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!