Winter Gardens and Killing Chickens, or, a Typical Day in Town

Disclaimer: The contents of this post are a bit graphic. Life, death, that kind of stuff. Read with caution.

I wake up at 6:00, an hour and a half after the roosters start to crow, when the light around our vaulted three-room house begins to turn from a deep, cool blue to the ever lightening yellow of dawn. I open all of our metal windows with a resonating clink to allow the yellow-blue infusion to begin to flow in. Finally, I open our south-facing metal double doors which always feels like waking up for a second time. Kellynn puts a pot on to boil, and I start to stretch. Sun salutation. Downward dog. And others that I make up (or just don’t know the names of) that just feel good. The water comes to a boil and I make a cup of Nescafé or tea, take a sip and then do some abdominal workouts and pushups. I figure now is as good a time in my life for all realms of self-improvement as ever. After this we’ll make some oatmeal with the leftover water or sometimes cereal with powdered milk. Today I go for a peanut butter and jelly, a throwback to stage days with my host family. I take my anti-malarial Doxycycline and feel the suppressed parasite retreat in dismay to the dark regions of my body. Sipping the remainder of my drink, I try to learn some Mooré. My usual goal is to learn two verbs and two nouns and ideally use them in some fashion during the day. Today’s verbs are: n bao (to search) and n geta (to see, to look at). The idea of course is to trick people into thinking that I speak Mooré.

By the time 8:00 rolls around, one of our counterparts stops by to say hello, ask about our night, health, family, sleeping habits, etc. We then sally forward together into the world of my village to meet people, explain what the hell we’re doing here, and begin to form an idea of how life works. This morning I go out to the huge barrage (man-made lake) in the north of town to do some real work with my homologue. All the members of my association (all 2000ish of them) do some form of gardening around this body of water during this season.

It’s still surprisingly cool at 8:30 and I’m enjoying my somewhat lost bike ride through the sparse up-town. I pass many people on my circuitous trek making their way to their boutiques, their stall in the marché, or whatever their day holds for them. I follow the many with dabas attached to their bikes figuring that this is a good way to find the barrage. I greet everybody I pass: “Nye yibeoogo.” “Yibeoog kibare?” “Laafi.” This is a shortened version, appropriate for passing people on bike, of every greeting here. If all else fails, just say, “Laafi.” If that gives you weird looks, a simple, “N ba” if you’re a man or “N sa” if you’re a woman will calm those waters. Through the trees I finally spy water and head for my homologue’s plot. The barrage here is a green oasis with rich, beautiful-smelling black soil and vegetables everywhere. It is onion season right now and I almost get a sense of walking through a lush American lawn as I make my way through the planches of first-year pépinières.

This morning I am helping him plant a column of plots to be planted with some half-mature onions to ripen into that edible thing we know and love. We both grab a daba, which is the all-purpose, universal gardening implement of Burkina. It is a beautifully simple tool comprised of a forearm-length club with a hoe-like blade jammed into the fat end. What we are using is more correctly termed a “pioshe” (pick-axe) due to its slightly narrower blade, but it’s still a daba in my book. We stand above the compacted dirt and my homologue, being, in addition to a cultivator and the treasurer of our association, a protestant preacher, says a prayer in the still cool light of the morning. “Wẽnd” means “God” in addition to being a truncation of “sun,” both of which seem appropriate in this case. And then we start to work. At first it feels great to work like this again. The easy give of the slightly damp soil under the sharp blade and efficient force of the daba, the repetitive rhythm, the clods of earth between my toes, the soft breeze all pacify my earth-bound heart. We finish our first plots neck-and-neck and start on the next. And then that earth-bound heart begins to beat. My arms are instantly sore in strange new places and I can feel blisters forming on my hands. I try ambidextrosity and alter my technique, going after smaller bits at a time and allowing the daba to do more of the work which seems to help. For a while. I am halfway through my second planche when my homologue, in good nature, compliments me on my style from the end of his, a good five meters ahead. He asks how farmers work in the states and I tell him we have big tractors and huge multinational corporations who care more about making a profit than feeding people (Just kidding. I can’t actually say this in French). He says that there are a total of two tractors in the province and that they are hardly used. “Here,” he says, “The heart is the engine.” He tells me to rest which I do gratefully as he finishes my planche and begins another. The morning passes like this, with him doing twice as much work as I until I am so weak that I’m beginning to worry about getting on my bike. He thanks me for the help and repeats his advice about strengthening the heart. I wobble away homeward with a stop at the marché to buy things for lunch and dinner.

Yesterday was Christmas and we took an unexpected break from fêting with the pastor’s family to go meet the chef de village, the chef de terre, and the Imam, all Muslims. A strange but beautifully integrated Christmas. One of my favorite things about this place is how tolerant people are. Muslims fête with the Protestants. The Protestants fête with the Muslims. The Catholics drink and nobody cares. Intermarriage is common, etc, etc. All of these men were very kind and welcomed us to their village. Near the end of our meeting with the chef de village, a big white rooster with its legs tied together was handed to us and Kellynn’s homologue explained that this meant he liked us. A lot. A white chicken is considered good luck, and a rooster is typically not given away- they’re usually hens. As honorable and hospitable as all of this was, we had no idea what we were expected to do with it. Upon questioning, our mentors told us to make some soup. Aha. I thought long and hard about this cock, now residing in our outdoor shower, and stayed awake that night with horrific visions haunting the darkness but resolved that, in accordance with my desired future pastoral life, wanting to honor the gift and to better understand the daily lives of the Burkinabé that I would kill the thing tomorrow. This decision did not come free of reservations. I had never directly killed anything larger than a wolf-spider before, and certainly nothing that I would later clean and eat. But this, I tried to convince myself, was another good reason to follow through. How many people go their whole lives eating meat for every meal and never have to take responsibility, even just by acknowledging the fact, for the loss of life they have necessitated? Though I don’t eat much meat, I have definitely been guilty of this for the majority of my life. And so it was decided.

i pull out my handy Storey’s Guide to Country Living and look up poultry. Apparently, the best way to kill a chicken is to hang it upside-down for a minute which puts it to sleep. It is then inserted head-down into a hanging cone. One opens the beak and “pierces the brain” through the roof of its mouth. The head should be immediately removed to facilitate bleeding. Viola. This does not strengthen my resolve. But then, with that fleeting forced, dream-like lack of interest that it takes to jump off a 40-foot precipice into water I stand up, put the book aside, and select a knife, a small, brand-new hunter’s knife that I received almost exactly a year ago for Christmas. It is sharp, but I decide to sharpen it anyway for good measure. I lay out some plastic bags on the porch for the butchering, Kellynn puts some water on to boil, and I head toward the shower. The cock is cornered against the back wall and after a few misses, I lunge and succeed in grabbing its feet. It calms down a little when I hang it upside-down, but I discover with dread that chickens here are used to this treatment and with curled neck it stares up at me with a blinking red eye. So much for opening its beak. I cast about for an idea (wringing its neck or clubbing it with a rock would occur to me only later) but nothing comes. With a slight sickness curdling my stomach I proceed around our house where the rebar reinforcements for our cement fence stick out in such a way that they seem like they were made for this. I lift the cock’s feet over the rebar and it starts to freak out, whatever minimal calming effects of excessive blood flow to the head now lost. I manage to hang it and surprisingly it calms down. It seems at that moment resolved to its fate, as am I. We regard each other with this understanding, this position of predator and prey. I try to rally but nothing happens. I can’t do it. The knife is gripped in my hand as I wait for another moment of conscious release. I wait. It comes. The words, “I’m sorry” spill out of my mouth as my hand goes up and I slice quickly at the throat. Nothing happens. Skin was not made to be broken. The spell, however, is and now with determination I grab the flesh on top of the rooster’s head and begin to cut the throat with necessary pressure. The red eye bulges and the mouth opens but there is no sound of protest. There is no struggle. The skin breaks and there is blood, less than I expected, but it’s on my hands and the wall and the ground. Only after the head is laying in the dust does the body do a little jumping, twitching and then is still. I watch the life fade and try to see the point where life ends and death begins but like everything it is indistinct, a transition. I turn around and see about ten adolescent Burkinabé girls staring at me through our gate. I am filled with a raw emptiness that cannot be described at the thought that such a personal act had witnesses. After closing the gate, I sit down on the porch and let it all happen again and again in my mind.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the mild frustrations of plucking and cleaning and degutting all of which took longer than expected and had the progressive effect of turning this thing that had been brooding in my shower an hour before into something one might find shrink-wrapped in a grocery store. At one point, the headless, featherless bird emitted an unearthly final crow as a result of well-placed pressure on the breast. I nearly shat myself.

This has been one of the strangest, and yet one of the most real days of my life. I certainly learned a lot, not only about proper daba technique and the best way to degut a chicken (Hint: NOT through the neck) but I also caught a glimpse of the daily life of these people, really, of most of the people who live on this planet. Subsistence agriculture and death. What an invaluable day to understanding the people who will be my neighbors, coworkers, friends and community for the next two years. To surmise; it’s fucking hard. But it’s connected. It’s literally down-to earth. It’s beautiful and it’s tragic.

Some pictures of our home!

A Disclaimer Regarding the Periodicity of Future Posts

Hello dear readers,

The wife and I will not have electricity in our home, which we will be moving into in a week(!). Thus, the whole iphone thing looks kind of unsupportable and internet may be restricted to when we make our monthlyish forays into Ouaga or other cities. Just so you know. However, the town does have electricity and it's possible that one of our associations has available electricity that we could use. But we can't promise anything.

We love you and who knows what crazy wonderful stories will show up here next? Just think of it as another layer of mystery over this adventure.

Giardia!!!! And Some More Serious Diseases

Sorry for the recent silence. Things have been...a bit crazy. Nothing to elucidate here, but of course excuses must be made. Anyway.

Honestly, there isn't much to talk about. I found out that I had Giardia last week. Among the PCMOs and health volunteers here it is known as the "poster girl" of parasites- it literally has an eerie little face. Four gigantic pills and a lot of water later and I'm in the clear. For now. I guess I wanted to get it out of the way. It is one of our fellow stagiere's goal to collect as many parasites as possible during her two years here. She's already in the Giardia club with me. Bon chance!

Stage is almost over! I can actually say simple sentences in Moore and French is for the most part second nature. I did get to the point the other day during language class where I felt like there was no possible way for one more new word or conjugation to make it into my head. It's a crazy feeling. Then the next day I successfully bought a banana from a Mossi woman. Things find a way of making their way in.

I can feel things changing already. The temperature is actually declining and I find myself cold at night, even though it's still 80 degrees. Running water, though missed, has become a memory. The few times we've had it here it has been a luxury, simply a nice change from the norm of never knowing how to get all the soap off your hands (it's no wonder soap is not common here). It's in this that I've discovered one of the most surprising things about myself here. I have learned to appreciate luxury. In the states, luxury was a thing to be shunned for me, an unnecessary evil. Indeed it was one of my reasons for coming here. But ironically, I have instead been unnaturally drawn to these things since being here. A cold drink is uncommonly delicious, a recognizable packaged good is an odd treat. As I mentioned in an earlier post, every time I drink a Coke I feel uncannily like I'm in some unreal commercial, sweat dripping down my brow as I utter a satisfied "ahhhhh" following the first long sip. I revel in these small things and have no shame. And yet, the idea of luxury in the states continues to frustrate and baffle me. So what has changed? I suppose now I understand that a luxury can only be a luxury if it is appreciated as such. . Too often in the states I've seen luxuries turned into something less meaningful; after an incredibly short amount of time things tend to becomes common and overlooked. Beyond this tendency lies the danger when the commonplace becomes the necessary, becomes taken for granted. How can you appreciate something you don't think twice about? You have to love it. You have to give thanks to the Coke god, or whatever. Do I need cold drinks? Not really. Do I need plumbing? No. The world has turned many times without these things. Life has gone on. But damn they're nice to have.

There are more surprises. But they will have to wait for another blog.

A Hut of Our Own

Big news everyone: We have learned where we will be living for the next two years! As this is a public blog, we will stick to generalizations location-wise. Ready? Here goes...

Our site is a Mossi village in the north of Burkina, 45 km from the regional capitol on a dusty but passable road. We are lucky enough to have a daily market, a big local maquis with a large flat-screen TV and a soccer field close by. Our house has two bedrooms, a living room, and an indoor shower (this does not, however, imply that we will have running water). We have a private courtyard surrounded by neighbors.

I will be working with the Association pour la Promotion du Maraichage au Loroum/Burkina (APML/B). The northern region of Burkina, being so dry, is known for their dry-season gardening and prudent use of their resources. APML's main work involves the promotion of gardening throughout the region. Right now, they produce the main staple rainy season crops in addition to potatoes, onions, cabbage, tomatoes, garlic and peanuts. They received an ADF grant last year for capacity building and would like me to help them increase their production through new techniques, to improve market access, and to share ideas on conservation of their products. Also, the women of my association make soap and are interested in improving their techniques and to try some new income generating activities. Also, they host a huge potato fair at the end of March which is attended by cultivators from far and wide.

The Mrs. will be working with the Federation des Professionnels Agricoles du Loroum (FPAL). They are a large federation composed of 14 smaller associations that grow and sell market vegetables, sesame, millet, and corn. They are also an ADF recipient and would like to increase their production through new techniques, develop improved technology (such as compost) as well as sensibilize on health and hygiene topics.

We are both extremely excited about these positions. We can both feed our desires to get dirty and learn how to survive and produce food in extreme conditions while simultaneously helping our new community and serving the Peace Corps' larger goals. Yes!

Mind-Bending French/Impending News/Digging In

Bonsoir (even though it's afternoon).

It's like clockwork. Bad clockwork. As soon as it strikes noon here it is the evening. There's no "good afternoon," no "good morning." Just bonjour and bonsoir evenly dividing the day. That being said, what the Burkinabe lack in temporal greetings they make up for with a wide and creative array of different situation-specific well-wishes. For example, I've heard "bon arriver" upon arrival and "bon digestion" after finishing a meal, along with their classic counterparts "bon voyage" and "bon appetit." Interesting. Anyway...

We are fast approaching our one month mark here in the land of the uprights. We will be marking the occasion on Thursday when we learn where we will be living for the next two years and with which organisation we will be spending most of our time and efforts. This is huge and very exciting. The Mrs. and I already know that we will be working with separate groups to best utilize our individual gifts and ensure our continued sanity as a couple. We will be speaking Moore which doesn't really mean anything as the Mossi are fairly widespread across the country, but in general could imply a more central location. It has also been hinted that we will be living in a larger city than most people which potentially means electricity, internet and running water (now I'm dreaming). We will make the big announcement as soon as we can. AHHH!

Training is getting mildly better with the bulk of the administrative sessions behind us. Lately we have been applying small business development philosophy to a number of hypothetical situations and have been really digging into the French. Next week we actually get to apply what we've learned to a business here in Sapone. I am very excited and somewhat nervous. Soon, we will also start splitting our language time between French and local lang. I'm getting tired of all of these ridiculous tenses. Tech Week is coming up and we will be learning how to make preserves, a mud oven, liquid and hard soap, cheese, tofu, neme cream (a natural and widely available mosquito repellent) and much more. Naturally, this is going to be the best week of my life.

Well, the Mrs. is biting me. I think I should go.

Love,
Mr. San

Demystification

Hey all...finally got some internet going- here are three blogs I've been meaning to publish. Enjoy!

What an amazing weekend. We left on Thursday for Takaladougou (in the southwest near Banfora) bright and early from the TDC. Our bikes (supposedly) already in Ouaga. I had been placed with the Mrs’ language group so we could travel together. I entertained a quiet concern about our LCF, a soft-spoken Burkinabé, younger than any of us and who we later learned had been employed by the Peace Corps for only two months. We were driven to the bus station with all of our things. My backpacking pack was too big to take on the bus (a lesson for next time). The bus itself was rather plush, though the pothole-pocked road, constantly blaring horn and terrible Burkinabé soap operas detracted a bit from the luxury. After about five hours, we arrived in Bobo-Dioulasso, the bustling, artsy, second-largest city in the country. My instinct about our LCF proved true when his vague leadership placed us all in a single taxi verte (including our bikes) which drove us in the wrong direction for awhile. We eventually made it to the grande route where we hailed a taxi-brusse.

Now the taxi-brusse is a true West African enigma. It is itself a gutted out van crammed with seats from front to back. Usually the goal is to fit as many people as possible in the thing, regardless of the number of seats, and the conducteurs seem to relish the challenge of strapping various cumbersome objects to the roof. I heard a story once that involved a cow, no joke. The taxi is always in motion, even when picking up passengers. One must be nimble, well-tempered to hot, close quareters, willing to swap sweat with whomever one ends up sandwhiched between, and be able to find peace with the ultimate condition of ones’ possessions at the end of the wild ride. And heaven help the rider with stomach issues (this includes all PCV’s).

After about an hour of this we arrived in Banfora, but not after having driven past our stop by a few hundred meters, again, under the direction of our LCF. We met Chad and Tana, a married couple living and working in Takaladougou with Business and Health, respectively. We were greeted with chairs, water (non-bleachy!) and mac and cheese. The amazingness didn’t stop there. During the course of the weekend we dined on French toast, breakfast burritos, spaghetti, polenta and mashed potatoes, real coffee, Milo, some delicious dried and fresh mangos, cashew bars and watermelon. The food, as great as it was, comprised only a fraction of what made demyst an amazing experience. We visited a local mango drying factory and met Chad’s counterpart who explained the process and answered our questions. We met a woman who makes shea butter which was extremely interesting and sparked an idea- shea brownies- which we won’t go into for proprietary reasons. The next day we visited the CSPS and met Tana’s counterpart after which we biked across the gorge on this awesome trail to another village to see the much larger-scale cashew processing plant. Also very interesting. Just seeing how all of this stuff actually works, what’s left after all the bullshit of training, the ambiguity, made demyst the most rewarding part of being here so far. It was real. I became extremely excited after seeing the possibilities, the work being done, the true relationships already in place after only nine months at site (with admittedly poor French). It was very encouraging and inspiring, and I feel more ready than ever to get thrown into it and get down to work. Bring it on.

Sleeping on the Porch

This is the third night in Saponé and Kellynn and I, along with the rest of our family, have resorted to sleeping outside in our bug hut because it’s too fucking hot inside the house. I’m sitting here with my little brother Ephram and his aunt who are doing some population graphing homework for school tomorrow. This evening we taught Ephram and his friends poker (sort of) and crazy eights and they in turn taught us a few games, one of which was called “Marriage” and was very fun. Communication is still not easy, but the initial ice has broken to the point at which I no longer feel too afraid of making a fool of myself to talk. I also don’t laugh and get laughed at every time I try to form a sentence. Which is good.

Classes are okay, though I wish we were getting started with the French and Mooré lessons already. I’m really not worried about anything else. Not really. All these administrative sessions and group-retreat type things are strange, unexpected and frankly bullshit. At this point I need practical. Anyway, I’m sure it will come quickly.

So, notre famille; Les Ilboudo. The mother, though she speaks quickly and is more comfortable with Mooré than French, is an amazing hostess and has a beautiful, booming laugh. Tonight she taught us how to wash our clothes (we’re such American children). Our father I believe works for the state as the president of some association. ..or something like that…and thus keeps strange hours. We’ve only dined with him twice. However, last night the power went out all night and we sat on the porch and he taught us some Mooré with Ephram, both speaking slowly and clearly with the utmost patience. And Ephram, dear Ephram. A few moments ago, a huge, decorous dragonfly alighted upon the mosquito net in front of us and he caught me staring. He asked me a question to which I supplied my stock reply of “oui” and in the moment between me answering and him squashing the thing I remembered what “Tu as peur?” meant. The gesture, however, remains the same. He wants to and insists on helping with everything and is already and instinctively protective. He’s a true brother, but I hope this doesn’t mean he’ll be killing any insect that gets near me.

A Sapone

What a crazy four days it has been. We’re finally here. In freakin’ Africa. Maintenant, we are lying in our new big bed under our huge new bug net in the house of our surprisingly small new family. Every few hours there is an amplified call to prayer from the nearby mosque. It sounds like a bull through a megaphone at first and then transforms into a solitary, plaintive song in some garbley brook of a language. Everything sounds beautiful here; the French, the Mooré, even the English through African mouths. I can’t wait until I can actually understand, and perhaps make some beautiful sounds myself. The earth is red and gives life to strange new life. The Beobobs are the fat ones whose seeds contain a nutrient-rich powder and whose leaves can be boiled and eaten- so I’m told.

Every day is a surreal dream, hilarious and free. Like yesterday, speaking Mooré for the first time using broken French as a go-between. The power kept going out but it didn’t matter. Then the wind burst through the windows and the rain came, thick and steaming and we ran outside to revel in the beauty, the craziness, the sheer nowness of the moment and then returned to the classroom to explore something new.

Nothing has been as awkward or as sweet as today though. We rode in a bus from the mission in Ouagadougou to Saponé, a small town due south. We gathered in an open-aired structure to meet our host families, heralded by the sounds of wood flutes and talking drums. “Ils ont le couple!” Siaka, an LCF cried to Manuel and Pascaline, our new Burkinabé mother and father. We gathered our things, loaded them into the family voiture (the only one present) and ventured forth into the real world. So many stagères, laden down with bags and helmets, some relearning how to ride a bike, patiently accompanied by their new families we passed on our way through this strange new world. Goats, pigs, chicken, geese, sheep, asses, cows with camel-like humps and thin frames all stared at us as if the likes of us had never been seen. Small children gaped and pointed, a few waving, a few yelling “Nasara!” (foreigner) as we passed through fields of drooping red-berried candelabras with crackling stalks, across red beaten lots with the vestiges of makeshift football poles casting long shadows in the glowing evening. We followed our family into a courtyard and the first thing I saw was a spider monkey tied to a tree. It hopped back and forth, trying to find the exact point furthest away from the humans. Each next step was a mystery. Where was our room? Where should we put our stuff? What time is dinner? What time is it? What the hell are these people saying to me (worse, what am I saying to them?)? But everything came. Slowly. It is still coming. There’s nothing a few hand gestures, awkward silences and laughs won’t fix.

That’s what I’m banking on, anyway.

Wow.

This sure isn't getting any easier. Tonight we said goodbye to Mrs. San's three pairs of grandparents, a few uncles and aunts, a cousin, the Mrs' sister and her boyfriend, and probably hardest so far, her two kids. There's just so much change that's going to happen without us. Cailynn will be five when we get back. She's just a little girl now, a "pretty little princess," as she's justifiably fond of calling herself. All of that's over for us. Will I be able to pick her up? Will she be a different person, turn into a tomboy (unlikely)? Soren will be ten. Almost a young man. I still haven't been to see him play baseball or football. Bad uncle. What influence can I have on the other side of the world during these formative years? My sister's child, Jayden, will be three. Will I be a stranger to him? I can't bear the thought of having to reintroduce myself to him. Jesus.

Not quite as bad, but still ridiculously hard are the now daily goodbyes to friends and, I guess, older family. Friday I hugged my dad and stepmom for the last time. By the time we get back, I hope they've made the move out to the country that they've been talking about for a long time. They definitely deserve it and I'm excited to tour their new home on horseback. We had a kegger at my mom's last night. It was great to see everyone, but there was way too much whiskey. Thank you everyone for coming. I will miss you all and for those of you who got an unfairly slurred goodbye, here's a real one: Farewell.

Tonight as Soren and Cailynn were walking out the door, I caught a last bit of innocence and had to laugh. Mrs. San had hidden in the kitchen to hide her bawling, I was trying very hard to prevent myself from doing the same and I heard Soren ask his mom, "What was with all the hugging tonight?" Ah, the perspective of a child. And then suddenly I glimpsed the deeper meaning in Soren's question. Most of my fears and concerns about leaving are selfish, that is, from my own scared-shitless perspective. It's going to be terrible being separated from everyone for so long, but in the end, we live our own lives and while the next few months are going to be hard, we will all get used to this. Anyway, Skype's the shit. And before we know it, these two years will be behind us. And after all, how can I expect to be the uncle, father, husband, son, brother, friend, person that I want to be unless I do this?

Breathe.

Two Weeks and Counting (Isn't This Fun?)

San the Man here,

It's officially crunch time. We started packing yesterday, an arduous, gut-wrenching affair. It's very hard to pack two years of your life into two checked bags whose combined weight cannot exceed 80 lbs (per person). Actually, I'm kind of surprised at how little we'll be bringing. Books alone constitute 35 lbs, against the Peace Corps' recommendations. Reading classics in French sounds awesome, but I won't give up my Joyce and Milton in their proper language. We may post our packing list if we think it might be useful for prospective Peace Corps Volunteers and for the amusement of you, dear reader. And if we have time.

One random thing: I'm looking for a cheap viola to take to Africa. If anybody knows somebody that's trying to get rid of one, I'm all about it.

The goodbyes have already begun. We just spent a week in Austin with Mrs. San's Aunt, Uncle and Cousin. It was great to see them and we will the miss the company of such groovy people. Tonight I say goodbye to my band, Silver String Theater as we play our last show at the Mercury Cafe. It's been amazing guys and I look forward to our reunion tour in 2014 (let's start booking now). Our remaining two weekends are booked solid with family nights, parties and such.

Things I will miss; the mountains; snow; seeing my nephews and niece grow; family; beer; electricity, (potentially); sounding smart when I speak; vegan food; toilets (potentially); music.

Things I am excited for; summer rain; the famously kind, proud, beautiful Burkinabé; new food; new music; a new way of life; having a garden; riding a bike everywhere; doing something important.

It's all happening.
Au revoir

Four Weeks from Saturday

Hello all,

This is Ms. San... for lack of a better title. Today Dan and I received an email from the Peace Corps about staging. As it turns out, we will be flying out of Denver at 2:40 P.M. October 8th.

Long story short, we freaked out a little, but are so EXCITED!!!


Party October 1, 2011. Polish Horseshoes anyone?

This is the first post

Hello all, Mr. San here. This is my first ever blog posting. Yay. I've never been a fan of the things, but thought that the prospect of being separated from my family, friends, and country for two and a quarter years warranted some way to gain access to said family, friends, and country, as well as giving you all a glimpse at my life as a U.S. compatriot.

And what a glimpse it promises to be! My wife, Mrs. San, and I have accepted an invitation to serve in the United States Peace Corps as Agribusiness Advisers under the Small Enterprise Development program. We will be working under this mysterious guise in Burkina Faso, a small, landlocked country in Sub-Saharan Western Africa. Burkina (as it is affectionately dubbed by its peoples) is one of the poorest countries in the world, ravaged by routine droughts and an economy based mainly on water-intensive agriculture. Despite this, the Burkinabe are purportedly extremely positive, hardworking, friendly, and patriotic people and make Burkina one of the safest countries in Western Africa. I feel extremely excited and privileged to meet, live and work with them. We will learn Burkinabe customs, French and another local language the best way there is to learn such things: by being thrown directly into the fire. During training, which accounts for the first three months, we will be posted with a host family in a major city (probably Ouagadougou (isn't that the best name for a capital city ever?!)) to immerse ourselves in Burkinaness. We will take classes conducted by the Peace Corps regarding language, safety, history, and of course agriculture and business. When we are experts, and only then, will we take our vow to serve our host country, the United States, and the Peace Corps.

Currently we are living at home, anxiously awaiting our staging information and making arrangements to place our lives in the U.S. on hold for two years. What adventures await us? What new friends will we make? What lucid insights will we glean from this amazing experience? Come along...