Journal 6

July 12th

Despite the grueling and truck ride up to Gorum, Independence Day went off without a hitch. The BBQ chicken was better than anyone expected, and we all enjoyed too much of Andy and Laura’s (PCV’s Gorum) hospitality. Hell we even rode them camels you see everywhere.
Back here in Bani, things are starting to become routine, so much so it’s a little difficult to find things to write about. I wish I could see everything again with fresh eyes so I can pick up on some of the things I no longer notice. I have begun to understand the extent of the poverty that exists here. This is the season where the food supplies become exhausted, and the villagers start eating the grains placed aside for this years crops. If they can’t get a hold of these seeds, I’ve seen children resort to boiling and eating foraged leaves, like cattle. I am surrounded by real hunger, and there is nothing I can really do about it. All anyone can do is hope that the rains continue to fall and that the locusts remain at bay. I myself an not big on animal sacrifice but I’m sure these people think its working, because so far the rains have been sufficient. It also must be said that like the good old USA, there exist the “haves” as well as the “have nots”. It isn’t as pronounced, but El Hajji isn’t eating leaves, in fact he borders on obesity. I can’t imagine anyone would be allowed to die of starvation, but the pain is obvious. Its not good to become accustomed to the pain, but I do a little, and live my life like the rest of the “haves” trying not to assume the worst, but never asking.

July 13

Math Test:

Breakfast and Dinner coffee: 200
1 loaf of bread: 150
Rice for a day: 50
Luxury (can of tuna) 600
Total: 400-1000 FCFA

Living the good life in village amounts to about $0.70 to $2 on a good day. Its just like Sally Struthers used to say: for the price of a cup of coffee a day, you can feed a hungry displaced American. The poorest here in Bani don’t have the 10 cents to spare for rice. I calculate for myself an average per diem of roughly $8 (4000FCFA). I estimate my income to be in the top 1% of the village population, right behind the mayor (maybe) and a few successful merchants. A hard days work is worth about a dollar in Bani (500 FCFA). I find it doubtful that I will ever reach this status again in my life. Thus I return to a previous conclusion: Everything in life is relative. I’ve never felt wealthier in my life as far as money goes. If the grass is always greener on the other side, one only need move to the desert.

July 17

When I was first told that polygamy existed here in West Africa, I admit I was a little shocked, or at least ignorant. I remember it being a rather unsettling concept. But as I find myself living in Larabou’s (el hajji) courtyard with his two wives, I have come to accept the practice as the status quo. The wives seem rather content, they are in fact lucky to be well cared for financially. If there is some kind of deep conflict within the family, it doesn’t surface in a way I can notice. I am somewhat curious as to the sexual logistics of such situations. The Burkina culture is very sexually conservative yet active, I have had a difficult time broaching such subjects. Men in general are unaffectionate towards their families, especially their wives, at least in public. I was told that many believe that public affection leads to sexual promiscuity, which leads to angry ancestors, which leads to no rain. And you don’t fuck with the rain, that’s serious. I feel that it goes even deeper than that, to some form of universally practiced restraint and modesty. I almost never see a man and a woman touch, but men will strut down Main Street chatting, hand in hand. That was a very strange thing to get used to, men would shake my hand and not let go until I yanked it away several seconds later. Its hard not to consider it sexual, but I remind myself that this society completely denies any existence of homosexuality. Those that are aware of it think the white man invented it. You will get your ass kicked back in the closet if you try to come out here in Burkina Faso.

July 20

Vive la France. I had heard rumors that some other foreigners were coming to my little village, but I’ve learned not to believe everything I hear through the grapevine. But hot damn there are 4 more whities in Bani, which bumps the grand total up to 5. I haven’t yet had the chance to speak with them, other than a short greeting. Apparently they are going to be running a night French school during the break. I think this is a lucky break for me considering all the decent French speakers have left for vacation in more metropolitan settings. Aside from that, it will be nice to have other foreigners around, as they are the only ones who might be able to share my perspective.

July 31

The Peace Corps slogan used to be famous: The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Love. Inspiring. Well up until last week I could have believed that my job was drinking Chinese green tea and sweating my ass off. I clocked in a few hours this week helping out a Girls Camp, which is a PC project. I think there are 7 simultaneous camps going on in Burkina Faso, and since I have nothing to occupy my time, and feeling a bit unproductive, I decided to participate. In a nutshell, the camp is an all expense paid trip to the regional capital for 2 lucky adolescent girls in each school of the province. The week is filled with activities, lessons in life skills, and guest speakers. The overriding goal is to encourage young village girls to have ambitions, as well as to work hard and make wise decisions to one day reach their dreams. It certainly seems like a good idea on the surface, and in fact it was a very positive experience for everyone. Nevertheless, as with all development projects, the effectiveness of such activities does fall into question. It is certainly difficult to nail down what, if anything, was accomplished. But everyone had fun, I learned a good bit about gender issues here, and it was good to see that while on the surface females act very differently in Africa, a slumber party is a slumber party anywhere in the world.

August 25

Vacation’s over. Back in good ole Bani. Its getting easier. I almost feel the daily trials and problems aren’t even worth writing about. The rain has been good, from what I can tell by peoples’ mood, its been really good. The crops are beginning to produce and I’ve been eating corn on the cob like it was my job. Not that I’m particularly fond of cor, but the fact that it is not rice is enough for me. But everyone seems to be in high spirits. I’ve been told last year was damn hard. But my moral is up too, mainly because I just ate a juicy watermelon.
I’m writing for the first time at night. That is because I’ve just taken a giant technological leap forward into the world of electricity! As I sit here bathed in a phosphorescent glow watching my laptop charge, I feel a great deal of satisfaction. I have also recently tackled my water situation by buying an empty oil drum which I pay some ten year old 40 cents to fill up every 2 weeks. Who said Africa was hard? I’m thinking about opening up a water park: Adam’s African Aquatic Adventure…nice ring to it.
Some of the frenchies accepted my invitation to tea this afternoon. My opinion of them is on the rise, they seem like a very friendly and motivated group of people. It was a pleasant little party. I am trying to negotiate getting their boy-servant to come work for me. I’ve never had an assistant before, nor participated n child labor, so it should work out just fine. I know $4/month seems outrageous, but I can’t pay him as much as an adult in the village, and he wouldn’t get to keep a cent anyhow. It all goes to the father. We’ll see how it works out, but they want to find him another job, and I’m a lazy SOB, so the shoe fits.
But I’m knocking my problems down two at a time and I’m feeling good about it. The weather is considerable cooler, which really helps. If I could only get rid of these termites who keep eating my furniture. Damn you termites.

August 30

I attended my friend’s baptism this morning. Well I suppose it wasn’t his baptism, but his newborn baby boy is in good health, as is his wife. This is my 2nd one, and the two had a lot in common. The whole process lasts about 15 minutes, and does not require a lot of ceremony. All Muslim baptisms take place 7 days after birth. An animal is killed and eaten, the baby receives a name , and in the case of boys, is circumcised (not in public). And just like every birthday party I went to up to age 10, everybody got a party favor. I notices that such an event draws pretty much every person in the village, and I recognized a large fraction of the men in the mosque. I say men because of course women do not take part in such festivities. I wonder if they throw their own little party somewhere. I hope so.
I left before the reception. I didn’t even get to find out the kid’s name. I could probably guess it though. It seems that all people in my village are give one of five common names. That should come in handy when I get into the classroom. But it implies that first names are not given great importance in this culture. If you ask a random person their name, I find that they are just as likely to give you their family name as the prenom. One always introduces them “last” name first. This is a very illustrative example of a glaring cultural difference between me the American, and Africa.
In this society, a person is much better defined by his/her place in the community than by actions. At first this caused some friction with me because of my decidedly individualistic nature, but I’m beginning to come to terms with the problem, now that I recognize it. Back in the states when introduces for the first time to a new person, the question “So what do you do?” inevitably pops up in the first five minutes. Since my arrival here in Africa, despite the innumerable new people I’ve come into contact with, I can count on my right hand the number of times that question has surfaced. What I do, a large part of my identity, is of little importance to my village. What is important is my role, where I fit into the system. If I were a native, my position would be determined primarily by which one of the few but large families I would belong to. After that it would be my seniority. The oldest child enjoys many advantages, such as getting an education, running the family business, and first dibs on dinner. But as it turns out I am not African, I am an American. Thus my role is simple, I am the “tubaku” or the foreigner. I hear this word “tubaku” 100 times more often than my own name. In fact children scream it at the top of their lungs when I pass by, and adults use it as a standard term of address. It took about a month before this really started to grate on my nerves, and at times it got pretty bad. I never thought I would really have to restrain myself from hitting a child. I’m glad I haven’t and not proud that I had to exercise so much restraint. But I have started to understand my role as a foreigner and accept it for what it is. My problems stemmed from my denial of this role and my determination to have the Africans recognize me as one of them, or at least as an individual. I’m finally giving up this effort, but not in defeat. For the battle is within, and I will accept my position with all its advantages and disadvantages. It has certainly become blatantly obviously that I could spend 50 years here and never be accepted as one of them. I knew I could never be one of them, and now it seems a little silly to me that I would think they wouldn’t be able to see that as well.