It's not all fun and games.....

But sometimes it is!  Like when we travel out  of site for trainings!  Here's a great post by a great friend of mine, Hallie, about our regional language training in Oradara a week ago.  I biked from my site to Bobo on Saturday to meet Hallie (70 km), then we biked from Bobo to Oradara on Sunday (76 km).

http://hallieburkinafaso.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/orodara/

Read her other posts too!  She's almost as funny as me.  Not quite.  She's a clown. And a dinosuar.

Rawr.

The Burkina Bro Code

It’s no secret that men and women are far from equal in many societies of the developing world.  This inequality is hardly surprising, especially considering the fact that women only recently gained protection from discrimination under US law and they continue to struggle for true economic and social equality.  In Burkina Faso, traditional gender roles exhibit a large amount of influence over the behaviors of Burkinabe men and women.

Rather than engage in a sociological examination of gender roles in Burkina Faso, we thought it would be more enlightening to reveal excerpts from two ancient Burkinabe codes that illustrate the obligations and expectations of women and men in Burkinabe society.  These codes have been passed down orally through the generations, typically from father to son and mother to daughter.  There is no tangible reward for obeying these rarely spoken Articles, but membership in the village community is contingent on compliance.  It should be mentioned that in the larger cosmopolitan cities of the country these social norms are gradually disappearing, but at the village level, they remain highly important and influential.

In our unique position as culturally integrated, but foreign, individuals, Peace Corps Volunteers are not strictly bound by the laws dictated in the codes.  This invariably leads us to overhear bits of the conversations that serve as the medium for the ritual passing down of the code.  Thus, we are able to view expectations and behaviors as they contrast with our own, American, concepts of gender equality.  Our work is largely inspired by Barney Stinson of How I Met Your Mother fame, the pioneer of Bro Code transcription.  As he eloquently states:

“Whether we know it or not, each of us lives a life governed by an internalized code of conduct.  Some call it morality. Others call it religion.  I call it the Bro Code.”   -Barney Stinson

Below is the product of hours of back-breaking observation, tedious translation, and conference calls often ending in heated argument.  It was a test of friendship in the truest sense. But from the heat of the forge came a bond stronger than steel.

Burkina Bro Code

Article 1: Bros shall never cook, clean, wash dishes, fetch water from the pump, do laundry, or accomplish any other daily chores that are better performed by children or women.

Article 17: A proper bro always wishes fellow bros “bon appetite” while they are eating, but refuses the subsequent invitations from said bros to eat their food (vous etes invite).  To accept such an invitation would reveal to other bros that one cannot feed himself

Article 23:  Bros shall never refuse a calabash of dolo (millet beer). After accepting said calabash, the proper bro will purchase another, expressing solidarity with his fellow bros.  However, a bro shall always consume his dolo in a timely fashion.  Other bros are waiting for your calabash.

Article 24: Bros shall offer their seat to any senior bros, by age or importance, in attendance.  If there are not enough chairs for all bros, the youngest bro must find another chair, find another object to sit on, or order the closest child to find a chair

Article 29: Bros shall ask every American woman to marry them on the off chance that they will consent

Article 35: Bros shall always hold hands with other bros when walking places at night

Article 42:  A bro shall never reveal to another bro’s first, second, or third wife the contents of a bro chat

Article 48: Bros shall refer to their wives in all languages as “my woman”

African Santa on a Coke bottle

Article 51: Bros shall always claim to only play “a little bit” of soccer when white bros ask, hiding the fact that a team of random Burkinabe men in village would beat most MLS teams

Article 55: A bro shall use his children and the children of others for small, medial tasks that would be inconvenient for the average bro.  This includes any task that requires standing up and leaving the shade.

Article 69: Bros shall commit to practicing sound family planning: fathering as many sons as possible

Article 77: A bro shall spend no less than 2 hours per afternoon chilling with fellow bros in the shade, making Chinese green tea, and discussing topics of interest to the average bro

Article 82: All bros shall master the art of tying suitcases, bikes, motos, vegetables, mattresses, furniture, animals, and any other common luggage items to the top of vehicles.  When in doubt, maximize horizontal space before building vertically, but as long as the vehicle doesn’t flip over, it’s probably fine.

Photo Credit: Natalie Moore

Article 88: Bros shall own at least one machete.   Occasionally, bros should carry around their machete if for no other reason than to remind fellow bros that they own one

Article 93: A bro who has possession of an mp3 capable cell phone shall grace others with terrible downloaded music

Article 99: Bros shall teach their offspring to ride a bicycle as soon as their feet can reach the pedals, whether or not they are tall enough to simultaneously sit on the seat and pedal.  Bicycles allow children to run errands faster.

Article 102:  A bro’s moto is a reflection of himself.  Therefore, a bro should wash his moto at least as often as he bathes, if not more.

Article 105: Bros shall avoid any and all public displays of affection toward their wife (or wives).  Seriously bro, get a room

Article 106: On special occasions, bros should bust out their "Sunday best,"  i.e. matching pant/shirt suit combos known as "comples"

White Bro, David, properly rocking the comple 

Article 107:  It is often the bro who speaks the loudest who is the most correct.

Article 110: Muslim bros shall follow the teachings of the Koran and refrain from drinking alcohol.  However, dolo doesn’t really count as “alcohol” because it doesn’t come in a bottle and a bro can never be sure how alcoholic it is.

Article 115: Bros shall punish any dogs that seek affection, bark, or exist.   Chances are, if the dog is still alive in Africa, it did something immoral to survive.

Article 118: Whether a Bro cares about soccer or not, he cares about soccer

Article 120: Bros shall cover their motos with ominous bumper stickers that declare “God is watching,” “Suffering is good advice,” or “No money, no friends.”

Article 127: A bro shall not allow another bro to get married until he is at least 16.  At that age, bros shall help their fellow bros find suitable wives and start a family.

Article 129: Bros shall celebrate a marriage or the return of fellow bros from a Mecca pilgrimage by driving motos at unreasonably fast speeds, honking their horn, and attempting dangerous tricks such as the infamous “Look no hands!”

Article 131: Bros don’t speak French to one another in village, instead using the appropriate local language.  This would be an embarrassing admission that French culture exhibits a large amount of influence over African nations.

Article 134: Bros may refer to bros from other ethnic groups as “my slaves” if, at any point in Burkina history, their ethnic group exercised political control over the other.  This is also referred to as “having a good sense of humor.”

Article 137: When given an option regarding volume while ordering a beer with his bros, a bro shall always choose the 65 centiliter bottle instead of the 33 centiliter bottle.  The 33 cl bottle is just…..well…tiny

Articles 140: A bro always calls a fellow bro by his last name, unless the bro has the same last name as half of the other bros in village.  As this is almost always the case, bros shall come up with nicknames for their best bros.

Burkina Chick Code

Photo Credit: Natalie Moore

Article 1: Chicks shall accomplish all of the tasks of the day with a baby tied securely to their back.  If a chick lacks her own infant, she should borrow one from a fellow chick with extra.

Article 7: Chicks shall teach their female offspring to carry babies within 3 years of having been babies themselves

Article 11: Chicks shall sweep their courtyard every morning in order to make messy dirt into well arranged dirt, regardless of the likelihood that it will be dirty again by midday

Article 14: Chicks shall carry all objects on their heads, even if they are more easily carried by hand.  The only exception to this Article is babies.

Photo Credit: Natalie Moore

Article 18: Chicks shall sell products in the marché next to other chicks selling the same product at the same price, therefore eliminating the need for sound business practices

Article 21: Chicks shall cover their infant’s head with a hat declaring it to be a baby in a language they do not speak or understand

Article 25: All waitress chicks shall behave in a manner that suggests customers are inconveniencing them by eating at the restaurant.  Waitress chicks shall make no attempt to provide anything resembling customer service.  This would only encourage patrons to return and continue to inconvenience them.

Article 31: When asked what they are doing for the day, chicks shall always reply “nothing,” after which they shall proceed to cook meals, take care of kids, clean the house, wash dishes, wash clothes, fetch water, fetch wood, and sweep dirt.

Article 34: All chicks shall ensure that they publically breastfeed their infants whenever they start crying.   As the saying goes, “The best pacifier is a nipple.”

Article 36: Waitress chicks shall respond to the following professional methods of catching attention: “Hsssssssst,” obnoxious finger snapping, or bell ringing (when table bells are available)

Article 42: All chicks shall demand that white chicks give them their hair, even if said request makes absolutely no sense

Disclaimer: All articles contained in the Bro Code and Chick Code are meant to be humorous and inoffensive, but also accurate.  As both of the codes are fluid, amorphous documents, amendments in comment form are welcome!

Just Another Day: Part II

The day began as any other: waking up at 6:45, washing my face, and walking to the kiosk near the road to purchase breakfast.  On the way to the kiosk, I greeted everyone I saw in the local language, a conversation that follows the pattern…..

“Good morning!”

“How did you sleep?”

“Well”

“How are things going with the family?”

“Things are going well”

“And how is work?”

“It’s going well.”

“Good!”

“Good!”

Once reaching the kiosk, I greeted the usual coffee drinking men and made sure the kiosk lady saw me. By now, the kiosk lady knows my daily order, which only changes when they run out of eggs or when I notice they once again have eggs.  This is convenient because Burkinabe don’t exactly respect the integrity of lines.  Children push their way under you to stand on their tip toes, slap money loudly on the counter, and demand bread or sugar.  Other Burkinabe at the kiosk often assume that you’re just taking up space at the window and push past to make their orders. They are always surprised when the white person who hasn’t verbally ordered gets his coffee and bread before them. 

I drank my coffee, watching the sun rise higher over the sugar cane fields across the road.  

Sunset over the ravine that borders the west side of my village

A month ago it was cold at this time in the morning, but I can already feel the temperature beginning to rise.  Unfortunately it seems that Burkina Faso’s “winter” is quickly coming to an end.  It didn’t last very long.  After finishing my coffee, I returned to my house and made myself an omelet sandwich.  Then I showered, got dressed, and packed my backpack for the morning at the health clinic.

The walk to the health clinic is an excellent example of the emotional rollercoaster that is Peace Corps service.  Most of the adults I greet are genuinely happy to see me and overjoyed that I’m learning the local language.  However, the children of the village are ruthless.  They enjoy reminding me every day that I’m white, and therefore have money, and therefore should be giving them gifts.  It’s a pretty convincing line of reasoning for a three year old. 

In local language, “Tubabu” (too-bah-boo) is the word for “foreigner,” which applies to anyone who is white.  They learn the word as soon as they can walk.  And it’s such a fun word to say!  Groups of kids will chant it over and over again as I walk by.  If an adult is around, they’ll usually pity me and tell them to shut up.  Some of the kids are confused about the goals of Peace Corps and will chant “Tubabu don cadeau,” a blend of Jula and French that charmingly translates to “White foreigner give me a gift.” Once the kids get older, start school, and learn a little French, they’ll refine the insult, calling me “le blanc,” which literally translates as “the white.”

It is incredibly disheartening to be called “tubabu” every day.  Remember that sinking feeling when a classmate made fun of you on the elementary school playground?  For me, it was being called “big ears” in second grade. I knew what they’re saying was true, but I couldn’t help it!    I went home and cried to my mom after that.  She comforted me and told me that my ears looked fine.  Nowadays, I like to think that my head grew into them.

That’s the type of subtle childish cruelty that I experience every day.  To deal with all this schoolyard name calling in a mature manner, I always remind myself of a couple things.  First of all, younger kids don’t understand why it’s offensive to repeatedly be called “white foreigner.”  Secondly, some of them are just copying older kids and don’t even know what it means.  Lastly, “tubabu” is actually a fun word to say for little kids.  I usually try to nicely explain to them in local language that my name is not tubabu, it’s Todd (to the amusement of any adults in the area).  This is slightly complicated for some children, because it’s similar to the name of the male volunteer in the married Peace Corps couple before me, Chad. But I’ll take Chad over tubabu any day of the week.

I wish I could think of similar set of excuses for the adolescents and adults that insist on calling me “le blanc,” or “tubabu,” but I can’t.  My friend in village, Ibrahim, explained that it’s could be interpreted as politeness or ignorance.  Some Burkinabe think that it’s more polite to call me “tubabu” or “le blanc” than to try to get my attention some other way.  However, this doesn’t account for the majority of individuals that have absolutely no need to get my attention, yet continue to call me “le blanc,” in a less than welcoming tone.  Ignorance is another possibility.  Most Burkinabe have never been out of the country and don’t necessarily care that not all white people come from the same place.  Most Burkinabe also assume that white people don’t understand local language and talk about you within earshot.  Ibrahim also pointed out that it’s a fair assumption that most white people have money, and found it difficult to believe that there was poverty in America.

My favorite family courtyard.  Papaya trees in the foreground 

Anyway, let’s get back to the story.  Today was baby weighing and vaccination day at the clinic, which occurs once a month.  In December, it fell on Christmas, so the turnout was small.  Today, there were around 20 mothers and their infant children when I arrived, and 20 more that showed up during the three hours I spent there.  Babies are so cute, right?  Well babies aren’t that cute after a doctor stabs them in the leg with a needle. For the next three hours, there were no fewer than four babies wailing at any one point in time.  Each mother has a small blue book for their child that they bring to every baby weighing, which serves as a vaccination record and health history.  They also keep a record of the vaccinations given to babies at the health clinic to make sure mothers are keeping up with their kid’s vaccinations. 

I find myself to be largely useless at the baby weighings, as I can’t give vaccinations and the record keeping system they’ve established is about as efficient as things get in sub-Saharan Africa.  I do greet all of the mothers and attempt to talk to them with the limited amount of local language that I’ve learned so far.  After just learning French, diving into a new language is proving quite difficult.  At least French is grammatically similar to Spanish, which I already knew pretty well.  African languages  are a whole different ballgame.  I got to hold a couple of babies, which was more frightening than exciting.  Half of the babies are scared of me because I’m the only white person they’ve ever seen.  The other half are sleeping.  And the other half actually think I’m interesting for a couple minutes.

I read a good portion of the sequel to Ender’s Game, Speaker for the Dead.  I highly recommend both books.  I’ve found that so far in Burkina, I relate well to characters in sci-fi novels.  I’m guessing this is because I often feel like an alien on a foreign planet.  My literary tastes will probably change when I feel more integrated, but it’s hard to imagine that I’ll ever feel completely at home here.

I returned home around noon to make myself the usual lunch, kous kous with tomato sauce.  Sautee some onions and garlic in olive oil, add  a chopped up tomato, then a small can of tomato paste and a couple canfuls of water.  Throw it over a generous helping of kous kous and season with salt and pepper.  What?  No meat?  I’ve decided to be vegetarian in village for a couple reasons.  First of all, the meat that I could get at the marche is not very good quality and relatively expensive.  Not to mention the “butchers” chop the meat up with a machete all day at the marche while they’re selling it.  Probably around 5,000 flies land on each piece of meat before you buy it.  You do the math.  Better be cooking that goat reallllll well.

After lunch I took a brief nap during the hottest part of the day and then headed to Berega for the marche.  Since my first week at site, I’ve found a way to get across the ravine that doesn’t require me to get off my bike!  Quite the accomplishment.  This marché day, I was running low on money.  Every time we need to withdraw money, we have to go to a regional capital.  Obviously there aren’t Ecobank branches in villages.  Lucky for me, my regional capital is only 15km away and I was one of four people in my training group to receive an ATM card right from the beginning.  This produces some tension between myself and other  volunteers, especially because no one in the training group before us has ATM cards.  I try not to mention that I have it, because a lot of volunteers are forced to write themselves checks and wait in line at the bank to cash them.

Yes, it does say "Balsak" above the door and no I don't know why

After buying the usual onions, garlic, and tomatoes, I was distressed to find that green beans are out of season.   I had a little bit of money left over, so I decided to purchase some peanuts.  Most of the women in the marche don’t speak French, but I’ve learned how to discuss prices in Jula.  It’s slightly complicated because the numbers in Jula correspond to 5CFA.  For example, 250CFA is “biduuru” which technically means 50.  I asked the woman how much peanuts cost and she mumbled  a response that sounded like “biseegi” (400CFA).  I took the kilo of peanuts from her and handed her a 500CFA coin.  She looked at me like I was the biggest idiot in the world and said loudly “keme ni bisiegi” (900CFA).  Unfortunately I only had 500CFA so I had to give her back the peanuts.  Two onlookers decided to state the obvious and explained to the woman that the “tubabu” doesn’t speak Jula.  They had a good laugh over it.   I didn’t know enough Jula to respond in any meaningful way, so I walked away feeling embarrassed and alienated.

After the marche defeat, I began the short bike back to my village.  As I crossed an open expanse of grass field, I happened to look up and see two hawks in the sky above me.  They were circling each other, diving towards the ground, then spreading their wings to catch the updrafts and elevate once again.  It seemed like they were dancing with each other.  Lame to say, but it was beautiful.  

I’ve always been interested in birds, as my parents can attest to.  When I was in elementary school they bought me bird books and I became slightly obsessed with bird watching.  I wanted to be an ornithologist when I grew up.  Orniwhatthe……it’s a biologist that specializes in birds.  I was a pretty popular kid.  Everyone wanted to go bird watching with me, even my dad.  He actually did like bird watching though so I didn’t have a completely self-centered hobby.

Of course as soon as I got out my crappy digital camera to take a picture or video, it was too late.  The hawks had flown higher and further away.  It was one of the few times in my life that I wished I had my dad’s huge camera with the ultra zoom lens and carried it around my neck at all times.  I made it home without incident and decided to get lost in my book again.  The human protagonist had just arrived on an alien world and was interacting with the local sentient population.  I felt at home.