(pa) Soma (ye)

I'm all by myself...

My wife has been Medically Separated from the Peace Corps because a medical condition that took her back to the states was not resolved within 45 days. So it goes. I believe things are getting better now as she accepts this new turn. She has some job interviews next week and has an amazing support network at home.

But I'm still here and it goes without saying that I'm incredibly torn. Obviously I want to support my wife during this extremely hard time. It pains me every day not to be able to work with her through this. But I also made a commitment to the Peace Corps and really want to learn from and have this experience, especially now that I'm getting into my groove, doing projects (see www.flickr.com/photos/mollyquixote/ for some photos of a workshop I just did) and bonding with Burkinabe. I feel like I will either fail as a husband or fail my village. What to do.

At this point, my idea is to stay. This can change at any time (we are volunteering after all), though I risk losing the Interrupted Service option, which is kind of like an honorable discharge and still involves many of the benefits of volunteers who complete a full term. Mrs. San wants me to stay, but what I really need to figure out if I want to stay. Will what I get out of this be greater than what I can do at home? Would I do more harm going home anyway? Will I be a better husband, our marriage be stronger because of this? I can't answer any of these, though I kind of have to.

Update to come.

(Rain) Storm

I arrived back at site at dusk. As the crew violently extricated my bike from the belly of the bus, my friend the director of the Arab college, with whom I’d been riding, remarked in English, “We will have rain tonight.” Still thinking in French, it took me a moment to understand, but then I followed his gaze south to where faraway monstrous heads of cloud appeared out of the darkness in intermittently quick flashes of white. “Yes, good. I hope so,” I said, genuinely eager for a real rainstorm. Last year’s rains were terrible and a repeat this year could mean famine, among other things, so a head-start on the moisture would be a great thing.

We said goodnight and parted, I mounting my now suspiciously squeaking bike. I came through the Neem grove by Ecole “A” onto the broad sandy soccer field and was presented with the full panoramic storm front edging slowly and silently towards us. Finally, some rain! I got home and prepared for bed, hanging up my mosquito net over my cot and air mattress with my plastic mat on the floor. Our porch faces south so I sat for a while just watching the way the light streaked through the clouds, wondrously bulbous and rounded like a bunch of grapes. The town was strangely quiet for this time of night (something I probably should have taken note of); not a single donkey whining, child crying, guitar and synthetic drums straining the speaker of someone’s phone to muffle the soft swish of the coolish breeze through my net. Under such rare favorable conditions, I must have fallen asleep, only to be woken up about ten minutes later by something markedly less soothing; my mat flying into my face and my mosquito net collapsing around me.

I shot up with a start. In the flashes of lightning, now directly overhead, I saw a great hurtling fog of sand and dust blowing laterally through the trees and buildings around me, already piling up a layer on myself and my bed. I never heard the sound of the thunder for the roar of the wind. I grabbed all my things, as quickly as possible and threw them into the house, chasing my pillow as it blew into the yard. I shut the door behind me and stood for a minute trying to process. I must have been gaping outside because when I closed my mouth to swallow, my teeth closed on fine grit. Dust was literally everywhere. Nature had undone in five minutes what it takes me two hours to do every week. Laying down my air mattress on the floor, I listened to the bangs and strains of the tin roof and became afraid. What if it blows away? Does that happen? What if a roof beam falls down on me? Could I choke on dust in my sleep? But for the absolute and disappointing dryness of the storm, I felt like I was in a hurricane. Unable to sleep, I lay for an hour listening to the cacophony of elements, before that too became just another thing to get used to and I drifted off.

I woke in the morning in a layer of dust.

Update and Malaria Month

Hey everyone. It’s been awhile. How’ve you been? Myself, I’ve been extremely busy out of the gates of IST. I was so excited to finally start working that I kind of overbooked myself. Oops. Here’s a run-down: I’ve been working furiously on an all-day workshop that I plan to do with my association on Environmental issues in their lives. I’m tailoring the content to appeal to my association’s agriculture base, i.e. “Planting trees can improve your crop yield and save water (it’s true).” However, I’m a little uncertain about the actual doing of the workshop, as the guy who’s supposed to take me around to meet all of the interested parties has been in Ouaga with a sick child for two weeks now. So it goes (and meilleur santé á son enfant). I’ve also been teaching basic computer competency classes to the teachers at one of our local high schools which have been fun. I just hope that if I reinforce the teacher’s knowledge it will trickle on down to the students. We’ll see. In addition, I finally went out to meet our local CSPS (health clinic) and the director was intrigued by the idea of doing Neem cream lotion demonstrations. So on Thursday I went out with all of my ingredients and made cream for the health agents, with the idea that I would do the same in front of some regular Janes the next day, but I was informed that being the grande marché day, the women’s attentions would be elsewhere. So I’m booked for Monday the 30^th. In Moore. Wish me luck.

For those unfamiliar with Neem, it is a tree native to India that grows like a weed here in the Sahel. Despite being somewhat invasive, it actually has many practical applications including a naturally pest-repelling chemical bouquet. Considering that Malaria accounts for nearly half of all health center consultations and 60% of the overall deaths in Burkina Faso, making this particular aspect of the Neem tree known is a major goal of Peace Corps Africa. Oftentimes people know that the tree has this mosquito-repelling quality, but don’t know how to harness it. That’s where Neem cream comes in.

Incidentally, April is World Malaria Awareness Month and April 25^th is World Malaria Day. So here’s a little awareness for ya: Malaria is a completely curable and preventable disease which nonetheless kills thousands of people in Burkina Faso every year. Malaria especially affects pregnant women as their acquired resistance decreases during this time, as well as children under the age of five who have not yet developed a natural immunity to Malaria.

About it being curable and preventable- The easiest way to prevent contracting Malaria is to sleep under a treated mosquito net, as the species of mosquito that spreads Malaria feeds after dusk. Neem cream is really for those who plan on staying up after dusk listening to music on their phones and gossiping (this includes the bulk of people here). You rub the cream on your skin and BAM you’re mosquito-free for about 3 hours, by which time you should probably go to bed anyway. One of the problems I’ve found with kids is that they like to get up and wander around in the middle of the night. I’m still working on how to solve this one (mosquito net cribs?). Prevention-wise, pregnant women (should) receive FREE Malaria prophylaxes when they go to their FREE pregnancy consultations at the CSPS for the duration of their pregnancy. Whether or not this actually happens, I have yet to delve into.

So how do I, an American with no acquired resistance, beat the ol’ Malaria blues? Well, every day I pop my tiny little Doxycycline tab at breakfast. The Peace Corps insists. And always, I sleep under our huge mosquito net. When we sleep outside it feels so exotic, like a Saharan bungalow or something. Preventing Malaria can be fun! It also helps that Mrs. San is like ice cream to the little blood suckers and takes the majority of hits for us. Ah, the undreamed-of benefits of marriage.

If you’d like more information on Malaria (I don’t know why you would. I just handed you a gleaming sphere of knowledge), check out Stomp Out Malaria, a continent-wide campaign to increase malaria prevention across Peace Corps countries in sub-Saharan Africa. Visit their Tumblr page to see highlights of Peace Corps projects across Africa. http://stompourmalaria.tumblr.com.

Take care and slap them mosquitos.

Three Cheers for Moringa Man!!!

Here's a fun project I helped out with recently. The Moringa is a hardy, nutritious tree that grows well in Burkina Faso. As the planting of this tree helps fight against malnutrition and deforestation, two of the Peace Corps' main goals and two major problems in Burkina Faso, Moringa projects are popular among the PCV's of Sub-Saharan Africa.

My role in this was pretty small. That's me in the beginning as "Moringa Man," and I play some viola during the song. This video was produced by TheSingingNerd, a current education volunteer in BF. Check out his other awesome videos on youtube.com. Also, if you want some instructions on how to use a latrine, the importance of learning local lang, or other intriguing things, go to PCBurkinaFaso on YouTube.

Love ya and enjoy!

My First Day as a Volunteer

So here I've been, at site for almost three months now living in what the Peace Corps calls the "etude" period, where we settle in, integrate, make contact with potential local collaborators, and generally make a place for ourselves in our community. It has gone pretty well for me in most respects. I feel like I've integrated well, my Moore is coming along, and I've made friends and professional acquaintances alike. I have an amazing homologue who is patient, kind, hardworking, sharp, and basically one of the greatest people I've ever known. Life is good.

But something has been making me anxious ever since I got here, and that is the constant internal question of "what is it to be a volunteer?" Now, I've met plenty of volunteers here and the only thing that seems to unite them is how different they all are. There's no type, no norm. So how am I supposed to know what I should be if I have no standard? This lack of clear objective has troubled me. Until today. Here's what happened:

This morning I went out to the professional lycee to talk with the program director about an IT class my wife and I will be teaching there to help make good use of some new laptops recently dropped off by a Swiss organization without even instructions on how to double-click. This project came as a direct invitation by the directrice of the lycee upon our first routine visit. This was not our idea, but we are refining the original plan in such a way that we will be able to pass the baton off to the Burkinabe teachers before we leave.

After this, I bought vegetables at the bustling Friday marche, speaking Moore almost without thinking and seeking out my favorite vendors, usually the ones who routinely give me an extra carrot or two.

We had lunch and then I went out to the gardens to help my ever busy homologue harvest potatoes for tomorrow's Tenth edition of the Faire de la Pomme de Terre. I ended up slicing through about half of what I uncovered, but it felt good to dig through the soft earth, side by side with men and women casually working twice as fast as me, slowly uncovering these golden orbs...until the blisters came.

Not wanting to destroy too much of his crop, I bowed out of the work to go have a chat with an English-speaking friend who I hadn't seen in awhile. While we sat over fruit juice and beer, I met a rotation of new people, including a teacher and a doctor and explained what I do and listened to their stories in a strangely comprehensible jumble of English, French, and Moore. 

Returning home, I picked up the sign I had painted for my association and walked with it over to tomorrow's fair grounds. the sign was also not my idea, though wanting to show my association that I am willing and able to work, and seeing an opportunity to do something simple and up my alley, I offered my services. I arrived at the fairgrounds shaking hands with and greeting a slew of folks and realized just how many people I know in town now. The association saw my sign and approved of it greatly, thanking and congratulating me. I even got a smile out of our old animator who had been kind of distant with me ever since I arrived here, dazed and blurry eyed and misconjugating everything. A camera crew was on the scene surveying the fair grounds and asked to interview a few members of our bureau. We drove over to the office and the newsmen interviewed our secretary and vice president about their work with the cultivators of potatoes and afterwards there was a camera sweep of the bureau members- there I am on the bench to the far right (check out your local listings). We filed outside and seeing the sign, the newsmen wanted to get a shot of it. I couldn't have been prouder. As my colleagues hoisted the sign in the air I finally felt like I had become a part of this bureau, simply by fulfilling a basic need of my bureau using skills natural to me. And then I looked back on the day and realized that I had really done more than that.

Maybe I can't wield a daba very well and maybe my Moore (and French for that matter) is a bit shaky and limited. Maybe I'm not exactly sure how to go about teaching a computer class to beginners and maybe making a sign isn't exactly sustainable development. But hell, I'm trying. I'm doing something. I'm volunteering. This is my damn service. The Peace Corps may have their project plans and overall goals, but in the end I'm working with the people who have asked me to work, doing the things that they want to do. There is no program. There is no standard. Being a full time volunteer means embracing whatever you find when you go out our door every day and making yourself generally available.

Some say that just coming here, living here is sacrifice enough, but I don't buy that. There's a difference between an ex-pat and a volunteer. So I guess my point is, if you want to become a volunteer, are thinking of joining the Peace Corps or an NGO or maybe putting in some hours at the public library but are unsure what to expect, don't worry. Don't expect anything and work will find you. But you have to take the first step out your door.

A Look at the Conveniences that Make Our Lives Easier

Shower

 Dishwasher

Hot Water Heater

Food Processor

Garbage Disposal

Water Treatment Center

Running Water

Dryer

Washing Machine

Africans Are Way More Hipster Than You’ll Ever Be

There’s something I’ve observed during my three months in Africa that I find surprising, hilarious, and somewhat ironic (ironic because of the predictable and non-funny means by which it arises) and that is that Africans, at least Burkinabé, are extremely hipster.

You may also find this surprising, as well you should.

Let me explain: There is a massive trade here in used foreign clothing, mostly from the United States and Japan. I’m not sure which aid organizations decided that Africans needed all of our old Cabo San Lucas T-shirts and faded jeans when similar clothing can be made in situ for a comparable price (not to mention employing the multitudinous tailors here) but this stuff is everywhere. And they love it. The Mrs. And I have decided to take a picture of a T-shirt from every state that we see being worn. Had we started already, we would be halfway done by now. Everywhere you look is a thrift-store rat’s wet dream. I’ve talked to a 40-year-old farmer wearing a pink, poofy, sequin-studded hat and a multi-colored neon windbreaker. I’ve seen a motorcycle fly past bearing a man with a flailing Santa’s cap and fingerless gloves. I’ve seen T-shirts so old and faded that even whoever designed them probably couldn’t recall the reference. Handmade skirts are all the rage. If someone wears glasses here, they’re Buddy Holly glasses. Matching and color-coordination are concepts which simply do not exist.

The picture wouldn’t be complete without the rusty fixed-gear bikes, and lo and behold, they’re the major mode of transportation. My homologue jokingly suggested that we trade my brand-new Trek mountain bike for his old, red, white and blue single-gear and I found myself strangely torn.

And of course, you’ve never heard of any of their favorite bands. They’re super underground (except for 50 Cent and Rhianna).

Here’s the really ironic thing: The Burkinabé don’t even know how hipster they are. All of these things flow from coincidental matters of necessity. These guys are wearing these awesome hats not as a statement but because they’re cold (for some reason). Fixed-gear bikes are not widely popular because of their “superior maneuverability” but because their simplicity makes them the easiest things to maintain in this world of dust and pot holes. The Burkinabé have succeeded in the struggle for critical mass not because of their rebellious nature or organizational skills but because cars are so rare. And you’ve never heard of their favorite bands because, well, let’s face it, they’re just not that good (though you could say the same for many a hipster). No Burkinabé has ever tried subtly or non-subtly to draw attention to what they’re wearing (though they will often ask you to give them your pants or skirt), and no one has tried to make me feel bad or ignorant about not knowing some band from their hometown, or the specific nuances of the issue that they’re currently interested in. It is this indifference, this self-confidence which every hipster I’ve known strives for, pretends to have, and ultimately fails to achieve and which makes me cringe every time I’m around one and later just makes me pity them. What a waste to spend your time trying to define your identity using these things stolen from past generations and cultures. What a shame to go through life trying desperately to be cool when it’s the trying itself that makes it so you never will be. Burkinabé are cool simply because they are. And they have no idea.

(Note: This post may have upset some friends who exhibit hipster-like qualities such as an affinity for fixed-gear bicycles and thrift-store clothing. Do not dismay: Chances are, if we are friends, you are not a hipster. As the content of this post suggests, it is not the things themselves which define a hipster, and annoy the shit out of me, but the exclusive, self-absorbed attitude which surrounds them. Indeed, I myself have huge glasses and like old T-shirts, but because they are practical and comfortable, respectively. I don’t know. Perhaps my definition of a hipster is too narrow. Maybe this calls for a hyphenated category extension such as “asshole-hipster.” Either way, I have never met a self-proclaimed hipster, so this post will probably go unnoticed by those who should be offended and who need it the most.)

(Cultural Note: Obama Girl T-shirts are also extremely popular here- and not just with the ladies…)