Barkissa.

We used to dance. I would take the whining infant from her siblings and we would move ever so gently on my porch. A slow dance. Most of the time it was more fun for me and the other kids than for her. She didn’t want to dance, she was waiting for her porridge to finish so she could eat. Once, I found her mesmerized by the baby chicks following their mother. I brought her over to where they were for a better glimpse. I tried my best to describe the situation to her in French, a language she would not learn for at least another 8 years. She visited me almost every night. The kids would bring her over and we would stare at each other. I wondered what she thought of me. If she realized my skin color wasn’t the same as her family’s. If she would one day refer to me as “Nasara” too. If she would even remember me after I left.

Barkissa.

I worked with her mother to make enriched porridges so she would maintain a healthy weight and good health. I wanted her to be a success, not only because she was my “sister” but because she deserved it. Every child deserves the best opportunity at life.

Barkissa.

Her mother went to the health center again. I could not understand what was going on. This was her fourth time within the last 2 months, second time this week. I made some of the porridge for my lunch and brought a bowl full to her. “She’s not eating,” her mother said. “Little by little.” I said. I brought tit up to my counterpart, the health center’s nurse, that my “sister” was here and she was sick. I wanted to ensure she was well taken care of.

Barkissa.

We all sent under my hanger on Thursday. It was hot and we were too tired to really do anything else. I occasionally would look up at the baby in her mother’s arms- blinking too long, moving too slowly. “Have you tried this?… Ask her about the porridge….Has she taken the medicine 3 times a day and the other twice?” The response was always “Yes.” I texted my PC friends for advice. “I’m worried…” They responded with the same advice I already knew. I had plans for the next day. If she isn’t better by tomorrow, we are going to try this…

Barkissa.

Knock, knock, knock. I check the time on my cell phone. 3:58am. The voice of my “father”, her father, echoes into the house. “Karla, we have lost the child.” “Oh NOOOO!” I yelp. We, my other “sister” and I quickly get dressed and head to Barkissa’s mother’s home. There, there is already 20 women, heads wrapped in scarves sitting in the courtyard under the moonlit sky. I enter the house where I find Barkissa’s mother, surrounded by women, holding the fabric wrapped body of the child. I cry.

Barkissa.

I cry three times. I cry in shame and guilt. What could I have done to save her? Maybe done more enriched porridges. What if I went with her to the health center each time? Maybe if I hadn’t…. No maybe if he had. It was the nurse’s fault. Why didn’t he see how sick she was? Why didn’t he think to put her on an IV, like he does everyone else? No, it was her mom’s fault. She was in charge of making sure her child was in good health. Maybe she waited too long…

“Karla, the blame game is a torturous thing…” my wise friend said. It’s true. There is no one to blame. We did all we could. It was her time.

Barkissa. 3:13AM, October 3rd, 2009. Rest in peace.

October 3rd, 2009. 4:30pm.

“Karla, come see… girl…”

That was all of her Bissa I understood. I got up after laying all day mourning the death of my host sister. I followed her to “the house.” Oh wait, what’s going on? Why are we going to ‘”the house”? “The house” is the place where dying individuals are placed because if they die in the home, no one can stay in the compound.

I entered the house to find about seven elderly women sitting. And the “girl” lying covered by a cover. The “girl” was a 30 year old widow. She had been diagnosed with HIV in February. She refused to believe the doctors. She refused to fill the prescriptions for medicine. She refused life. So last week, she was placed in “the house”. And this week, Friday, she had passed.

I don’t know her reasons for not believing she had HIV and later AIDS. Maybe she thought it had “a look”. Or her symptoms weren’t what she expected the disease to possess. But she didn’t want to think it was her. And her grandmother didn’t want to believe it either. But it was only the two of them. Everyone else, including her mentally ill mother, urged her to take the meds. They knew it could save her life. There is a woman in our village living with AIDS. There is a man from a neighboring village with HIV doing so well, people think he has been cured. (This untruth will have to be discussed). But people are not ignorant about it. They know. They told her. But admitting it to yourself that you have a deadly disease is not as easy.

So I visited her. I was one of the first to see her deceased. I wasn’t expecting it. Her younger sister entered sobbing . I left. Two deaths in one day is a lot. Another blame game to be ignored. Time is too precious to waste it pointing fingers.

“Lo Kossou lo”

“Aye”

“You are not fasting. You should fast. You can start by doing one day until noon. And then the next day try until 3pm. And then…”

“Yes but I lost too much weight already. And my doctor said I have to gain weight for my health.”

“If you are heavier, that doesn’t mean you are healthier…”

“I know but…” I rethought my decision to argue with the chief of the village.

“You should really consider it… Okay well you can do it another time. I do it other times during the year.”

“Yes. I’ll do it another time, thank you.”

***

“Can I have two bags of water?”

“You are not fasting?”

“No I’m not.”

“Why?”

“Well I already lost a lot of weight and…”

“You don’t fast to lose weight.”

“I know but…”

“I thought you were going to say you are Christian.”

“I am Christian.”

“Well then…”

“I was going to participate in the fast because everyone in my community is Muslim and…”

“So you are Muslim here?”

“No I was just going to do it in support, out of respect.”

“So you are Muslim here but when you go home you are Christian?”

“No I’m Christian now!”

Ugh. Nevermind Madame.

***

“How’s the fast?”

“I’m not fasting.”

“What? Why not?”

“I already lost too much weight.”

“The fast is not about weight loss.”

“I know but…”

“God will provide for you. When you fast, God makes up for what you lack.”

“I know. I know.”

“So you are going to fast?”

“No my doctor said I have to gain weight.”

“Okay, okay.”

***

Clearly my reason for not fasting does not make sense to people. And honestly it really doesn’t. I’ve never lost weight in any of my previous fast (but I also ate enough for a feast at the end of the day). But I’ve already lost over 20lbs and this was during a period when I could eat whatever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to so I think I should abstain from the fast. I am not in the health to be able to fast sunrise to sunset without food or water. Maybe next year.

***

Since the fast commenced, there are more calls to prayer. In a world where there are no microwaves and most women do not have cell phones for alarm clocks, the “grand muslim men” (what we call them in French) make 2 extra calls to wake them up.

3AM! The call tells women to wake up to start preparing the meal. Pots start banging, dishes are washed and fires are started.

4AM! The call tells the family to wake up to eat. Doors are opened. Conversations start, as most families eat their favorite dish- tou.

5AM! The normal call to prayer. All food is put away and all those fasting go to the mosque to pray. During the fast, there are 17 rak'a of prayer as opposed to the typical 10.

***

“Oh Karla the market is full of people.”

“Really?”

“Yes during the fast you can get anything at night at the market. Massa, Sankare, Bissap, soup, rice… it’s all there.”

Most people break the fast with porridge because they say it is easier on the stomach. For many families, this is all they prepare to eat. Those that can afford it, go to the market and buy the prepared food there. This is the opposite of how I imagined we would break the fast- with a hardy meal. My friend who was in Ghana during last year’s fast said every night was a feast. I guess our feast can be bought at the market.

***

Your faith is not something you practice alone, it is community practice. Here 99% of my community is muslim and all that can do fast. We ask how the fast is going. We chant songs to God to give us strength. We break fast together. Even those I’ve never seen enter a mosque are fasting. “Are you fasting?” “Karla, it’s an obligation.” I respect their faith. I respect their sacrifice.

For more information about Ramadan, click here.

Lizards and vultures race across my tin roof, creating noises that I assume would be heard during an avalanche. Roosters crock at all hours and hens strut across every surface, leaving behind their discretions every 10 minutes. Sheeps enter our courtyards seeking food and creating havoc. Goats scream like “kids” as children chase them through the fields. Donkeys cry out in sorrow, releasing the frustration of being the hardest working creature in village. Cows cross major roads in single file lines, followed by herder boys. Turkeys gooble and guinea hens scare (they are really quite hideous). Ducks wait on land until the rains recreate their beloved lakes. Bats fly as night fall approaches both black and white ones. And I sit watching it all, wondering how I ended up on a desert farm, not at all the wildlife I once imagined. But there are zoos (reserves) for animals like that, even in Burkina Faso.

We pray for rain. For our crops. For our animals. For our livelihood. We are farmers. Without rain, we have nothing. So we pray.

We watch the skies. We see the clouds. The lightening start. But we wait. We still aren’t sure our prayers have been answered. Until the wind. Then we run. All activities cease. We run for shelter. If you move too slow, the sane will start blowing and your eyes begin to burn. So you run. And you wait. For the rain to stop banging on your tin roof and the dirt to stop twirling in the air through your windows. You wait until it is safe for you to emerge. But you are thankful your prays have come true.

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One May morning, I rose with the intent to start the day’s program as planned. The downpour turned into a drizzle and I was 30 minutes late for our vaccination campaign. After washing and eating, I zipped up my raincoat and hopped on my boke. As I arrived at the market to retrieve my cell phone (charging overnight there), I was astonished to find one sole individual at the usually bustling “downtown.” Realizing I was not gonna get my phone, I continued to the health center where I waited two hours for the nurse. On my journey, I spotted a total of 5 people.

“Karla you came out in the rain?”

“Yes we were supposed to be here at 6am.”

“Yes but it was raining.”

That’s when I learned we don’t do anything when it rains. Nothing. And that the next four months will include a lot of downtime.

************************************************************************************

My desert village is now green. Grass and shrubbery cover the previously hills of this land. In a matter of hours of rain, rivers and lakes emerge, making some roads impassable by my bike. Toads croak all night creating what resembles radio static sounds. With the reappearance of the frogs, other creatures begin to exit hibernation. Bright red velvety insects speckle my path home. Flies don’t disappear in the evenings. And mosquitoes buzz with their Malaria laced bites.

This is the start of rainy season and it will last until the final days of September. We pray for it. But I’m not sure I like it.

These are the things that were originally culturally shocking that I now just find annoying (and that probably will not change). For a couple of these topics, I was actually going to write individual blogs but I realized that would probably make me look like I am unhappy and frustrated here… everyday. I’m not everyday but if these things would change it would be a lot easier.

A different understanding of politeness

“I heard if you call someone impolite here they will throw you out of village.”

“That can’t be true, as many impolite things they do.”

“I know but it’s true. Don’t ever say that word.”

And I haven’t. But I want to…daily.

Take the 16 year old that’s in my family here. Her daily routine is to walk across my porch and sing at the highest volume at 6am. While stomping. And it isn’t complete unless she also leaves her peanut shells on the porch. Do you think she realizes I am not up and out yet? Probably. Do you think she will offer to sweep up the shells seeing there is a broom right behind her? Absolutely not. Does she or anyone else in her family see this as impolite? Never. Her father will toss shells over his shoulder as he talks to me, not even thinking of it. Everyone sees my porch as a main route to the other homes, even people I’ve never seen before. What do I do? Breathe. I’m always given instructions on how to do things the right way. I wonder what would happen if I started doing the same.

Chickens

Cock-a-doodle-doo! “You have got to be kidding me, I’m trying to nap.” I open my eyes to see a rooster standing next to me on my porch. “Osh, osh, osh.” I say trying to shoo him off. He just moves to another corner and cocks again. Cock-a-doodle-doo! I jump up and chase him off my porch. Five minutes later a hen has appeared. Oh look and her “teenage” children are here too. I jump up and chase them off my porch. Ten minutes later they are all back. And this is how I spend my afternoon nap times. “Karla, it’s best if you just put dirt over their pooh.” Umm, actually I think it would be best if you would keep them off my porch. I asked for a gate to block the entrances to my porch but things don’t happen especially fast here. So I’m stuck chasing birds.

Donne-Moi… Donne-Moi

Give me your bottle. Give me your bike. Give me money. Buy me a motorcycle. Buy me a car. Buy some sheep and I’ll watch them for you until you leave… What? What am I going to do with sheep? And why on Earth would I buy you all these things if I don’t have them myself. Oh I forgot because I am the rich American, of course. So because you think I am buying things with dollars, I am eager to buy things for you all. I use the cfa just like you. No matter how many times I explain I’m a volunteer with Peace Corps, that I don’t make a lot of money, that I left my dollars in America, no no no I’m still rich. And how can I blame them for thinking this way. All of the health supply and food aid donations come from America. The clothes we donate in the States are cold for 20 cents. American pen pals send children clothes and toys. Is it bad? Should it be stopped? No not at all. “Oh people in my village just imagine I’m oozing with so much money I don’t know what to do with myself” said a fellow volunteer. I guess I just need to accept my wealth.

Marry Me?

“He said he wants you to marry him… she said no… why not? I’ll tell you why not. What do you do? She doesn’t want to marry a farmer.” I sigh and begin to walk away. I end up greeting another man from village I know (I visited his wife when she was sick). “He says he wants to marry you.” I say NO! jump on my bike and peddle home as fast as I can. Why is this common practice? I’ve never even seen that first guy before. I was once told after a proposal from my bus driver that women here do not refuse. After I explained that I’m not from here, the interest grew even more. Why do men here ask me to marry them? 1) They want me to sleep with them. 2) They want my money. I wish there were other reasons, but most of the time they don’t even know me. During training we were warned by female volunteers that it’s apart of life here and we would find a way to deal with it. I’ve found a way to respond but still can’t really deal. Ca me nerve.

My Playground

I remember after a month in village I wrote a nice blog about kids here being independent. Naive. Their independence also means they don’t have discipline. They push my door, turn and turn and turn in my swivel chairs, try to break my bike…. Ahh! Five year olds. One day I was so frustrated, I left and went whining to my friend who in turn took me on a walk and to the city the next day to cool down (I must have been really upset). Now they don’t visit as much, the children. But Idrissa, my 8 year old “brother”, he is wild. My “Allloooo!” and “Eye y ey “ don’t work on him like it does the other kids. I guess I should appreciate it because it means he like hanging out with me (before he would not come near me) but goodness.

Vous etes invites?

I may just be the rudest person in Burkina. Maybe even in all of Africa, but I learned early on the polite gesture of inviting others to join me in a meal doesn’t have the same response as when other Burkinabé do it. “Okay!” My eyes widen in horrors as 4 teenage boys made their way to my “Cup of Noodles” (this is food from the states). I quickly learned that my playground may turn into a restaurant. There would be at least 6 people asking for food. I could not do this. Because my empathy level was so high, I would always give and have little left for me. I don’t know how but now they know. I won’t invite, my one friend is the only one who is allowed meals daily (he has a complicated story that does not include food often.) Even with him I can’t feed him every meal. And now I will just eat, with people watching (they are not starving, they just want my meal to help supplement theirs.) When they ask for invitations I ask them where is mine?

Other than that never being considered black (my father has to be Caucasian), being told what to do and the way men treat women all get on my nerves. But I have to stop complaining.

We sat and watched for 20 minutes before we knew, without a doubt, what color our team was wearing. “I think we are definitely the team in the white.” We were too embarrassed to verify with any of our neighbors. We were already trying t convince that we weren’t “Nasaras” by speaking the local language. Once we were sure, we watched intently and with full emotion. Then it happened- GOAL!!!

And everyone jumped to their feet. There was dancing, drumming from the row behind us, high-fives (initiated by me of course)… and then magic- the guy in front of us picked up each one of his 3 sons and kissed them (in Burkina where public affection is rare, I was amazed to witness this.) Then another GOAL!! and even more excitement. The male and female dance troupe cheered the team on. Whistles rang for the rest of the game. We won against Guinea.

I’ve been to a lot of different sports games- US Open, football, baseball, etc. But this had the most excitement ever. Join in America and support our soccer teams.

Yesterday, June 20th, we played our neighbor Cote Ivoire in the qualifiers to qualify for Africa Cup. Burkinabé flags soared from motorcycles, stores and bikes. Jerseys were worn by all. Red, yellow and green. Our pride was strong. Then we lost. I only caught the last 5 minutes on TV but we lost. 2 to 3. Shucks.

Guess we wait to September against Malawi to see if we continue forward.

“Karla, can you hand me that knife please?”

“It’s dirty…” I brought over a bucket of water with me so he could at least rinse it off.

“Well that is how it is in Africa.” He started to cut the carrot with the knife covered in grime and blood.

“And that is why I am here.”

Everyone just giggled.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Every year, 18% of the Burkinabe children under 5 years old die because of malnutrition. But it’s not necessarily because a lack of food but rather because the children have not been eating a well-balanced diet and therefore cannot fight illnesses. So I'm here, to educate mothers about exclusive breastfeeding, preparation of porridges, and importance of variety of food groups.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

There are latrines for people to use all over the village. The NGO (non-governmental organization) built some a couple years back for the community. But people don’t use the latrines, they rather handle their business in the field. By using the fields, it does much more than just create an odor in the air. Children play with the dirt. People walk barefoot. The dust blows the dirt and most people do not cover their food. This is how people get sick. Maybe someone who used the field has a parasite and now so does anyone who has come in contact with it. Soap is rarely used when washing hands. And with all the latrines we have and that are not used, they still request I build more latrines. So this is why I am here, to do a study and find out why latrines are not used. And then help create more sanitary conditions for all.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Everyone complains about not having money in my community, even those who work in the city and have steady incomes. “We cannot afford to go to the CSPS because we cannot pay for the medicine.” But they come to the CSPS and they pay. But they do not have to come to the CSPS if they make just a few changes in their life. They are all preventable diseases.

Children frequently come in with colds, diarrhea, and malaria- all illnesses that with a little more information (education) could be avoided.

The elderly have high blood pressure because there is always too much salt and oil in the food.

It's all education.

So that is why I am here, to help educate and therefore to help save them money.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

I have no work day. Work here is very different than what it is in the States. The "work" I did before I left for training in March was as follows:

-Every morning, I went to the CSPS and sat in on consultations

-During vaccination campaigns, I helped vaccinate everyone in the village (never giving actual shots)

-Whenever there was an important meeting with anyone in the community, I attended

-Spent time at the market, introducing myself and hanging out with folks

-My afternoons were reserved for my language classes (Bissa and French)

I am here as a community health volunteer. My duties are to help educate my village members about AIDS, help battle malnutrition, empower the COGES (the village health committee), teach students about their health, and aid with the lifespan.

Some projects I may do in the upcoming 12 months are as follows:

-Presentation series at the school

-A camp for teenage girls

-Educational discussions with mothers about the health of kids under 5

-Lead enriched porridge demonstrations for mothers of malnourished children

After being here for six motnsh I know I cannot save the world, but maybe I can at least help one person survive. And that is why I am here.

To put out a fire.

And it did. My entire neighborhood worked hard to put it out.

I had just finished washing my dishes and was preparing to bathe when I heard this noise. And all the women were making it. (It actually did sound just like a siren). Confused, I froze for about 30 seconds watching everyone run around. Someone said something in Bissa and pointed at yellow smoke coming from the opposite side of “my block”. Then I heard it “Feu!” and realized fire. I got scared because I have no clue how mud cement homes hold up in fires. Everyone was running with buckets. I grabbed my bucket of dishwater and ran. (Of course a girl came to “my rescue” because as a Nasaro you have no clue how to carry water). We ran around the corner following and followed by a crowd of people. Everyone was dumping water on the fire, it got bigger. Everyone shrieked. More people came with buckets. Men arrived on bikes and motos. The chief came. And finally it was over. Whew!

And then they noticed I was there. And everyone forgot about the fire. And for the rest of the night people discussed the fact I came to the fire with a bucket of water (just like everyone else mind you). No one said anything about an elderly blind man cooking, who started the fire.

“Good morning… How are you? What about your activities? And how is the house? Oh that is very good now. I am going to go in the house now, I’m tired. See you in a small while.”

Everyday I greet an elderly man who spent 33 years in Ghana. Everyday he asks me the same thing, genuinely concerned of course. And everyday (unless I am visiting a Peace Corps Volunteer) that is about all the English I get. So I spend most of my days attempting to speak French and Bissa…actually I spend most of my time hearing others speak languages I don’t understand.

“Moi? Encore, sil vous plait.” (Me? Again, please)

I am so used to sitting there not listening that I don’t know when people are actually talking to me.

“No c’est pas vrai. Je compri bien mais je parle mal.” (No, that’s not true. I understand but I speak poorly).

This is a statement I say often. I think people actually look down at me. Poor girl, she doesn’t understand French. What does she speak- English? No, not the English of Ghana. Poor thing.

Right now it’s difficult. I am still learning. I have gotten used to just thinking, watching, living a solo life. And learning how to hold my tongue when people think of me as a “poor thing.” (Maybe its best I don’t know French, hehe).

***

Greetings here are extensive. In America, unless I really know the person, I would just ask how they were doing and expect a “fine” or “good”. Here, there is the same expectation- “Laafi”, “Laafi Bala” (Moore), or “Laafi Tan” (Bissa)- but it is “prope” to ask about almost everything- house, business, family, your morning/afternoon/night, and so on. I am actually astonished sometimes how long the greetings are.

If you are seeing someone for the first time in an area, you say “Yassi Yassi” (Bissa) or “Bonne Arrive” (French). Every person, every time. I have gotten so accustomed to it. So much so I actually got a little upset the other day when I came home from working and was just stared at. I demanded a “Yassi Yassi”. It was probably bad timing.

If you see someone working “Ziiba Ziiba Ziiba” (Bissa) – loosely translated to “keep up the good work”.

If someone comes back from wherever it’s “Kit a ka?” (Bissa)- “Where were you?”. Now I’m used to living a semi-private life and sharing only the information I want to, so this is always a difficult question for me to respond to… but I do because I am here and to integrate I must.

There is always an exchange of benedictions, which I don’t know yet. But people are always blessing my health, my life, my work, my day, my house. And since I don’t know them yet when people say them, I always respond “Barka” (Bissa/Moore)- “Thank you”. And then I get the correcting whisper “Amina”- “Amen”. And then I respond “Amin Amin Amin”- always three times and without the “a” on the end (this is the way everyone says it so I follow suit).

And everyday, my greetings are their own little adventure. I know how to respond, but I am never quite sure how to start off. There are at least four languages I have to know to live in my village and I am never quite sure how someone is going to respond:

Most people will speak to me in Bissa.

Some people I know are Moosi (major ethnic group here), so I talk to them in Moore.

For some reason men, especially teenage boys, will only speak French to me (maybe they are trying to display their education).

And then others always speak broken English to me, always. And they are always excited. And I always give them the same reaction- my face lights up in shock. I usually respond in French. They say “I speak English small small.” I nod. They ask “I want to learn English, teach me English?” I say “After I learn French and Bissa, I will teach you English.” “Okay, Merci.”

And finally there are my favorites- the preschoolers. We have a Danish NGO here that provides our village with many different amenities including a “Prescolaire”. My little buddies love to greet me. Whether I am riding past on a bike, sitting on my porch or walking through the community it’s the same thing each time. They fold their arms, take one step forward and say “Bonjour Madame, Bonjour Tante.” (Good day Ma’m, Good day Auntie.) I adore them.

In America, we always try to shield out children from harm. Maybe too much so. After being here a couple of months, I have begun to question what we keep our kids from. When I first saw my 3 year old host brother holding fire, I told him to stop (in my own sign language of course). But then after further observations I realized he was helping keep the fire going. He knew it was hot and dangerous and therefore acted appropriately. He also helps his 8 year old brother kill pigeons for dinner. Kids hold down animals when they are butchered. Five year olds make run to the store to buy condiments. They play among themselves all day while their parents work. Two and three years old. It is a different society. No kidnapping, most have more than enough. Not many crimes. It just makes me think about how fear conditions us to be scared of things that even a child can handle.

And they are. Literally. All the time. Watching me. It’s apart of the culture here for everyone else’s business and since I am a Nasaro (foreigner) it’s even worse. Sometimes I like it because I want to be left alone. But it is something I have to get used to, at least until the novelty of me wears off.

After this experience, I am sure that I do not want to be a celebrity. I am literally always watched and talked about.

“What did you eat for dinner tonight… Oh the Nasaro ate spaghetti for dinner.”

“Karla, why did you throw away those tomatoes?”

They look through my windows. They hang out on my porch. They always know where I am.

It’s tough at times and I have my moments when I grind my teeth but it will get better. This is a lesson in patience, something I definitely have to learn.

“My name is Karla, Bandaogo Karla.”

“Wait, you are American though right? How is your last name Bandaogo? Only people who live here have that last name.”

“Well I will be here for the next two years so that is my name now.”

Three weeks ago when I met the father of the chief he changed my last name to Bandaogo. I am now apart of the family and I love it.

***

I peddle as fast as I can following my friend Ali to his village. We swerve through dried up river beds and around wandering sheep. The air is cold as it has been every morning for the last month. I duck to avoid the branches of mango trees. I stare in amazement at the size of a Balboa trees. We are riding towards the mountain that surrounds the city of Garango. It is beautiful here. There is so much more vegetation than there was up north. I think I would be completely content if I spent an entire day observing my surroundings. I have seen the most beautiful sunsets and moonlit skies. I am at peace.

***

As I recap my experiences with some of my fellow volunteers, I realize that I really am in an entirely different world. For the past few weeks, I have asked myself “Where am I again?” My experience here does not at all resemble my training village of Sissamba. For one, people here have money and they do things out of luxury. I will recap a few experiences for you.

Convo #1:

“Karla, why are your pants dirty?”

“Well I just biked half a day during Harmattan. Its windy and there is a lot of dirt.”

“I will wash your clothes for you on Sunday. I have this special solution from Italy that makes clothes really pretty. Then we have to take them to be ironed. People will say ‘Oh Karla dresses so nice. Oh Karla is pretty.”

“Okay… fine”

Where am I again? In Sissamba, you just wore whatever you had which was not much. You did not worry about if it was a little worn or had a little dirt on it. Here it is a totally different world. I feel like I am back in the states. Image is important. If my shoes get dirty, I should wash them (I cannot figure out why because they are going to get dirty the very next moment). I was told I need to go to the city to get my hair done because they do not do it well in the village. This journey I am on is about integration and learning a new culture so I will have to do as they say.

Convo #2:

“Karla what are you doing on Thursday? Let’s go to the city. We will drink and eat and…”

“Okay…”

Mariam wore a new outfit as she does every time we go to the city. At noon, I followed her to her nephew’s house. He cooked for us, a man here cooked. He has French satellite TV, DVD and CD players, surround sound, and a flat screen TV. Where am I again? I was in a small city, not a regional capital. The fact she dressed up to go to the city reminds me of my grandmother (Hi Nanny!). When we used to go to Ouhiagouya, the 4th largest city in the nation, homes I went to did not have equipment like that. And you definitely did not get dressed up.

Convo #3:

“What did you eat for dinner? Just tou, you have to get a salad. Let’s go, I am going to buy you a salad.”

Where am I? Tou is a staple here and a part of the daily cuisine. But apparently in my village, tou is not enough. I have gotten lectures about how tou is not enough and that I should be eating more. I know that eating a millet blob is not nutritious but that was all you ate in Sissamba. And people here area always buying me food, to the point I feel sick. They grill chicken and won’t let me leave until I eat it. They practice this tradition called “Langa”, where you eat a lot because it’s a gift to have this much food. In Sissamba, there was no extra money to buy food for other people.

Where am I?

I am in a village with the haves. Some men in my community work in Italy for half the year on the tomato crops there. They send money and Italian goods back home. (My friend Mariam has “Chanel” shoes she wears everyday. The kids where Dolce and Gabana and Prada T-shirts.) There is a Danish NGO in my village that has provided us with a Preschool, trade schools (tailoring, welding, plastic-making, and capentry) and library. We also have a tourist resort where European tourist visit 4 times a year. There is money here. There is pride here. People are much better off than they are in other villages or cities even. And this is my home, kinda like my real home.

I’ll blame it on my adjustment. I am in a different place with new people doing things I’ve never done before. This has got to be the reason I am acting as I have been, right? I mean I was pretty dramatic in the states but my goodness…

•It was a very special occasion, the day of our site announcements. We were all nervous and excited to find out where we would be living for the next two years. Each site description was read and then we would have to guess who was really going to reside there. When they read the description which included the phrase “flushing toilet” everyone went crazy. Then when they said my name I jumped up out of my seat and ran down the aisle flushing my imaginary toilet. “This is me flushing my toilet,” I stated. It was like I was on the “Price is Right” and just found out my prize was a car. People still talk about it to this day and it happened in mid-November.

•It is rare that you get anything cold here. When you live without electricity, it’s hard to put things in a fridge (there are ways though, many of the health centers use car batteries for power). A couple of weeks ago we visited the capital city Ouaga and it was really like being in a different world. We found many different delicious goodies including a frozen chocolate that called “Fan Choco” (think fudgisicle). Recently a staff member came from the capital and brought Fan Chocos with her. I literally jumped up out of my seat like 3 feet off the ground cheering. I feel like I was on TV.

•“Oh Karla cranky, never” was a sarcastic remark my good friend here made. So I have my days… and they seem to be occurring much more than they did in the states. My friends even asked me once “If we gave you some of the good cookies would that make you feel better.” I preceded to get an attitude that they were not already purchased. I really feel blessed to even have friends because it gets bad.

•We had a health lesson on how to cope with stress and we came up with about 50 different ways to handle it. So I have lots of potential solutions for dealing with the adjustment. So far, biking has been my best coping mechanism. I have to bike 10km anyway so I just let out my aggression riding. It works, sometimes.

The transition to BF has been challenging with lot of happy, sad and unnerving moments and I am sure I will have plenty more similar moments like this. I’m learning to deal with me!

She refuses to make eye contact with anyone. Though she has one of the highest ranking position in the room, she speaks while looking down. She remarks on how difficult it is for women in the workplace, how her opinion is overlooked… how she will never be considered an equal. But she made it to district manager level.

***

“Nafi… Nafioo” my host mom calls to my eight year old sister. She is always called away from the other kids to do house work. She is always called away from the other kids to do housework. She is the only girl still living at home and therefore the sole person to assist her mother with chores. Every morning she is up sweeping the courtyard while her brothers are still asleep. Every night she cooks, cleans, and watches her two year old brother. Her life is different from her six brothers and the expectations of her future are also- she is to marry, bare children and manage the home. Most women in the village do not know French because they stopped their studies to help at home. But Nafi is the only one of my host siblings who studies French every night.

***

Yes you are a woman but you are American and therefore you opinion matters. Welcome to the 3rd gender of Burkina. You are not quite as good as a man, especially not an American one but you are definitely treated better than a Burkinabe woman. You have to learn your role and place in this “archaic” world. But you are here and you make a difference, especially because you are female.

Abraham had a son Isaac. He was a special gift from God because his wife Sarah had previously been barren. Isaac was the joy of Abraham’s life. One day, God came to Abraham and told him to go to the mount and sacrifice his son. In obedience, Abraham went to sacrifice his only son. As he raised his knife, an angel of the Lord appeared and told him that God was pleased with his obedience and that his son should be spared. The angel told him to offer a lamb instead.

***

We rise at 6am as usual and in the distance hear the call to prayer as we do every morning. Today is different though, it’s Tabaski, the celebration of Abraham’s obedience and God’s commitment. The men dress in their booboos, take their sons and go to pray while the women prepare a grand feast. My host grandfather who never goes anywhere even makes it to the field to pray… The men return and begin to sacrifice the lambs. The lamb is hung over the door frame of my host grandfather’s courtyard. I personally witnessed the sacrifice of 3 lambs… At noon, the food is done and we eat much more than usual. The women finally get dressed in their new outfits, their feet all are decorated with henna. Even the children wear new clothes. Everyone is happy and satisfied… I go with my host dad’s to meet with his students at 3pm. My host mother has prepared “Zacoom” (juice) for them. We all sip and talk and depart to continue in our families activities… My host mother rushes into the courtyard to get me because the women are dancing. They offer me a piece of their matching pagne (fabric) and I join in. We do traditional circle dances and they cannot stop giggling at me…On my way back to my house, my host grandfather calls me over and gives me 4 cuts of meat. I visited with him earlier in the day and drank Zacoom. I thank him with a big smile and give the meat to my host mother for preparation. My host uncle gives my host dad another “cadon” for me- a Fanta! To receive a soda in village is a big treat and I am super surprised. “Barka! Barka!” I yell thanking him in Moorè… At nightfall after dinner, the women and kids of my neighborhood all go out to dance and play. I am too tired to go even after several pleads from my host family. My host dad and I fall asleep in our courtyard listening to the radio… My first Tabaski!

If you are in Burkina Faso and biking in a city, be careful because as a Nasaro (foreigner), you may get stopped by the police. The police target us because they think we have more money than others. You should have two lights on at night at all times- one in front and one in back or your bike will get confiscated and you will have to pay 6000 CFA. Now sure you may be biking next to host country nationals who are biking without any lights or brakes, but the police stop you. During our first month here, a trainee was stopped on her way back from the cyber café; at that point our French was pretty weak and we were nervous about being in a new place- so it was a terrifying experience.

Now we just know we have to abide by their rules:

-Have your ID on you at all times

-Have your bike certificate with you

-Obey all traffic laws, stop at yellow if you really want to avoid trouble

-Wear two lights at night

Hopefully I wont have to deal with them while here.

I am happy to report that I am now fully bilingual! I’m lying but I can definitely understand most of what people say. I had a exam last Saturday testing my French communication level and I am at Intermediate Low, which is enough to finish training. When I got the results earlier today I was super excited because a month ago I was really discouraged that I would never learn (pronunciation of some English words is difficult for me so French was definitely going to be a problem). Thankfully, I have improved. My confidence has improved which means I practice more and therefore get more correction if I do make an error.

- Each week I have 2 to 4 two-hour classes in French which helps with my grammar and pronunciation. We are all divided up in classes based on our French level so we get the proper guidance. Our times is spent reviewing different real life scenarios (shopping, attending celebrations, etc) and we learn the vocabulary and proper expressions. This has also taught me a lot about the culture and the culturally correct way to do things.

-Every weeknight my host father teaches a French class for 18 men. They all speak Moorè fluently but they only know a little French (usually what they learned in grade school). The class is mainly to assist them with reading and pronunciation. I have attended class for the past two weeks and it has definitely helped me. Each night, we focus on a different consonant and pair it with a vowel; each student takes a turn reading the syllables and words out loud. I am also now considered a member of the group, which is kinda cool.

-If we are not too tired, I will also have a conversation with my host father or host brothers during dinner. We talk about our cultural differences, politics, the economy, our work, etc. Every time I say anything incorrectly, my host father waits until I am done speaking and then restates my question/statement in the correct form. He is a good teacher. Unfortunately my host brothers do not always understand my French and we spend the majority of the time trying to figure out what each other is saying. Our newest solution has just been for them to practice English with me (they learn English in high school here) and I practice French. It is very funny and cute when you have 12 kids saying “Good Afternoon… How are YOOOOOOOUUUUUU?”

When I get to my site (my home for the next two years), I am supposed to get a tutor to give me even more assistance in French. It is good to know that volunteers who came in with know French are now fluent and have no problem conducting their daily business. So I will be bilingual… trilingual if you count Spanish (wink wink SEO).

Is unsatisfied. I think I have began to lose weight (like baggie jeans) not because of the lack of food but because of the lack of flavor. I am lucky in that I do prepare my own food (under the instruction of my host dad) so I know what is in it (most volunteers have meals prepared by there host mom and its always a surprise), but I still do not get to select the food of the day. At first I did not mind it too much and I was open to the different cuisine, but that sentiment has since faded and I am now happily anticipating my move where I will get to cook on my own.

Here are the typical ingredients of a Burkinabè village meal:

Oil- Lots of oil. Who knows why but using all of the oil in a bottle is satisfying. It may be because the food is always overcooked so to make sure it does not stick to the pan, you use lots of oil.

MSG packs called “Maggi”- This is typically the sole flavor in the meal. They are cheap to buy and come in a serving size already. You just crush them up towards the end of the cooking process and Voila!

Salt- The other flavor part but it helps with hydration so I am not opposed to it.

Rice- Always. Its quick, easy, cheap, and accessible. Anywhere you go you can get rice. It is typically with sauce already “regra” or you can add sauce later. Not bad but kinda boring

Spaghetti- Also a staple. Individual packs smaller than what you can purchase in the states and cheap. Used as a substitute for rice for variety.

Yams- Rock hard potatoes. Not a fave. I have avoided making them. Extremely bland.

Tou- A big blob of white of brown dough. Some of my friends say its like eating a cloud. Absolutely no flavor so you pair it with a sauce. My mom likes to make a gumbo sauce (okra) that I pretend to dip my tou in. I always ask for just a little and get WAY too much. I really despise this dish.

Sauces- Most dishes here are accompanied by a sauce of some sort. There are a couple of sauces I have experienced thus far that the Moosi people eat. All are extremely oily.

~Tomato sauce- different from the tomato paste stuff we have in the states but one of the best to me

~Peanut sauce- different from the Thai peanut sauces I am familiar with… it’s

okay

~Gumbo sauce- slimy and gross

~Eggplant sauce- My friend Sara’s host mom has been the only one to prepare this, very tasty because she puts lots of veggies in it

Here are my food possibilities:

-Right now there is a lot of produce which means there is a lot options. There are onions, eggplants, melons, garlic, peppers, tomatoes, squashes, bananas, etc. Here I only have access to the food following its harvest and when it is in season, so these are my options right now. In the “Spring”, its Mango season and everyone eats lots and lots of Mangoes- exciting.

-Peace Corps gave us a cookbook of how to prepare “American” dishes using local ingredients and facilities. It should be fun! Apparently I will have plenty of time to experiment.

-In the capital city there are also a lot of options- Pizza, Italian, Chinese, salads, at the international school (diplomat children’s school) they have American food- I had my first hamburger in 3 years here

So things are looking up for my tummy. Most female PCVs lose weight at the beginning and then gain it all back, so I won’t be smaller for long. Yum Yum!

Earlier today (11/21) I was riding my bike around the city swerving in and out of traffic and I realized this was all very familiar à New York City. Now mind you the whole country has 14 million and the American city has 8 million alone but alot of what I learned in New York has come in handy.

As a pedestrain in New York City, you are always in a rush. I learned to dodge moving and parked vehicles, push pedestrains (hehe) and run to trains. Here I am kinda doing the same thing. On my bike, I have to avoid other bicyclists, motorcyclists, pedestrains, vendors, vehicles, oncoming traffic, did I mention goats? It's alot and you have to learn fast, kinda like you have to in the Big Apple.

Most people here do not have cars,you either bike or ride your moto and some walk (like miles). There are taxis in the city but they are expensive and unless you are in the capital, your bike can get you everywhere you need. So I will be grocery shopping, visiting friends, going to cyber cafes, working... all on my bike. In New York, you walk or take the subway. So I am kinda prepared to be innovative in my baggage and thoroughly plan my errands.

In New York, having a stroller is kinda ridiculous. Unless you have a car and use taxis all the time, traveling with a child has to be creative. Subway elevators never work and really don't exist. SO you either recruit a fellow rider to help you with stairs or you pray for seating for your tired child. Here, they just strap them to their back. It actually works really well, you can still accomplish all of your chores and errands. I may do it, depending on my fitness level (the women here are STRONG. We always talk about how they would win a fight with men).

All vendors outside stores here (which are most) have negiotable prices. Now they will try to get you because you are a "Nasaro" but we usually talk them down to normal prices. My frequenting flea markets in NYC helped here.

If I travel to another part of the country I go by bus. If I am lucky, I coordinate my travel and take the nicer bus (a/c, TVs, cozy seats). I really only traveled to DC or Boston when I was in NY. If I left early enough, I could take the luxurious Bolt Bus.

I could go on but I won't. I am adapting well because some of the transitions have been easier. Thank you to the birthplace of my adult life- New York!

You wake up to a chill in the air. You realize that last night you wrapped yourself in your blanket because of the cold. It is too cold for you to even bathe in the morning, even after your water has been boiled. People are wearing parkas (bubble jackets) others are battling the flu. This is in Africa!

It's called Harmattan and it is the equivalent to America's winter. The dusty winds come down from the Sahara and create a chill. Everything becomes dusty, so much so you have to wear a mask over your nose and mouth. Every morning I wake up with a runny nose and cough. I believe I am the sole American that thinks its cold enough to wear a sweatshirt (70 degrees in the states is chilly to me too). The weather will last like this until February when it becomes blazing hot- 104 degrees average. In June, it finally cools down with rain but it rains alot. Most people plant their crops at this time but there is no traveling because most roads are unpassable. In October, the rain ends and it is the mini hot season (about 95 degrees). There are four seasons here- familiar!

Most volunteers treasure Harmattan because it is so much cooler. I will just keep wrapping myself up and hope I don't get another cold.

They feel encouraged. Though their families have shunned them and their communities won't accept them, their spirits are good. They are healthier. They are alive. And they have each other. Many of them are widowers who got tested because they felt sick. Their fears became a reality when it came back positive. All they knew about it was it killed people. They were so full of fear... but they are still here. They are a testimony to others that you can survive. You will survive. There is help.

SIDA (or AIDS in English) has infected too many women in Sub-Saharan Africa. 87 percent of AIDS cases in the world are women in Sub-Sahara Africa. We visited AAMIE in Ouihagouya and heard their stories. They come from all over the country to the northern city because of the support this center offers. There is treatment and they are better but they want a cure. They said that will make a huge difference in how many people actually get tested.

Education is key. Research is key. Donations to help subsidize the treatments is key so more can live. Join in the celebration of World AIDS Day on December 1st.

Thank you for this opportunity. I feel blessed to be here. I have already grown and learned alot. My transition has been much less difficult than expected. I have made friends and am learning the customs and cultural norms quickly. Most importantly, the Burkinabè want me here. They want to work with me to create a better country for their people. I pray our partnership is successful. I pray we change lives. Thank you for this blessing.

Amina.

***

Amina is the response you give after a blessing or pray (It is a Moorè word). It is equivalent to Amen. We often receive blessings here, people wishing us a good stay and that God watches over us. I love it!

***

On Sunday, me and my friend went to Church in Sissamba. Most villagers (like 95 percent) of Sissamba are Muslim and their is a mosque in every neighborhood. I was nervous my host dad would be upset I was going. (Now I am not telling the whole truth. He invited me to have breakfast with them and I said no I have to go and I already ate. Umm, Karla that is a no no. Plus I told him I was going to the Baptism of my friend's host cousin. I said nothing about Church. So on my way to church when his friend asked where I was going and I said church, that is when I got nervous. That is the whole story.) So that is why I was nervous. The Burkinabè are open to all religions. They expect you to attend each religion's parties, holidays and celebrations.

The church service was good. Good music, good Word, good energy. It is a Catholic church and the guest preacher studied in Ghana so he translated the Moorè sermon into English (very cool). Next time I am in Sissamba on a Sunday, I'll go back.

I have heard (rather read) these words many times over the past week. People are motivated, inspired, overwhelmed, overjoyed... one Burkinabè newspaper had an article written about it, how Black peoples' blood was not spilled in vain, how big a deal this is for the world.

We have a new president. America has a new president. I am an American, yet I feel so disconnected.

We begged, pleaded, and were finally allowed to stay at the training center so we could have access to a TV on election night. I stayed up all night to watch it, which meant I was barely "present" the next day in class. I watched in French, a language I am still a novice in especially when watching a international broadcast on politics. I stared at the maps and looked at the electoral results. I cheered as Obama won more and more states... then I fell asleep, it was 3:45am. When I woke at 7, I was told we had a new president. I was happy, I am happy, but I think I would feel different if I was in the states.

Maybe its because I was not able to watch CNN for the weeks leading up to the monumental event... or that I could not correnspond with my politico buddies to talk about all the details and stats and the stuff many people here find boring... maybe its because I was not with my friends and family who are celebrating not only something major for the country but also for our race...maybe I am just exhausted from everything being so new and different that I can't contribute as much energy to celebrating as I typically would...

Or maybe it's just not a surprise. I always knew he would win, I always knew this day would come, so I already celebrated while I was in the states attending events, donating funds, etc. Maybe.

One thing is for sure- things will definitely be different now. They will be better.

Congratulations! You are going to the village of...

Welcome to this beautiful site in the region of ... and the health district of .... You wanted a welcoming community, you got it! The COGES and CSPS staff are welcoming as well and very excited to have you. You have a Peace Corps Trainee mate nearby at Koumtouega and one PC Secondary Education volunteer, An Le, who is also close. You can find anything you need in Garango, just 6km away and you'll have many luxuries in your spacious "Villa Style" house- including your own flush toilet!!

***

Yesterday I received this description during our site assignment ceremony. I am moving to East Burkina Faso where there is plenty of fish, lakes, and more greenery. It is hard to find more detailed descriptions but this is what I know:

- flush toilet (I dont have one now so this is major)

-they have a lot of arts and crafts groups

-I am close to other volunteers

That's it! I will have two years to learn of the communities many treasures so it should be fun.

Maybe it is just me but I have always heard “go to Africa, go to the homeland of your ancestors. You will be welcomed with open arms.” I could see that being the case in a touristy spot but in Burkina Faso not so (well not my experience anyway). It maybe that I am in a small village, but I definitely feel like a foreigner.

On our first night in Ouahigouya, we had a welcome party with musicians and dancing. Of course I was in heaven. I danced and danced and danced. No one could have told me it did not look natural. Afterwards a gentleman approached me and said “Welcome home my sister, welcome to Africa.” And then, he tried to sell me some cheap jewelry.

Since then, no one has said anything about my black skin. No one has welcomed me or made me feel any different than the other Caucasian American Peace Corps trainees. We are all “Nasaros” (foreigners). None of us belong. All of us struggle with French and integration. All of us plan to stay for only 2, maybe 3 years- we are all visitors. Its not bad, just different because I’ve never seen myself as anything other than a black girl.

Well maybe change won’t come this fast but some things have already changed and some things have not.

The Same

• I still don’t like the dark, though between the hours of 6:00pm and 5:30am it is pitch black in the village. Battery operated lighting comes in handy.

• I still don’t like bugs and creepy crawlers and there is no escaping them. I have learned how to manage my dislike though, sometimes I do scream, but most times I kill them even before I have time for fear. Plus I have developed a strong attachment to my mosquito net- they keep everything out.

• I am still a hypochondriac, which may actually come in handy. We are learning so much about how to stay healthy and safe that my fear of illness may keep me well.

• I am still a know-it-all, but I have altered this trait quite a bit. I really don’t know anything but pay close attention to lessons so I can act like I do.

• People who like me without knowing me well still spook me…. but I am gonna need all of the friends I can get here. Plus I made many good friends in the states that way.

• I still need “ME’ time though it is impossible. My classes are from 8am to 5pm and when I am at home I am always watched because I am the foreigner. I bet when I am alone at my site (Jan 2009 to Dec 2010) I will wish for less alone time.

The Change

• I should probably stay out of mirrors. It’s not that bad but my word I am getting upset at my own non-chalantness towards my image. But this is how it is here, well with us PC trainees and Sissamba villagers. City folks are the ones who try to look nice. You are always dirty (the heat causes sweat, the bikes cause dust, and everything but the MAIN roads are dirt). We only brought so many clothes and its hard doing laundry in the dark (I did skip a day of relaxation to do wash though so I am not that dirty)…. I may be exaggerating a bit though. The outfit I have received the most complements on was a Talbots jumper dress and a top my grandmother bought for herself. I am 25years old! Clearly our standards of fashion have changed since arriving in Burkina Faso.

• I am doing things I would typically consider gross. If you ask about it I probably will not share… can’t embarrass the family anymore.

• I am taking a liking to the bucket baths and my personal latrine (sharing latrines/toilets is still gross).

• I am more open to different people- I think. I am meeting and enjoying people very very different from me- mountain biking enthusiast, lacrosse player, small-towners by choice, etc. Really what it is is there is only one other person of color in my group. When many of us shared photos of friends and loved ones, I noticed a major similarity- they only included people of the same race. I am sure after my experience with Peace Corps that will change, which is a great thing.

During training with Peace Corps, I will be living in Sissamba. Sissamba is an 8,000 person village about 8 km from Ouihigouya (the 4th largest city in Burkina Faso). When I first arrived, I was nervous about the unfamiliarity of everything but now I think it is kinda like any other suburb.

Sissamba is a community made up of different neighborhoods, usually divided by families. I live in Southeast Sissamba with my host dad, host mom, and five siblings. The surrounding compounds are inhabited by aunts, uncles, and many cousins.

Those who can afford to live in luxury, here that means running water and electricity, live in the cities. Those who cannot, typically farmers and herders, live in villages. Villages have no electricity, running water, and the homes are typically made of mud. (Its much better than I imagined though.)

In downtown Sissamba, there is a pharmacy health center and maternity center. There is also an area we have labeled “the men’s club” where popular men come to chat and relax. (All of our host dads are apart of the club). Adjacent to downtown area is the grade school. Most of the students attend grade school. There is even an APE (America’s PTA/PTSA) which some of the host dad’s head. On the main road there is a market. The market occurs once every three days but sells almost anything (think neighborhood plaza, in BK think Fulton Street, except it is an open air market). Food, cloth/cloth, household goods, hardware, electronics, bike repair, its all there. After each marchè (market), there is a discotech (nightclub) where teenagers go to dance and mingle.

Just like in the states, your housing is dependent on your income. So even though we all live in mud homes, sizes and courtyards (think porch/outdoor space) depends on how much money you have available. Most farmers and herders tend to have simpler homes. I don’t have my own courtyard, I share with my entire family. My family’s place is my house (one room place), my host mom and children’s house, my father’s two-room house, the kitchen area and two latrines (outdoor bathroom and shower area).

Another trainee’s host dad is Sissamba’s pharmacist. He is the only pharmacist in 11 neighboring villages so therefore has more money and power than others. His outfits are always pressed, clean and well-tailored. (Because most people are farmers and know their job is to get dirty, they wear the same clothes daily. I actually only see my father in clean clothes when he goes to prayer). The pharmacist’s neighborhood is right next to the market. He owns the sole store and telecenter in the neighborhood. So Sarah’s, my friend, house is larger. She even has her own courtyard with a hanger (shade).

Because of its unfamiliar traits- APE (PTA), limited hour market, small neighborhoods, only a couple of meeting places- adapting has not been that difficult. Though the living here is simple- no running water or electricity- we have all began to like our village much more than the city.

If any of you spoke to me prior to my departure, you know one thing I was worried about was my daily routines. In the Peace Corps handbook "A Few Minor Adjustments", it was noted that it would be challenging to experience everything for the first time including bathing, brushing teeth, routines in America we do without thinking. Well I am happy to say that I now have a routine established...

I usually wake up to the call of a rooster (very country/fairytalish). The time changes from day to day. I always thought they just called when the sun came up but apparently any lights (even flashlights) sets them off.

My host dad usually comes at 5:30, 5:45 and notifies me of his presence with a knock on my screen door. He asks for my wash bucket, which I place outside. My host mom fills it with warm water (half boiled, half regular temp) and places it in my bathing quarters. So I "shower" at sunrise- very beautiful. After bathing and getting dressed, I greet everyone. There is a Burkinabè superstition about not greeting until after you bathe. At this point I am handed a little loaf of French bread and hot water for my tea. I gather my books for the day and head off to class. On days we bike to the city, I have to leave at 6:30am; when we stay in village 8 am. My 8yo host brother leads the way on his bike to my meeting place. I greet many neighbors on my way- greetings are very important here, no matter what time of day. I thank him ("Y Barka" in Mooré) and meet up with my four other Sissamba trainees and our instructor.

We spend from 8am to 5:15pm in training. We are either learning French, doing cross-cultural activities, getting technical training for our health work, attending medical sessions about how to stay healthy or instructed on safety precautions to take. We are basically back in school. We have an hour and half for lunch break where we either go to a restaurant, shop at the market or visit a cyber cafe. As a requirement of Peace Corps, we are not allowed to travel at night so at 5.15pm we race home before night fall.

I usually don't arrive home until about 6pm. I give my wash bucket to my host mother and bathe under the stars. It is also customary to bathe before eating here (wash away the filthe of the day) and I am very grateful for this custom- I am always so gross at day's end.

I sit down with my host dad to prepare my dinner. We usually have at least 12 kids ranging from 1yo to 15yo watching us, well really me. I do my best to keep them entertained, noting every grasshopper (which the boys race to catch) and frog (which they race to kick). I also have a cool flashlight (thanks Cousin Billy and Cheryl) that they call whadigga (sun in Mooré). I spend an hour practing Mooré- numbers, naming surrounding objects, singing songs- and wait for my host father to correct my pronunciation. Then I have a conversation with my father in French which would only last 5 mins if I was fluent rather than the 30 it does.

At about 9pm I head to bed- very different than in the states. It is so hot in my room I sleep with just the screen door shut. The conditions are much better than my first night thanks to my use of insecticide and regular sweeping. (Isnt that interesting, by cleaning and spraying you can get rid of insects, even in a mud home).

Occassionally, I will stay up late and watch a movie (I saw a Jean Claude VanDaam one the other week) at the video club or I will receive an invitation to the party at the market's discoteque. Typically, I am too exhausted to do anything but climb into my bed covered in my mosquito net.

So right now, this is my rountine. On December 26th we head to our permanent site (no host family, living on our own) where I will have to establish a brand new routine.

My host dad, Amedou, is a modern man. He does many things differently from other men, whether in village or in other countries. My french skills are still very limited but from our conversations and my observations here is what I learned.

HE HAS ONE WIFE

Most Burkinabè men have at least two or three wives but Amedou only has one, Azeta, who he refers to as Madame. Azeta has given him seven children ranging from 14 mos to 17 yo. He has an 8 yo daughter who Azeta has raised as her own. Either Nafis mother was not okay or Azeta said Amedous stepping out was not okay , here is where knowing French better would come in handy.

HE RESPECTS WOMEN

Yes he has one wife but there are people who have one woman who they dont respect. Amedou treats women as his equal. There are gender roles that exist, the same that can often be found in the states- women performing domestic work and men taking care of financial concerns, but his actions speak in volume. Amedou tells Azeta almost everything we discuss, educating her as he learns. She only speaks Moorè- pronounced Mooray- and he speaks French, Moorè, and a teeny tiny bit of English. He still never leaves her out. He also has sent his two eldest dqaughters to high school in the city. Most men would not send/pay for their daughters to attend school past primary education but he does.

HE IS A DOMESTIC MAN

Since my first night in Sissamba, Amedou has showed me how to cook. Each night, we set up chairs and ¨a charcoal grill¨ in the courtyard and he gives me cooking instructions. Usually we are surrounded by at least 12 kids who find everything I do (as a foreigner) fascinating. He tells me when to add salt, oil, water, how to cut the different veggies, etc. I soon learned that no one else in Peace Corps was cooking their own food, their mothers would make it and give it to them. He also taught me how to sweep the courtyard and had my sister teach me how to wash clothes (basic things are done differently here). Other trainees have these things done for them and done by women. The other night I got really sick (probably from my cooking- hehe). Amedou came to check on me and sat outside my room until the morning sacrificing good sleep to make sure I was okay.

HE IS EDUCATED

He knows French and Moorè (French is the language taught in school). In the early 80s, he worked with the diplomat and lived in Mali, Cote d' Ivore and Ghana. (He learned the little English he knows while in Ghana). He also used to teach Moorè. He is very patient with me and my French. Every night while cooking and under the watchful eyes of the neightborhood kids (my host counsins), we manage to have a conversation. We have discussed his experiences, Burkina Faso, America, the economy, etc.

HE IS A COMMUNITY ACTIVIST

Most people, whether in Burkina Faso or anywhere else in the world, are only thinking about their family and themselves. Amedou makes presentations to womens groups, school children, and members of the community about the prevention of AIDS and Malaria. This is a volunteer position. It is one of the most affective methods to distributing health information. They are actually the types of presentations I will be making with Peace Corps.

See, my host dad is a modern man