Journal: Number 2

April 16th.

My 2 year stint has gained a higher degree of permanence. After a month of continuous classes and cultural exchange, meant to separate the men from the boys (we are in fact down one trainee), the peace corps staff has revealed to us our posts. The process was relatively ceremonial, and rightfully so as I feel I have accomplished something by getting to this point. After unfolding a wall sized, hand drawn map of Burkina Faso, we pinned our pictures, one by one, to the dots on the map. The anxiety that some had built up over this occasion subsided into satisfaction, or for the more remote sites, more anxiety. I didn’t get to worked up over it, because in my opinion, the people make or break your experience here, but I was happy to be posted close to other volunteers. Its nice to see another friendly white face once in a while, and I have some addiction to English that I would need to address from time to time. I have been chosen to teach in a village named Bani. Famous for its many mosques, built in a manner to resemble a praying man. I’ve been told it has the nickname “Oasis of the Sahel,” sounds ok to me. I will be the 2nd volunteer at this site, and after this counterpart workshop in Ouaga, I’m off for a weeklong visit. My return to the big city has a much different sensation that my arrival in country. Wonder and Anxiety is not Gratitude, intense gratitude. I would certainly not label myself as an emotional person, but when I think about the brick oven Hawaiian pizza, the cold draft beer, and the banana split, which I ate last night with unprecedented satisfaction, I can feel a tear well up in my eye.

April 18th.

Bani is 5 hours from the capital by bus. Believe me, it is a long 5 hours. I entered the packed bus in Ouaga and managed to find the only remaining empty seat. At this point I decided that the ride may not be comfortable, but I certainly manage it. But, I didn’t really anticipate that there would be about 10 more stops where people were waiting impatiently to cram into every conceivable available space, until I had fully grown men practically sitting in my lap. All such experiences are made more memorable by the intense African sun. Nevertheless, I arrived in Bani without incident, and I descended the bus directly in front of y new house. As I was being accompanied by a professor at the school, he gave me the good advice to greet the chef of the house: El Hajji Larabu Lameogo. Apparently he’s been to Mecca, so he’s the shit. But he’s certainly rich by Burkina Standards. My future home is inside, but separate from his courtyard.
At first sight, I was immediately grateful that I am replacing another volunteer. The place is already arranged to my taste: there is a basic two room cement structure which houses a kitchen/salon, and bedroom. This building is augmented by a rather large hangar which is half metal and half straw/wood in traditional style. The most convenient aspect is that the place is completely furnished with comfortable furniture, and comes to 2 friendly rabbits fit for breeding, who enjoy hanging out next to the cannery ( a fridge/sweating pot). Apart from that the latrines are pretty new and clean, and from them you have a rather special view of a beautiful mosque situated on the larges hill. The mosques of Bani are relatively famous, and in my opinion worth a close look. There are 7, including the grand mosque which I visited today. Richard (the PCV) told me that some guy from the town is a self proclaimed Prophet of Islam, and managed to convince enough people in this village of it. So now there is a rather impressive tribute to his charisma and vision, which unfortunately is constantly falling apart. But this prophet guy is still alive, and the richest fella in town. I get the feeling that these buildings remain empty except for the occasional tourist. But Richard told me that this mullah has decided that the school that I work for conflicts with the teachings of Islam, and he has proclaimed that no good Muslim would send their child there. This explains the uncharacteristically low enrollment at the school: about 100 students. In theory, I’m supposed to do something about this problem, but really the low numbers are a relief for me because I am one of only 3 professors, and the only math science teacher. I always preferred quality over quantity.
But my first impressions of Bani are very positive. Richard clams to have passed 2 happy years here, and seems sincere about it. Its certainly didn’t drive him to insanity. The people of the town are very friendly and I believe I will find this work rewarding, but it is certainly the Peace Corps Experience.

April 24th.

Time to get tough. So I’ve been fighting my first real battle with some malignant bacteria and/or parasite. It was foolish to become more courageous in my lifestyle in the face of my good health. Reflecting on my site visit, there are a number of risky activities that I did without hesitation that could have lead to my decline. I drank mild of unknown origin, as well as ate fruit that I did not properly prepare. Ok, c’est la vie in Africa, and lesson learned. At any rate, I have confidence I can beat the bug.
I’ve spent the last few nights at the volunteer hostel in the capital, and I can tell how low my standards of comfort have plummeted after only 6 weeks in country. The hostel is a 3 floor building including the roof (on which everyone sleeps on account of the oppressive heat everywhere else). There are about 25 bunk beds and 3 baths, it is the essence of luxury: running water and electricity (who needs Air conditioning anyways) But I’ve met a few more of the 100 or so PCV’s, and for the most party they are very agreeable. I haven’t run into any hippies yet, and I’m beginning to think that this counterculture has finally been laid to rest. West Africa is no place for that kind of idealism. The realities here, concerning the overwhelming amount of work that is to be done, as well as the innumerable hurdles that one would have to overcome to produce sustainable progress, these realities wear me down. And I was never an idealist. Well, its up’s and down’s here in Burkina, and I have yet to come to a significant understanding of the scope of the problems facing the people of this country. I remain only an observer, a bystander watching the action.

April 26th.

Africa is really kicking my ass this week. After taking my own stool sample, which is a pleasure that I had yet to experience, I found out that I have some type of invasive bacteria incubating in my insides. The upside of all this is a free night in the Admin infirmary, arguable the most comfortable apartment in all of Burkina Faso. But the end result is that I’m down a belt size, but I’m still looking pretty healthy. It feels good to be in recovery, to have an appetite again.
What doesn’t feel good is to be sitting at breakfast wearing soaking wet slacks. Why am I wearing soaking wet slacks? It’s simple: On my bus ride back to Gourcy (time for more painful classes), I got down off the bus and had the crew open every baggage compartment below. Well after throwing out curse words for 5 minutes straight (it’s a good thing that the crew knew no English or they would have known I was picking a fight) I decided it was in my best interests, as well as the interests of the now late and irate 100 or so passengers remaining on the bus, to continue to the regional capital and meticulously watch them unload the ridiculous amount of cargo that was stuffed into places that places that could not have been meant for baggage. These Africans show amazing efficiency when it comes to wasted space, but time is never of the essence. As if my mood at this point wasn’t bad enough, I had to suffer the ride to Ouyguiya sitting next the these 3 jackasses who had a hearty laugh at the expense of my frustrations, and then proceeded to describe how funny it was that I couldn’t understand that they were laughing at me. Well assholes, I got the gist. Anyways to make a long story shorter, the bag wasn’t on the bus. The lesson here is to know where your shit is at all times. But there is a glimmer of hope: the logistics director claims that he has located my luggage at the capital. So if it really is being sent here today, as I am told, I won’t have to wash the clothes on my back every morning and eat in damp misery.


April 27th.
Ok, don’t fear. Miraculously, my bag showed up at the training site today. My health has improved, and I feel like a million bucks. Time to head back to Yako for some practice school, which I’m dreading because I don’t speak French. No one said this would be easy.