How to Write a Letter and other Stories

other stories...

Hello all and greetings once again from Burkina Faso. I want to send a thank you to my dad for taking some of the letters I wrote home and retyping them onto my blog for you all to read. Believe it or not, such a tedious task is in all reality a convenient way for me to get my words out there for you all to read. The process is as follows: Let us say it is a typically hot Friday morning in Pobé-Mengao. I sit down on my metal chair in my recently cemented mud-brick home, pull out a sheet of paper, an imitation bic ballpoint pen, and I start writing (dear family…). Once I finish the letter, highlighting my triumphs, my shortfalls, odd encounters, et cetera, I sign the letter, stuff it in an envelope, address it aux États-Unis then let it sit on my cement floor until the next time I bike 28 km to my provincial capital, Djibo. Fast forward to the following Wednesday. I just biked 28 enjoyable yet equally cardiovascularly complimentary kilometers to Djibo. After an obligatory breakfast stop at Kiosque la Paix (Yogurt, baguette, and a cup of tea: $0.55), I hop on my bike and pedal to the Post office. After greeting the two gentlemen who run this dusty post that resembles a lonely alimentation in a sleepy Arizona border town I ask for the necessary postage to send my letters back home. After a joint effort of licking and placing the stamps on the letters, I take my modest pile and throw them in the mail drop, hoping that they do not fall between the cracks at some point on their long journey home. Fast forward 12-25 days and 6,000 miles. During lunch on some idle Thursday, my mother (or Father) checks their mailbox and finds to their utter glee that they have received a letter from their son all the way over in West Africa. After reading it and enjoying his rather clever quips about life and consequence and such in rural West Africa, my father sits down on his de facto trusty laptop and transfers my words written on weak dusty paper with a non-committal imitation bic pen to my blog site. And there you have it, the general process by which my experiences find their way to your eager eyes.

But not today. Today, I found internet.

It has been an amazingly indescribable past two months since I wrote you all last (without the aid of my loving parents to transcribe my letters). I still have one month remaining in the dreaded “settling-in period” of the 24 month term of service. As per the suggestion of my superiors, I have not started any real work in my village, but after spending several weeks doing nothing but drinking tea with neighbors and reading heaps upon heaps of William Faulkner, I have found it necessary to conjure up some ideas of what I can do in my wonderful little yet larger than life village. But such explanations can be saved for when I actually execute such things. Let us discuss what has happened.

Ramadan and the art of being selectively devout

For those of you who pay attention to your Hot Air Balloons Calendars would have noticed that a week ago today was Ramadan. The thirty days that led up to October 23rd were the days of fasting for Muslims worldwide. Between sunrise and sunset, one is expected to eat no food, drink no liquids. The reality of the matter in my village is there were a few devout Muslims that participated in the fast the full thirty days, whereas the rest simply talked about how they should fast. Some donated a conciliatory day or two to participate in Islam’s most holy celebration. After all, the fast is not obligatory. And given the backbreaking labor that almost all villagers participate in during the harvest season, I blame not a single for not fasting…and I am humbled by those who choose to fast and work in the hot African sun.
With Ramadan, the day, approaching, I had no real idea what to expect. There was some talk of a big fête, but most of my neighbors remained ambiguous about this day and the events it would house. I awake at my usual 5:13 am on that Monday morning, fix my oatmeal and my cup of Nescafé, and begin to work on some French grammar exercises…at 9am, Amidou, my neighbor and closest friend in village, arrives in a very shiny, silky forest green Boubou. This is a far stretch from his normal attire which consists of olive-colored Levis and a grey tank top. If I remember correctly, he was even wearing dress shoes. Allons-y a la Mosquée, Joel! Not knowing what I was getting myself into, I threw on a pair of khakis and a Royal Robbins button-down shirt and slipped on my “dressy” Chaco flips and barreled out the door. Along the way to the Mosque Amidou explained to me that at 10am, everybody was to pray. Reminding him that I was not Muslim, he assured me, Prier n’est pas obligitoire – To pray is not obligatory. Waiting outside the Mosque was much akin to arriving at Church back home in the USA. The elders were lined at the entrance, and many handshakes were had. I took my place at the back of the courtyard (while there is a building, since it was Ramadan, there were far too many people to all fit in the Mosque) and then came the call to prayer. It is quite a site to witness over 1,000 men women and children participate in a Muslim prayer. All facing east, all participating in the same motions, the silence followed by a decisive THUMP! when everybody moves in unison to the floor. It was an experience I will not soon forget. Following the prayer, I spent the day eating. Everybody ate, all day long. I am convinced now that Ramadan, at least here in West Africa, is best described as Thanksgiving, Halloween, and Senior Prom, all rolled into one. After a day of eating various African dishes (believe me, they’re not as exotic as you might think), groups of girls, dressed up in their finest complets would come around and ask for cadeaux (gifts). Most people would give each girl 10-25 cfa (equivalent of about 2-8 cents). I gave out pieces of candy I had acquired in Djibo. At the end of the day, all of Pobé’s younger generation filed into a large courtyard equipped with a solar-powered fluorescent street light in the center, and then came the music. Over 2,000 under 30-something’s danced the night away in honor of Islam’s most holy of days.

The next major holiday is Tobaski (I hope I spelled that correctly), which comes 70 days after Ramadan. It is the Fête of the sheep. This is where many of the sheep are slaughtered and people eat a whole bunch all over again. This year it should fall on I believe the 29th of December.

I guess that’s all I’ve got for now. Better send this off and head back to my village. My closest PCV neighbor and I created a Boy’s and Girl’s club in my village and the informational meeting is tomorrow afternoon. Call it what you will, but it is my first venture into the life of a volunteer, so wish me luck! I certainly hope everyone is well, wherever you are, whatever you may be doing. Until next time!

Mini-Hot Season

Note: The following are excerpts from a letter from Joel written October 4, 2006.

I can’t believe its already October! I’ve all but forgotten what the weather must be like there right now. Here in Burkina, the Rainy Season is almost completely finished. We got a good rain last night, but unlike past rains, the earth sucked up the moisture instantaneously. October-November is known as the “Mini-Hot Season” as the decreasing rains means more chance for the sun to heat things up. December-End of Feb. is the Cool Season, where everybody wears coats and beanies (seriously). I am shocked at how sensitive my body has become to the changes in temperature. I can generally indicate a change up to ½ degree. But enough talk of the weather.

School has begun her. Yesterday I went and met the Director of the Primary School. He’s new, as all teachers and directors come from different places teach in villages. It called Affectsion. Since there is not enough (or sometimes any) qualified teachers to occupy a school, the government assigns all the teachers in the country to villages and towns. Generally, the newer the teacher, the smaller/more isolated the village. So teachers “Pay their dues” by teaching for 3 years in a particular place before they can be assigned to a more desirable location (which for most is the Bobo region in the South…least desirable is the North…go figure). Given the circumstances, I think that it is the best possible method, at this time. It gives newer teachers in small villages incentive to up their work performance, thus helping students and giving them an opportunity to “move up”.

At this point my plan of action is to be a familiar face around the school both with the teachers and the students. That nobody knows what I am doing is both intimidating and promising. People know I am to do work here, but what? Nobody knows.

My french is really coming along. I still have difficulty listening to people, especially if they are not as educated (equiv. of someone in America who speaks a lot of slang and has a general poor speaking quality). But among the teachers, they speak clearly, so I feel more confident when I speak to them. Today I was doing laundry. I caught myself thinking in French. You know how people say once you start dreaming in another language your relatively fluent? I wonder if this is the same thing? My level of vocab is not very high, but I find that I learn new expressions as necessary.

I have been reading a lot of books, which is good. I guess they are my new TV. The art of book trading among PCVs is very unique. Before leaving to your site for the first time most will grab a handful (or 4) of books from the PC hostel library. Each time you travel to a place where other PCVs may be, you bring a few or all finished books and exchange with the others. I brought with me George Orwell’s 1984. Since my reading of the book, it has passed through 4 other volunteer’s hands. So far I have read approximately 9 books, which is monumental for me. Currently reading “the curious incident of the dog in the nite-time” by Mark Haddon. I highly recommend it! It’s the story through the eyes of a 15 year-old autistic teen, of the murder of a neighborhood dog. He investigates the murder. Its all from his perspective, so it is very brain-teasing.

Happy 3 Month Anniversary of being in country!

Note: The following are excerpts from a letter from Joel written September 7, 2006.

Sorry, just a little self-lauding. … So I’m already beginning to be a familiar face around Djibo. People have actually called me by my name (my Burkinabé name) in the Marché. Sometimes I recognize them, sometimes I don’t. I’ve run into a couple of people from Sananga, believe it or not, who some up to sell stuff at the Djibo Marché. Anyway there is a certain niceness to be recognized as a familiar face.

…

So there was a scorpion in my house tonight. Not cool. Luckily my ZX/2 Chaco doubles as a Scorpion Killing Device. It was intense, but he/she is dead now. The End.

The rainy season is winding down her. It has rained once in the past week. Sometimes, the clouds will roll in, but no moisture comes. People say this is normal for September, but there is also a hint of worry. There are about 10 days of planting to go. That means after 10 days, there will still be need for rain for the tail end crops. Since Pobé has no Barrage(Reservoir), like Ouahigouya and surrounding villages, they only have the rainy season to depend on for growing crops. These villages with barrages can begin planting “dry crops” in November, crops that require no rain, simply light irrigation (potatoes, green beans, onions, etc.). For Pobé, after the rainy season, there is no real work for the greater population. Some people stay here and wait it out somehow. Granted, I have to experience the dry season, so I have no genuine clue as to the social plight (or lack thereof…).

Interestingly, during the dry season, there seems to be more things to do/acquire. Since everyone is working out in the fields right now, few have time to provide other services (bread-making, tailoring, etc.). During the dry season, there is wide variety of vegetables. Right now, during Pobés marché (every three days) tere are NO vegetables. In November, there should be a lot. It is confusing and even I have no clue what’s going on…

P.P.S: 10:40 PM and its 90 degrees in my house!

Day Four in Pobé - Mengao

Note: The following are excerpts from a letter from Joel written September 1, 2006. Joel is in an area devoid of reasonable priced Internet service. In place of his posting his thoughts and observations himself, he asked that I post excerpts of his letters so that you may follow his adventures.

I still haven’t been able to comfortably detach myself from the confines of my house. Knowing that I am a stranger in this town makes it difficult to break the ice. The language barrier is one thing, but moreover, finding a way to be recognized, let alone trusted, as a member of the community, is going to take time. Unlike Sangaga, I don’t have 3 other Americans in the same position as I, there to catch me if I stumble. Ça Va Aller, as they say here.

I got to Djibo on Wednesday, to catch their world (well, at least B.F.) famous Market Day. Despite being in the dry Sahel, the Djibo area is famous for its near year-round supply of tomatoes, eggplants and cucumbers. People from all over the North half of the country will travel to Djibo weekly, to buy and sell. I like Djibo because it is incredibly ethnically diverse. Unlike every other place I have spent time in B.F., Djibo is not predominatly Mossi. The dominant ethnic group is that of the Fulani people, also known as the Peules. This is a much more conservative ethnic group, as they are by nature nomadic. Have you ever seen the famous National Geographic cover photo of the woman with the big green eyes? That is very much what a Fulani woman looks like, only darker skinned.

So, in addition to the Mossis, the Fulanís, and the Algerians, there are a lot of tall, mysterious men with Black turbins covering their entire face. Mysterious, that is, until you spend a few minutes joking around with them at the bus stop, only to find that anybody can have a sense of humor. So anyway, while I don’t know a lot about the different ethnic groups up here, that doesn’t stop me from making some observations. What is interesting is that Pobé 30 km SW of Djibo, but there is no real Peule population. They are traditionally very cutoff, at they are not allowed to marry non-Peules, thus they have their own communities.

…

To get to Djibo (which will probably become a weekly event, each Wednesday), I got up at 6, walked to the Main road, where I was told a Camion (basically a huge, beat up Mercedes 30’ long truck from the 1940’s)(Oh yeah, with 40-50 people in the back with 200 chickens and 15 goats, …sometimes a cow) would drive by and would take me on for 500 CFA. 6:30 rolls around and I’m sitting shotgun with 5 non-talkative guys. Just another Burkinabé adventure.