I can smell the end coming. It smells like roasted green chile and moose track ice cream, like Taco Bell and chocolate bloop donuts. It smells like a lot of good things.
It also smells like my last blog entry.
I hope you've enjoyed these accounts of my life as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Burkina Faso for the past two years.
Thanks for reading!
Things I Will Miss About Burkina:
1. the gateau--slightly sweet, crunchy fried balls of delight--and my Lobiri-speaking gateau lady who always gave me a cadeau (a free one)
2. the fact that staring isn't considered rude. I'm not very stealthy when I people-watch, and here there's no need to be. Stare away, my friends!
3. Herman, Boris and Bruce
4. if I'm forced to shake hands with the same people everytime I see them, then I'm glad that we do the clacky handshake. Before we release each other's hands, we snap each other's fingers. Hence, the clack. I may have to bring that one to the States.
5. having to navigate through cows, goats, sheep, pigs, chickens and guineafowl all the time
6. coke in the glass bottle
7. my friendship with my sitemates: my first year, Jillian, and my second, Brenda
8. my friendship with the Sidibe's, Alice, Leti, and George and his family
9. the proximity of my house to my workplace
10. things said to me in languages I don't understand. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss
11. the amount of free time I have and the amount of sleep I get. I know I'll miss the hours of alternately reading and staring into space when I no longer have them.
12. traditional Burkinabe dancing, especially Lobi dancing. A full body shake, similar to chickens ruffling their feathers, but with rhythm. It's a dance that I can't make my body do, but at least I've provided entertainment for others while trying
13. the colorful pagnes
14. wearing loud colors and mismatching my clothes and not having anyone comment on it because their clothes are loud and mismatched, too.
15. the stars. They're so clear and bright and I can see so many of them (one of the benefits of not having electricity). They're my natural flashlight.
16. watching the honey and yam vendors race each other to the vehicles of prospective buyers passing through Bouroum-Bouroum. Hours of entertainment there.
17. women with babies strapped to their backs and buckets balanced on their heads
18, foutou. Delicious stretchy globs of pounded yams.
19. eating freshly-picked mangoes off my own tree
20. how foods I used to hate (e.g. tuna sandwiches, peas, rice , mangoes) have become mouth-watering delicacies here. Back in the States I'll probably revert to my past hatred
21. eating everything with my hands if I choose to, including rice, and having it be culturally appropriate
22. having entire conversations with grunts, hand gestures and clacking of the tongue
23. the lizards that do push-ups and have jowls like frogs. They're blue, black, orange and brown and they really do push-ups with their front legs.
24. the call to prayer at the mosque, even at 4 AM
25. their generosity
26. speaking French
27. seeing buffed-out grown men with Hello Kitty! backpacks
28. watching kids ride bikes that are 5x too large for them. They remind me of Bill Denbrough riding Silver. Hi-yo Silver, Awayyy!
29. women making dolo, the local beer, in huge cauldrons.
30. market day in Bouroum-Bouroum. The organized chaos, drinking cold bissap, eating fried dough, wandering through the maze of beads, jewelry, clothes, vegetables, and meat (I'm not too fond of stepping over the smelly carcasses, however).
Things I Will Not Miss About Burkina:
1. Sweating.All.The.Time. I drip sweat here as if I'm doing Billy Blank's Advanced Tae-Bo video, when in reality I'm just sitting in a chair.
2. Sweating.Absolutely.Everywhere. Remember my tirades on arm sweat?
3. my movie star status. I'm the Angelina Jolie of Burkina Faso and I've never wanted anything less in my life. Honestly, if ever you (an American) want a taste of what it's like to be famous, come to Burkina Faso and your wish will be granted.
4. doing my business in a hole in the ground, with cockroaches and the occassional snake. On the positive side, I've gotten really good at squatting. I could be a catcher if it weren't for my total lack of hand-eye coordination.
5. rocks in my bread and rice
6. rice
7. riding buses. Kids tend to vomit on me.
8. witnessing the cruelty to animals and getting laughed at by the assholes who find my anger amusing
9. going through extensive greetings with everyone (Bonjour? Ca va? Ca Va? Bien dormir? Et la famille? La sante? Et le travail?) everytime I see them
10. my tan
11. flies--the desperate, persistent little bastards and the scum of the earth
12. bucket baths
13. the delicate combination of the smell of excrement and body odor in the air
14. the creepers. The old creepers who want to give my family livestock in exchange for me. The younger creepers with their bejeweled tight pants, unveiled invasive staring, and unabashed remarks which they oddly think make them charming.
15. meeting my food before I eat it
16. "toute de suite" and "J'arrive" = in 2 or 3 hours. WAIT--West African International Time
17. trying to find and keep change. Do you know how difficult it is to break a 10 mille in village?
18. eating with my right hand. I'm in a country that considers the left hand the "poop hand". I've lived 23 years of my life eating with my left and I've spent the last two years eating with my right to be culturally appropriate. I now resemble a toddler, with food on my face and in my lap.
19. losing my hair due to my malaria prophylaxis. I already have fine hair as it is, so I'm horrified when I pull a fat brown hamster out of the teeth of my brush.
20. washing dishes, clothes and anything else in buckets
21. market day in Bouroum-Bouroum when men are douchey and grab at me
22. being called la blanche, nasara, dablo, and tubabu. Yes, I know I'm white. Thanks for telling me.
/>23. sleeping in front of my screen door February-May in the hopes that a breeze will cool me down some. This goes with nearly having a heart attack when goats and roosters cry out and cock-a-doodle, respectively, on my doorstep while I'm sleeping. Them clever animals, sometimes I think they do it on purpose.
And now I bid you all adieu!
Jane
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
the city keeps on going on
I'm in Ouagadougou taking care of business. Medical appointments and volunteer reports galore. I'm happy to report that I don't have TB, my eyes, nose and ears are fabulous, and my heart rate is 50 bpm. Smell me Nancy Drew! The rest of the med tests are in about a month when I COS.
My stomach is a little upset with me now. It has been assaulted with dairy products, which my system isn't accustomed to anymore. The main culprits are cheese and ice cream. In the last few days I've had cheeseburgers, pizzas, french fries, banana splits, chocolate fro-yo, strawberry slushies, and chocolate walnut cookies (thanks Brenda!). I'm feeling slightly ill, but it was totally worth it.
Before my trip to Ouaga and the subsequent shock to my stomach, I was eating my usual diet of rice and fried dough, and I was in Kampti helping Mikey out with his girls' camp. My favorite part of the camp was playing soccer with the girls in the morning. It was a flashback to AYSO days, but it was still a lot of fun. My favorite part, though, happened my last day there. It had rained the night before, and so instead of having our usual dirt playing field, we had soft, squishy mud. Brenda, my sitemate, was playing with us and at one point she lost her footing, slid on the mud on her stomach and then rolled onto her back. Her fall seemed to take forever, it was like it was happening in slow motion. And being the good friend I am, I laughed until I started wheezing. And then I myself was slipping around in the mud in my flipflops. Good times.
We chatted with the girls about self-confidence and gender/social/school issues. We made liquid soap and after I left the girls also made neem cream, which is a mosquito repellent.
There is a dog named Hercules that practically lives with Mikey, though he actually belongs to his neighbors. He's a dumb dog but he's so sweet, and everytime I come to Kampti he makes that whining sound (while wagging his tail vigorously) which I interpret as, "You've been gone so long. Why did you leave me?" Anyway, Hercules came with us to the girls' camp. He would walk around the classroom, sniff the girls, sleep at my feet and stupidly chase cows. He also tried to steal the blue coloring for the liquid soap. I saw him try to slither outside with the bag of coloring between his teeth. Brenda retrieved the bag, but by then Hercules had eaten some of it. His mouth, teeth and parts of his face were blue. He was so happy.
Other exciting incidents which occurred chez Mikey included a run-in with a mutant beetle. It was dark outside. Mikey and I were burning candle wax, Brenda was taking a bucket bath, and Hercules was alseep inside the house. Suddenly this giant flying insect appeared near the flames. It was the most enormous beetle I've ever seen. It was as big as my hand (including fingers), and I'm not exaggerating. I realize that things tend to be scarier at night and the darkness leads people to believe said things are larger and more frightening than they really are. [I mean, I used to be scared of sharks under my bed. But only at nighttime. The buggers could't bite off my feet during the day, everyone knows that.]
But this beetle was the size of my man-ish hand. And it flew around like it was disoriented or drunk. Mikey and I screamed. When the mutant beetle buzzed around again, we, in turn, screamed louder. All the while Brenda was showering in the dark, listening to our screams of terror and laughing. She didn't believe it when we told her of the beetle's gargantuan proportions. Silly Brenda. Sure enough, she saw it and screamed. The phlegmatic Hercules came out of the house to investigate, but then he just collapsed on the porch and went back to sleep. Brenda and Mikey took care of the beetle with insecticide and foot-stomping while I kept Hercules company. We then gave the mutant beetle a Viking funeral without the boat.
The next night we were attacked by a giant praying mantis while making village pizza (Brenda cooked the sauce, and Mikey and I buttered and cheesed the bread). The fact that bugs are attracted to light really sucks for volunteers who don't have electricity. We all have headlamps, which means the bugs aim for the face. No bueno.
I must dash, for cheese and ice cream beckon.
35 days...
My stomach is a little upset with me now. It has been assaulted with dairy products, which my system isn't accustomed to anymore. The main culprits are cheese and ice cream. In the last few days I've had cheeseburgers, pizzas, french fries, banana splits, chocolate fro-yo, strawberry slushies, and chocolate walnut cookies (thanks Brenda!). I'm feeling slightly ill, but it was totally worth it.
Before my trip to Ouaga and the subsequent shock to my stomach, I was eating my usual diet of rice and fried dough, and I was in Kampti helping Mikey out with his girls' camp. My favorite part of the camp was playing soccer with the girls in the morning. It was a flashback to AYSO days, but it was still a lot of fun. My favorite part, though, happened my last day there. It had rained the night before, and so instead of having our usual dirt playing field, we had soft, squishy mud. Brenda, my sitemate, was playing with us and at one point she lost her footing, slid on the mud on her stomach and then rolled onto her back. Her fall seemed to take forever, it was like it was happening in slow motion. And being the good friend I am, I laughed until I started wheezing. And then I myself was slipping around in the mud in my flipflops. Good times.
We chatted with the girls about self-confidence and gender/social/school issues. We made liquid soap and after I left the girls also made neem cream, which is a mosquito repellent.
There is a dog named Hercules that practically lives with Mikey, though he actually belongs to his neighbors. He's a dumb dog but he's so sweet, and everytime I come to Kampti he makes that whining sound (while wagging his tail vigorously) which I interpret as, "You've been gone so long. Why did you leave me?" Anyway, Hercules came with us to the girls' camp. He would walk around the classroom, sniff the girls, sleep at my feet and stupidly chase cows. He also tried to steal the blue coloring for the liquid soap. I saw him try to slither outside with the bag of coloring between his teeth. Brenda retrieved the bag, but by then Hercules had eaten some of it. His mouth, teeth and parts of his face were blue. He was so happy.
Other exciting incidents which occurred chez Mikey included a run-in with a mutant beetle. It was dark outside. Mikey and I were burning candle wax, Brenda was taking a bucket bath, and Hercules was alseep inside the house. Suddenly this giant flying insect appeared near the flames. It was the most enormous beetle I've ever seen. It was as big as my hand (including fingers), and I'm not exaggerating. I realize that things tend to be scarier at night and the darkness leads people to believe said things are larger and more frightening than they really are. [I mean, I used to be scared of sharks under my bed. But only at nighttime. The buggers could't bite off my feet during the day, everyone knows that.]
But this beetle was the size of my man-ish hand. And it flew around like it was disoriented or drunk. Mikey and I screamed. When the mutant beetle buzzed around again, we, in turn, screamed louder. All the while Brenda was showering in the dark, listening to our screams of terror and laughing. She didn't believe it when we told her of the beetle's gargantuan proportions. Silly Brenda. Sure enough, she saw it and screamed. The phlegmatic Hercules came out of the house to investigate, but then he just collapsed on the porch and went back to sleep. Brenda and Mikey took care of the beetle with insecticide and foot-stomping while I kept Hercules company. We then gave the mutant beetle a Viking funeral without the boat.
The next night we were attacked by a giant praying mantis while making village pizza (Brenda cooked the sauce, and Mikey and I buttered and cheesed the bread). The fact that bugs are attracted to light really sucks for volunteers who don't have electricity. We all have headlamps, which means the bugs aim for the face. No bueno.
I must dash, for cheese and ice cream beckon.
35 days...
Friday, June 17, 2011
how's that thought for you?
The school year has come to an end!
The conseil was this past Tuesday and it lasted an achingly long five hours. But I made it through, and now I have 47 days between now and Remus and Jane's Excellent Adventure!
This year I was a Professor Principal for one of the ten classes at my school, which meant that I was in charge of calculating this particular class's overall averages. I then made a list of students who passed, students who failed but are allowed to retake the class the next year, and students who failed and are not allowed to return. Dun dun dun. So final. Even my handmade form (Yes, we made our own forms and I've gotten quite adept at using a straightedge) looked official with "Exclu" written in red next to the names of those who can no longer attend the C.E.G. of Bouroum-Bouroum. I even had a kid who would've been able to retake the class next year, but instead I had to fail him because he had one too many absences. The limit was 17 absences and he had 18. Not 18 days, but 18 hours. That amounts to only about three days. I thought it was harsh and I argued for him, but the director was adamant. And so poor Edouard has to go to another village next year if he wants to continue his education.
During the conseil we also spent an hour talking about the shortcomings of our soon-to-be former secretary. I have no idea why this issue was discussed because the teachers have no business in the matter. It just felt like everyone wanted to lay their grievances with her on the table. Yes, she was not the best secretary. She was actually pretty bad, but that didn't call for an hour long desultory whining session. Let her go and move on to the next. Oh no, it's not that simple. We then struggled over how to choose a good secretary for next year, one who doesn't hide her "vrai visage" behind giggling and a cute face. Goodness me, can't the school just contact her references?
This discussion reminded me of a completely unrelated conversation I had a couple of months ago about how to tell if a girl is pregnant. I was at cpl, the place in village where I eat rice for lunch every day, and I was chatting with the owner Alice. I like Alice. She's fiery and though she's Muslim, she drinks beer and wears pants and (unfortunately) she's picked up some English curse words I reserve for the population of creepers. Alice and I were talking about how many young girls drop out of school each year due to pregnancy, and all of a sudden she called over one of her helpers at cpl. This "helper" is a 16-year-old girl, very petite. She stops in front of Alice and Alice looks her over, places one of her hands on the side of the girl's neck, looks at her palms and declares, "Elle est enceinte." She's pregnant it appears, according to this odd but apparently accurate examination. I saw this 16-year-old petite girl last week and she now sports a visible baby bump. But what about an actual pregnancy test or a trip to our local health clinic just to be certain? And back to the point of the secretary: Can't we just check the prospective secretary's references rather than gaze creepily into her face, hoping we don't see laziness and an inability to type behind them purty brown eyes?
I suppose there are some things I'll never understand, but it sure can be entertaining trying to figure it out.
Oh, speaking of baby bumps. There was a girl in my English class who almost passed, but not quite, and since she's already redoubled the class I initially put her down as "Exclue." But she was never absent, she always participated in class, she worked hard, and she just missed the passing grade. I also observed that she was pregnant. I advocated for her passage to the next grade and the director agreed with me! When I told this student the good news I also mentioned her pregnancy and I asked her what her plan was (she's already married with twins, who adore me by the way). I figured she'd give birth right about the time the school year begins again in October, and I hoped her family would be around to help out. But when I mentioned this she exclaimed that she wasn't pregnant but that she's sick with something that gives her the impression of looking like she's pregnant, and advancing at the appropriate speed. Curious. I wonder if she thought my knowledge of her pregnancy would impact my decision to recommend her to the next grade level. I hope not. Most girls drop out of school, but she wants to forge ahead. More power to her! I do wonder if her "illness" will pass by October. Of course I won't be here to verify. I'll be rockin' it in Nouveau Mexique!
Have you ever been running, sweating like a pig, singing some Clint Black, when you come across a herd of cows in your path? I have, and it was a little scary. At first I thought that I'd just keep on chugging along at the same pace, but then I noticed that all the cows turned their faces toward me. Some of them were shuffling their feet and some were making weird throaty noises. Alert! I slowed to a walk and the cows immediately became bored with me. I then zig-zagged between them, avoiding the one one that was relieving his bladder. Once I was past them I started jogging again, and all was sunshine and daisies again. But yeah, never run at cows, even if "A Good Run of Bad Luck" just makes you want to. Lesson learned. Ooh, that's something I can put in my volunteer report form.
Check out pictures below! I'm the pale one, and the others are some of my favorite people in village, the Sidibe's, and Bruce the Cow.
The conseil was this past Tuesday and it lasted an achingly long five hours. But I made it through, and now I have 47 days between now and Remus and Jane's Excellent Adventure!
This year I was a Professor Principal for one of the ten classes at my school, which meant that I was in charge of calculating this particular class's overall averages. I then made a list of students who passed, students who failed but are allowed to retake the class the next year, and students who failed and are not allowed to return. Dun dun dun. So final. Even my handmade form (Yes, we made our own forms and I've gotten quite adept at using a straightedge) looked official with "Exclu" written in red next to the names of those who can no longer attend the C.E.G. of Bouroum-Bouroum. I even had a kid who would've been able to retake the class next year, but instead I had to fail him because he had one too many absences. The limit was 17 absences and he had 18. Not 18 days, but 18 hours. That amounts to only about three days. I thought it was harsh and I argued for him, but the director was adamant. And so poor Edouard has to go to another village next year if he wants to continue his education.
During the conseil we also spent an hour talking about the shortcomings of our soon-to-be former secretary. I have no idea why this issue was discussed because the teachers have no business in the matter. It just felt like everyone wanted to lay their grievances with her on the table. Yes, she was not the best secretary. She was actually pretty bad, but that didn't call for an hour long desultory whining session. Let her go and move on to the next. Oh no, it's not that simple. We then struggled over how to choose a good secretary for next year, one who doesn't hide her "vrai visage" behind giggling and a cute face. Goodness me, can't the school just contact her references?
This discussion reminded me of a completely unrelated conversation I had a couple of months ago about how to tell if a girl is pregnant. I was at cpl, the place in village where I eat rice for lunch every day, and I was chatting with the owner Alice. I like Alice. She's fiery and though she's Muslim, she drinks beer and wears pants and (unfortunately) she's picked up some English curse words I reserve for the population of creepers. Alice and I were talking about how many young girls drop out of school each year due to pregnancy, and all of a sudden she called over one of her helpers at cpl. This "helper" is a 16-year-old girl, very petite. She stops in front of Alice and Alice looks her over, places one of her hands on the side of the girl's neck, looks at her palms and declares, "Elle est enceinte." She's pregnant it appears, according to this odd but apparently accurate examination. I saw this 16-year-old petite girl last week and she now sports a visible baby bump. But what about an actual pregnancy test or a trip to our local health clinic just to be certain? And back to the point of the secretary: Can't we just check the prospective secretary's references rather than gaze creepily into her face, hoping we don't see laziness and an inability to type behind them purty brown eyes?
I suppose there are some things I'll never understand, but it sure can be entertaining trying to figure it out.
Oh, speaking of baby bumps. There was a girl in my English class who almost passed, but not quite, and since she's already redoubled the class I initially put her down as "Exclue." But she was never absent, she always participated in class, she worked hard, and she just missed the passing grade. I also observed that she was pregnant. I advocated for her passage to the next grade and the director agreed with me! When I told this student the good news I also mentioned her pregnancy and I asked her what her plan was (she's already married with twins, who adore me by the way). I figured she'd give birth right about the time the school year begins again in October, and I hoped her family would be around to help out. But when I mentioned this she exclaimed that she wasn't pregnant but that she's sick with something that gives her the impression of looking like she's pregnant, and advancing at the appropriate speed. Curious. I wonder if she thought my knowledge of her pregnancy would impact my decision to recommend her to the next grade level. I hope not. Most girls drop out of school, but she wants to forge ahead. More power to her! I do wonder if her "illness" will pass by October. Of course I won't be here to verify. I'll be rockin' it in Nouveau Mexique!
Have you ever been running, sweating like a pig, singing some Clint Black, when you come across a herd of cows in your path? I have, and it was a little scary. At first I thought that I'd just keep on chugging along at the same pace, but then I noticed that all the cows turned their faces toward me. Some of them were shuffling their feet and some were making weird throaty noises. Alert! I slowed to a walk and the cows immediately became bored with me. I then zig-zagged between them, avoiding the one one that was relieving his bladder. Once I was past them I started jogging again, and all was sunshine and daisies again. But yeah, never run at cows, even if "A Good Run of Bad Luck" just makes you want to. Lesson learned. Ooh, that's something I can put in my volunteer report form.
Check out pictures below! I'm the pale one, and the others are some of my favorite people in village, the Sidibe's, and Bruce the Cow.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
i'm mr. solo dolo
I have a couple of countdowns going on right now: The first is the countdown to the end of the school year (21 days) and the second is the countdown to August 3 (74 days) and a Parisian rendez-vous avec Remus!
The end is nigh!
I have one week left of teaching, the second week will be devoted to exams and the final week will be about grading and wrapping things up. The excitement is palpable among the students and teachers. The teachers are talking about their upcoming vacations in Ouaga or Bobo. And the students, who for the most part will be spending the summer cultivating in Bouroum-Bouroum or the other surrounding villages, are just excited to not have to go to school. My students asked me if, during my youth (I overlook the fact that some of my students are my age or just a few years younger), I cultivated during vacations as well. They were quite surprised to hear that I spent my summers amusing myself, not working. I didn't delve into details (i.e. trips with the family, soccer camps, sleeping until noon, generally being lazy and happy) because the differences between our summer activities are so glaring it's depressing. But cultivate I did not, and that's something that my students have a hard time understanding. What would a person be doing during the rainy season if they didn't farm?
Well, I'm currently writing math and English exams. I've been using some tools I learned from my TEFL training to amp up the excitement in my English class. Too many kids have been falling asleep, but I suspect their fatigue is not entirely due to my being a bore (as all teachers have trouble with sleepy kiddies and said kiddies aren't getting enough sleep because they walk miles to get to school/work at home/work in the market/etc.). Okay, maybe I am a bore but that's a harsh reality, and I will not yield to it! So as a way to catch their interest for an hour or two, we've been leaving note-taking behind (not entirely). Role-playing, group work and pretty pictures! My students like the pictures the best because one, I am always the artist and two, they like to laugh at my artistry. We compare and contrast pictures, I read a short story to the class and they have to reorder a series of pictures according to the timeline of the story, we identify objects in pictures, and we discuss what's happening in them. I also sing and act out scenarios (not part of the TEFL training) but effective nonetheless. And before I know it, my students are pulling out verbs, nouns, adjectives and adverbs and making grammatically correct sentences! Woot woot!
I recently sent the last batch of my students' letters to my correspondent in Pennsylvania. Most of these kids don't have a mailing address so unfortunately this will most likely be the last letter they receive or give. Those who do have a mailbox in Gaoua or Diebougou were willing to share space, so hopefully some of them can continue with the correspondence.
I've been feeding a calf in village. His mother doesn't produce milk and so whenever I'm over at my friend's house I get to feed him from a bottle. He's messy, he slurps, and when he's finished with each bottle he finds its necessary to rub his face on my pants. I've named him Bruce. He sneezed on me once. It was not pleasant, but not as unpleasant as being twice thrown-up on. I'll take cow snot over human puke anyday. Bruce also likes to chew on my pants and he nibbles on my hand. Big teeth. When he's suffuciently full he runs around the courtyard at top speed, scaring the crap out of my friend's daughter (who, let's face it, is annoying like all little kids). When he runs around like that he reminds me of Suzi, my dog, and the way she used to throw herself across the grass in the backyard even when she was old and arthritic.
Bruce is adorable and he's growing at an alarming rate. I'm already too attached to him, which sucks because I know he'll be food someday soon. It's a good thing I never eat beef here.
Another day, another creeper shunned. It really isn't worth mentioning because it's so commonplace, but I like the sound of that statement. Since we're on the topic though, because I informed this creeper that I'm married, he said that I need to go back to the States and find a white woman to send to him. Yeah buddy, I 'll just FedEx her to you.
The end is nigh!
I have one week left of teaching, the second week will be devoted to exams and the final week will be about grading and wrapping things up. The excitement is palpable among the students and teachers. The teachers are talking about their upcoming vacations in Ouaga or Bobo. And the students, who for the most part will be spending the summer cultivating in Bouroum-Bouroum or the other surrounding villages, are just excited to not have to go to school. My students asked me if, during my youth (I overlook the fact that some of my students are my age or just a few years younger), I cultivated during vacations as well. They were quite surprised to hear that I spent my summers amusing myself, not working. I didn't delve into details (i.e. trips with the family, soccer camps, sleeping until noon, generally being lazy and happy) because the differences between our summer activities are so glaring it's depressing. But cultivate I did not, and that's something that my students have a hard time understanding. What would a person be doing during the rainy season if they didn't farm?
Well, I'm currently writing math and English exams. I've been using some tools I learned from my TEFL training to amp up the excitement in my English class. Too many kids have been falling asleep, but I suspect their fatigue is not entirely due to my being a bore (as all teachers have trouble with sleepy kiddies and said kiddies aren't getting enough sleep because they walk miles to get to school/work at home/work in the market/etc.). Okay, maybe I am a bore but that's a harsh reality, and I will not yield to it! So as a way to catch their interest for an hour or two, we've been leaving note-taking behind (not entirely). Role-playing, group work and pretty pictures! My students like the pictures the best because one, I am always the artist and two, they like to laugh at my artistry. We compare and contrast pictures, I read a short story to the class and they have to reorder a series of pictures according to the timeline of the story, we identify objects in pictures, and we discuss what's happening in them. I also sing and act out scenarios (not part of the TEFL training) but effective nonetheless. And before I know it, my students are pulling out verbs, nouns, adjectives and adverbs and making grammatically correct sentences! Woot woot!
I recently sent the last batch of my students' letters to my correspondent in Pennsylvania. Most of these kids don't have a mailing address so unfortunately this will most likely be the last letter they receive or give. Those who do have a mailbox in Gaoua or Diebougou were willing to share space, so hopefully some of them can continue with the correspondence.
I've been feeding a calf in village. His mother doesn't produce milk and so whenever I'm over at my friend's house I get to feed him from a bottle. He's messy, he slurps, and when he's finished with each bottle he finds its necessary to rub his face on my pants. I've named him Bruce. He sneezed on me once. It was not pleasant, but not as unpleasant as being twice thrown-up on. I'll take cow snot over human puke anyday. Bruce also likes to chew on my pants and he nibbles on my hand. Big teeth. When he's suffuciently full he runs around the courtyard at top speed, scaring the crap out of my friend's daughter (who, let's face it, is annoying like all little kids). When he runs around like that he reminds me of Suzi, my dog, and the way she used to throw herself across the grass in the backyard even when she was old and arthritic.
Bruce is adorable and he's growing at an alarming rate. I'm already too attached to him, which sucks because I know he'll be food someday soon. It's a good thing I never eat beef here.
Another day, another creeper shunned. It really isn't worth mentioning because it's so commonplace, but I like the sound of that statement. Since we're on the topic though, because I informed this creeper that I'm married, he said that I need to go back to the States and find a white woman to send to him. Yeah buddy, I 'll just FedEx her to you.
Friday, May 6, 2011
you see your gypsy
The events of the last two months culminated in all the volunteers in my area having a week-long slumber party ensemble. This just didn't happen in my area, but countrywide. In mid-April the crap hit the fan here in Burkina (some of you may have seen this on the news), and all the volunteers were consolidated at various villages or towns.
For the first two days I had ten volunteers at my site, which wasn't too much fun. Not everyone could sleep at my house because it's not big enough and I live too far in the bush for the comfort and convenience of water and food. And since we all had to stay in the same casa, I had to locate a suitable alternative. After a few chats with the director of my school and an interesting conversation involving mainly hand gestures and facial expressions with a man who owns a large and vacant house in town (and who speaks only Lobiri), we were moved in! With nothing to sleep on! It was a supremely uncomfortable sleeping situation because not everyone had a thermorest or a bug hut and therefore had sleep upon the nice fluffy down of concrete.
There was also a random kid sleeping on the porch with us. My night vision is pretty bad, especially without my glasses, and so I was only a few feet away from the kid when I noticed him. But I kept my cool, and I simply asked, "What are you doing here?" He replied, "Sleeping." No kidding. "Yes, but why are you sleeping here?" "I'm tired." This conversation reminded me of other painfully obvious replies/statements/questions I've received over my time here such as: "Are you eating rice?" (as I'm eating rice), or "You're white. Why?", or "You're sweating a lot."
Anywho, all eleven of us (ten volunteers, one Burkinabe boy) had a rough couple of nights in my village. The fact that I never cook and therefore didn't have any food stocked or things like plates and pots to offer anyone didn't help the morale of the group. We ate rice, attieke, village peanut butter sandwiches, omelets--the usual crap that I subsist off of but that can't sustain everyone (especially those volunteers from the cities who are not accustomed to village life).
After two days of voicing our concerns to the Peace Corps staff they moved us to a town with a hotel, electricity and running water. And air conditioning! Jen and I didn't have air-conditioning for the first two nights because we inadvertently chose the crappiest room (I slept in a bughut outside because the heat was suffocating), but we grabbed a different room once it became available. And then I lived in that air-conditioned room for three days. I only came out to feed.
Earlier in our stay we visited the famous caves of our consolidation site. The caves were constructed in the early 1900s as barracks for the military but have since become the home of hundreds of bats and a few crocodiles. The caves were approximately seven feet tall, but we all had to crouch down to avoid being assaulted by all of the bats. They were literally everywhere--they covered the ceilings, they flew past our heads in huge bat conglomerates, they hated the flash of cameras (obviously) and let us know about it. It was a little unsettling, and I thought fondly of Boris back home. Boris never flies pass my head at lightning speed, and since he kicked Natasha to the curb he doesn't make that awful squeaking noise.
But worrying about getting a bat in the face wasn't nearly as unsettling as turning a corner in one of the caves and meeting a huge crocodile. Needless to say we all kind of freaked out in various degrees, and I remember someone screeching, "Should we be making so much noise?" But the crocodile was unconcerned with us. He just remained where he was, as did the other three smaller ones we happened upon. We were told that during the hot season (February-May) some of the crocodiles move from the barrage and hibernate in the caves until the rainy season (June-September). I didn't know that crocodiles hibernate. Neat.
We continued our way through the labyrinth of caves, crouching, using each other's derrieres as shields against the onslaught of bats barreling through the air. After our fill of bats, crocodiles and the smell of urine, we left the caves and celebrated our having an interesting and fun morning during the stressful time of consolidation by going to one of the local bars and drinking cold cokes. It was a good day.
The rest of consolidation passed by with air-conditioning, food, tv, and a bit of work completed. After one week of slumber partying we were allowed to go back to our sites. And now we're hoping for the best. It's looking pretty good right now.
89 days and counting!
Happy Mother's Day!
For the first two days I had ten volunteers at my site, which wasn't too much fun. Not everyone could sleep at my house because it's not big enough and I live too far in the bush for the comfort and convenience of water and food. And since we all had to stay in the same casa, I had to locate a suitable alternative. After a few chats with the director of my school and an interesting conversation involving mainly hand gestures and facial expressions with a man who owns a large and vacant house in town (and who speaks only Lobiri), we were moved in! With nothing to sleep on! It was a supremely uncomfortable sleeping situation because not everyone had a thermorest or a bug hut and therefore had sleep upon the nice fluffy down of concrete.
There was also a random kid sleeping on the porch with us. My night vision is pretty bad, especially without my glasses, and so I was only a few feet away from the kid when I noticed him. But I kept my cool, and I simply asked, "What are you doing here?" He replied, "Sleeping." No kidding. "Yes, but why are you sleeping here?" "I'm tired." This conversation reminded me of other painfully obvious replies/statements/questions I've received over my time here such as: "Are you eating rice?" (as I'm eating rice), or "You're white. Why?", or "You're sweating a lot."
Anywho, all eleven of us (ten volunteers, one Burkinabe boy) had a rough couple of nights in my village. The fact that I never cook and therefore didn't have any food stocked or things like plates and pots to offer anyone didn't help the morale of the group. We ate rice, attieke, village peanut butter sandwiches, omelets--the usual crap that I subsist off of but that can't sustain everyone (especially those volunteers from the cities who are not accustomed to village life).
After two days of voicing our concerns to the Peace Corps staff they moved us to a town with a hotel, electricity and running water. And air conditioning! Jen and I didn't have air-conditioning for the first two nights because we inadvertently chose the crappiest room (I slept in a bughut outside because the heat was suffocating), but we grabbed a different room once it became available. And then I lived in that air-conditioned room for three days. I only came out to feed.
Earlier in our stay we visited the famous caves of our consolidation site. The caves were constructed in the early 1900s as barracks for the military but have since become the home of hundreds of bats and a few crocodiles. The caves were approximately seven feet tall, but we all had to crouch down to avoid being assaulted by all of the bats. They were literally everywhere--they covered the ceilings, they flew past our heads in huge bat conglomerates, they hated the flash of cameras (obviously) and let us know about it. It was a little unsettling, and I thought fondly of Boris back home. Boris never flies pass my head at lightning speed, and since he kicked Natasha to the curb he doesn't make that awful squeaking noise.
But worrying about getting a bat in the face wasn't nearly as unsettling as turning a corner in one of the caves and meeting a huge crocodile. Needless to say we all kind of freaked out in various degrees, and I remember someone screeching, "Should we be making so much noise?" But the crocodile was unconcerned with us. He just remained where he was, as did the other three smaller ones we happened upon. We were told that during the hot season (February-May) some of the crocodiles move from the barrage and hibernate in the caves until the rainy season (June-September). I didn't know that crocodiles hibernate. Neat.
We continued our way through the labyrinth of caves, crouching, using each other's derrieres as shields against the onslaught of bats barreling through the air. After our fill of bats, crocodiles and the smell of urine, we left the caves and celebrated our having an interesting and fun morning during the stressful time of consolidation by going to one of the local bars and drinking cold cokes. It was a good day.
The rest of consolidation passed by with air-conditioning, food, tv, and a bit of work completed. After one week of slumber partying we were allowed to go back to our sites. And now we're hoping for the best. It's looking pretty good right now.
89 days and counting!
Happy Mother's Day!
Friday, April 15, 2011
rolling in the deep
I'm sitting on a bench in town, chatting occassionally with the people around me. But for the most part my attention is focused on my Kakuro math puzzle (thanks Remus!). I love math puzzles. As I'm figuring out all the ways to add the numbers 1-9 to make 27 without using the same number twice, I'm pulled out of my math bubb
le of concentration when I notice three sets of four very long, large, tan-colored hairy legs. I look up and there they be.
My first camel sighting in Bouroum-Bouroum. The camels stand right in front of me and stare me down. When they get bored with me they start to nose through the treasures (aka garbage and excrement) littering the ground. The camels return to staring at me, chewing in that slow sideways motion characterisitic of cows and people who never learned to chew with their mouths closed. Did your mothers not teach you manners? I prefer this type of chewing when animals are doing it. They're much cuter.
One camel starts to chew on the cord to his harness and his owner scolds him. The camel stops gnawing on the cord, but when his owner turns away he takes it in his mouth again. Defiant camel.
These three camels are about eight feet tall. They're not too smelly and none of them spit in my presence. They were carrying a lot of cargo, not to mention each had to carry one man on its back. I asked if I could touch one of them, and one of the men obligingly lowered the camel into a sitting position so that I could scratch his head. I wish I could say that the camel purred like a cat when I scratched his ears, but he seemed uninterested in all of it. The man who lowered the camel wasn't though--I received another marriage proposal. Though I almost accepted (I mean, the man travels around on a camel. That's pretty sweet.), I had to decline because he wore socks with sandals. Deal breaker. Especially to someone like me who's a slave to fashion.
In other news, school has started back up, hooray! The school year will end in June instead of May because of all the lost time due to the strikes in February and March. So now I'm back to teaching, giving tests, grading, tutoring, coaching soccer. Brenda and I are putting on an end-of-the-school-year girls soccer game. The first ever in my village. We had to push hard to allow the girls to play 90 minutes, instead of the measly 30 minutes everyone else wanted to give them. They're also going to wear the boys' uniforms for their game! The game is scheduled for May 26, so Brenda and I are going to start writing the invitations.
Yesterday I walked into my latrine and I was greeted by a very surprised snake. He was long and thin, kind of brownish with a darker head. He freaked out when I opened the latrine door and then he slithered away into a hole. I was hoping he was gone for good, and I actually thought he was. When I went back to my latrine later in the day I didn't see him, and so I happily went about my business as usual. But then he popped out, and he wasn't expecting me (or I him). He jumped slightly in the air, and I responded by screaming and hitting my head on the doorframe in my attempt to escape. One of my neighbors heard the commotion and came over to investigate; I told her my tale and her response was, "Oh. That's it?" And then she walked away. That's all I need is for a snake to come upon me unawares and bite me in the butt. It's bad enough that my bathroom consists of a hole in a ground. Add one snake. Fortunately I haven't run into the thing today, and I'm really hoping he's slithered elsewhere.
I also had a huge cockroach crawl on me today while I was eating my lunch (the ususal--rice with tomato sauce and cabbage). He met his end. And he didn't ruin my appetite.
My COS (Close of Service) date has been approved. My last official day as a Peace Corps Volunteer is August 3. A European trip is in the works before my return to the glorious U.S. of A.
The countdown is on...
le of concentration when I notice three sets of four very long, large, tan-colored hairy legs. I look up and there they be.
My first camel sighting in Bouroum-Bouroum. The camels stand right in front of me and stare me down. When they get bored with me they start to nose through the treasures (aka garbage and excrement) littering the ground. The camels return to staring at me, chewing in that slow sideways motion characterisitic of cows and people who never learned to chew with their mouths closed. Did your mothers not teach you manners? I prefer this type of chewing when animals are doing it. They're much cuter.
One camel starts to chew on the cord to his harness and his owner scolds him. The camel stops gnawing on the cord, but when his owner turns away he takes it in his mouth again. Defiant camel.
These three camels are about eight feet tall. They're not too smelly and none of them spit in my presence. They were carrying a lot of cargo, not to mention each had to carry one man on its back. I asked if I could touch one of them, and one of the men obligingly lowered the camel into a sitting position so that I could scratch his head. I wish I could say that the camel purred like a cat when I scratched his ears, but he seemed uninterested in all of it. The man who lowered the camel wasn't though--I received another marriage proposal. Though I almost accepted (I mean, the man travels around on a camel. That's pretty sweet.), I had to decline because he wore socks with sandals. Deal breaker. Especially to someone like me who's a slave to fashion.
In other news, school has started back up, hooray! The school year will end in June instead of May because of all the lost time due to the strikes in February and March. So now I'm back to teaching, giving tests, grading, tutoring, coaching soccer. Brenda and I are putting on an end-of-the-school-year girls soccer game. The first ever in my village. We had to push hard to allow the girls to play 90 minutes, instead of the measly 30 minutes everyone else wanted to give them. They're also going to wear the boys' uniforms for their game! The game is scheduled for May 26, so Brenda and I are going to start writing the invitations.
Yesterday I walked into my latrine and I was greeted by a very surprised snake. He was long and thin, kind of brownish with a darker head. He freaked out when I opened the latrine door and then he slithered away into a hole. I was hoping he was gone for good, and I actually thought he was. When I went back to my latrine later in the day I didn't see him, and so I happily went about my business as usual. But then he popped out, and he wasn't expecting me (or I him). He jumped slightly in the air, and I responded by screaming and hitting my head on the doorframe in my attempt to escape. One of my neighbors heard the commotion and came over to investigate; I told her my tale and her response was, "Oh. That's it?" And then she walked away. That's all I need is for a snake to come upon me unawares and bite me in the butt. It's bad enough that my bathroom consists of a hole in a ground. Add one snake. Fortunately I haven't run into the thing today, and I'm really hoping he's slithered elsewhere.
I also had a huge cockroach crawl on me today while I was eating my lunch (the ususal--rice with tomato sauce and cabbage). He met his end. And he didn't ruin my appetite.
My COS (Close of Service) date has been approved. My last official day as a Peace Corps Volunteer is August 3. A European trip is in the works before my return to the glorious U.S. of A.
The countdown is on...
Thursday, March 17, 2011
the dashboard melted but we still had the radio
March days passing by, no school, but plenty of flies.
What have I been doing during these blisteringly hot March days, you ask? Well I've been hanging out in Bouroum-Bouroum. There are quite a few students who continue to study even without having school, and so I've been having groups come to my house and do math and English exercises. I've also been reading like a maniac--nothing by Proust or Faulkner. More like Dan Brown and the dude who writes those monster-ridden alterative versions of classic Jane Austen novels. I also find myself seeking shade (where I'll only sweat off half of my body weight) and watching the clouds roll by. I spend my time poking the bat, Boris, that's been living in my house for the past month. Boris is the best bat I've ever had--he doesn't fly around at night in my house and I believe he's been eating quite a few insects. Good Boris. Sometimes I'll scare little Burkinabe children, but most of them in my village are used to me now so that void filler has lost its entertainment value. I gave in and sort of cleaned my house. I swept, which is something I haven't done since September. I eat--gateau, rice, foutou and peanut butter sandwiches. I sleep. I try to catch chickens. I still can't whistle.
8 Mars 2011 has come and gone. It wasn't nearly as good as the one last year. The women slaved away and cooked chicken; they served the men who naturally complained about the size of their portions. The women cleaned up after the meal. My girls soccer club was allowed only 30 minutes of game time (very few attended), and then the boys, of course, were given the complete 90 minutes (and tons of people came to cheer them on). When I complained to one of the (male) officials of BrBr, he told me that men are superior and should therefore have more playing time. On International Women's Day. It was lame.
And I know I should be used to the way women are perceived and treated here in Burkina. But I have yet to witness an injustice against women where I don't get pissed off.
Brenda and I are going to continue our girls' soccer club, and we're talking about putting on an end of the school year match. Girls vs. girls, 90 minutes, and I'm inviting the mayor. We may also buy each girl a soccer ball. May all the boys be wildly jealous--but that's only a bonus and not the purpose of the match/giving of soccer balls.
My Close of Service Conference is coming up at the end of the month. We'll discuss how to reintegrate back into our native land. Did you know it was inappropriate to pick your nose in front of people?
I'll also figure out the date when I can COS and return to the land of bacon, ice cream, green chile, air conditioning, toilets, men cooking their own damn meals and cleaning up their messes, etc.
In less than 5 months, the bacon will be mine!
What have I been doing during these blisteringly hot March days, you ask? Well I've been hanging out in Bouroum-Bouroum. There are quite a few students who continue to study even without having school, and so I've been having groups come to my house and do math and English exercises. I've also been reading like a maniac--nothing by Proust or Faulkner. More like Dan Brown and the dude who writes those monster-ridden alterative versions of classic Jane Austen novels. I also find myself seeking shade (where I'll only sweat off half of my body weight) and watching the clouds roll by. I spend my time poking the bat, Boris, that's been living in my house for the past month. Boris is the best bat I've ever had--he doesn't fly around at night in my house and I believe he's been eating quite a few insects. Good Boris. Sometimes I'll scare little Burkinabe children, but most of them in my village are used to me now so that void filler has lost its entertainment value. I gave in and sort of cleaned my house. I swept, which is something I haven't done since September. I eat--gateau, rice, foutou and peanut butter sandwiches. I sleep. I try to catch chickens. I still can't whistle.
8 Mars 2011 has come and gone. It wasn't nearly as good as the one last year. The women slaved away and cooked chicken; they served the men who naturally complained about the size of their portions. The women cleaned up after the meal. My girls soccer club was allowed only 30 minutes of game time (very few attended), and then the boys, of course, were given the complete 90 minutes (and tons of people came to cheer them on). When I complained to one of the (male) officials of BrBr, he told me that men are superior and should therefore have more playing time. On International Women's Day. It was lame.
And I know I should be used to the way women are perceived and treated here in Burkina. But I have yet to witness an injustice against women where I don't get pissed off.
Brenda and I are going to continue our girls' soccer club, and we're talking about putting on an end of the school year match. Girls vs. girls, 90 minutes, and I'm inviting the mayor. We may also buy each girl a soccer ball. May all the boys be wildly jealous--but that's only a bonus and not the purpose of the match/giving of soccer balls.
My Close of Service Conference is coming up at the end of the month. We'll discuss how to reintegrate back into our native land. Did you know it was inappropriate to pick your nose in front of people?
I'll also figure out the date when I can COS and return to the land of bacon, ice cream, green chile, air conditioning, toilets, men cooking their own damn meals and cleaning up their messes, etc.
In less than 5 months, the bacon will be mine!
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
I find the map and draw a straight line
World Map Project!
It took me four weeks to complete it, but complete it I did with the help of six students at the CEG of Bouroum-Bouroum. And I can't be modest. It's gorgeous.
The wall on the side of the 4eme B building was scraped, measured, and painted ocean blue. Then there was the grid, then the map design, then the paint, followed by labelling and touch-ups. My students and I had a mini celebration with juice and nasty mango and banana cookies (the students enjoyed them). I gave them a thank-you gift for their work on the map: Each student received a big box of chalk and a new pencil/ruler kit.
It was an interesting experience doing this map project. I worked on it practically every day over the past four weeks, and I always had an audience. I had students watch me for hours as I set up the grid. They watched as I erased, drew, painted, stared, cursed, swatted bugs, talked on the phone, mixed paint, nearly fell off the unstable ladder (not the kind you'd find at Home Depot). They were entralled, and here I thought watching me do this would be almost as fun as watching paint dry. Which is exactly what they did. But they certainly were not bored. And the funny thing is that I wasn't bothered by the constant company and chatter going on directly behind me. Perhaps I've become a more patient person! Who would've thought? Or, perhaps I've simply become more adept at blocking out unpleasant things. Well, we'll just call it patience.
I must boast that I'm now skilled at carrying beaucoup de crap while riding my bike. I've been carrying the ladder to and fro my house and the school. There was this one time when I had my backpack full of paint on my back, another bag full of water and juice situated on my chest, my right hand holding up the ladder, and my left on the handlebar. As I was pedaling, the bag full of liquid would slosh from side to side with the movement of my knees. It was awkward, and people stared at me. One little girl followed me on her bike all the way to school, and then turned around and left when I reached the wall. She was a lovely escort.
Now the map is completed. I can remove the paint that's been coating my hands for a month. I also need to make sure that I remove it from any other odd places on my body. A couple of weeks ago I went to Gaoua and another volunteer mentioned that I had blue paint in my ear. It most likely had been there for a day or two. Must do a careful examination. Maybe I managed to get some up my nose, but I'm sure I would've noticed that--crusty paint up there would be uncomfortable.
Aside from the map project, I've just had school and tutoring, tests and grading. I've also started a girls' soccer club with my sitemate. We have about 20-25 girls show up every Sunday and Monday afternoons. I've been teaching them techniques: how to pass, dribble, control the ball. Then they scrimmage against each other and manage not to use any of the skills they were practicing just a moment earlier. It's kind of like watching six-year-olds play. But that's understandable considering they've never had any training. The boys don't play much differently than the girls, except they tend to maintain field positions. Still, for the most part the boys just try to kick the ball as far and as high as they can manage. High-kicks galore, and no one does a proper throw-in. But there's raw talent, and I've noticed that in some of the girls as well. The girls are enjoying themselves, and they get a kick out of the fact that I'm excluding all boys and that the field is reserved solely for them at 15h and 17h every Sunday and Monday, respectively.
I attended a Lobi funeral this past week. They’re kind of interesting. When a Lobi person dies, his or her body is displayed outside of the courtyard, usually under a tree, in view of the mourners for three days (I once attended a Lobi funeral where the deceased was propped up against a tree wearing a U.S. baseball cap). There is constant drumming and the women carry on this crying/singing (and sometimes dancing) for about 24 hours. The singing is actually quite beautiful, except at 3 in the morning when I’m trying to sleep. After the 3 days of singing/dancing/mourning, the body is buried inside the courtyard.
Hope you like the pictures of the map! If I can ever get them all uploaded…
Friday, January 14, 2011
the sheep incident
I have to recount a small piece of yesterday: I live off a dirt road and I was running down said road when I heard the familiar sound of a moto hauling butt, coming in my direction. Unfortunately a sheep was crossing the dirt road (about 15 feet in front of me) at the same moment the moto came charging through. The moto hit the sheep, and the sheep was suddenly airborne, coming right at me. That's right, a flying sheep barreling through the air towards me. I have reflexes like a cat. I jumped off the road into some prickly weeds, and the sheep flew by me. The sheep was unharmed, just badly shaken. He got to his feet, baahed, and walked off somewhere. And the driver of the moto was fine, too. One of his flipflops fell off when he collided with the sheep. But he retrieved it.
Afterwards I thought, well crap. It would've been pathetically tragic if I had met my end at the feet of a flying sheep.
(Pictures below! Marché, making to, living it up in Bouroum-Bouroum)
Afterwards I thought, well crap. It would've been pathetically tragic if I had met my end at the feet of a flying sheep.
(Pictures below! Marché, making to, living it up in Bouroum-Bouroum)
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
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!
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!
Saturday, November 20, 2010
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 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!
Friday, October 29, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
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
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
Monday, August 16, 2010
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