The World Cup and Unsportsmanlike Conduct

I love sports. I love playing them, watching them, and following them. Of the many hardships of life in Burkina, I'd rank my inability to watch and follow sports in the top 10, with lack of running water and electricity ranking above and lack of peanut butter ranking below. While the Lakers have had a couple abysmal seasons while I've been gone, UCLA football has grown from a struggling program to a regional powerhouse and the LA Kings recently completed an unbelievable playoff run to win the Stanley Cup. Nothing quite makes me miss home like pictures of my brother and his wife at a Kings game, one of my best friends with the Stanley Cup, or my UCLA friends at a football game.

While I suffer from an obsession with all sports, soccer used to be close to baseball in the “I'd rather just see highlights if I can't go to a game” section of the list. However, living in Africa has forced me to come to terms with the fact that soccer is the world's most popular sport. It is the only sport that can be consistently followed on TV here (if you have electricity and a satellite dish) and it's the only sport that people care about. Portraits of famous soccer players such as Ronaldo and Drogba are painted on bars and bush taxis throughout Burkina. Cheap soccer jerseys make up a significant percentage of Burkinabe menswear and can be purchased at markets in even the most isolated villages. When the national team plays, the entire country shuts down and tunes in.

Soccer's popularity in the developing world makes a lot of sense. It requires a minimal amount of equipment (a ball of some sort and a pair of feet), the rules are fairly simple (don't touch the ball with your hands), and it can be played anywhere there is a field. A ball can be as simple as a wad of plastic bags held together by twine. A goal can be as simple as a couple of sticks stuck in the ground. A field can be as simple as a broad expanse of dirt. And in a village with 100's of kids, there are always enough players.

Being deprived of playing and watching other sports has made me a soccer fan, at least for now. Thus, I was extremely excited for the World Cup to start. Finally I would have consistent competitive sports to stimulate my mind. My daily schedule became highly influenced by the times of the soccer games, most of which were in the afternoon and night. I was able to watch the first couple days of matches in Ouaga, most notably Brazil's win over Croatia and the Netherlands' destruction of Spain. My daily demeanor improved noticeably and I became highly motivated to finish my work before the matches. I couldn't help but smile every time I sat down, drank a beer, and watched a game. The World Cup was a welcome reminder of how important sports are to my emotional happiness.

Competitive sports tend to bring out the best and worst in people, and spectators are no exception to the rule. While I suspected that Burkinabe would not be the best crowd to watch competitive sports with, I had no idea what I was in for. I first realized how bad things could get during the USA vs. Ghana game. At the time, I was working at a girls camp in a fellow volunteer's village with 3-4 other friends. We were extremely excited to be able to watch the match with other Americans, especially because half of us weren't going to be able to watch the second USA match. So we giddily headed down to the bar early to get front row seats and drink some sports spectating beverages (beer).

Girls Camp in Moussoudougou

Taught kids tug of war.  Challenged kids to tug of war.  Lost.

Teaching kids soccer skillz

To provide some context, Burkina Faso didn't qualify for the World Cup after they split a series of international friendly matches with Algeria and came up on the wrong end of a goal differential. However, Africans like to think of themselves as all on the same “team,” at least when they aren't playing each other. A win by one African country is a win for the entire continent. Thus, even though Burkinabe were cursing Ghana throughout the Africa Cup of Nations last year, they suddenly became diehard Ghana fans when the World Cup rolled around. And diehard Cote d'Ivoire fans. And diehard Cameroon fans. You get the picture.

Back at the USA vs. Ghana game, the Burkinabe at the bar seemed to find our rendition of the Star Spangled Banner amusing, but we had made the fatal mistake of exposing how much we actually cared about the game. Tension was high as the game started, and within 3 minutes the US miraculously scored a goal, resulting in many high fives, cheers, and applause from the Americans in attendance, but cold hard looks from most Burkinabe. As the game progressed, we ignored snide remarks of “it's right” and “it's good” every time the US messed up (which was a lot), content to be ahead on the scoreboard. That all changed once Ghana scored their first goal. The Burkinabe erupted in wild yells, cheers, and applause. The Burkinabe directly behind Hallie and I leaned forward and began yelling in our ears niceties such as “IT'S GOOD!” “IT'S RIGHT!” and “THIS IS AFRICA!” The Burkinabe in front of us turned around and began yelling similar things in our faces.

Hallie and I cheering on the US.  Before Burkinabe started yelling in our faces.

Cheering for a goal is one thing, but yelling in someone's face crosses a line of sports fan etiquette, and general sportsmanship, that Burkinabe are apparently unaware of. It seemed like a gift from a higher power when the US scored again later in the game. We cheered and high fived once again, much to the dismay of the 30 Burkinabe present. Their disparaging comments to the US grew more common, and began to stray from the subject of soccer to Americans in general. Any foul against Ghana “wasn't fair” and any foul against the US “was right.” The game finally ended. We all breathed a sigh of relief because we knew if Ghana had scored again we all would have chosen a loud mouthed Burkinabe to punch in the face.

Once I returned to village, I was only able to watch matches if I biked 5km to the adjacent village with electricity. When I watched games in the adjacent village, however, I had to be back before dark, as the bike across the ravine between villages is dangerous at night. Fortunately, I'm good friends with the man who runs the yogurt shop in the adjacent village and he owns a TV with a satellite. He also happens to be a huge soccer fan, so I knew that he'd be watching every single game. Those matches were some of the most enjoyable of the entire tournament. The yogurt man is an incredibly nice guy. We'd often have friendly arguments the merits of one team against another, just like I like to do with my friends in the states. The crowd watching the games was also very calm, and often included kids I play soccer with in my village. It was cool to see that the kids cared enough to make the trek over to this village.

One of my favorite memories of this period was the Netherlands vs. Mexico match. In discussions before the match, the yogurt man and I had agreed that Netherlands was the favorite. During the first half, however, Mexico scored first. There was a larger crowd than usual watching the game, and they quickly became Mexico fans as the momentum shifted. One of the men got cocky and jokingly offered the yogurt man a wager on the match. The yogurt man responded that he'd make a 500 CFA bet with anyone who thought Mexico was going to win. After his friend talked some reason into him, he lowered the wager to 200 CFA, which five of the “Mexico fans” were all to happy to agree to. Later in the game, the Netherlands equalized. On a questionable penalty call, the Netherlands scored again and ended up winning the game. The yogurt man was overjoyed, gave me multiple high fives, and collected his money from the complaining men. After things died down, the yogurt man shook my hand and said “Thank you,” to which I replied “I wouldn't have made that bet.” We had a good laugh.

Watching the match on the yogurt man's 12"

A week later, I was working another camp with volunteers in Niangoloko (60km south of Banfora) and was once again able to watch a USA match with other Americans. After somehow managing to advance out of the “group of death,” we were playing Belgium in the Round of 16. We found a bar that had a small TV, cold beer, and outdoor seating: the perfect combination. As there was no one else at the bar besides us, we quickly became comfortable, happily cheered on the USA, and worked to create a match-related drinking game to keep things interesting. 30 minutes into the game, our America fan utopia was disrupted by a group of Burkinabe men who rode past on motorcycles, circled back to see what was going on, and decided to sit behind us and watch the game.

I tried to keep an open mind, reasoning that because it wasn't an African team playing against the US, Burkinabe would have no reason to be disrespectful. Once again, however, we made the fatal mistake of showing national pride and open support for the USA. The Burkinabe capitalized on our mistake and immediately became rowdy, fanatical supporters of Belgium. The disparaging comments came in rapid fire, and after several attempts to get them to stop, we were seething. At one point, we all stood up and blocked the TV, if for no other reason than to get the Burkinabe to complain about something else and stop talking shit. I found it difficult to stand in solidarity, however, as I was resigned to the depressing conclusion that they just wanted to piss us off and we were escalating things. The game went into extra time, Belgium scored, and the Burkinabe went crazy, yelling “IT'S FINISHED!” and “IT'S RIGHT!”

America didn't win the match and that was disappointing. But I was more depressed that Burkinabe had tried so hard to bring us down when all we wanted to do was watch a soccer game and cheer for our country. It was a rare opportunity for us to escape the isolation of Peace Corps service and feel a connection with Americans at home. Those Burkinabe brought us back to reality, communicating through their actions and words that we were not home. We were foreigners: a source of entertainment. When we care passionately about something, it's funny. When we get mad, it's a joke. There was not a shred of empathy or thought paid to how they would react if we acted the same way when Burkina Faso played a match against a team we cared nothing about.

Happily cheering on the US. Before the Burkinabe men showed up. 

A week and a half later, I was back in village and looking forward to watching the semifinal matches. On this particular night, Brazil was to play Germany in what will be remembered as the most embarrassing semifinal match in World Cup history. I got to the village bar early to get a good seat. As it was already nighttime, I couldn't recognize all of the people who showed up to watch the game, but I sat with a couple of my friends from village soccer, so I was content. The bar filled about with around 40 men. Many were arguing about which team was going to win, who was going to score the first goal, and whether or not Neymar was essential to the Brazilian team.

As the match started, the criticism of various players, teams, and referees commenced. Most Burkinabe men consider themselves experts in soccer coaching and theory, and do their best to display this knowledge during the game. For example, the director of the primary school advanced the argument that Germany was fast by repeating it every time they had the ball. After about 20 min, Germany scored their first goal, and the Burkinabe erupted in cheers. While there were still a few Brazil fans who didn't convert to Germany fans on the spot, by the time Germany scored their next goal 2 minutes later, the entire bar had been rooting for Germany all along.

Things started to get ridiculous when Germany scored yet again. Burkinabe jumped up and started dancing. The school director continued to advance his argument that Germany was fast by yelling it directly into my ear. At this point, it was extremely obvious that the match was going to be a blowout, and that the Burkinabe were going to enjoy every second of it. The sports channel began to show footage of distraught Brazil fans, some of them crying. The Burkinabe pointed and laughed at the fans, going crazy with amusement when they showed a female fan crying. The channel showed footage of Brazil's bench, most of the players with their heads hung low. Burkinabe pointed and laughed at their disappointment and humiliation. At halftime the score was 4-0. I had to get out of that mob. I wasn't a Brazil fan, but I couldn't sit through another 45 minutes of people laughing at the disappointment, and humiliation of others.

My experiences with Burkinabe during the World Cup reminded me of the observations I've made while playing and working with soccer in village. As much as soccer has the power to bring people together, imparting the value of teamwork and accomplishment, it often exposes the darker aspects of human nature in the context of village life. Because soccer balls are such a scarce commodity in village, the competition to play is fierce. Groups that are disadvantaged in Burkina society at large, such as women and young children, consistently get excluded from soccer. Age and size make all the difference in the competition to play. Older kids take balls away from younger kids, tell them that they're terrible, and sometimes even hit them until they flee. In the de facto child anarchy of Burkinabe village life, there is often no adult supervision and even if there is, a mentality of “let kids be kids” prevails. Kids aren't taught to share. They aren't taught to empathize or to apologize. The loudest, strongest kid gets his way, unless someone older intervenes. As the kids grow older, they are expected to take on more work and responsibility, eventually leaving soccer to younger ones. They retain the value of competition, but they often fail to adopt the values that make organized sports special, such as teamwork and sportsmanship.

During the World Cup, I was having bad experiences with a segment of the Burkinabe male population that can only be described as “bullies.” These were the strong kids that took the soccer ball from younger, weaker kids. These were the kids that laughed at others when they messed up. These were the kids that yelled “GOAL” until everyone gave up trying to argue that it wasn't. And depressingly enough, there are a lot of these types of kids in my village.  These are the kids that grow up to chastise and belittle women, reinforcing gender inequality in a society that desperately needs to modernize.  These are the kids that grow up and beat their kids, justifying physical punishment on the basis of what was done to them.

I've come to the realization that empathy is a skill that is taught, not something inherent to human nature. Throughout my upbringing, I was consistently taught to make an effort to understand the opinions and feelings of others. Burkinabe simply aren't encouraged to do the same, creating an environment that encourages bullying. If no higher authority is going to intervene and tell you to ask nicely or think about how your actions make others feel, most kids will just take what they want when they can. As hard as it is to accept that people can lack the ability to empathize, it explains a lot of the frustrating experiences I've had with Burkinabe.

The enormous influence of upbringing on one's personality and values has only become more apparent to me during my experience in Burkina. When another person has no idea where you come from, has never met your family, or haven't talked to you about your past, they really don't know you. I haven't been to the village that every Burkinabe comes from and met their family, although I am familiar with the general context of the upbringing of most Burkinabe. But I don't make predetermined judgments of Burkinabe based on it. That is why I find it incredibly frustrating to be judged by people who haven't the slightest idea where I come from or even an inkling of the general context of my upbringing.

In short, the world would be a better place without bullies. I'm glad I got to experience the World Cup in a country that actually cares about soccer. I love my family. I love my friends. I love where I come from. I love sports. And I'm still on the fence about soccer.

Strange Things Afoot in Takaledougou

I've gotten used to the fact that life in Burkina is vastly different from life in America. But even after 19 months here, Burkina still manages to catch me swinging empty air on some wicked curve balls. It's safe to say that I struck out this past month in Burkina.

March and April are considered the “hot season” in Burkina, with temperatures consistently hitting 110. In the shade. Towards the second half of April, intense humidity sets in as the sun devours every last drop of water it can find. While the functionality of sweat is questionable in 110 degree heat, it just doesn't work in humid heat. Sweat's job is to cool down your body. It accomplishes this task by evaporating from your skin. But when the air is already full of water, sweat just hangs out, follows gravity, and soaks into whatever is touches.

The bright side of intense humidity means that rain (might) come soon. That rain finally came at the end of April and beginning of May, as a few storms moved through Burkina, bathing the entire country in sweet, glorious water. Thus began the “rainy season” in Burkina, a season full of rainbows and daffodils and waterfalls. The Great Unicorn and Hedgehog Migration begins directly after the first rain, during which villagers join hands and sing the traditional African song “Everything is Awesome,” recently popularized by the Lego movie. At least that's the story I made up while sitting in my hut enjoying a solid rain session.

Rain sessions are easily my favorite past-time in Burkina. If you're unlucky enough to be stuck outside and far away from your hut when a storm arrives, you've already ruined the perfect rain session. Your feet and clothes will be covered in mud as you traverse the dirty trash rivers that spring up along all of the major footpaths in your village. Your bike will be completely will be completely ruined no matter how hard you try to keep it dry. If you happen to be stuck at a bar with cold beer, however, don't panic. A beer rain session might be just what the doctor ordered. Night storms also don't result in good rain sessions. While they significantly cool down your hut, the objects falling and hitting your tin roof sound more like hedgehogs than balls of water, which tends to keep you up at night, thinking of all those poor hedgehogs. A solid rain session requires weather awareness, planning, and a little bit of luck.

The first step is to find an activity that you can do inside your hut for a couple hours that doesn't require any social interactions. Maybe there's a movie that you really want to watch, but is too long/scary to watch at night. Or maybe you want to write a short story about unicorns and hedgehogs dancing to the Lego movie song. Regardless of the activity, make sure you conserve enough battery on the necessary electronic devices to commence the activity when the moment of truth arrives. Don't stray too far from your house if you sense that a storm is likely. While some questionably trustworthy volunteers claim to be able to “smell the rain,” most volunteers determine the likelihood of a storm by the proximity of huge ominous black storm clouds, high winds, and growling thunder. Some volunteers have also developed early warning systems based on common storm paths. For example, if a large storm hits Hallie's village, which is 140km north of me, I know it will hit my village in a couple hours and prepare accordingly.

In the absence of an early warning system, storm awareness is all about keeping your head on a swivel. Storms can arrive in a matter of minutes, so an escape plan is essential lest you get stuck seeking refuge with Burkinabe instead of taking advantage of the one foolproof excuse to be anti-social in village. Once arriving at your place of refuge, enjoy the first cooling drops of rain. This ritual serves to immediately cool your body, but also to confirm that the storm isn't just a “tease,” showing a little bit of ominous black cloud “leg” before moving on to the next village without giving up a drop. In these situations, be careful about warning the volunteer in the next village that the storm is just a tease, as you risk high levels of embarrassment and a serious drop in self-esteem if you discover that it rained in their village. Once rain is confirmed, immediately blockade yourself inside your hut for the foreseeable future and enjoy the fruits of non-labor! It's important to note that rain sessions can extend for hours beyond the period of actual rain. Excuses like “it's too muddy,” or “it's going to be dark soon,” absolve the volunteer of any and all guilt. A solid rain session can solve a lot of problems.

Such a tease...

Baby goats enjoying a solid rain session on my porch

My story begins after a few solid rain sessions in the beginning of May. Around this time, a period of traditional initiation ceremonies began in my village without my knowledge. My unawareness was partly due to the fact that I was in Ouaga making a presentation on Grassroot Soccer at a meeting (and celebrating a certain tequila soaked holiday). Due to the nature of the traditional ceremonies, however, I wouldn't have been told about it even if I were in village. I first became aware that something strange was afoot when I got back to my village and observed a long procession of the men in my village walking down the road following a few older men holding big walking sticks and blowing on small gourds to make a moaning, whistle type sound similar to the noise made by blowing over an empty glass bottle.

After exiting the bush taxi, I returned to my hut and discovered that the door to my small courtyard was gone. It had broken off its hinges a while back, but I still used it to keep goats and other dangerous animals out at night. When I asked my neighbor if he knew who had taken my door, he explained that it was being used during the sacrifices. I was at a loss for words and immediately started contemplating what that could possibly mean. However, the door wasn't all that important to me and despite the difference in cultural norms, I figured the door couldn't be in too much danger.

That night, my village was strangely quiet. The silence was pierced every once in a while by the gourd sound as well as other moaning sounds, which I assumed were bugs or birds. It became apparent the next morning that most of the sounds were actually made by people. Shirtless men were still walking around blowing on the gourds. Other men swung large arrowheads tied to a long rope around their heads, which produced a deeper moan. I tried to avoid these people, as it seemed like that was what everyone else was doing. At breakfast, I asked my friend Ibrahim what was going on. He explained that a two week period of “customs” had begun last week, consisting of initiation ceremonies for young men and women in the dominant ethnic group. It made sense when he explained that the initiation period only occurred once every two years, as I didn't recall any similar period of time last year. I told him about the “sacrifice door,” and he explained that the door was most likely being used to keep kids in a courtyard where they couldn't see the sacrifices and rituals. He explained that before being initiated, boys and girls weren't supposed to know exactly what happened.

It seems like an intrusion of cultural privacy to recount everything that I saw and heard during the next week, but I'll do my best to give you an idea. From what I saw, the days were filled with a series of sacrifices and rituals that men and women performed with the supervision of village elders. Every other evening there was a procession of men that would walk the length of the village making strange noises with different objects. Apparently the women weren't supposed to see these processions, as they were chased away when they tried to watch.

It's not unusual for me to feel like an outsider in my village. In fact, it's damn near impossible not to feel like an outsider when people call you a “whitie” every day. But It had been a long time since I felt so uncomfortable and clueless in this country. There was nothing to “figure out” about what was going on. These initiation ceremonies were happening because they had always happened. I tried to think of something I had experienced before that compared, but all I could come up with was the creepy voodoo culture portrayed by the new TV series True Detective. Not that any of the ceremonies were evil, but they evoked the same disbelief and the same empty feeling that comes with the impossibility of ever coming close to understanding something happening right in front of you.

The influence of animism and other traditional beliefs isn't just confined to the rural villages of Burkina. In urban centers, widely held traditional beliefs still influence society. One morning, as I was waiting for a bush taxi by the road in my village, I began talking with a formal dressed Burkinabe businessman. I was surprised to learn that he was a traditional healer on his way to the capital. He explained that a man from the village next to mine who had moved to the capital was extremely ill and had requested traditional medicine instead of “Western” treatments. This man valued traditional medicine so highly that he was willing to pay the $40 transport of a traditional healer from his ethnic group to come to Ouaga. And apparently this was a pretty common occurrence, as the traditional healer looked more like stock broker than a Burkinabe villager.

An extreme example of the continued power of traditional beliefs in modern African society took place recently in Koudougou, one of the biggest cities of Burkina. A man there was lynched in the middle of the street after being accused of “stealing” multiple men's genitals. A group of men claimed he was a “sorcerer” involved in black magic. The mob decided that justice would be best served by brutally murdering him. In reality, the “sorcerer” was a con man who would claim to have cast a spell that rendered men impotent, after which his fellow con man would approach and sell drugs costing upwards of $60 to “cure” the men. Clearly, the fear of sorcery and other forms of black magic is still very real, especially when it clashes with the powerful cult of Burkinabe masculinity.

For more details, follow this link to the article:

http://observers.france24.com/content/20140522-mob-kills-genital-thief-burkina-faso-lynching

On a lighter note, A HELICOPTER landed in my village recently. Helicopters had flown over my village before when the president, Blaise Compare, was visiting my regional capital. So when kids in my village spotted a helicopter and starting chasing it as if they could catch it, I decided to continue reading. Once the sounds of the helicopter died down and the kids didn't return, I ventured out to the road and to see what was going on. Sure enough, there was a large white passenger helicopter sitting on the grass next to the toll booth surrounded by a huge crowd of Burkinabe.

To put things in perspective, a lot of Burkinabe know what a helicopter is. Most don't understand how helicopters work, but villagers do not think it's a giant mechanical monster that has come to destroy their village. Thanks to cultural globalization, many kids and adults alike have seen a helicopter at some point in pictures, on TV, or in a movie. But to see one in person was definitely a spectacle. Apparently the helicopter had touched down to refuel from one of the large trucks following it. I'm not a pilot or a mathematician, but I'm pretty sure helicopters are faster than fuel trucks and can take more direct paths to their destinations, which leads me to question the logic refueling on the side of the road instead of at an airport or military base. But after reflecting on the logistical planning skills of Burkinabe Peace Corps staff, I realized there was no logic.

In a classic display of educated Burkinabe pessimism, one of my high school friends explained to me that the US or France had probably given the helicopter to Burkina because it was old or broken. Many educated Burkinabe are of the opinion that everything in Burkina is of a lesser quality than things in other countries, especially the developed world. I have a hard time arguing with them, because it's largely true, but a lot of times this pessimism leads to gross generalizations about the lifestyles of people they have never met in places they have never been. The attitude also completely ignores the question of need and leads to inaccurate assumptions regarding the nature of development.

For example, when I asked my high school friend why Burkina Faso needs a better helicopter, or even a helicopter in general, he got flustered, laughed, and changed the subject. The truth is that the government of Burkina has no practical use for a helicopter, much less a new helicopter. The government is in no position to use the helicopter for medical evacuations, police enforcement, or fire response. There is no military threat to the country that would warrant ownership of attack helicopters, which would actually contribute to instability in the region. In fact, one of the only people who stands to benefit from the Burkina Faso government's ownership of a helicopter is the president. Descending to a political rally in a helicopter is pretty impressive. Not to mention it would be a handy escape vehicle in the event of a political coup, assuming the helicopter operators were your friends. If Blaise is smart, he's kicking a ton of extra money their way. Which brings us to the issue of the MONEY IT TAKES TO RUN A HELICOPTER and the millions of ways it could be put to better use in one of the poorest countries of the world.

But educated Burkinabe don't see it that way. They see the helicopter as a symbol of what their country doesn't have. It doesn't matter to them that a helicopter does absolutely nothing to further basic economic development, or that 10 political/military elites out of the entire population of Burkina Faso benefit from the existence of this helicopter. What matters is that the country they call home doesn't have a new helicopter and had to accept a “hand me down” from the “rich world.” They also can't get the iPhone 5 or a good laptop, which dooms their country to eternal poverty.

Since the “helicopter day,” my courtyard door has wandered back to its usual spot and things seemed to have returned to normal. I can wander my village freely and be called a “tubabu” wherever I please. I once again only feel like a semi-outsider instead of completely clueless, which I've grown to accept as the norm in the village of Takaledougou 

Hot/Mango Season and Economic Development

Although it’s always hot in Burkina, the especially high temperatures of March and April are designated the “hot season.” How hot, you ask?  It’s so hot that my meals are salted with my own sweat.  It’s so hot that most volunteers get some form of heat rash.  Yeah, that’s a thing, and it’s unpleasant to say the least.  It’s so hot that the nighttime low is in the mid 80’s and the low in my hut is the mid 90’s.  It’s so hot that I drink two liters of Oral Rehydration Salt (ORS) solution every day in addition to my daily 5L water intake. Staying hydrated is a full time job.  It’s so hot that birds landing on my tin roof get roasted to a golden brown, but only if I can get them down within a minute (kidding…they don’t land on my roof because they would get BURNT TO A CRISP).  IT’S SO HOT THAT EVEN BURKINABE ARE PERSPIRING!!

But it just so happens that hot season is also mango season.  Mango season is an important time for my village economically.  There are over 100 mango trees in my village alone, and plenty more “en brousse,” or the generally uninhabited areas off the beaten path.  Even before the mangos are ripe, Women use long poles with hooks on the end to pull mangos down from trees. Their kids climb the trees to assist.  Other kids are responsible for cushioning the fall of the mangos with any available piece of material as they plunge to the ground.  Many women of the village sell mangos to cars and bush taxis on the highway that stop at the toll booth.  That’s around 30 women selling mangos.  Economic specialization isn’t a well understood concept among Burkinabe.  Frankly I’m just surprised the women don’t get into fights over who is selling to which car.  Often it’s just a mad foot race to the car/bus window; first to get in the customer’s face and yell “MANGORO” (Jula for mango) makes the sell.

The chief of my village is also the president of a regional association of mango producers, called L’Union Provincial des Produeteurs de Fruits et Legumes de la Comoe (UPPFL-CO).  That translates to Provincial Union of Fruit and Vegetable Producers of the Comoe (my province).  Don’t let the name of the organization mislead you, though; they only deal with mangos.  While I’m unclear on the financial specifics of the union, people in the region can pay $20 to participate and they make money on the mangos produced by trees on their property (or that they collect en brousse). 

There’s even a dried mango factory in my village run by the UPPFL-CO, which typically starts operating at the end of April and runs through May.  When I say factory I’m referring the practice of having a bunch of people in the same place producing a product more than the actual structure, which resembles all of the other buildings in village.  Hundreds of kilograms of mangos are peeled, sliced, and dried in gas powered ovens.  Mangos are highly acidic and ovens are hot, so the factory gets pretty hellish for the women who work there, but at least they have (extremely temporary) jobs.  Most of the dried mangos are exported to Europe, but some are sold in Burkina as well.  The union presumably does well, as the chief of my village has a Toyota Tacoma that he frequently drives into Banfora, my regional capital.  Most of the people in my village however, don’t have enough mango trees on their property (or the means to transport large quantities of mangos from the bush) to make it worth joining the union.  As so often results in the developing world, the financial success of the UPPFL-CO is enjoyed by a privileged few, rather than the poor majority.

But enough about mangos, let’s look at the economy of Burkina Faso as a whole.  More than 90% of economic production in Burkina is agricultural.  And almost all of the agricultural goods produced in Burkina are consumed domestically due to the small scale of production and the expense of exportation.  This includes vegetables such as tomatoes, garlic, onions, green beans, eggplant, and cucumbers.  It also includes fruit such as mangos, papayas, and watermelon: each with their respective two month season.  The list wouldn’t be complete without the starches that form the lion’s share of any Burkina diet: corn, millet, potates (basically sweet potatoes) and ingyam (also sweet, potato-like starch).

One of the exceptions to this “domestic consumption” rule of agriculture is sugar.  I live directly across the highway from the largest (and only) expanse of commercial sugar cane production in Burkina.  The company, SN-SOSUCO, was created by government in the 60’s to collectivize sugar production in the region.  It was state owned until 1998, when part of it was sold to a European company, F.C. Shaffer.  Although it currently claims to be a “public-private partnership,” the “public” partners are most likely high ranking government officials who pocket their share of the profits.  Privatization brought European management expertise and technology, but continued the system of exploitation and corruption that was already in place when SOSUCO was state owned.

The company claims to have a workforce of over 3,000, including 800 permanent staff, 400 seasonal workers and more than 1,800 day workers, making it Burkina Faso’s “largest private employer.”  As some of the men in my village who work for SOSUCO explained, “day worker” is a generous description of a job that is about as grueling, temporary, and low paying as jobs can get.  In a classic Burkinabe exaggeration, my friend in village also told me that none of the sugar produced in the fields is consumed in Burkina Faso, but that’s clearly not true because the sugar rectangles (it would be misleading to call them cubes) that are used at every coffee kiosk in every village of Burkina come in a box with the SOSUCO logo on it. 

It is fair to say, however, that SOSUCO enjoys a monopoly on sugar production in Burkina and a monopoly on the temporary labor market in my region, allowing it to fix prices and pay day-to-day workers next to nothing.  While the company claims to actively promote  the economic development of the region, it currently supports no development projects in the region that I know about.  The factory did bring electricity from Cote d’Ivoire (not even all electricity is produced in Burkina) to the village adjacent to mine where its main factory is located, but it managed to bypass all of the villages on the 15km of road between the factory and Banfora.  When the company was state owned it also built a system of water pipes running through the fields and the villages adjacent to them, but these had to be built anyway to support large scale irrigation.

Cotton is another exception to the “domestic consumption” rule of agriculture. But although it is produced by independent Burkinabe farmers, all of the cotton is purchased by another “public-private partnership,” SOFITEX.  The company has a monopoly on cotton purchasing, allowing it to dictate the prices it pays Burkinabe farmers.  Although the company claims to promote the “social welfare” of the general population, a visit to any cotton producing village proves otherwise.  It’s also substantial to note that even SOFITEX exports raw cotton to be processed elsewhere.  None of the fabric or clothes available here are made from Burkinabe cotton.  In short, Burkina Faso doesn’t have the industrial capacity to process cotton.

There’s livestock in Burkina Faso, too, but you won’t be eating a T-bone steak from a grass-fed cow in Burkina anytime soon. Even if we ignore the fact that cows here eat mostly dead plants and weeds instead of grass, Burkina Faso has little to no capacity to process meat on an industrial scale for exportation.  Your average butcher killed the cow on market day with his rusty machete, carried it to the market in a donkey cart, cut it up on a dirty table with the same rusty machete, and hung the pieces up to display in a hot, fly infested section of the outdoor market that half the vegetarians in the world cite as the reason they don’t eat meat.  A lot of villagers have animals in Burkina, but livestock here are more of a savings mechanism than a profitable investment.

Gold is another export of Burkina, but it’s mined by……you guessed it…..foreign companies! While there are many government officials that benefit from the fees that companies pay to mine here, the average Burkinabe sees no economic benefits from this industry. In fact, the Burkinabe that are “lucky” enough to get a job in the mines face extremely dangerous working conditions for little to no pay.

One of the few actual “industries” in Burkina is beer production.  It’s brewed domestically and consumed domestically.  All of the beer in Burkina is produced by the same company, which mass produces the two cheapest beers, Brakina and Sobbra, but is also contracted to produce foreign beers like Guinness and Pelforth.  The poor quality of the Brakina and Sobbra make it extremely unlikely that anyone outside of Burkina will ever enjoy the happiness of a lukewarm Brakina on a hot day. 

So if Burkina doesn’t produce most of the manufactured goods sold here, who does?  The answer is A LOT of companies in A LOT of other countries.  The “pagne” (colorful African fabric) that villagers wear is imported from Nigeria.  Mustard is imported from France.  Tissues are imported from Cote d’Ivoire. Cigarettes are imported from Ghana.  Spaghetti is imported from Turkey.  Tomato paste is imported from Italy.  Canned corn is produced in China for a French company based in Singapore.  Powdered milk is produced in Ghana.  The margarine that suspiciously doesn’t melt in 110 degree heat, leading many volunteers to speculate that it is more plastic than butter, is produced in Ghana.    Any item in Burkina that mildly resembles an item you would buy at a grocery store in America was imported.

But the best example of the “import saturation” phenomenon in Burkina is rice.  Rice is a staple of the Burkinabe diet, featuring prominently in at least half of all dishes that can be considered “Burkinabe cuisine.”  Yet most of the rice consumed in Burkina is imported from Thailand.  Due to climate, rainfall, farming techniques, government subsidies, and a variety of other reasons, it costs less to mass produce rice in Thailand than it does in Burkina.  So Burkina imports millions of kilograms of rice every year, while domestic rice production has virtually disappeared.

As you might have guessed, all luxury goods are imported as well.  The motorcycles that Burkinabe own are produced by Japanese companies, such as Yamaha, or Chinese companies, such as AP Sonic.  Most of the cars that aid organizations (including Peace Corps) use are Toyotas, while the cars that wealthy Burkinabe own are a mix of foreign imports (a lot of Mercedes).  All of the medicine distributed at the village health clinic is produced in India or China.

Burkina Faso is an interesting case study of economic globalization’s effects on underdeveloped countries.  Due to international trade, Burkinabe have access to goods that can’t be produced here (tissues, motorcycles, cigarettes, etc.).  However, Burkina also hasn’t developed the industrial capacity to produce anything short of sugar and dried mangos.  Development economists that support trade liberalization would argue that Burkina shouldn’t be producing goods that it doesn’t have a comparative advantage in producing, basically economics jargon for products that cost less to produce in Burkina than elsewhere.  For example, Burkina imports rice from Thailand because Thailand enjoys a comparative advantage in producing rice.  But the goods that Burkina has never and doesn’t currently enjoy a unique comparative advantage in producing much of anything.

A large number of development economists also believe that Foreign Direct Investment (FDI) is the driving factor of development, claiming underdeveloped countries are not making themselves attractive enough for foreign investment.  Some foreign companies have invested in Burkina, but most those companies have invested in the capacity to extract raw material for the lowest cost and export it elsewhere for processing (where most of the profits are made).  Burkina doesn’t have a skilled workforce to offer.  The roads are decent here (by African standards), but without a major river or ocean port,  it’s very hard to get goods to regional, much less international, markets. The bottom line is that Burkina Faso has very little potential for economic growth.  There will always be a global demand for cotton, sugar, and gold, but a vast majority of Burkinabe don’t benefit from these industries in any meaningful way. 

It is too often assumed that development will come with international trade and foreign investment, which can bring jobs and technology, but can also establish extractive markets that do very little to develop domestic national economies.  Sustainable economic development must ultimately come from within.  It’s difficult to start a business in Burkina, but it’s possible.  Savings and Credit associations that exist in many villages can provide small loans to members who contribute a small fee each week.  Microfinance organizations can offer to services and loans to people who are willing to work to pay them back.  If host country nationals don’t learn to use the resources at their disposal to increase their income, there will never be a substantial middle class between the absurdly rich and extremely poor.*  Equally as important, Burkinabe need to learn to help other Burkinabe.  Those with the power to make changes typically have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo, but society as a whole will never progress if the resources aren’t available for the poor to help themselves.

* Currently the “middle class” of Burkina (those living above $1.25 a day, the line of extreme poverty established by the World Bank) largely consists of low level government employees (teachers, nurses, etc.), a majority of which are paid out of foreign aid budgets instead of actual government revenue.

It’s difficult, but not impossible, to be a successful entrepreneur in Burkina, as demonstrated by my friend in village, Siaka.  Siaka is what, in Peace Corps jargon, we call a “positive deviant.”  He’s a Burkinabe who exhibits behavior that is atypically positive, in this case an entrepreneurial drive and work ethic that is more American than Burkinabe.  After dropping out of high school, he taught himself passable English and started a business in my village producing “atieke,” a local delicacy that is similar to kous kous.  He has successfully applied for, received, and paid back 3 loans from a microfinance organization called Zidisha.  Zidisha is one of many microfinance organizations that connect entrepreneurs in the developing world with “investors” in the developed world.  I put the word “investors” in quotations because most of these entrepreneurs are asking for less than $1,000 and people can specify their contribution.  In other words, you don’t have to manage a hedge fund to help these people out.  The loans have a low interest rate and a specified deadline by which they need to be paid back.  And studies have shown that over 90% of microfinance loans are actually paid back.

To give you an idea of what Zidisha looks like, I’ve posted the link to their website below.

https://www.zidisha.org/fr/

To conclude, sustainable economic development in the developing world is extremely complicated.  It’s about more than the GDP (total value of goods/services produced in a specific country) or GDP per capita (GDP divided by population) of a country. It’s about more than foreign investment or the natural resources a country has at its disposal.  Foreign governments, aid organizations, and corporations can contribute to economic development, but at the end of the day sustainable economic development is about host country nationals from all segments of society helping themselves and each other.  It’s not about “lifting” the world’s poorest people out of poverty; it’s about those people climbing out of poverty using the resources that are available.

The Onion: Burkina Style

Although I'm an extremely funny and creative person, occasionally a genius comes along who gives me  a run for my money.  My friend Greg is one of those people.  Aside from being the only Bolivian-American I know, he is incredibly intelligent and an excellent writer.  Recently, he has been posting short articles in the satirical style of "The Onion," a comedic news source that everyone should read more often.  Without further ado (that's a funny word. Ado. Adew Adeu. Adio), here are his collected works to date

BURKINA FASO, WA — A sloppily dressed hot season stumbled in today in a parade-like fashion. This procrastinating Generation-Y-like hot season came in after the timely harmaton winds, insisting that it was "too busy snap chatting" it's recent ex The Eastern Coast ice storm who just decided to "let it go" and "build a snowman" instead of staying together. It's entry was hailed by the electric sounds of cicadas, kept in beat with the sound of drying water reserves, and scurrying lizards. The procession was attended by 100% of the country.

Several fans and bystanders fainted beneath the undeniable presence of this "hot" celebrity. Awa Koulibali accurately stated "It's hot-de!"
A round of clicking was heard as she finished this accurate statement.

Still, the reception of hot season was not a warm one on behalf of everybody. Adherents of the cold weather/palu guild were defiantly wearing down jackets and ear muffs in an attempt to keep the fad of cool season alive. Pascal Dayo stated: "being hot is a state of mind, except for the foreigner's they aren't used to this. It's not like this in France."

At press time the Hot Season was casually evaporating the recently legalized "water" in the Sahel. It claimed it might go twerking at night, and that if at all possible it would come in like a wrecking ball and stay until it finds meaningful employment elsewhere.

Horatio DelaCruz, The Yngniam

DEDOUGOU, BF— Locals confirmed today that both local Peace Corps Volunteers are indeed white. A poll done today indicated that over 70% of the population agreed on the color of the skin tone of the volunteers, using either Tubabu, Nasara, or le blanc or la blanche as their descriptors.

Adama Ouedraogo stated: "I feel it is a great honor to be able to identify strangers by the tone of their skin. I am saddened to say however that the volunteers themselves don't seem to be aware of their situation."

While it seems the color of the Volunteers is now apparent, further questions do arise. It was noted that the locals had a difficulty identifying the sex of the volunteers as they used la blanche and le blanc interchangeably 90% of the time. It was also noted that being friends with a white person would undeniably grant you a trip to La France, Amerique, as well as a brand new cellphone with unlimited internet capabilities. More polls and experiments are to come this following hot season.


At press time the Volunteers gave no comments or opinions. We were able to catch a quick glimpse of them as they cruised through Dedougou stoically on their bicycles.

-Neil Richards, The Yngniam

Breaking News: Puppy killed by wheelchair at health clinic.  Alright  fine  he's just napping :)

BURKINA FASO, THE SAHEL— Today at roughly 1:30 local time Peace Corps volunteer Ian Weyerhauser sated that he was "really bored". Ian's closest neighbor Keitha claimed "It's mainly the hot season right now, it's just so monotonous. There's nothing to do." While Ian and other volunteers came prepared with over a terabyte of stolen films, videos, music, and literature he admits there was "nothingthat could have prepared him for this".

At press time we found Ian shirtless on his cement floor staring at his corrugated roof, a pool of sweat already forming.

This is the seventieth case in Burkina over the past few millennia. Local Peace Corps staff have expressed their concern and support for those experiencing hot season ennui by encouraging volunteers to be more integrated and involved in their community.

When asked about this both Ian and Keitha laughed replying in unison "oh Burkina" as their gazes shifted towards the blue horizon their eyes glazing over.

Paul Fowl, The Yngiam

Sunset at the soccer field. Temperature: still 95.

Intestinal Tract, BF — The United League of Flagellated Protozoan Parasites (ULFPP) has forcibly occupied the small intestine of local Peace Corps Volunteer Ryan Bearman. This controversial take over has been contended by several members of the White Blood Cell community, resulting in several millions being killed in what has been this seasons worst biological war yet.

The invasion began with a clever trojan horse maneuver with the parasites hiding in an innocuous piece of toh. When asked about their military success the ULFPP responded with a deafening cheer of vibrating flagellum. Gas production in the region has increased ten fold since the occupation of the Smaller Intestine and is being touted by ULFPP as a beneficial consequence of their take over.

When asked about the situation Ryan stated that he felt violated and unjustly persecuted. "Just because they have greater numbers doesn't mean they can just walk in and claim dominance over an essential part of my being... I mean why me? What did I do?". Biological war theorist Doctor Zack Ramba was "deeply concerned" about Ryan's well being. He further stated that "aside from fighting a formidable foe, Ryan's system was already taxed by last weeks invasion of the P. vivax coalition".

Other members of the Flagellated Protozoan Parasites community expressed that it was "solely Gardia that was responsible for the annexation" and that they should not be associated with the "likes of them".

At press time Ryans stomach could be heard thundering as the war waged on. Peace talks seem improbable, instead it is more likely that a foreign anti-biotic Private Medical Contractor (PMC) will be contracted to deal with the invasion. Our prayers and sympathies go out to Ryan Bearman and all those struggling to keep him healthy.

Neil Richards, The Yngniam.

View from my latrine.  A view I see frequently when have intestinal problems :/ I haven't had parasites yet though! 

Things have been slow at site since I got back from the  states.  I've talked to my friend/counterpart Ibrahim about implementing the Grassroots Soccer Malaria program at the primary schools in satellite villages (served by the health clinic in my village but  15 km into the bush).  Unfortunately, he's been going to Banfora, my regional capital almost every day, so hasn't had time to help me organize anything.

On a countrywide scale, I've been in contact with Grassroots soccer and have provided them with a list of Burkina volunteers that are interested in implementing GRS  programs. This list expands every week and a lot of volunteers are excited about the materials and support that GRS  offers.  I've also been invited to do a presentation on the GRS Malaria program at a meeting of Regional Malaria Coordinators (volunteers that facilitate the spread of malaria education materials in their regions).

I've been playing soccer every evening at site with the group of guys in the picture below.  I finally decided that my desire to play soccer outweighs any concerns of sustainability as far as providing soccer balls is concerned, so I bought  one before I left for the states.  Apparently it broke three days after I left. (however  it did last for a month).  I bought another ball recently, which broke after a whopping three evenings of soccer.  A neighboring volunteer was kind enough to loan me an extra American ball she had. The guys love it.

It was hard to deal with the fact that many of my friends went to the Coachella Music Festival this past weekend, especially with so many incredible bands and DJs playing.  This is the first year I've known even a third of  the musical artists at the festival, and I downloaded as much of the rest as I could.  I've never been so obsessed with music in my life; it keeps me sane here.  My friend Hallie and I have promised each other that we will be in attendance next year!

Much love from Africa :) 

The Obama Effect And Other Reasons Why People Want to Come to America

Let me begin with a disclaimer.  This post has absolutely nothing to do with US politics.  It does not debate healthcare reform, immigration policy, or the budget deficit.

But how can a phenomenon known as the Obama Effect have nothing to do with domestic US politics?  Come to Africa and see for yourself.  Electing Barack Obama as our president was arguably the best foreign policy move the US has made in Africa since PEPFAR.  Due to the simple fact that Barack Obama’s dad is Kenyan, people here identify him as “African.”  And hey, if a guy from Africa can become President of the United States, anything is possible.

It’s hard to describe how much people love Obama here.  They know nothing about him personally, nothing about his domestic political agenda, and nothing about his foreign policy initiatives.  Most Burkinabe cannot name a single other US president.  Yet images of Obama can be seen in every village and city of Burkina Faso. Kids and adults alike sport tank tops with his picture plastered on the front.  Images of Barack Obama appear on backpacks, flashlights, and lighters.  There are even toothbrushes that display his smiling face, as if to say “I’m Barack Obama and I approve this toothbrush.” 

While Burkinabe identify with Obama, they usually don’t pretend to know anything about him personally.  However, as Americans, they expect us to.  A common question in the Burkinabe greeting process is “How is your family?” which is occasionally followed by “And Obama?” as if we have any idea how the most powerful man in the world is doing.  I’m guessing  he’s probably pretty stressed out.

Burkinabe’s obsession with Obama illustrates a broader point.  Nearly everyone in Burkina Faso wants to come to America.  Our country is seen as “the promised land.” According to Burkinabe, everyone in America is rich , healthy, and happy.  If I told Burkinabe that the streets in America are paved with gold, they would believe it.  When I tell Burkinabe that there are homeless people in America, they don’t believe it.

Almost every day, I get asked to help someone get to America.  Most of the time, it’s phrased as a joke, but that’s like saying the marriage proposals that female volunteers get every day are “jokes.”  If you said yes, things would get serious real fast.  As the “take me to America” proposition is a daily occurrence in volunteer life, volunteers have developed different response mechanisms ranging from a repeated “no” to a more elaborate series of questions designed to ascertain how little the person in question has actually prepared to go America.

I usually begin by asking them if they speak English.  If they say no, I explain that no one in America speaks French or Jula or Toussian and ask them how they would communicate with people.  If they say yes, I ask them to speak to me in English.  Most Burkinabe who can “speak English” get as far as “Good morning. How are you?  I am very fine. Bye bye.”  More advanced speakers can add “Where are you going?” and “Give me money.”  Either way, I end up explaining to the person in question that they don’t know enough English and they should keep practicing.

Another entertaining line of questioning is to ask why the person in question wants to go to America.  This stumps most Burkinabe because they’ve never really thought about it critically.  For Burkinabe, the answer is so obvious that they…umm…..well…they don’t really know it.   In reality, a lot of Burkinabe would be terrified to be so far away from their family in a country that is a stark contrast linguistically and culturally to Burkina.

The “why” question seems ridiculous to Burkinabe due to the prevalence of “The Promised Land Assumption.”  This assumption is based on the fact that all of the Americans that they’ve seen on TV or heard about from their friend who has a friend who met one are rich and happy.  Therefore, it must be true that a person’s presence in America ensures immediate access to the riches of the Promised Land and guaranteed happiness.  For Burkinabe, the “American Dream” is simply gaining access to the country.  No thought is paid to the hard work and intelligence that it takes to be a successful immigrant in America.  “The Promised Land Assumption” provides the foundation for the classic Burkinabe “Take me to America even though I don’t speak English, have no family there, and no intention of working” argument.  Burkinabe think that just being American entitles you to certain things.

Are they right?  Well….in a sense…..yes.  As an American, you are entitled to a lot of rights and privileges that either don’t exist or aren’t enforced in Burkina.  But it’s ridiculous to assert that material wealth is so plentiful in the US that one is just entitled to it.  I mean that’s communism. And you know how us capitalist Americans feel about communists…

In short, Burkinabe have some serious misconceptions about America.  And I don’t blame them.  It’s a confusing place.  For example, the Burkinabe in charge of Safety and Security for Peace Corps Burkina Faso visited my site a couple weeks ago.  He saw the big California flag on my wall told me it was pretty.  Then he asked, “Why does it say California Republic?” He knew that the national government of US was a republic, but he didn’t know that each state has its own, separate representative government.  Clearly this man is well educated, has years of work experience with Americans, and has actually been to the US and other developed countries.  However, I could tell that my brief attempt to explain the concept of federalism didn’t make much sense to him.  To be honest, federalism in practice doesn’t make much sense to me sometimes either. 

Other aspects of America that Burkinabe find confusing (or just outright ignore):

-Size.  Burkinabe tend to conceptualize most countries of the world as similar in size to their own.  This includes the United States.  But the United States is a huge country.  Burkina Faso is only about the size of Colorado.  I like to tell Burkinabe you could fit 50 Burkinas inside the US. I’m aware that’s not very accurate, but it definitely helps them conceptualize the vastness of the US.

-Language.  The vast majority of Americans only speak English.  99.9% of Burkinabe do not speak English.  Yet they still think living in the states would be way easier than living in Burkina.  While many Burkinabe know 2, 3, or even 4 different languages, English is not usually one of them.  And if you can’t speak passable English, you’re going to have a rough time in America.

-Culture.  American culture is vastly different than Burkinabe culture in just about every way imaginable.  For example, “sexual harassment” is not a concept that exists in Burkina.  Women are called to, smooched at (a kissing noise directed towards a specific person) and hissed at (yes I’m serious).  To be fair, hissing is actually a common way of getting a waiter’s/waitress’ attention in Burkina, but it’s a horrifyingly demeaning practice from an American perspective. And that cultural understanding clearly doesn’t excuse the Burkinabe that direct it towards women in general.  In fact, the cultural understanding makes it even worse because hissing implies that the “hissee” (individual receiving hissing noise) is supposed to serve the hisser (individual making disgusting sound).   “Customer service” also doesn’t exist in Burkina.  Often times, the only way to get what you want in Africa is to be an asshole, a strategy that has been perfected by urban Burkinabe.   They’ve adopted an “ends justify the means” philosophy that includes an unwillingness to wait in lines. Instead Burkinabe will crowd the window/person that has what they need.  A typical Burkinabe male would get arrested within five minutes of stepping foot in an American restaurant.

-Climate.  It’s hot in Burkina Faso.  During the “winter” temperatures drop to the 60’s (in the middle of the night) and Burkinabe are freezing.  In fact, they don the heavy winter coats as soon as it hits 75.  It’s colder than 75 for most of the year in the states, even in desert.  In any city with a noticeable winter, Burkinabe would be miserably cold.

Due to all of the misconceptions above, it’s next to impossible to explain to Burkinabe how amazing my trip home was.  But my friends in village are satisfied to know that my parents and the rest of my family are doing well.  And that Obama is still president. In all seriousness, my trip back to the California was a whirlwind of awesomeness.  It seemed like I barely had enough time to see the people I wanted to see and do the things I wanted to do.  However, I managed to spend a significant amount of time with family, meet up with a ton of friends, and experience my favorite parts of home.  I won’t recap the whole trip, but some highlights included

-My nephew’s Bar Mitzvah.  It was amazing to be with my family as we came together to celebrate.  Congrats to my nephew!

-The beach and the ocean and surfing almost every morning.  Two of the best swells of the winter happened to hit the South Bay during the two weeks I was back.  I’ve touched on this subject in earlier posts (i.e. almost every blog post) but I LOVE THE OCEAN. Never again will I be away from it for so long.

-Las Vegas trip.  One of the dilemmas of my trip home was that I didn’t have enough time to visit my good friends in Norcal.  The solution?  Meet in Vegas.  We ended up with a random crew including my brother and his wife, good friends from high school, and good friends from UCLA.  It was hands down the best Vegas trip of my life.

-Food.  Amazing, glorious food.  I gained 15 pounds in two weeks.  I’ve since lost all 15.

-My bed.  It’s like a big comfy cloud.  I hadn’t been able to snuggle beneath a mountain of covers since my trip to Cape Town.  And it felt so good.

A lot of people asked if it was a “culture shock” to have spent so long in Burkina, a place that has so little, and then come to America.  There’s no doubt that I appreciated everything in a way that is difficult to describe (without sounding like a Peace Corps douche), but to say I was “shocked” would be an overstatement.  Everything was so easy back home.  I didn’t have any trouble adjusting and fell right back into things.   If anything, I was shocked to be so happy all of the time.  You don’t spend 22 years living one way and then completely forget how things were after 17 months in Africa.  In fact, you spend an unreasonable amount of time sweating in your hut and day dreaming about how awesome things were during those 22 years.

It’s safe to say that those two weeks I was home were the happiest weeks of the past 17 months of my life.  I was surrounded by the people I love most in the world.  I was constantly reminded how lucky I am to have people in my life who honestly care about me.  I know that’s a weird thing to say, but it’s easy to forget that feeling during Peace Corps service.  International texting and care packages are a poor substitute for actually smiles and hugs.  Much love to the friends and family who made my trip home awesome.  I’ll see all of you in 8 months!

Two of my favorite people in the world: my uncle and my grandma

Yeah..this is where I'm coming from

Mom, brother, and nephew...on a boat!

Ça Va Aller

I’m changing the name of my blog.  I decided on the name “American Burkinabe” when I created it the month before I left for Africa.  I have since realized that it is misleading for a number of reasons.

The name “American Burkinabe” grew out of my perception that I might become culturally integrated enough during my Peace Corps experience that I would consider part of my identity to be Burkinabe, even after spending the first 22 years of my life in America. I was at a point in my life where I was frustrated with many aspects of American society and I was looking for a different way of life.  Making the commitment to living and working in Burkina Faso for over two years was obviously an extreme way to deal with this frustration, but I decided it was the best option available to me despite the mountains of job and grad school offers I was forced to turn down (0 and 0 respectively).

But throughout my service, I’ve found that, contrary to my belief that my Peace Corps experience would lead me to abandon part of my American identity, the opposite is true.  It has made more American.  I’m not going to start a self-righteous rant of how good we have it in the states, but we do.  I have never been so thankful to be born in a progressive and free society. I have never been more appreciative to have grown up in a huge, beautiful country that is easily accessible by reliable* forms of transportation.  The healthcare system of the US (despite the political battle over healthcare reform) is extremely good.   A vast majority of the population of the US has access to electricity, running water, and basic sanitation.  The education and work opportunities in the United States far surpass those available in Burkina.  Not to mention access to those education and work opportunities is much more widespread (although not as widespread as they should be).  All of these achievements were accomplished in less than 300 years.

*The word “reliable” is used in a relative sense. After Peace Corps, I would consider the ever present possibility of a 5 hour delay in an air conditioned airport surrounded by food and water “reliable” transport.   I would not consider the ever present possibility of a 5 hour bush taxi breakdown in sweltering heat far from food and water “reliable” transport.

I acknowledge that there are strong counterarguments to all of the points that I just raised, but the bottom line is that life is pretty damn good in the US. That being said, I hope I don’t come across as condescending.  I fully acknowledge that you don’t need to spend 2 years in one of the poorest countries of Africa to appreciate being American.  However, an experience like mine does give one a unique perspective on why being American is great.  To illustrate this point, I want to share a list I kept during my first few months at site to mentally cope with being away from the US for so long.   The contents of that list are as follows:

Things I’ll Probably Miss Most About Burkina

-Importance of family

-Unconditionally respect for elders

-$1.20 22oz beers

-Sunny beach weather almost every day

-Volunteer friends

-The sun seems bigger here (great sunsets, sunrises)

-Being my own boss.  All of the time.

-No worries about being prosecuted for downloading music illegally

-Excessive leisure time (reading, napping, listening to music)

-Fighting “the good fight” (not working for “the man” or the 1%)

-Living in a community where everyone knows each other

-Not having to be on time to anything or follow through on commitments

Things I Probably Won’t Miss About Burkina

-THE HEAT (THE SUN SEEMS BIGGER AND MORE POWERFUL HERE)

-Living in a community where everyone knows each other

-Lack of electricity

-Lack of running water

-Lack of basic sanitation

-Lack of fast internet / inability to download / inability to watch Youtube videos or stream anything online

-People not being on time to anything or following through on commitments

- NO OCEAN / BEACH / LARGE BODIES OF WATER

-Unmotivated coworkers and community members

-Lack of bacon

-Being stared at and called names every day

-Terrible Burkina pop music (Ivoire Mix DJ needs to be stopped)

-People trying to get stuff from me (money, US visa, etc.)

- Difficulty of travel

-Lack of ingredients to cook with / Lack of good restaurants

-Being out of touch with American culture / movies / TV shows / music / sports

-People always saying what they think I want them to say instead of the truth

-Sweating all of the time

-Being away from friends and family

You can probably see why I stopped making this list after a week or so.  As far as coping mechanisms go, it wasn’t the most effective.  Don’t get me wrong, I definitely appreciate certain aspects of Burkinabe culture, but to claim that I’ve adopted these cultural norms would be lying.  I understand them and I’ve learned how to deal with them on a daily basis.  Which I consider to be a pretty huge accomplishment considering American and Burkinabe culture almost always fall on opposite sides of the “culture spectrum.”

I would never frame my experience in Burkina Faso as negative.  It has not been a 3 month party filled study abroad trip to Barcelona, but it has been an extremely formative experience in my life.  I’ve never had so much time to figure out exactly what I enjoy and prefer.  I’ve never had so much time to dedicate to reading, listening to music, and watching movies.  I’ve become moderately fluent in French and developed excellent non-verbal communication skills.  I’ve learned more about sustainable development than any grad school program could ever teach me (although I’m still probably going to grad school).  I’ve made lifelong friends and strengthened my ties with friends and family back home (seriously I love you guys).

Which brings me to the new name of my blog, “Ça Va Aller.”  It literally means, “It’s going to go,” but also, “Life goes on,” when used in a philosophical sense and “You only live once” when used before making a particularly sketchy decision from which there is no alternative.  It’s a lingual manifestation of the fatalistic attitude that is prevalent in Burkina culture.  Which makes sense because it would be impossible to live here if you didn’t adopt this mentality at least 50% of the time you spend here, although I recommend 90% of the time for emotional sanity. 

In America, if something is goes wrong or something breaks, society’s response is, “Fix it,” or “Figure it out.”  In Burkina, society’s response is “ça va aller.”  From a work perspective, that attitude makes it extremely difficult to accomplish anything sustainable here, especially if there are unforeseen obstacles.  However, that attitude also makes it possible stay sane in a country where, more often than not, things don’t go as planned.

That attitude has allowed me to rework my definition of “success” and realize that just living in Burkina for 27 months is a huge accomplishment.  Getting a new debit card after getting my wallet stolen in July (a five month process) is a huge accomplishment. Being able to buy things at the local market in local language (however bad) is a huge accomplishment.  Completing a project (however small) with a Burkinabe counterpart is a huge accomplishment. Surviving in a culture where almost no one speaks passable English and even fewer people have ever been to the United States is a huge accomplishment.  

Do I still get frustrated here on a daily basis? Yes.  Do I feel like I’ve accomplished a lot here from a work perspective? No.  But do I regret coming to Burkina Faso to serve in the Peace Corps? Would I rather have spent that time in the states? Not for a second.  I am proud of my small successes here.  And the rest, well, ça va aller.