The day began as any other, waking up around 7am, washing my face, and walking to a kiosk near the road to purchase breakfast As I approached the kiosk, I was happy to see that I actually recognized most of the Burkinabe that I greeted there (it’s necessary to take pride in these types of small accomplishments in village). I turned to the window to purchase my breakfast materials from a lady who always has an extremely hard time understanding my French and occasionally gives me different change for the same three things: eggs, café au lait, and a baguette.*
*To
conclude that she’s bad at math wouldn’t be fair, because Burkina suffers from
a severe lack of small change. 25CFA
coins are so hard to come by that some restaurants/bars will purposely charge
675CFA for a beer that should only cost 650 because they know they won’t be
able to give you change, hence making easy money off you. It’s very likely that the kiosk lady has a
running mental tab of my purchases and will give me more change every once in a
while to make up for lost money. Or
maybe she never has the change because a baguette is 125CFA I only buy one per
day. At this point, we’re talking about 5
American cents so I don’t really care.
My
morning took an interesting turn when a white person approached me and said
“Hey, how’s it going?” in perfect English.
The only white people I’ve seen so far in village have been driving past
Takaledougou in cars on the Banfora-Bobo highway, so I was intrigued. After introductions, he told me he was
Canadian, so I asked him where that was.
Apparently there’s this country called Canada to the north of the US. He’s working at a development agency in the
capital of Ghana and was traveling to Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina, to
visit a friend. During his exchange with the kiosk lady, I discovered that his
French was as bad as mine, which I thought was odd after remembering that most
Canadians speak French. He informed me that he’s from the “English speaking
part of Canada.” He noticed that I was
greeting everyone who came up to the kiosk and asking about their health and
family. After complimenting me on how
well integrated I was in the community, I informed him that I just arrived 5
days ago. Our conversation continued for
a while, after which I concluded that Canadians are weird.
After
eating breakfast, I walked the 1km to the CSPS, the community health clinic in
Takaledougou. It was a slow day, which I’ve learned is the norm for the “winter
months” in the southwest of Burkina due to the more temperate climate. Less heat and less rain means less
mosquitos, the pesky insects that transmit malaria. Even in the “off season,” though, patients
are diagnosed with malaria at the CSPS every day, which is a bit worrisome. After the head nurse, Diallo, had seen all of
the waiting patients, he challenged me to a game of “petit football”
(foosball). There’s a foosball table at
the pump about 30 yards from the CSPS, although they aren’t very common in
villages. It’s run by a group of young men, who are all extremely good at
foosball. Needless to say, Diallo and I
played on a team and lost terribly. For
future reference, spinning is legal in Burkina.
After
being embarrassed in foosball, I returned to my house and prepared to go to the
marche (market) that occurs every five days in the town adjacent to my village,
Beregadougou.*
*I
learned recently that “dougou” means village or city in Jula, the regionally
dominant language of southwestern Burkina, but also spoken in Mali, Senegal,
and parts of other West African countries.
This piece of information makes a lot of sense, considering the fact
that “dougou” is the suffix of my
village, Takaledougou, and most of the villages surrounding it, such as
Beregadougou and Serefadougou. It also
makes the name of Burkina’s capital, Ouagadougou, sound more normal. In colloquial French and Jula, most villages
with the suffix “dougou” are just shortened like this: Ouaga, Takale, Serefa,
and Berega.
There are a variety of routes to get to
Berega, most of which involve traversing a ravine. The only route that doesn’t cross the ravine adds
about 3km to the journey and uses decent roads.
I know what you’re thinking…where’s the fun in that? Women from my village cross the ravine every
day with bowls of fruit weighing 30-40 lbs on their heads, which they take to
the peage (toll booth) and sell to passing cars, bush taxis, and buses.
Using the time honored philosophy “If they can
do it, I can do it,” I started biking towards the ravine armed with vague
instructions from the married Peace Corps volunteer couple before me. Although I was supposed to take a fork right
at some point, I saw women walking up from a path at the edge of the ravine. Clearly
this was the path across. As I started
down the path, I quickly realized that it was much steeper and rockier than I
initially anticipated, forcing me to walk my bike down several times. I crossed the stream at the bottom, weaving
my way between the women from my village that do family laundry there. I began biking up the other side until the
path ended at a steep rock face about 20 feet high. I briefly searched for an alternate route,
but it quickly became obvious that there was none. I thought to myself “ça va aller”* and
climbed the 20 ft to the top of the ravine carrying my mountain bike.
*Literally
translates from French to English as “It’s going to go.” In practice, it means “it’s going to happen”
(and we will deal with the consequences if/when they come). Used in reference to life, work, or the bush
taxi you’re on that barely seems to work.
Luckily
no one was hurt in the process, but I couldn’t help thinking to myself “That
probably is not the best way to get to Beregadougou by bike.” Call it blind
intuition, but I was determined to find a better way home. After the journey, I decided to change my
travel strategy and actually ask for directions to the marche. The Berega marche is a decidedly small one,
but after experiencing several “Grand Marches,” it was a huge relief, Less people yelling at you, easier to find
things, and easier to negotiate.
A
high quality second-hand shirt immediately caught my eye and I negotiated the
price down to $1.60. I moved on to buy
four tomatoes, eight onions, and a kilogram of black eyed peas for a collective
cost of $3.40. I saw a sketchy cell
phone vendor and remembered that I needed an extra cell phone battery so I
could leave a battery at one of the various solar charging businesses in
village and still have a working phone.
After pondering for a bit, I realized that every cell phone business in
Burkina looks questionable, so I showed him my battery and got another one for
$2.40. I glanced at the package and
noticed a sticker that claimed “guaranteed for 12 months.” After a brief panic attack, I realized that
12 months is pretty damn good for an electronic device purchased in
Burkina. I moved on to buy six square
meters of a 70’s era fabric for $4, to be dropped off at the village tailor for
a pants/shirt combo referred to as a “complé.”
They end up looking like formal pajama suits.
Feeling
awesome about the success at the marche, I began to search for the better route
back to Takaledougou. I knew the ravine
got less steep as one moves north, so I headed north for a bit and found a
relatively easy stream crossing. Then I
headed in an easterly direction on a path that looked relatively well traveled,
figuring it would hit the main highway at some point. Well I was right, but when I hit the main highway,
it was 30 feet above me and I was under a bridge. It was actually a beautiful
work of architecture, with a distinct European style and the date 1932 engraved
on it. From this information, I assumed
it had been built in 1932, which further impressed me. Any structure that has been standing in
Burkina for more than 80 years is an architectural marvel.
 |
| "32" Bridge |
After
admiring the bridge for a good half hour, I looked at my watch and decided to figure
out how to get up to the main road. Although
a path appeared to follow the road in a southerly direction, I lost the path in
about 10 minutes and a brief attempt to cross a rocky field with the sun
beating down on me was a complete failure.
I was lost in the African bush, running out of water and daylight.
To
be continued…….
Alright
fine, it wasn’t that bad. There were
still two hours of daylight and a stream nearby that I could drink from if
necessary. I was also 80% sure the main
highway was on top of that bridge I was just under. BUT STILL, I was technically lost in the
bush. I usually enjoy knowing where I
am or at least being in the vicinity of people who do. I doubled back to the bridge and towards Berega,
eventually taking a fork that I hadn’t seen before that appeared to weave in a
southerly direction. When I crossed the
stream again, it occurred to me that this was the same stream that the bridge
was built over and the same stream that passes through the ravine behind my
village. It runs east to west about 3km
north of my village, but turns to the south as it cuts through the ravine.
 |
| Huge expanse of sugar fields across the road from Takale |
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