somewhere a clock is ticking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

folded folded folded folded

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

Just a quick recap of the last two weeks:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Les Photos

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

BURKINA FASO:

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

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

MALI:

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

SOUTH AFRICA:

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

In Albuquerque...

And it is glorious!

not so afar

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

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

Alrighty then, moving on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nuevo Mexico in one week!

South Africa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

do what you should

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

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

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

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

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