

The reception was held at one of Gaoua’s buvettes; the morning of the wedding we decorated it with balloons and streamers. Emma and I tried to cover up with balloons a slaughtered chicken that was painted on one of the walls. Unfortunately some of the balloons popped, leaving a half-decapitated chicken head in view. Tons of people came to the reception, lots of them uninvited children. But the owner of the buvette chased them out with a huge stick. Oh well, that’s Burkina. But the reception was a nice mix of Burkinabè and American music, so everyone got up to dance.

It was such a nice wedding and I’m very happy for Jillian and Ibe. Mazal tov!

And it’s likely that I’ll be attending at least another Burkinabè/American wedding before my service is over. But it won’t be my own.

Nuevo Mexico in one week!

South Africa

I’m on my back to Burkina after a week in South Africa. As I’m writing this I’m sitting on a plane to Accra. I’m seeing a lot of Ghana natives on this flight (naturally) and boy is it a sad day for them. Yesterday Ghana lost to Uruguay in a shoot-out; it was an exciting game, but after Gyan missed the penalty shot in OT, forcing the game to be decided by five pk’s, I was pretty certain that Ghana would lose. They were too jittery and hyped-up, whereas the Uruguay team was calm and collected. It’s easier to control and guide your shots when you’re calm and collected. So Ghana lost, and the Ghanaians (and practically all of Africa) are le sad. It’s hard to listen to my iPod while all around me my fellow Ghanaian neighbors are arguing loudly about the game.

Anywho, South Africa! What an amazing week! Thank you so much, Dad, for a spectacular vacation; it was great seeing you!

I arrived in Johannesburg around 5 AM and took the Gautrain (commissioned solely for the World Cup) to Sandton. Dad and I stayed at Sandton Towers Intercontinental, a hotel I highly recommend. Though considering where I’ve lived the past year I’m sure I’d also highly recommend a Motel 6 in Compton. I arrived and was given orange juice and a warm towel, how lovely! While I waited for Dad to arrive I went to the shopping center connected to our hotel through a skywalk. Now I know what volunteers (who’ve returned to the States or somewhere that’s not Burkina) mean when they say they were overwhelmed by all the “stuff.” I stood outside what looked like an upscale grocery store and stared in through a window until a guard approached me and told me that if I desired it, I could actually go into the store. I must’ve been standing there for a while with my mouth hanging open. I didn’t go into the store; I’m saving my grocery shopping experience for when I’m in Albuquerque in August. Costco, here I come!

Anywho, I walked through this shopping center in Joburg feeling somewhat detached from it. Oh Burkina, what have you done to me? The first thing I bought was a pre-made sandwich of turkey, ham, salami, cheese, tomatoes and cucumbers on ciabatta bread, and it was the best darn sandwich I’ve tasted. Dad scoffed at my pre-made sandwich when I told him about it, but I told him that my food standards are impossibly low. Another exciting purchase I made was a bra. The clasps on my old ones broke off a while back, and so I’ve been holding them together with safety pins. But no more!

My first night in Jo’burg Dad and I met up with some of Dad’s South African attorney buddies (who were incredibly nice and funny) for dinner. I had sushi and I watched USA lose to Ghana. The important part here is that I had sushi! California rolls, salmon, tuna, crab. And to top it all off I had chocolate mousse and brownies for dessert. At night I slept on clouds. It was a warm heaven of fluffy white pillows and high-thread count sheets, which is quite the change from my sweating the night away in Burkina on my lipico (think lawn chair). And thank goodness the airline gave Dad earplugs in business class. The whole sleeping on a bed of clouds experience would have been dampened by all the loud snoring. Love you, Dad!

Sunday brought us the Argentina vs Mexico game at Soccer City Stadium. The stadium was beautiful and our seats were great. From the outside the stadium looked huge, but inside it was actually quite cozy. Dad and I were seated next to Mexico fans, and I found myself cheering for Mexico alongside them. They were the underdogs and there were a lot more Argentina fans present. By the way, Dad and I were almost directly in line with the goal line and we saw Tevez when he scored that offsides goal. Holy frijoles he was off by a mile! I thought that I’d be annoyed by all the noise of the vuvuzelas (because on TV the noise is horrendous), but inside the stadium the vuvuzelas are a part of the game. I didn’t mind them at all, and I even considered buying one. However, I came to my senses. And I thank the soccer gods for not seating a person strapped with one directly behind me, because then I’d probably feel a lot different about them.

Before I forget, here’s a fun odd fact: South Africans call traffic lights “robots.” When I asked for directions to the hotel, I was told to “turn left at the second robot.” Robot is a cooler name than traffic light.

Monday morning Dad and I took a plane to Nelspruit, which is about an hour east of Jo’burg. Dad scheduled a safari for us in Kruger National Park at Inyati Private Game Reserve. Again, I highly recommend this place, as does Dad’s Capetownian colleague. So I was back in the bush, but it was a different kind of bush. While driving to Inyati we were greeted by a troupe of elephants and we had to wait for Mom Elephant to finish eating and move off the road before we could continue on our way. Inyati is placed smack dab in the middle of Kruger National Park and has 11 “huts.” A hut to me means a bare mudbrick or concrete house with a shower and a lovely latrine, complete only with cockroach companions. But an Inyati hut means furnished rooms with electricity and running water, with tiled floors and thick rugs and a cleaning service, with chocolates on your pillow and heating pads to warm the beds. No sign of cockroaches or even mosquitoes, because it’s winter there. Yup, I much prefer Inyati’s definition of “hut.” Thry did have an outdoor shower (in addition to the indoor one), but I didn’t use it because it was freezing. I was so cold and oh so very happy about it! Temperatures in the 60’s—what a blessing!

There were eight people in our safari excursion group, including Dad and me. Our fearless tracker was Nelson, who sat on a seat that looked like an appendage off the hood of the car; and out knowledgeable guide was Piet. These guys were terrific, and they always had coca cola stocked in the cooler for me. Ash and Angela from Manhattan and Alan and Lora from Atlanta were in our group, and I had a terrific time with them. Ash was especially amusing, and I look forward to watching Lora’s videos and listening to her informative commentary (eg “This is an elephant”).

Our safari vehicle was a monster, one of those beasts where you wouldn’t notice if you ran over another car because it would feel like a speedhump. But the car was necessary for the terrain. We went out on excursions twice a day, from 6 AM-10AM and again from 4 PM-7PM. It was spectacular! We saw the Big 5 (elephants, lions, leopards, buffalos and rhinos) and then some: giraffes, hippos, crocodiles, mongoose (is it mongeese?), warthogs, zebras (a dazzle of them!), and a crapton of antelope and birds. We saw a leopard hunting impalas while her cubs waited in a tree for her. We saw lions feasting/sleeping on a buffalo. We saw baby lion cubs playing with mom and their older brother. We stalked a lion until it started stalking us. We thought an elephant was going to charge our car. Piet and Nelson weren’t worried, but the rest of us nearly crapped our pants. All the animals were so close to us—uncomfortably close at times. One elephant stopped within 6 feet of our car and I instinctively scooted to the far end of the seat. It was scary! Even the lions were right next to us, but one pride was feasting on buffalo so they paid us little attention. Yet I couldn’t help shivering when a lion pulled his head out of the buffalo’s stomach, looked right at me and licked his chops.

The rhinos were shy, the giraffes galloped gracefully away from us and the hippos were noisy. Nature called during one of our excursions while we were next to the hippo pond, but before I could relieve myself Piet had to inspect the area for predators. What a way to go: death by hippo while squatting in a bush.

On our trips we also saw homo sapiens standing outside their own monster vehicle drinking beer and wine—wildlife in their natural habitat. Did you know that elephants make a growling noise? It sounds like a growl, but it’s not a noise they make when they feels threatened. It’s actually a mode of communication with their fellow elephants.

Back at the lodge baboons and monkeys run amock. A baboon tried to get into our hut, but the door was locked. I watched as a baboon opened the sliding doors to the lounge, ran into the kitchen and came out with a handful of crackers. The kitchen staff chased after him, running and screaming. It was hilarious.

The day after our first night at Inyati a group of doctors from the U.S. joined our party. I met three of them (sisters) in the bathroom where we introduced ourselves and they asked me what I did for a living. When I told them I was a Peace Corps Volunteer, one of the sisters looked at me and said, “I knew it!” Should I be offended? I wasn’t wearing any PC paraphernalia, and yet she had me down for a PCV. It must have been the way I carried myself—confident, open, like a lived a hard-core life and I could take anything. Either that or it was my overall homeliness—my worn, stretched out and holey clothes (Dad informed me that there’s mold on my Puget Sound sweatshirt), my spotty complexion and my uneven haircut (I’m giving up hairdresser as a potential career).

Anywho, the food at Inyati was delectable. Cold salmon, meat pastries, ostrich, kudu, ox tails, kiwis, bacon, sausage, cheese, croissants, muffins, soups, puddings. I didn’t have rice once! Save for the sushi in Jo’burg, but that doesn’t count.

Dad’s and my last night together we spent at Cybele Forest Lodge and Spa. It’s another amazing lodge with spectacular food, warm and cozy rooms and our own private pool. I’d go back to South Africa just to spend a few days there.

That was my South African vacation, and I simply can’t wait to go back. Dad, I’m so glad that you wanted to spend your vacation with me and I can’t thank you enough for that wonderful week. And thank you for the chocolate and the five jars of peanut butter! That’ll last me a few months!

I’ll most certainly post pictures, but I’m going to wait until I’m back in the States. And that’ll be next month. Sweetness in a can!

do what you should

What a glorious month it will be. I came to Ouaga yesterday specifically for the premiere of the World Cup. Oh it was divine watching South Africa play Mexico under a fan, drinking a coke and eating a salad with eggs and chicken. And tonight! Golly I can’t wait for the USA and England game. England will probably win but I hope to be pleasantly surprised.

I don’t have much to update: School’s over, all my students have either returned to their villages and/or are working in the fields. I’ve been reading a lot, staring off into space, wrapping myself in a wet pagne and laying on my floor, covering myself in baby powder (blasted heat rash!), and hanging out in village people watching.

For a week there I thought that my cat Herman was dead. Someone left one of those traps outside of my courtyard that looks like an open jaw with razor teeth, and Herman got caught in it. Just his front left paw, but it was so mangled that it no longer looked like a body part. I called the veterinarian—he was in Gaoua, naturally—and didn’t show up at my door until a week after I found Herman. I even called my Major who runs the health clinic in Bouroum-Bouroum. I was desperate, but he said he couldn’t help me either. Herman wouldn’t let me near him after I tried to clean his wound and put it into a splint. He crawled into his litter box and just layed there for hours. He howled to be let outside and I let him because I couldn’t do anything for him. I thought he was leaving me to die, and I didn’t see him for a week.

But after returning from Diebougou, there he was! With Harriet! He’s limping, but he’s putting pressure on his paw. Two of his bones stick out in all their glory, yet he still tries to knead. What a silly kitty. Herman’s back to eating, drinking, being my little lover kitty. And the vet finally came and gave him shots of antibiotic, so I think Herman will do just fine.

In other news, I’m going to Johannesburg in two weeks! Dad and I are going to rendez-vous there and see a World Cup match on the 27th. Oh amazingness in a can!

Who is John Galt?

He’s a cool dude. But who is Dagny Taggart? People should be asking that question.

I’m in the middle of Atlas Shrugged, another one of my favorite books. I’m celebrating the end of the school year with Ayn Rand and her characters. I finished filling out report cards yesterday—sitting in a cramped room with the others teachers, swatting flies off my nose, listening to Burkinabe music and one random Nelly song. Next week we have a conseil to discuss the students’ grades and the preparations for the BEPC, which takes place on June 3. But after next Thursday, I am le done.

I’ve been here about a year and I have approximately one year left. Unless I decide to extend my service, but I don’t see that happening. Anywho, lately I’ve been trying to plan what I’ll do with my last year. This first one passed by so quickly that now, at my review of it, I feel like I didn’t have enough time to actually get started. I taught one year of school, I had an English Club that went the way of the buffalo, and I coached soccer and did sensibilizations on HIV/AIDS and moringa.

But there’s nothing in those things that will still be here after I leave Burkina. I was pleased to see that some of my students’ math grades improved after tutoring sessions with me; hell I was pleased to discover that I didn’t actually loathe teaching; I had fun talking to students about HIV/AIDS preventions and I hope that they’re now informed of how to maintain a healthy lifestyle in that respect. But none of those things are tangible or lasting, nothing that 5 years from now the people of BB will look at and say, “Yep, that right there is something that white girl did while she was living here.”

Enter World Map Project. This summer I’ll start planning a World Map Project for Bouroum-Bouroum. I’ve found the perfect place for our world map—it’s on the side of the 6eme building of our CEG. The wall faces the road (not the goudron, as my house and school are 2 km off the main road), so everyone passing by as well as all the students will be able to see it. I won’t be able to start the actual painting of the world map until after the saison de pluie, so I’m thinking November.

Though I realize that PCV’s plans are often revised or thrown out completely, I’ll do everything in my power to paint the world in Bouroum-Bouroum. Even if it’s the size of my palm. Next year I also will set up a correspondence program between my students and the students of a middle school in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. The only problem with this correspondence program is that it ends once I leave. My students will lose their correspondents unless they’re able to pay for postage and to pay for transport to a place where there’s a post office. Oh well. It’s not sustainable, but it’s something that these kids desperately want.

in my haste

The rain came yesterday and my heat rash is going away. Life is beautiful.

This past week Jillian came to my three classes to do moringa sensibilizations with my students. The moringa tree is so important here in Burkina because its powder contains a crapload of nutrients—Vitamin A, C, calcium, protein, etc. Since malnutrition, especially in children, is a huge concern in Africa, moringa serves as an important supplement to the peoples’ diet. During certain months it’s difficult to find any vegetables at all, and meat is expensive. So it’s difficult to stay healthy when you have neither the means nor the resources. But moringa combines a lot of the essential nutrients a body needs into a powder.

At the CSPS (hospital) in Bouroum-Bouroum, women mix moringa powder into porridge and give it to infants to help them gain weight. Jillian told me she once saw a little girl at the CSPS who weighed about 12 pounds at the one-year mark. No bueno. But after about a month of eating bouille containing moringa, the girl had gained another two pounds.

During our sensibilization, we gave students moringa seeds and showed/told them how to plant and maintain them. You can even buy a moringa tree in its adolescent stage in BrBr for 100 CFA, which is about 25 cents. They require very little water—a good thing considering how close we are to the Sahel—and the rainy season is almost upon us. The only obstacle with moringa is making sure those blasted goats don’t eat them. Earlier last year goats ate my papaya tree, but I won’t let them take my mango tree!

Good stuff, moringa.

Jillian and I had a girls’ night on Thursday. A little surprised? Yep, me too. But I had a great time and Jillian made dinner at my house—a place where food is never prepared. She made spaghetti and garlic bread. We listened to Lucky Dube, shaved our legs (quite a lot of work for me), and painted our nails. We even had honey/sugar facial masks, though we had to remove about 10 or 15 bugs out of the honey (BrBr is known for its honey and yams) before we could use it. Pictures are posted.

In about a month the new Secondary Education stage is arriving in Burkina. If you’re wondering what you should bring, I can tell you that a solar charger is probably one of the best things I have here. That and peanut butter. Unless you’re going to teach IT, there’s a very good chance that you won’t have electricity at your site. And if you’re anything like me then you need to listen to music every day. My Solio Magnesium charges both my iPod and phone, and it’s simply magnificent.

Next week, exams. The week after, grades. The week after that, no more l’école. As I said before, life is beautiful.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mamita and Shelly! And Grandma, Nana and Aunt Mary!

a sippy cup of milk

Adios April!

Bienvenue May!

May means I have one and a half weeks of teaching followed by exams, followed by grade calculations and meetings to discuss the school year. 3 weeks total. Then I’m done with school until the 1st of October.

I was trying to remember what I was doing on April 30, 2009. I can’t come up with specifics but I do know that there was a lot of sitting going on and a lot of eating—a lot of “This will be my last opportunity to eat (enter tasty delight here) for a year or two.” I have fond memories of this time.

But this April 30, I’m in Burkina handing back exams and discussing plans with students for our school’s culture day that’s coming up in about a fortnight. There will be traditional dancing, singing, theater and bissap. The theme of this year’s culture day: Les grossesses indesirees en milieu scolaire, or, Unwanted pregnancies in middle school. I’m putting together a sensibilization for this theme and I’ll probably work in HIV/AIDS prevention strategies using my handy-dandy male and female wooden anatomical parts provided by the PC.

When I was talking to the students about the program for Culture Day and the subject of a soccer match came up, I suggested having a girls’ game in addition to the boys match. I told these students (all boys) that girls have the ability to play soccer every day, not just on 8 Mars International Women’s Day. They agreed to allow the girls 30 minutes of game time, the dears. Hopefully we’ll make it happen.

Well, with this hot season (115 degrees, give or take a few) I’ve sweat my body weight each day and got a lovely case of heat rash just about everywhere on my body. But the rain has come! Sort of. It’s rained twice in the last two weeks and both times I’ve thanked the rain gods with a dance. Mom and Remus, do you remember the one where I stomped around in circles whilst holding my left arm at a ninety degree angle and shaking my hand back and forth in a rapid motion? Anywho, that’s the dance and I believe it pleases the rain gods. They decided not to strike me with lightning, which I find encouraging.

And I just heard thunder. Must dance pronto.

Riddle me this: When is Cinco de Mayo?

Water for Elephants

Entertaining book, by the way.

Being in Africa, I expected to see African wildlife such as donkeys, pigs, goats and cows. But elephants! And 5 of them, too! Running wild in Burkina just outside of Leo, these wonderful creatures were encountered by yours truly. Here are some pictures (only a few because it's taking forever to upload):

you and me and the satellites

I’ve had an odd and disturbing week at school.

On Wednesday morning at 7:45, Jillian (who was at my house at the time) and I heard a lot of noise coming from my school, which happens to be right down the road from my house. The noise was a mixture of cheers and angry screams. Jillian biked to the school to talk to 6eme kids about HIV/AIDS while I headed in the opposite direction into town to get gateau and a coke for breakfast. It being a Wednesday, I didn’t have class until 10. Jillian calls me while I’m en route to tell me that there’s some sort of student protest going on, a violent one.

Fast-forward a few hours. After waiting and watching as trucks filled with police and gendarmes pass my house over the course of the morning, I come to find out that what occurred was not a student protest. Here’s what went down:

There existed some disagreement between a teacher and a student which resulted in rocks and fists being thrown. Teachers got upset, the students a little more so. The teachers barricaded themselves in the office so as not to get struck by rocks, but then the police/gendarmes arrived and after a 7-hour conference all hostilities were at an end. The student who threw the first rock at one of my colleagues was expelled and classes resumed on Thursday.

Of course I didn’t know any of this until I showed up at school at 7 on Thursday morning. I was the only teacher not present during these events, and so I wasn’t present during the 7-hour meeting which took place immediately after. Nope. I stayed in my house all day reading Sense and Sensibility, hoping that my homologue would return my calls.

Thursday morning came and I inquired after Wednesday’s events. Then all of the teachers (myself included), the director, secretary, econome and surveillant went to speak to all the classes to lament what happened on Wednesday morning and to demand the students’ agreement that those events were indeed regrettable. Their forced agreement was a little unsettling.

But now everything is back to normal, and I delved right into math lessons and homework and talk of tests in two weeks. Everything’s fine now. I asked if something like this ever happened at our CEG before, but it never has. It is one isolated incident that got out of hand. Mob mentality is a scary thing.

And to add to this, I found out yesterday that one of my students died over the spring vacation. Though I have 70-80 students in each of my classes, I remember this student well because he sat in the front of my class and I’ve argued with him over points on his tests. I was sad when I found out that he died, but it was the way I found this out that made me even more wretched.

I was taking attendance when I asked the class where this particular student was. I was in a good mood, joking around, and I asked if he was outside eating or drinking or chatting up the ladies. No one answered me. So I asked his neighbor particularly where he was, and he replied, “Il est decede.” I meant to say something in response, but I was so surprised and ashamed of my behavior and that I didn’t know what had passed, that no sound came out of my mouth. I then turned to the board and started my math lesson.

All I can think about now was the last time I saw him; I told him he received 8.63 in my class (out of a possible 20). “Insuffisiant” as the Burkinabe educational system calls it.

What a sucky week.

Happy Birthday, Mom! Pictures are of 8 Mars, Herman (blk/white) and Harriet, and others

Running up that hill

Guess what today is ? If you guessed ‘The day after St. Patrick’s Day’ then you’re one smart cookie! However, today is also the first day of spring break. I finished filling in over 200 report cards yesterday and then I celebrated with a coke and a sprite!

And now I’m rockin it in Diebougou with some internet and mayhaps some chicken. I might even have the honor of selecting a chicken that suits my fancy, while said chicken is still enjoying the flow of oxygen. As for my spring break plans, I intend on relaxing and reading oodles of books. Lately I’ve been engrossed in everything Jane Austen. Surprised? I recently finished a series entitled ‘Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman’ which chronicles the events of Pride and Prejudice through Darcy’s point of view. And then I proceeded to read a book (Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife) which begins where Jane Austen left off with P and P. All I can say about that book is, if Jane Austen weren’t already dead, she’d have an aneurysm upon reading this. Her seemingly chaste characters are anything but, in very explicit detail. It was very amusing and somewhat ridiculous. But I did enjoy parts of it and I look forward to reading the sequel. Oh that wretched Wickham!

Last week was 8 Mars, International Women’s Day. I wore my pagne and met up with Jillian and Ibe in town. I knew it was going to be a good day because I had warm gateau and cold coke—an unmistakeable good omen. First thing was the Lobi dancers. When they do their traditional dance it kind of looks like they’re having an epileptic fit (is that too un-PC for the PC?), but I believe it’s supposed to look like they’re shaking/ruffling their feathers—some kind of rooster-chicken dance of love. I’ve tried dancing like the Lobi, but all I’ve managed to accomplish is an amazingly strong headache.

We then watched a bike race of girls from my CEG. They biked 4 km and upon returning nearly collapsed and/or lost their gateau. It was a little disconcerting that these girls who are so accustomed to hard labor (carrying water, wood, etc. atop their heads and walking for miles under the lovely African sun) would almost keel over after a 7 minute bike ride. But I suppose it’s a different form of exercise for them, working different muscles and such. I know that I can’t carry large objects on my head—I tried once with a bucket of water and it was oh so painful.

Then, we watched women’s associations from Bouroum-Bouroum and surrounding villages march on the road, singing and wearing coordinated pagnes. By far the most enjoyable part of 8 Mars was the soccer game. The week before I coached 6eme and CM2 girls in preparation for the match on Women’s Day. These girls play AYSO-style, but that’s to be expected seeing as how they have had no instruction, and sports in general are a privilege only boys enjoy. Come International Women’s Day; my team was 6eme versus Jillian’s team CM2. My team claimed victory 1-0, but that wasn’t important. The audience and recognition that these girls received was tremendous—tons of people, including the mayor of BrBr and other officials, came to watch them play! I loved that these girls had such a grand audience because all that attention is usually never given to them. They were so excited and they behaved well (unlike during my coaching sessions), which is always a plus.

And then the clouds came, bringing a breeze and a few raindrops.

Everything started over an hour late, unsurprisingly, but it made for a late evening. After Jillian’s 6eme’s theatre piece (with a depressing but realistic ending where impregnated teenage girl later discovers that she, her husband and two children have HIV), there was the ball. You’re picturing the kind of ball from Cinderella, aren’t you? Not quite. But I stayed out way past my bedtime (10 PM!) and biked (uncomfortable when wearing a skirt) home happy with my day.

Last thing for now: Albuquerque, here I come! In 5 months, August 14th, I’m there.

It's hotter under the water

Sebastian had it wrong. It is most certainly hotter above water, at least in Burkina Faso. The Afrcian sun has been quite cruel these past two weeks. We has a glorious downpour two Saturdays ago, and since then all we’ve had is scalding heat. Even the Burkinabè are complaining. I’ve been informed that it’s hotter now than it was at the end of March (the peak of the hot season) last year. This early hot season means that either the rain will come earlier this year (yay!) or that there will be a nasty drought (boo!). The pessimist in le is preparing for the worst.

I’ve been in a bit of a pickle lately because of this saison chaud. I can’t sleep in my bed anymore because I sweat like I’m running a marathon in 100 degree weather, and I can’t sleep outside because 1) I don’t have a door to my courtyard and ) I live alone and someone could easily jump over my wall even if I did have a door. But I’ve found a solution! Now I leave my front door open but I close and lick my screen door, and I sleep directly in front of my screen on my Lipico. Every once in a while I catch a breeze and it is glorious!

I admit that I’m jealous of Herman because he can sleep outside. Oh to be a cat, one that’s loved. But Herman doesn’t sleep alone! He met his main squeeze, but I can’t actually confirm the gender of said squeeze because he/she won’t let me touch him/her. I’m calling this new kitten Harriet because I like the ring to “Herman and Harriet.” Harriet resembles Herman in color, except that he/she is also gray, and is severely underfed. But I’m currently rectifying the latter.

In other news, Herman got his rabies vaccination last week. That was a pleasant experience. I have a scratch on my left arm that resembles a sine curve.

So I’ve been in Bouroum-Bouroum for 6 months and Burkina Faso for almost 9. I feel comfortable here, but only as comfortable as I could possibly be in a place that is glaringly different from what I’ve known all my life. There’s no denying that I dearly miss so many comforts that I can never have here. Sometimes that truth is just so depressing. Some days are better than others. But I want to be here and I think that counts for a lot.

So I’m celebrating being in Burkina Faso. Warm coke, anyone? Bien sûr!

P.S. There are these goats that use an elevated log to climb atop my chicken coop. They proceed to dance around a bit and scream, head-butt each other--you know, goat activities. But then they inevitably start to freak out because they can’t figure out how to get back down to the ground ( bum bum bum…). It’s entertaining but also pathetic. Herman merely regards them with an expression that I can only describe as bored, and perhaps with a bit of hauteur. I adore him.

A family of trees

Is there anything ambiguous or confusing about the word ‘No’ ? At first, I didn’t think so. And saying ‘No’ forcefully—without a smile or teasing undertone—seems even more explicit. But apparently we females don’t really know what we want because ‘No (smile)’ means ‘Yes’ and ‘No (murderous-looking-for-the-nearest-machete-glare) means, wait for it, ‘Yes.’ Hmm, that doesn’t leave a girl with too many options, does it?

Well there’s a certain nameless dufus in Gaoua who believes this steaming piece of ‘yes means no’ crap is true of me. He’s been pursuing/making me insane for months now; he’s harmless, albeit annoying, and I’m certainly not the most patient person. But this morning, after refusing to give him my number for about 50th time and explaining (yet again) that I’m blissfully engaged to another volunteer (shhh…not really) who lives close by, dufus sat himself down to explain his feelings to me. Here is goes:

I am the trophy for the World Cup. Right now I’m picturing the gold thing that Zidane walked past with his head hung low after he got himself thrown out of the championship game against Italy in 2006. Anywho, I’m the trophy and dufus is one of the teams that qualified to play in the World Cup, and he’s playing to win the trophy. Oh barf. My ‘boyfriend’ is another team and so on and so on. According to him, the World Cup isn’t won until I’m married. Christ.

That machete’s looking mighty appealing right now. But I may just have fatten the lie instead of getting messy, which means that Mom, I might need you to send me a ring to wear—the one found at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box will suffice. I couldn’t help but laugh at this comparison, seeing as how I enjoy all things ridiculous, but poor dufus was serious. I might consider giving him my number if could find me an oreo blast and green chile cheeseburger from Sonic, but then again I probably wouldn’t. I would enjoy the food, though.

In other news, I’ve started an English Club at my school. Most of these kids want to do activities that will help them prepare for the BEPC (middle school exit exam), so I’m trying to come up with some cool songs and games to teach them. I plan on wowing them with my singing voice. Next week it’s going to be ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes’ with a twist. The twist being that I have to figure out a way to work in the other body parts. I might just have to change the tune.

Also, I’m making invitations to send out to Ouaga, Bobo and Gaoua for 8 Mars. 8 Mars is International Women’s Day and it appears that Bouroum Bouroum will be rockin’ it like it’s 1999. Soccer games and theater pieces are scheduled for the day, as well as a dance at the end of the night. Burkina Faso designs a new pagne every year in celebration of 8 Mars. I can’t remember the pattern for this year (in either red or blue though!), but it’s pretty and I intend to make a dress and/or shirt out of the material. Guess which one I’ll wear more often? But I will get all gussied up for 8 Mars. I’m very excited that Burkina is celebrating its women, and that I’ll be a part of it.

Exams this week! I hope that this weekend my students are dreaming about fractions, triangles/angles, decimal approximations and calculations using powers of 10. What what!

A few Dogon pictures (see post below)

The streets are dark (Happy Birthday, Nathan!)

Sick with a cold. Swollen ankle. But am content.

Content because as I'm writing this, I'm sitting on a cushy couch with a fan blowing in my face and a bowl of chocolate ice cream in my lap.

The Dogon Country in Mali was very beautiful, parts of it very much like New Mexico. Plateaus, villages located in the cliffs, and sand dunes like rolling hills. We slept on the roofs in remote villages under the moon (which was full on New Year's Eve) and stars. It was like we had a nightlight. And it was freezing! We hiked from 8-12 everyday, and then from 3-5 in the afternoon carrying our packs with us. We handed out kola nuts to the natives when we wanted to take pictures of their villages (and when one of us almost hit an elderly man with a soccer ball—he was not happy!). I tasted a kola nut—it was like eating a bitter piece of hard cardboard, quite tasty.

Children followed us around, asking us for pens and water bottles and for my earrings and watch. They seemed to think that if they kept asking I'll eventually hand over the goods. The people in this area are used to tourists, and are accustomed to receiving gifts from them. We as volunteers immediately noticed the differences between our villages in Burkina and the villages frequented by the European and the rare American traveler; in Dogon you can find trash cans and strategicially-placed souvenir shops. Though I do suppose Dogon is one of the most authentic African village experience for the tourist because you do get to see people going about their daily activities—women pounding millet and carrying things on their heads on their way to the marche, and men relaxing in the shade or praying at the mosque. But for me there was a touristy feel to the whole thing, which was in itself interesting to experience. Having been in Africa for 7 months, I guess the novelty of being in a small village has worn off; and after observing these European tourists, I was reminded of what it first felt like to arrive in country.

Early in the trip I jumped off a rock and twisted my ankle. It swelled but didn't hurt too badly after the first day, so I kept on truckin'. Unfortunately the swellling hasn't gone down yet, but now I actually have the opportunity to take care of it for I am in Ouaga, land of cheese and ice cream.

I'm in Ouaga for inter-service training until Saturday and then I'll return to Bouroum-Bouroum to start the new trimester on Monday. The training includes information on how to start a secondary project in our villages—English Club, sensibilizations, planting trees, Girls' Clubs, etc. For this second trimester I'll focus mainly on my classes, tutoring and starting an English Club since there is a very strong interest among the students at my school.

I miss Herman dearly and I'm anxious to get back to him. Hopefully he still remembers me after my two-week absence. Two weeks is a short amount of time, but it feels like ages since I've been in village.

Hope everyone had a great Christmas and New Year!