World Map Photos

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…

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)

Marché pictures...finally!

to young and old meek and the bold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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