Miscommunication. It
is the root of nearly all human conflicts.
Sometimes the consequence is a simple laugh, sometimes a feeling of inadequacy
or frustration, and sometimes war. There
are philosophers who argue that there is an absolute moral imperative to attempt communication with a perceived “other.” Philosophers of the opposing camp argue that the absence of communication with a perceived “other” is preferable in certain situations than attempts to communicate. Other philosophers argue that
it would be awesome if dinosaurs were still alive today, under the assumption
that we would able to communicate with them.
What follows is a collection of (very) short stories that demonstrate
the constant challenges of cultural integration Peace Corps Volunteers face on
a daily basis. As one peels away the layers of the metaphorical “onion” of each
story, one will find a moral core illustrating the nature of fundamental human
communicative psychology. However,
onions don’t really have cores: a lesson in itself. True meaning is found in the peeling journey,
which in the case of onions often results in tears. But are the tears we shed while peeling
onions tears of intense happiness or intense sadness? Or are those tears just a fact of life? Do
the tears even apply to metaphorical onions?
The following stories may provide some insight into these inherent
questions of human existence.
D is for Diploma
Peace Corps conducts periodic site visits to check in with
volunteers, see how they’re doing, and help with any problems that need outside
assistance. My second site visit was
from Charles, who works as an assistant for the woman in charge of the Health
program of Peace Corps Burkina Faso.
Charles is an extremely kind, funny Burkinabe man who speaks good English. He was formerly the head nurse of a community
health clinic and therefore understands the politics of the CSPS.
At the time, my
health clinic had two employees who had the qualifications to be head nurse,
but Drissa was nominally the head nurse because he had arrived in my village
two months before Karim. This was the
source of much confusion for me when I first got to site, especially because
Karim had attended a workshop before volunteers were affectated to site that is
designed to allow volunteers to establish some sort of relationship with their
counterpart before moving to village.
During the workshop, Karim had claimed to be the ICP (head nurse) of the
CSPS (health clinic). Most health
clinics have an ICP and an ICB, who has one year less of schooling but can
functionally perform most of the tasks of an ICP.
After arriving at site, Karim explained to me multiple times
that he had the same qualifications as Drissa, even when my questions had
nothing to do with his qualifications. Charles
happened to be visiting my site during the time when I was still trying to
figure out what to call Karim, because he was definitely not the ICP. Charles and I visited the CSPS and I
introduced him to Karim, making the mistake of calling him the ICB of the
CSPS. Karim glared at me, then proceeded
to explain to Charles that he had the education of an ICP. I sensed that I had made a mistake and
offended him, so I apologized.
After the CSPS visit, I explained to Charles why I had made
the mistake and he said it was extremely rare
for the government to put two men with ICP qualifications in one CSPS,
especially one that services a comparatively small population. ICPs tend to have an inflated sense of
importance and putting two in the same CSPS results in a clash of egos.
To make things worse,
Karim had been told by the government that he was getting moved to a different
CSPS to take over as head nurse. He had
explained to me that he was being affectated and said goodbye. However, the next week I showed up to the CSPS
and he was still working there. Assuming that I had misunderstood, I asked another
member of the staff and gathered that there had been some sort of mixup. The government hadn’t informed the man that
Karim was replacing that he was going to affectated. When the man refused to let Karim take over, Karim
got angry, although I’m not sure what actually happened. As far as I was concerned, the result of the
mixup was a very grumpy and pissed off CSPS employee who I had further
aggravated by referring to him as an ICB.
A couple days later was baby weighing day at the CSPS. After spending most of the morning trying to talk to shy
mothers and cringing every time a baby received a vaccination and started
wailing, Karim asked to talk to me in the consultation room. I sat across the desk from him, ignorant of
the impending shit storm. He began by
asking me if I remembered calling him an ICB a couple days ago. I realized that he was still bothered by it
and immediately began apologizing for the misunderstanding.
I told him that Charles understood that I had made a mistake
and knew his qualifications. This wasn’t
enough for Karim. He asked me who had told me that he was an ICB. I told him that no one had told me I had just
made a mistake because I was confused about the fact that there were two ICPs
at the CSPS. Karim was still not
convinced that I knew what I was talking about.
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a laminated sheet of paper
and, with a self-satisfied grin on his face, said, “Here is my diploma from
nursing school.” I pretended to be
impressed by the laminated sheet of paper while he explained the education he
had received to become an ICP. Finally,
he was appeased and let me go.
Luckily, Karim was affectated a week later, freeing me from
my obligation of dealing with him as a supervisor. Ego, hubris, insecurity……call it what you
like, but it is exhausting to deal with.
Not This American
I was walking to the village kiosk one morning to buy my
daily coffee and bread when a teacher from the primary school approached
me. He told me that a man in Banfora
wanted to meet with me and I needed to give him my phone number. Due to my limited knowledge of French vocabulary,
I didn’t understand what the man’s job was or why he wanted to meet with me,
but I assumed he was an official from the Burkina school bureaucracy. I dutifully gave him my number, as it seemed
like a good idea for a teacher to have my phone number anyway. The man from Banfora called me an hour later
and arranged to meet me in Takale at the school around 4pm, reinforcing my
notion that he worked for the Burkina school system.
Later in the day, I confessed to my good friend and village
counterpart, Ibrahim, that I had a meeting with a man at 4pm, but had no idea
who he was or what he wanted. Ibrahim
graciously offered to accompany me to the meeting. Around 4pm, the man called me and told me he
was on his way, so I biked to Ibrahim’s house and we went to the school. After waiting for a half hour, four men
showed up on motos.
One of the men approached Ibrahim and asked him “Where is
the American?” This confused both of us
because I was sitting in plain sight next to Ibrahim. Ibrahim pointed to me and said “He’s
here.” The man responded “No not this American, the
other American, the older brother of Abdoulaye.” Ibrahim gave the man the “other American’s”
number and explained to me that there is a man from the village who lives in
America, and therefore is referred to as “the American.” He happened to be visiting his family in my
village at the moment. The teacher from
the morning had been confused by a text he received asking him to get the phone
number of the American.
The next day, Ibrahim took me to meet the Burkinabe
American. We hung out underneath a mango
tree and had a very interesting conversation in English. It turns out he’s a French professor at the
University of Maryland and lives close to Washington D.C. He’s been to California once and said it was
too expensive. He asked me how I was
coping with the heat of Burkina compared to the US and I admitted that it was difficult
without electricity. Ironically, the
most difficult part of living in the US for him is the cold of the winter. I told him to move to Los Angeles because we
don’t have winter. We shared a hearty
laugh over the story of the “other American.”
The Birth of Didier
As I was buying a bus ticket to Ouaga, the ticket attendant asked for my name. Before remembering that the last name comes before the first in Burkina, I told her it was Todd. The Burkinabe woman across the counter gave me a blank stare and asked me to spell it. As I glanced at the ticket, I saw that she had missed a “d” so I attempted to explain to her that there are “duex d’s” (2 d’s) in Todd. The ticket ended up being made out to some German douschebag named Didier Tod.
The rest of this
collection of (very) short parables has been collected from various Peace Corps
Volunteers in Burkina Faso. The contributors of these stories will stay
anonymous, referred to as “Didier,” to protect their identities from Burkina
authorities, the CIA, and their moms.
Judgment Day
Didier ordered a marginally cold 22oz beer at the village
kiosk. The Burkinabe lady opened it with a gavel. He suddenly got the uncomfortable feeling
that he was being judged….
Bacon
The guy who sells roasted pork in village sharpened his
machete on the asphalt of the national highway.
Didier thought of intervening, but realized that the asphalt is probably
cleaner than the pig he was about to butcher.
“Seriously,” Didier thought, “live in a village with pigs for a couple
months and then see how much you like pork.
I mean bacon is an exception. The
things I would do for a big ol’ hunk of bacon……….”
Son, You’re Being Cut
from the Shot Put Team
Didier was drinking coffee one morning at a kiosk near a
high school and witnessed a PE class learning how to shot put. Didier thought, “What are the chances that a
country with a surplus of lean, lanky men and a serious lack of protein will
ever produce an Olympic class shot putter?
Burkina, bro, play to your strengths.”
Make It Rain
The crazy man in village threw 20 cents at Didier
today. Usually he throws little
rocks. Didier thought, “Finally, I’m
integrating.”
My Coq
Didier’s friend in village told him he wanted to show Didier
his “coq.” Before Didier could protest
he picked up a nearby rooster and began explaining how fat and strong it was. A wave of relief washed over Didier.
The Goat Who Cried
Boy
Didier heard a child screaming and ran to go see what was
going on. It turned out to be a goat
complaining about being tied to the back of a moto. Didier wondered if he’d ever be able to tell
the difference. He thought, “Hopefully
Burkinabe can.”
It’s Not the Same
Thing
Didier’s friend in village told him about the time he
traveled to Germany. He said “It was so strange, I was the only black person on
the plane! Everyone was staring at me.”
Didier empathized, as he’s the only white person in a 15km radius and is
constantly stared at. The man told
Didier it wasn’t the same thing. Didier
thought, “Of course it’s not the same thing.
The plane ride was only 6 hours.
I’m here for 2 years.”
Poopglasses
Didier dropped his $100 sunglasses down the latrine hole. After cursing for 10 minutes, he began devising
ways to get them out. Then he realized
that even if he succeeded, they’d be covered in shit. He thought, “Pink eye? No thanks.” He still thinks about those sunglasses every
time he enters the latrine. “Never again,” he says to himself.
Irony
A Muslim Burkinabe woman with a full head scarf covering
once asked Didier “What is irony?” as she lifted up her shirt to breastfeed her
child in public. He told her it wasn’t
important.
BNFF
If Didier is ever having an especially bad day, He explains
his problems to Nutella. Then he eats a
spoonful of him. Nutella doesn’t mind. He’s Didier’s best friend in village.
Final Destination
One morning, Didier was on his way to the village kiosk and said
“Good morning” to the first child he saw. The little boy replied, “Good luck.” Didier tried to get him to explain himself
but he ran away. Didier spent the rest
of the day looking over his shoulder. He
thought it could be a movie someday: “Final Destination VII: Burkina Faso.”
Reverse
Sensibilization
The Burkinabe man next to Didier in the bar asked him to put
out his cigarette and informed him that it was bad for his health. Didier considered explaining to him that
while the two cigarettes he smokes a day is indeed a danger to his health, so
is the 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year he spends living in one
of the poorest countries of sub-Saharan Africa.
All stories involving Didier are in no way meant to offend the government or peoples of Germany. Although German men, similar to men from New Jersey, have a higher probability of being douschebags, I have many German friends (one) who are not douschebags (he's a lovable dousche).
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