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…)

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!