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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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