Was It Ever a Problem in the US?

Malaria.  You’ve no doubt heard of the disease, and you’re probably aware that you have zero chance of contracting it in the US.  It seems like it’s been that way forever.  But scientists didn’t even discover that mosquitos transmitted the disease until 1897. The disease wasn’t eliminated in the US until 1951.  Not to mention the strategy used to eliminate malaria in the US during the 1940’s almost killed off the mascot of America, endangered human life, and gave birth to the modern environmentalist movement.  DDT, bald eagles, Silent Spring, or Rachel Carson ring a bell?

While the disease is nonexistent in the developed world, malaria remains a major health concern for countries of the developing world.  The World Health Organization (WHO) estimated that in 2010, there were about 219 million malaria cases and 660,000 malaria deaths.  WHO estimates that 90% of all malaria deaths occurred in the Sub-Saharan Africa, mostly among children under five years of age.  Obviously the mass utilization of dangerous pesticides to neutralize mosquito populations was ruled out after the discovery that chemicals like DDT are incredibly harmful to humans, bald eagles, and the world in general.

So how can residents of the developing world avoid contracting malaria? The simplest and most effective method is to sleep under an impregnable mosquito net.  For a variety of reasons, however, it is extremely difficult to convince people in the developing world to sleep under mosquito nets.  Last month, I conducted a door to door survey in my village and saw /heard the most common reasons: 

·         People don’t know that mosquitoes spread malaria

While the source of malaria is taught in primary schools of Burkina Faso, there are still children and adults in my community who don’t know that mosquitoes spread malaria.  While these individuals were a minority, it was still worrisome to realize that a father of four children in my village did not attribute malaria to mosquitoes.

·         People don’t believe that malaria is a serious illness

It is seen as a common disease that people rarely die from.  People believe that traditional medicine can cure the illness.  Other people buy easily available “street drugs” that vendors claim can cure the disease.  Others know that the community health clinic has drugs that cure malaria, therefore see little reason to protect themselves.

·         People don’t own mosquito nets

Mosquito nets cost money (usually around $5-$7 per net).  While that may seem like a steal, most families in village survive on less than $2 per day. Families tend to have 6-10 members.  WHO recommends at least one mosquito net for every two family members.

·         People own mosquito nets, but they are poorly maintained or not used properly

Mosquito nets are difficult and annoying to set up in the proper manner. During hot season most villagers (including myself) sleep outside because the inside of their houses remain too hot.  Setting up a mosquito net outside requires some sort of frame, such as four sticks or two chairs, which many villagers won’t go through the trouble of setting up.  Some people own mosquito nets, but there are tears or holes through which mosquitos can enter, making the nets almost useless.

·         People rely on the government or outside organizations to give them mosquito nets instead of buying nets themselves

About every two years, the Burkina Faso government, partnered with various organizations such as USAID, organizes a mass mosquito net distribution.  Families (are supposed to) receive one mosquito net for every two family members.  However, this solution has its own problems.  Mosquito net distributions are useless if people don’t know how to use the nets or are unwilling to.  The net distributions also foster and expectation that mosquito nets should be free instead of purchased.

 

For example, we were told in person by Dr. Patrice Combary, the National Coordinator of the Fight Against Malaria, that the next mosquito net distribution was to take place in June 2013. As of now, not a single volunteer has any idea when or how the distribution is going to take place.  However, the staff at the community health clinics in my village have been telling patients who ask that there is a national mosquito net distribution in June.  It seems unlikely that a villager is going to purchase a mosquito net if they think they can get one for free in the near future. Clearly this makes any malaria education work that I do difficult and frustrating.

I like to imagine that convincing Burkinabe wear helmets while riding motos involves many of the same challenges as convincing Burkinabe to sleep under mosquito nets.  From an American perspective, it makes complete sense to sleep under a net and avoid a dangerous illness such as malaria, just as it makes complete sense to wear a helmet while riding a dangerous vehicle such as a motorcycle.  However, most Burkinabe don’t wear helmets while riding motos.  Most have friends or family that have gotten in accidents, some of them more serious than others, but it seems rare that people die in these accidents.  Helmets cost a considerable amount of money.  Wearing a helmet is uncomfortable.  A vast majority of Burkinabe understand the basic science behind why a helmet protects your health/life.  But even if an outside organization bought helmets for everyone in village who owned a moto, they still wouldn’t wear them.

My job is to attempt to convince people in village to acquire/use “helmets” to protect themselves, as well as their children (yes, helmetless children as young as five are frequent passengers on motos in Burkina, as well as babies tied to their moto driving mothers’ backs).  Luckily it’s not my job to convince Burkinabe to wear motorcycle helmets, as it is widely considered impossible.  So I guess relatively speaking, the task of convincing people to sleep under mosquito nets is easy.

But how to go about said convincement? One method is a door to door survey/campaign.  I conducted one in my village at the beginning of May to get an idea of how many families actually had enough bed nets for the members of their family and what condition they were in.  The results were pretty alarming.  My village lies in a region that is permanently at high risk for malaria, with cases numbering over 200 per month during the rainy season.   Yet less than 50% of the villagers slept under impregnable mosquito nets.  Most families had a few mosquito nets, but many were in various states of disrepair (not exactly “impregnable”).  The survey was pretty disheartening as it revealed the sheer scope of the problem in my village.  And I haven’t even done surveys in the villages that are farther in the bush, where results are likely to be even more alarming.   However, the survey did allow me to meet a lot of new people and it was one of the first things I did that felt like actual “health work.”

I also recently set up a discussion/debate with students of the primary school regarding malaria with the help of my village counterpart Ibrahim.  We asked a group of about 100 kids questions about how malaria is transmitted, how they can avoid getting it, what the symptoms of malaria are, and what they should do if they think they have it.  A soccer ball served as the “right to speak,” which encouraged kids to participate and helped maintain law and order amidst the anarchy of 100 primary school kids.  The head nurse and assistant nurse of my health clinic participated, as did the director of the school.  Of course it was all in local language so I didn’t understand a majority of what was taking place, but most primary school kids cannot express themselves in French and the goal was for the kids to understand and participate.

Anyhow, it felt good to finally start working on some projects.  Hopefully I can make an impact, however small, before I’m done here.  I’m still trying to figure out whether to lie or tell the truth when Burkinabe ask me if malaria was ever a problem in the US.

The Birth of Didier and Other Parables

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).

Baobabs and Bros

After spending three weeks away from site, I was extremely nervous to return to my home away from home, Takaledougou.  I had legitimate reasons to be away for so long, but I still had this feeling of guilt that is difficult to explain.  It felt like I had spent 3 weeks away from college and while somehow managing to avoid missing any assignments or tests, I had still fallen behind in all of my classes.  But everyone at this hypothetical college wouldn’t have experienced the luxuries of my vacation: good food, electricity, pools, etc.  And everyone at this hypothetical college wouldn’t speak the same language as me, making it almost impossible to explain what I had done during said vacation.  And this college wouldn’t really have “classes” or “assignments” or “tests,” the professors would just let students do whatever they chose to do to improve themselves and the community.  Alright this is a pretty bad metaphor   

My official story is that those three weeks were spent at a “formation,” French/Burkina slang for training.  But to be honest, that isn’t the whole story.

The first two weeks were my stage’s “In-Service Training” (IST).  During the first three months at site, our focus was integration, identifying the needs of our communities, getting to know people, and settling into some sort of routine.  We were also supposed to be drafting an extensive report on our community, referred to as the “Etude de Milieu.”  My friend Hallie describes the (extremely informal) process here:

http://hallieburkinafaso.wordpress.com/2013/03/27/unintentional-confirmation-of-principle-of-development/

The goal of IST is to provide you with the technical skills necessary to begin working on projects in your community during the next 21 months of your service.  In reality, IST was a lot of Peace Corps bureaucratic mumbo jumbo. We spent a lot time talking about what was hard about living in a village and how to fill out the complicated paperwork to apply for funding and report our projects to the PC office.  Don’t get me wrong, there were some surprisingly useful sessions, but most importantly, we were given a few ideas that will help us answer the ominous question, “What the @#$* am I going to do here for the next two years?”

It was the first time our stage (training group) had been together since December, when we were sworn in as PCVs and sent away to our respective sites.  Needless to say, there were some long days of training and some long, fun nights.  I only got lost once after midnight, engaged in only one water balloon fight, only got scolded by five nuns, ate less than three quiches, gained less than15 pounds, spent less than a month’s salary. and never consumed five liters of beer at any single bar….in one night.  Overall, IST was a resounding success.

Hallie recounts our amazing St. Patrick’s Day on her blog.  Warning: graphic pool scenes and wolf packs…..

http://hallieburkinafaso.wordpress.com/2013/03/28/the-wolves-of-koudougou-parts-i-ii/

As IST came to a close, I decided to visit the sites of a couple friends rather than return back to Takaledougou.  I was expected to be in the capital for a committee meeting in six days and it takes me at least a full day of travel to get from my site to Ouaga.  The last week of IST had taken place in Koudougou, so it made sense to visit the sites of two friends who live closest to the city, David and Kelly.

David’s site, Bouldie, is 45 km north of Koudougou along the road to Toma.  USAID is currently funding a project to pave this road, but for now it is a dusty, bumpy trip.  The project is supposed to be completed in 6 months, but this is Africa, so we can assume that it will take at least three times as long.  On these types of roads, it’s almost preferable that the driver speeds, just so the ride is over sooner.  Not our bush taxi driver.  It took us two hours to go 45 km, which is ridiculous considering one can bike the same distance in 2-3 hours.  It also ranks as one of the dustiest two hours of my life.  I got off the bush taxi covered in a thick layer of brown red dirt and feeling like I had smoked two packs of cigarettes. For me, this was a foreign feeling, as my site lies on a paved highway.

David’s village has a total population of around 600 and is spread out, with courtyards often hundreds of meters apart.  The climate is HOT, dusty, and windy.  The vegetation is sparse and there are not many trees, but I was visiting during the peak of the hot/dry season. With the onset of the rainy season his site will look completely different, as the dried up riverbeds fill with water and large expanses of dried, yellow grass turn green.

Bouldie is a difficult site, even by Peace Corps Burkina standards.  Less than 5 people in the village speak French, making it extremely difficult to David to communicate with anyone.  The local language, Guaransi, is one of the more complicated languages in Burkina.  The same word spoken at three different pitches has three different meanings.  David’s counterpart, a representative of a very recently created groupement (collective business organization), is extremely overbearing, often attempting to follow him around for the entire day.  The situation is exacerbated by the fact that his counterpart’s house is less than 10 feet from his.

David is also the first PCV at his site, which presents a different set of challenges than second or third PCVs face, especially as a Community Enterprise Development (CED) volunteer.  Often the first volunteer has only enough time to accomplish small things that build a foundation for the work that future volunteers will complete.  This is partly due to the fact that the Peace Corps development approach is difficult to explain to Burkinabe in French, much less local language.  This is especially true when people identify you as a “business” volunteer.  Most Burkinabe expect Americans to have money and therefore build them things, invest in things, or give them things.

On the bright side, David lives about 3km from a much larger village, Didyr, that has a marché and kiosks selling most of what he needs.  Unfortunately, Didyr does not have electricity, which is odd considering the fact that it has telephone lines.  Electricity will eventually come after the paved highway, but that’s far from a guarantee.  My village is directly on the highway and the power lines skip it over, instead providing electricity to an adjacent village with a large sugar cane factory.  As a general rule, infrastructure in developing countries provides for and connects places with money.

David’s village also has a strong connection with the country to the south of Burkina, Cote d’Ivoire.  Many of the men in his village spend months at a time working on plantations there, especially during the dry season.  Even in the four days I spent there we met one person returning from Cote d’Ivoire and two people leaving to work there.  The climate in Cote d’Ivoire is much more conducive to growing cash crops, creating a relatively constant labor demand.

We had some good times at David’s site, including having Super Bowl Sunday a couple of months late.  His mom sent him a DVD recording of the game in a care package, so we made mac n cheese, drank some whiskey, and watched the game.  The 49ers really blew it and Beyonce kind of sucked.  We also visited a baobab grove near his house.  Baobab trees are the largest trees in Burkina and are survive for thousands of years, although an irregular ring pattern makes it impossible to date them. The fruit of the baobab tree is highly nutritious and the leaves of the tree can be ground up into a powder that is also incredibly nutritious.  Although they are fairly common in Burkina, they tend to be spaced relatively far apart.  Near David’s site, however, there is a square kilometer with about 30 baobab trees.  No one in his village knows why there are so many clustered there.  The only logical explanations is that the same aliens that communicated with Egyptians and told them to build the pyramids communicated with Burkinabe and told them to plant Baobabs in this particular area.

After a few days at David’s site, we traveled to Kelly’s site, which involves backtracking towards Koudougou 30 km.  Kelly is also a CED volunteer, but her site, Reo, is the polar opposite of David’s.  Reo is a larger town with electricity, restaurants, a few cars, and a population of at least 5,000.  The climate is similar to David’s site, but the elements can be somewhat subdued with electricity.  Unfortunately, Kelly’s house itself doesn’t have electricity.  She’d be mad if I didn’t point that out.  Although Reo is in Guaransi country, most people speak French.

The organization that Kelly works with is also the polar opposite of David’s groupements.  She works in an office (by Burkina standards) at an incredible women’s organization that produces 35 tons of shea butter every year for export to cosmetics companies.  Her office has (slow) Wifi!  The organization also provides microfinance loans for women who own small businesses.  With Kelly’s work experience in finance, it seems like the perfect fit and a dream assignment.

But she faces a whole different set of frustrating problems.   It’s difficult to know how to help an organization that already produces a significant amount of income and provides microfinance loans to female entrepreneurs.  All of the Peace Corps CED training is geared towards creating Income Generating Activities (IGAs) for smaller groupements, such as gardening, soap making, and soy transformation.  Kelly’s organization has asked her to help them find additional international buyers for the shea butter that they produce.   Obviously there’s a huge discrepancy there.  The general feeling of uselessness is common for first year PCVs, but it’s magnified when you are honestly impressed with what your organization/community has already done and are unsure how to improve upon it.

David, Kelly, and I managed to have some good times in Reo.  I’d heard legends of a bar in town that sells cold 22oz Heinekens.  It’s literally the only bar we know of in Burkina Faso that has them (cold), and it’s not even located in a regional capital.  Needless to say, we drank all of the Heinekens that they had in their fridge. We also collectively consumed 60 brochettes.  There may have been a beer pound off.  Then we patted each other on the back and said “nice job bro.”

In a classic example of Burkina transport, the bus from Reo to Koudougou the  next morning was two hours late.  We found out that a guy who claimed to be in charge of the bus stop was actually trying to scam us, demanding payment even after the driver had already told us it was free.  The bus broke down in Koudougou about 1km from the station.  Rather than wait an unknown amount of time for it to be fixed, we decided to bike with all of our stuff in 95 degree weather.  Once we were on the 1200 air conditioned bus to Ouaga, though, all was well.

After the committee meetings, it was time to return to site.  I was pleasantly surprised to find that a lot of people remembered me and asked me where I’d been.  Siaka, a man who asked me to help him raise $1,000 for his second microfinance loan to purchased moto taxi (basically a 3-wheeled moto pickup truck), had purchased one.  I guess he found the money on his own.  Ibrahim, my friend and counterpart in village, had finished the outside construction of his new house, which I was helping him build before leaving for IST.  And it was almost mango season.  Things weren’t so bad in Takaledougou.

My Big Fat Burkinabe Funeral

Thankfully, I have not personally experienced a large number of funerals in my lifetime.   However, I will probably never experience a funeral that’s even remotely similar to the one that occurred in my village a couple weeks ago.  I was completely unprepared for the event, which was some combination of a family reunion, a feast, a concert, a holiday, and a college frat party.  Almost forgot, it was also a cultural celebration of sorts.  It lasted over 48 hours. And my humble abode was smack in the middle of all of the festivities.

My house is conveniently located in the middle of a group of family compounds that house the chief/councilor of Takaledougou and his numerous family members.  I use the word “convenient” because it has been relatively easy to establish a personal relationship with the chief and other important individuals in the village who meet with the chief on a regular basis.

Since moving to the village, I became aware that an older woman in the chief’s family was gravely ill.  It’s hard to determine the exact relationship of the chief to the old woman, who he referred to as his mother.  However, she is the only surviving wife of the four wives of the former chief, which complicates the term “mother.”  The family tree is probably more of a family bush.  Lots of girth.

A quick tangent: Imagine having four wives! Sounds awesome, right?  Christian Burkinabe are technically not allowed to have more than one wife, but polygamy is relatively common among the Muslim population.  Polygamy is generally a village phenomenon, but there are a select few husbands who “cheat” the system by living and working in one of the bigger cities of Burkina while maintaining wives and children in the village.   After pondering the subject for some time, I grew increasingly frightened at the prospect.  Some families with multiple mothers seem to function well, especially if the husband is respected and well off financially (i.e. chief of the village).  On the other hand, wives often develop rivalries for the affection (or money) of their husband, with the well-being of their children as a paramount concern.  The kids can also develop rivalries if their moms don’t get along.  All in all, it sounds like the makings of a horrific soap opera which I have no intention of ever taking part in.  Unless I meet the right women.

Anyhow, one fine evening I was relaxing in my house reading the B volume of Encyclopedia Britannica when suddenly I heard a group of women wailing and running around outside.  I put down the heavy, leather-bound academic reference tool and peeked out my windows. I witnessed the chief with a group of eight men talking in hushed voices and a group of women wailing incoherently at the top of their lungs.  They were clearly very upset about something, as I had never seen women in my village express that much emotion.  I began to suspect that the older woman in the chief’s family had died.

My suspicions were confirmed when I saw a body shaped object being wrapped in a white sheet, rolled up tightly in a bamboo mat, and placed on the tomb of the former chief, conveniently located in the middle of the family courtyard.  The group of women who had been wailing began dancing in a circle around the tomb and chanting in local language.  Within the hour, a traditional Burkinabe music group had materialized and began banging away on drums and bylaphone (a marimba made from gourds, bamboo, and wood).  Little did I know, I was not going to get much sleep that night. 

As it seemed like just the family was involved in the night’s activities, I decided to sit out.  I called my friend in village, Ibrahim, and he explained that it was indeed the beginning of a funeral, but that the official events would take place the next afternoon and night.  He also explained that the music and dancing was meant to drive bad spirits away from the body during the night.

They were serious about keeping the bad spirits away, as the music and chanting continued all night: 6pm to 6am the next morning.  I got a couple hours of sleep and then gave up.  The next day, the attendees of the funeral began arriving in a variety of vehicles ranging from Yamaha motorcycles to Mercedes Benz sedans.  As I walked to the health clinic, I witnessed a group of ten men with shovels digging a large hole in the field next to the chief’s compound.  I probably should have guessed that they don’t have graveyards in Burkinabe villages, but it was still pretty shocking when I realized what the hole was for.  By the time the afternoon rolled around, there were over 200 people gathered in and around the chief’s courtyard.

At around 4pm, the official ceremony started. Before the chief’s wife was buried, she was given a special send off into the afterlife.  Two older women in the village who had personally known the woman lifted her body, still wrapped in the bamboo mat, onto their heads and started parading around the crowd.  A group of ten women followed the body, dancing and singing and chanting.  The traditional Burkinabe music group was backing them up with a combination of upbeat melodies.  The chief and other respected family members took turns leading the body through the crowd, which immediately parted to make way for the deceased.

Throughout the entire spectacle, people were dancing, singing, cheering, and recording the festivities on their camera phones. At one point, the women carrying the deceased began a playful game that I call  “body tag.”  They would run the deceased through the crowd, attempting to get others to come into contact with the body.  This was apparently a faux pas, because anyone who touched the body was hit repeatedly by the women following the body.  Cries of laughter rang out from the crowd every time someone was tagged.

After about an hour, the time came to bury the body.  The immediate family of the deceased carried her to the grave and lowered her down.  The mood immediately became somber as the family said their last farewells.  Men who were already dirty from digging began filling the hole.  A palm branch was laid over the grave and the chief gave two older men a rooster from his flock.  Although I had gotten to know many of the chief’s animals, I didn’t know this rooster personally, which in retrospect was for the best.  One of the older men unsheathed a ceremonial dagger and slit the rooster’s throat, spraying the blood over the grave.  As most of the men had their heads bowed in silence, I felt it was an inopportune time to ask why the animal had been sacrificed.

With the official ceremonies over, there was a pause in the festivities as women began preparing a massive feast and proper amounts of dolo (millet beer), banji (palm wine), hard alcohol, soda, and other beverages were acquired.  I returned to my home, unsure of what was in store for the night.  With hundreds of people partying around my house, I decided to enjoy the sights of the funeral from my windows for a couple hours.  After night fell, I ventured out to find Ibrahim drinking with the chief and some of the wealthier village men. I was offered a drink consisting of ginger mix and Pastis, a 90 proof French hard liquor.  It’s the Sailor Jerry’s of Burkinabe hard alcohol.  Needless to say, I got drunk pretty fast.

With the traditional Burkinabe music group still going at it, many people had begun to dance.  After countless women begged me to dance (two…and they were told to by the men I was with), I decided to join in the festivities.  I danced, trying to copy the moves of other Burkinabe, which was pretty easy until someone decides to show off.  On account of getting little to no sleep the night  before, I grew tired  around midnight and decided to take a little nap, telling my friends I’d be back.  As anyone who’s tried to “just take a nap” after drinking heavily can tell you, you aren’t coming back to the party.  I woke up around 3am to people still partying and dancing and singing. The party continued until sunrise.

The funeral was an eye opening experience. It was entirely possible that I was exposed to more traditional Burkinabe culture in those 48 hours than in the previous four months.  It would be easy to conclude that the villagers who were taking part in these unique cultural practices are simple minded animists who believe that these rituals are necessary to ensure a smooth passage into the afterlife.  However, I found myself pondering the validity of such a conclusion.  Many of the chief’s relatives are highly educated, wealthy men and women.   They don’t exactly fit the stereotype of the “simple minded villager,” especially when they show up in Mercedes Benz’z (plural…?)  and use their smart phones to take videos of the celebration.

While funerals in America are often somber, religious events, funerals serve an entirely different purpose in Burkina society.  Grief was expressed by immediate family members, but the funeral was a celebration of the life of the deceased.  It was a rare chance for the entire family of the chief to gather together, catch up, and reacquaint themselves with the village they came from.  The rituals performed at the funeral have no doubt been practiced for hundreds of years, but it was clear that the meaning of the rituals had fundamentally changed.  While the rituals still hold religious importance for many in the village, most of the chief’s family considered the rituals a celebration of Toussian culture and ethnicity. 

Imagine a Burkinabe attending a large American funeral.  It’s likely that a number of customs and rituals of the funeral would seem very strange.  For example, most people wear black to American funerals as a symbol of mourning, in contrast to the purposeful display of bright colors in the dress of Burkinabe at funerals.  Eulogies would also seem strange to Burkinabe, who would question the necessity of talking about a person who everyone attending the funeral knew.  The sheer amount of grief expressed at an American funeral would also be alarming to Burkinabe, who tend to view life as a struggle that one is lucky to survive to a ripe old age.

Clearly, one set of cultural practices is not “right” or “better” than the other.  Both sets of traditions are important because they represent different approaches to the question of death in human society.  Just as the rituals of a Burkinabe funeral hold different meanings for different people, the rituals of an American funeral do not mean the same to everyone.

As I sit in here drafting my last will and testament, I am moved to request that a majority of the aspects of the funeral I had experienced in Takaledougou be included in my own.  I can picture it quite clearly:  the chorus of voices singing “Sweet Home Alabama” as they celebrate my journey into the afterlife, the laughs and shouts of onlookers as respected women in my life chase people around with my body and strike them if they accidentally to touch me, and of course, the all-night party that will commemorate a life lived to the fullest.

Gotta start saving up for that open bar…..

Disclaimer: Not all Burkinabe funerals are like the one described above.  When young men or women die before living a full life, funerals are a much more somber occasion.  Funerals are also considerably smaller when the person in question is not a member of the chief’s family.  As with most cultural aspects of Burkina Faso, the type of funeral I experienced is specific to the region in which I reside. 

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

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

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

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

Rawr.

The Burkina Bro Code

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

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

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

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

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

Burkina Bro Code

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

African Santa on a Coke bottle

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Credit: Natalie Moore

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

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

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

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

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

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

White Bro, David, properly rocking the comple 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Burkina Chick Code

Photo Credit: Natalie Moore

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

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

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

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

Photo Credit: Natalie Moore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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