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Tuesday, December 25, 2007
The other best of 2007
Here are some more photos that struck my fancy. I hope they strike your's as well. To see more photos that didn't make the cut, check out my Super Cool Album.
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Best of 2007
Sort of. It was my attempt to find my 10 favorite photos of 2007; however, certain factors led this attempt to fall short. Here are, rather, a collection of some of my favorite photos, taken probably in 2007 but maybe also in 2006. In fact, I may even post more than ten. Will you forgive me?
I hope.
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Monday, December 24, 2007
Christmas Letter
It is currently 6:31 am Central Standard Time. I am in the comfort of my Aunt and Uncle’s home in Northern Kansas City, Missouri. I had pancakes for breakfast. And coffee. And orange juice. The gravity and the significance of these facts cannot be sufficiently articulated. But most importantly, I am with family.
I am home for the holidays. And I love it. I like to think of myself as an unconventional type of guy. I like to look at things differently. I like to exploit the hidden side of things. Whenever I go fly-fishing, one of my favorite activities is to pick up the river rocks and look underneath. The hidden side. But it has been a while since I’ve been fly-fishing. I’ve been in Africa. Amid all my unconventionality, I will say, without reservation of spirit, that I love Christmas. December 2006 brought my first Christmas away from home. While it was a joyous occasion, complete with food, drink, song, and friends, it just wasn’t the same (after breakfast, I went to a swimming pool and laid out in the sun). Not because I was in a warm climate, not because I couldn’t do my last minute shopping at Target, but because I was not with my family. Though I’ll be stateside for only a short period of time, I am glad it is during the holidays.
As of late, I have struggled with this word “home”. It tends to be a buzzword among volunteers, as its meaning becomes amplified, diversified, revered, and cherished while we are overseas. Shortly after leaving the United States of America, I missed and longed for home. Each night as I wrote in my journal, I would finish with a list of things that I missed that day from home. One day, I would miss skittles and below freezing temperatures. The next I’d miss self-checkout lanes (gasp) and Fat Tire Beer. During my first few months in Burkina Faso, I missed home. I longed for familiarity. Home was the United States. Colorado. Montrose. My family’s house on 4th street.
Then, over the course of several months, something strange happened. I got used to Burkina Faso. I learned to tolerate the heat, the dust, the bugs, the smell, and in turn, I learned to love the people and their culture. I made friends. In time, my little two-room mud hut became home. A few days ago, while talking to my family, I said something to the effect of, “when I return home, I’ll…” mindlessly referring to my place in Burkina Faso. This caught me off-guard, as for the first time in my life have I two homes.
One’s environment influences greatly their current outlook. Were I sitting in a muggy, crowded internet café in Ouahigouya, this letter to you all would take on a different tone. But I am instead in Kansas City with my family. The distance surely sweetens my tone. From a distance, the 124-degree days don’t seem so unbearable. Sitting here in a sweater, sipping on a cup of coffee, I find myself systematically romanticizing the past 19 months in Burkina. It’s not all roses. It’s probably not even partially roses over there. It’s hard. It’s frustrating. It’s exhausting. But in spite of these things, it is amazing. And I wouldn’t trade the last 19 months - or the remaining 8 months - for anything.
Thank you all for following my blog. I can’t tell you how important it is for me to hear that you are out there, reading, and hopefully enjoying my words. I love to write, hence. But above all else, I think I am doing this whole blog thing to give Burkina Faso its due credit. The country isn’t even overlooked. To most people in this world, it doesn’t even exist. I hope that my blog, and others like it, are working to change this.
Merry Christmas.
Peace.
j
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Observation 3
Plastic or plastic? Sachet Culture
Burkina has a sachet culture. They love their sachets (read: black plastic bag). Sachets trickle into practically every facet of life here in this small country. When I go to the boutique on the road in my village to buy a bar of soap or a packet of spaghetti, the shop-owner insists on putting these petît items into a sachet. "No, Moussa, it is okay, I do not need a bag," as I drop the items into my messenger bag. He responds only with a suspicious look, as if he's saying, "silly white guy, who turns down a black sachet?"
What happens to all the sachets these shopkeepers so liberally dispense to the patrons of their boutiques? They eventually become part of the dust-blown landscape of my village. Not long after arriving in this country, we trainees jokingly referred to the black sachet as Burkina Faso's national flower, as the wind would inevitably blow the sachets into a thorny weed or bush. I hope the visual, dismal as it may be, is there.
Two problems here are apparent. First is the belligerent overuse of plastic sachets. Come on, people, this is Africa. Be resourceful. Take your reusable canvas bag to the market to buy your vegetables. The other problem is littering. The Burkinabe (and I feel comfortable making a practically blanket statement here) have no concept of the proper disposal of refuse. The second a candy wrapper or cellophane covering or, you guessed it, black sachet have outlived its primary purpose, it hits the ground. Granted, the severe lack of receptacles could be contributing to the liter crisis here in Burkina. Aside from the biggest cities, trash collection does not exist (even in the big cities, the efforts seem to be feeble).
Not all hope is lost, however. Many artisan associations collect discarded sachets, clean them off, shred them, and create woven materials, such as purses, bracelets, pot holders, you name it, to sell to environmentally-conscious tourists. Many such efforts are made in the artisan community to create art, souvenirs, sculpture, et cetera out of, you guessed it, trash. Genius? Close enough.
However cozy the thought is that some sachets are being rescued from the thorn bushes and the pestilent alleyways of Ouagadougou, this method of "sprucing up" Burkina doesn't begin to scratch the surface. Add to this the suspicion that some artisan associations have been suspected of buying brand new black sachets in bulk from one of the innumerable black sachet vendors, thereby averting the pesky and most certainly odoriferous task of actually cleaning up Burkina's streets. I guess if Multinational Corporations can make a buck from "greenwashing" their products, why not a small-scale artisan association in West Africa? (please note my emphatic drollery).
I will leave this at that. Why? you may be asking. I must pack! I'm flying to the United States of America tonight. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, after 18 months and 9 days in West Africa, I'm coming home. But fret not. I'll be back (in Burkina Faso, that is) in January.
Merry Christmas to you all.
Peace.
j
Burkina has a sachet culture. They love their sachets (read: black plastic bag). Sachets trickle into practically every facet of life here in this small country. When I go to the boutique on the road in my village to buy a bar of soap or a packet of spaghetti, the shop-owner insists on putting these petît items into a sachet. "No, Moussa, it is okay, I do not need a bag," as I drop the items into my messenger bag. He responds only with a suspicious look, as if he's saying, "silly white guy, who turns down a black sachet?"
What happens to all the sachets these shopkeepers so liberally dispense to the patrons of their boutiques? They eventually become part of the dust-blown landscape of my village. Not long after arriving in this country, we trainees jokingly referred to the black sachet as Burkina Faso's national flower, as the wind would inevitably blow the sachets into a thorny weed or bush. I hope the visual, dismal as it may be, is there.
Two problems here are apparent. First is the belligerent overuse of plastic sachets. Come on, people, this is Africa. Be resourceful. Take your reusable canvas bag to the market to buy your vegetables. The other problem is littering. The Burkinabe (and I feel comfortable making a practically blanket statement here) have no concept of the proper disposal of refuse. The second a candy wrapper or cellophane covering or, you guessed it, black sachet have outlived its primary purpose, it hits the ground. Granted, the severe lack of receptacles could be contributing to the liter crisis here in Burkina. Aside from the biggest cities, trash collection does not exist (even in the big cities, the efforts seem to be feeble).
Not all hope is lost, however. Many artisan associations collect discarded sachets, clean them off, shred them, and create woven materials, such as purses, bracelets, pot holders, you name it, to sell to environmentally-conscious tourists. Many such efforts are made in the artisan community to create art, souvenirs, sculpture, et cetera out of, you guessed it, trash. Genius? Close enough.
However cozy the thought is that some sachets are being rescued from the thorn bushes and the pestilent alleyways of Ouagadougou, this method of "sprucing up" Burkina doesn't begin to scratch the surface. Add to this the suspicion that some artisan associations have been suspected of buying brand new black sachets in bulk from one of the innumerable black sachet vendors, thereby averting the pesky and most certainly odoriferous task of actually cleaning up Burkina's streets. I guess if Multinational Corporations can make a buck from "greenwashing" their products, why not a small-scale artisan association in West Africa? (please note my emphatic drollery).
I will leave this at that. Why? you may be asking. I must pack! I'm flying to the United States of America tonight. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, after 18 months and 9 days in West Africa, I'm coming home. But fret not. I'll be back (in Burkina Faso, that is) in January.
Merry Christmas to you all.
Peace.
j
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Observation 2
Observation #2: Arm hair = novelty
The Burkinabé seem to have a keen and justifiable fascination with many unfamiliar “this’s” and “that’s” which PCVs bring into their village. I’ve shown and told my iPod, my collection of books that I read for (gasp) pleasure, my stockpile of empty Quaker Oatmeal tins, and I’ve even dazzled my colleagues by dousing my water-resistant wristwatch into a bucket of water. But no fascination has caught me off-guard as much as their interest in my arm hair.
I am not afraid to admit it, I have arm hair. And I mean arm hair. No, I can’t braid it, nor is it as prolific as Robin Williams’ below the elbow locks, but my arm hair volume is what many would consider “above average.” I am not afraid to admit this. But the purpose of this blog is not for me to become more open and comfortable with my arm hair. It is to talk about how the Burkinabé seem to be exceptionally open and comfortable with my arm hair.
So. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I was having tea with my friends, enjoying the cooler weather, soaking up the ambiance. More and more people started showing up, so as a good host, I continually demoted myself to less and less comfortable chairs, offering my place to each arriving neighbor. In time, I was on the dreaded bench. Hard, wobbly, tetanus-full. If I recall, there were 5 of us on the bench. Our conversations continued. Somewhere in between accusing Hamidou of being lazy for not working enough during the harvest and making fun of Issa’s feeble yet well-intentioned attempts at the English language, I found my friend Salam playing with my arm hair. It was in a mindless sort of fashion, much how one twiddles their thumbs or taps their feet. But this was not his thumbs nor feet. Nor was it his own arm hair (in my observations, black people just don't have that much arm hair). It was my arm hair.
Don’t stray! More cultural observations to come!
The Burkinabé seem to have a keen and justifiable fascination with many unfamiliar “this’s” and “that’s” which PCVs bring into their village. I’ve shown and told my iPod, my collection of books that I read for (gasp) pleasure, my stockpile of empty Quaker Oatmeal tins, and I’ve even dazzled my colleagues by dousing my water-resistant wristwatch into a bucket of water. But no fascination has caught me off-guard as much as their interest in my arm hair.
I am not afraid to admit it, I have arm hair. And I mean arm hair. No, I can’t braid it, nor is it as prolific as Robin Williams’ below the elbow locks, but my arm hair volume is what many would consider “above average.” I am not afraid to admit this. But the purpose of this blog is not for me to become more open and comfortable with my arm hair. It is to talk about how the Burkinabé seem to be exceptionally open and comfortable with my arm hair.
So. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I was having tea with my friends, enjoying the cooler weather, soaking up the ambiance. More and more people started showing up, so as a good host, I continually demoted myself to less and less comfortable chairs, offering my place to each arriving neighbor. In time, I was on the dreaded bench. Hard, wobbly, tetanus-full. If I recall, there were 5 of us on the bench. Our conversations continued. Somewhere in between accusing Hamidou of being lazy for not working enough during the harvest and making fun of Issa’s feeble yet well-intentioned attempts at the English language, I found my friend Salam playing with my arm hair. It was in a mindless sort of fashion, much how one twiddles their thumbs or taps their feet. But this was not his thumbs nor feet. Nor was it his own arm hair (in my observations, black people just don't have that much arm hair). It was my arm hair.
Don’t stray! More cultural observations to come!
Observation 1
I am coming home in a couple weeks. Um. Let me repeat: I AM COMING HOME IN 13 DAYS! For a visit, you know? To mark this momentous occasion, I will be posting my favorite cultural observations I've made here in Burkina Faso. So sit tight, and prepare yourself for an explosion of cultural enlightenment.
Observation #1: Burkinabé and their fashion sense...when it's cold
Ever wonder where your old STARTER brand Dallas Cowboys pull-over winter jacket wound up when you realized that they weren't the football sensation of the mid-nineties and you grew tired of the stuffed nylon look complete with the below-the-breast, team logo embossed pocket flap and removable hood and decided to throw away -- i mean, donate -- this relic of the Operation: Desert Storm era to your place of worship's annual coat drive? If you guessed the Sub-Saharan over-baked West African hot spot Burkina Faso, you're probably correct!
The cold season is upon us here in the Faso (this morning got down to 67°). Much like last year, my burkinabé colleagues have once again reminded me that if I sleep outside, or even wear nothing more than a light jacket in the morning, i'll "surely die." These assurances have yet to bear fruit. Even the most fashionable of dressers risk social castigation by sporting socks as hand mittens and Princess Leah earmuffs. Up until a day ago, I had a favorite Burkinabé cold season style, which was the removable hood without the accompanying coat look. But yesterday, as I was sitting on a bus (transport is the best place to spot the latest in Burkinabé fashion), I saw what was quite possibly the most ridiculous outfit IN EXISTENCE. Picture this: baby blue 100% plastic Keds knock-offs (so far, normal, as this is the footwear of choice for the Fulani of the Sahel), burnt sienna slacks, complete with pleats and cuffs (fashion faux-pas to the max, but again, signature Burkinabé), forest green turtleneck covered with a navy blue blazer sans buttons, and the icing on the cake, a very loud teal green wool ski mask, covering his entire face, save his eyes and his mouth. I guess the fact that I didn't immediately think we were being robbed is testiment to my level of acculturation here, but no length of time here could have prepared me for this gentleman's fashion ensemble. He looked like Space Ghost hosting a Christmas party. That, or Gumby posing in a Sears Catalog.
During the cold season, all fashion bets are off. The Burkinabé will take any shred of fabric and make sure it is in some way warming their bodies.
Stay tuned for volume two of Joel's favorite cultural observations: Everyone loves Joel's arm hair.
Observation #1: Burkinabé and their fashion sense...when it's cold
Ever wonder where your old STARTER brand Dallas Cowboys pull-over winter jacket wound up when you realized that they weren't the football sensation of the mid-nineties and you grew tired of the stuffed nylon look complete with the below-the-breast, team logo embossed pocket flap and removable hood and decided to throw away -- i mean, donate -- this relic of the Operation: Desert Storm era to your place of worship's annual coat drive? If you guessed the Sub-Saharan over-baked West African hot spot Burkina Faso, you're probably correct!
The cold season is upon us here in the Faso (this morning got down to 67°). Much like last year, my burkinabé colleagues have once again reminded me that if I sleep outside, or even wear nothing more than a light jacket in the morning, i'll "surely die." These assurances have yet to bear fruit. Even the most fashionable of dressers risk social castigation by sporting socks as hand mittens and Princess Leah earmuffs. Up until a day ago, I had a favorite Burkinabé cold season style, which was the removable hood without the accompanying coat look. But yesterday, as I was sitting on a bus (transport is the best place to spot the latest in Burkinabé fashion), I saw what was quite possibly the most ridiculous outfit IN EXISTENCE. Picture this: baby blue 100% plastic Keds knock-offs (so far, normal, as this is the footwear of choice for the Fulani of the Sahel), burnt sienna slacks, complete with pleats and cuffs (fashion faux-pas to the max, but again, signature Burkinabé), forest green turtleneck covered with a navy blue blazer sans buttons, and the icing on the cake, a very loud teal green wool ski mask, covering his entire face, save his eyes and his mouth. I guess the fact that I didn't immediately think we were being robbed is testiment to my level of acculturation here, but no length of time here could have prepared me for this gentleman's fashion ensemble. He looked like Space Ghost hosting a Christmas party. That, or Gumby posing in a Sears Catalog.
During the cold season, all fashion bets are off. The Burkinabé will take any shred of fabric and make sure it is in some way warming their bodies.
Stay tuned for volume two of Joel's favorite cultural observations: Everyone loves Joel's arm hair.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Four Weeks
After what I would sheepishly consider a rather desultory first year in village, I made a conscious decision to jump into my second year of service with a plan, with focus, and with the expectation that I would get results. This was immediately not the case.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Joel Turner, unofficial school teacher. School began the first week of October. In an attempt to make myself a more permanent fixture at the school, I asked the school director if there was anything I could do to help. It felt like I was asking a family friend if he had any summer work for me. Like mowing lawns or scraping paint off an old shed. The director mentioned that there were two classes unacceptably over capacity. CP1 and CP2 (Kindergarten and 1st grade, respectively) have a combined enrollment of 290 students. Two classrooms. Two teachers. That is an average student/teacher ratio of 145:1. I was not about to deny his offer (rather, plea) to assist these teachers in their duties. A few days later, our school was fortunate enough to acquire an extra teacher, so my duties were reduced to simply assisting my counterpart, Madame Guigma, in CP1.
The past four weeks have been among the most enriching in my entire Peace Corps service. Never have I had such an extreme range of emotions. I have never been more frustrated. I have never been more in awe of the skill required to teach. I have never been so angry. I have never been so humbled. Bold statements, I know, but simply passing the mornings in the CP1 classroom has taught me a lot. I will try to begin to describe some of which I have learned.
The Class.
I would have thought that after 17 months in this country, I had been exposed to the most audacious scents Burkina has to offer. I was wrong. Picture this. A classroom about the size of your normal high school room suitable for 20-26 16 year olds. Tin roof. Poor ventilation. 30 bench-style desks that seat 5 (yes FIVE) students per desk (do the math 30 x 5). 145-150 six year-olds that bathe perhaps once a week. They cough, they sneeze, they have dried mucus tattooed to their upper lips, they have pink eye and influenza and other nasty infections. The aisles between desks are almost too narrow for the students to pass through, nevermind adults. Even if I could describe the smell that usually arrives at about 8:30 am, every morning and manages to stay with me all day long, I wouldn’t wish to expose you all to such writing.
So there is the smell. I have learned to essentially turn off my nose in Burkina Faso, and while the CP1 class has proven to be quite a challenge to this talent of mine, I can still “shut it out” if you will. The sound, however, is difficult to regulate unless I put cotton swabs in my ears and that, well, would just look silly. I have found that disciplining children that outnumber me 150 to 1 is difficult when I a) am a strange tall white guy b) speak little Moore c) know they speak zero French d) know that they know that I will not, under any circumstances hit them for their bad behavior...unlike every other teacher in the school. Even though the kids are incapable off drawing a straight line, they are smart enough to know that I will not reprimand them for their actions in any serious fashion. Therefore, loud, raucous children essentially roam free when I am alone in the class with them.
Spare the rod...please?
According to the law books here in Burkina Faso, corporal punishment is illegal. Every teacher knows this. But everybody knows that every teacher hits. I always knew that teachers hit students. After spending four weeks in CP1, I have still not grown accustomed to watching, idly, while a six year-old is being whipped over the head for misbehaving or simply mispronouncing the word “Bonjour.”. Teachers tell me, emphatically, that it is a necessary practice to properly discipline the children. Even though I know the students do not respect me because I do not hit, I still completely and passionately disagree. In my most adamant of opinions, they hit because they are lazy. Teachers tell me that these kids are different from the kids in the United States. They need to be hit in order to improve their performance. Again, I disagree. Aside from a gross lack in life chances and social capital, these kids are no different from their six year-old counterparts in the United States public school system. The difference is the United States public school system has practically streamlined the idea of positive reinforcement when interacting with youth. It is so prevalent, in fact, that it is no longer considered a technique so much as a standard of teaching youth.
I am confident that long after I leave this country, students will continue to receive multiple lashings on the head with a thick rubber belt for mispronouncing a word. This does discourage me. And I will continue to do what I can to promote a more friendly environment for students, but I am not operating under the assumption that my efforts will bear fruit.
The Reward
If one was to take a verbal poll, I would guarantee that a sample of any given population would consider teaching to be the most rewarding profession. Personally, I would agree. I will continue to complain about each day and its misadventures. I will continue to dread the smell of the combined force of 150 hygienically-challenged African children. I will continue to bite my lower lip and refrain from raising my hand to these students when they continually tempt me to exercise their understanding of discipline. But I reap the reward of knowing what it is like to be a teacher. I reap the reward that comes with being a teacher. In four weeks, I have seen 150 students go from struggling to learn how to draw a straight line, conceptualizing the difference between left and right, to writing simple sentences in french. Four weeks ago, few if any of these students had ever been challenged to scrutinize the written word. To be able to witness the beginnings of formal education for these students will stay with me for ever. Right up there with the smell.
j
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Joel Turner, unofficial school teacher. School began the first week of October. In an attempt to make myself a more permanent fixture at the school, I asked the school director if there was anything I could do to help. It felt like I was asking a family friend if he had any summer work for me. Like mowing lawns or scraping paint off an old shed. The director mentioned that there were two classes unacceptably over capacity. CP1 and CP2 (Kindergarten and 1st grade, respectively) have a combined enrollment of 290 students. Two classrooms. Two teachers. That is an average student/teacher ratio of 145:1. I was not about to deny his offer (rather, plea) to assist these teachers in their duties. A few days later, our school was fortunate enough to acquire an extra teacher, so my duties were reduced to simply assisting my counterpart, Madame Guigma, in CP1.
The past four weeks have been among the most enriching in my entire Peace Corps service. Never have I had such an extreme range of emotions. I have never been more frustrated. I have never been more in awe of the skill required to teach. I have never been so angry. I have never been so humbled. Bold statements, I know, but simply passing the mornings in the CP1 classroom has taught me a lot. I will try to begin to describe some of which I have learned.
The Class.
I would have thought that after 17 months in this country, I had been exposed to the most audacious scents Burkina has to offer. I was wrong. Picture this. A classroom about the size of your normal high school room suitable for 20-26 16 year olds. Tin roof. Poor ventilation. 30 bench-style desks that seat 5 (yes FIVE) students per desk (do the math 30 x 5). 145-150 six year-olds that bathe perhaps once a week. They cough, they sneeze, they have dried mucus tattooed to their upper lips, they have pink eye and influenza and other nasty infections. The aisles between desks are almost too narrow for the students to pass through, nevermind adults. Even if I could describe the smell that usually arrives at about 8:30 am, every morning and manages to stay with me all day long, I wouldn’t wish to expose you all to such writing.
So there is the smell. I have learned to essentially turn off my nose in Burkina Faso, and while the CP1 class has proven to be quite a challenge to this talent of mine, I can still “shut it out” if you will. The sound, however, is difficult to regulate unless I put cotton swabs in my ears and that, well, would just look silly. I have found that disciplining children that outnumber me 150 to 1 is difficult when I a) am a strange tall white guy b) speak little Moore c) know they speak zero French d) know that they know that I will not, under any circumstances hit them for their bad behavior...unlike every other teacher in the school. Even though the kids are incapable off drawing a straight line, they are smart enough to know that I will not reprimand them for their actions in any serious fashion. Therefore, loud, raucous children essentially roam free when I am alone in the class with them.
Spare the rod...please?
According to the law books here in Burkina Faso, corporal punishment is illegal. Every teacher knows this. But everybody knows that every teacher hits. I always knew that teachers hit students. After spending four weeks in CP1, I have still not grown accustomed to watching, idly, while a six year-old is being whipped over the head for misbehaving or simply mispronouncing the word “Bonjour.”. Teachers tell me, emphatically, that it is a necessary practice to properly discipline the children. Even though I know the students do not respect me because I do not hit, I still completely and passionately disagree. In my most adamant of opinions, they hit because they are lazy. Teachers tell me that these kids are different from the kids in the United States. They need to be hit in order to improve their performance. Again, I disagree. Aside from a gross lack in life chances and social capital, these kids are no different from their six year-old counterparts in the United States public school system. The difference is the United States public school system has practically streamlined the idea of positive reinforcement when interacting with youth. It is so prevalent, in fact, that it is no longer considered a technique so much as a standard of teaching youth.
I am confident that long after I leave this country, students will continue to receive multiple lashings on the head with a thick rubber belt for mispronouncing a word. This does discourage me. And I will continue to do what I can to promote a more friendly environment for students, but I am not operating under the assumption that my efforts will bear fruit.
The Reward
If one was to take a verbal poll, I would guarantee that a sample of any given population would consider teaching to be the most rewarding profession. Personally, I would agree. I will continue to complain about each day and its misadventures. I will continue to dread the smell of the combined force of 150 hygienically-challenged African children. I will continue to bite my lower lip and refrain from raising my hand to these students when they continually tempt me to exercise their understanding of discipline. But I reap the reward of knowing what it is like to be a teacher. I reap the reward that comes with being a teacher. In four weeks, I have seen 150 students go from struggling to learn how to draw a straight line, conceptualizing the difference between left and right, to writing simple sentences in french. Four weeks ago, few if any of these students had ever been challenged to scrutinize the written word. To be able to witness the beginnings of formal education for these students will stay with me for ever. Right up there with the smell.
j
Jaded
I recently looked up the word “development” in my thesaurus. I have become quite obsessed with words as of late, as I am studying intensively for the GRE. Among the listed words were many concinnate and rather apt comparisons (evolving, upgrowth, advance, progression, flowering, etc.). One word, however, caught me off-guard. “Ongoing” sat at the bottom of the list of synonyms, staring at me, as if it wants to say, “yes Joel, development is continuous.” Obviously, one can use the word “development” in a plethora of contexts, but I found the word “ongoing” strangely haunting and sadly appropriate when I think of the state of development here in Burkina Faso. On the surface, one would find nothing portentous about the connection between the two words; after all, they do seem to compliment one another. But as true as the connection is in almost any circumstance, in my current environment, I find the connection to be, well, saddening.
Let me tell you a story.
Last week, I was having lunch with my new neighbor Blaise, a CP1 (Kindergarten) teacher at the newly installed primary school (translated: a patch of sand under the shade of a baobab tree with a small desk for the teacher. The government has yet to provide an actual building for the students) south of Pobe-Mengao. We were listening to a radio station based out of Ouagadougou, where a forum was taking place on the subject of “the fight against poverty.” Much as Americans are saturated with catch phrases such as “The War on Terrorism," “The War on Drugs,” “The War on Illegally Downloaded Music,” and even "The War on obesity," the Burkinabe have “the fight against [insert fundamental problem here]” Blaise quickly interrupted the radio to say, “You know, that phrase just bothers me. 'The fight against poverty?’ Politicians, NGOs, and non-profits always talk about the fight against poverty, and look at this village. What has changed? We are still impoverished. They’re just words.”
He’s right. Things are improving every year, but at an unacceptably laggard pace. I felt compelled to jump in and provide my complimentary sentiments, but I restrained and asked him to elaborate on why he felt things were not improving. “Its quite simple, Joel. Too many people are invested in the poverty of Africa. If there is nothing to fight against, if there is no malaria, if there is no guinea worm, if there is no VIH/SIDA, if there is no poverty, there will be no more business for the men and women in their clean white SUVs. Poverty is a business.”
I had to hold back my desire to laud that which he had said. I agree with him to a desperate degree. Development has become a business. Development workers need something to develop if they are to stay in business. Development is “ongoing.” Clearly, this is not an auspicious realization. After all, do we not want to “make poverty history”?
Ultimately, these are massive themes, much too big for a lowly Peace Corps Volunteer to tackle. But I guess what I want to convey is this: For every day that passes here, my view of the world is constantly changing. My ideas towards development and poverty, what these terms mean and how they should be approached, is in constant flux. I do not deny that I have learned so much here in Burkina Faso. The fact that I am so confused about the world, its problems and how one should go about solving them is a testament to the amount in which I have learned. Before I came here, the ills of the world were a simple, albeit large problem, requiring a simple solution. I thought that perhaps the only obstacle was the question of means. I was confident that the solution was realized, but simply not yet attainable. I know better now. I know I have no idea.
I guess it sounds like I am a little jaded. I think I am. But I wear that label with an odd sense of pride. I am jaded, but hopeful. I am jaded, but I have not lost touch with my passion in life: Understanding people. It is easy to get lost in the nebulous complexities of development theory. When I feel I am becoming too detached, I think about the friendships created here, I think about the connections made, and yes, some of the work I have done. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I have the utmost faith in the grassroots level of development. It is indisputably the most human level, but all the same the most volatile. To find out what I mean, keep your eyes peeled for my next post, which will probably be written in the next 12 hours. After all, I am sure you all would rather hear about what I am doing as opposed to what I am thinking.
In any event, enjoy the day. And of course, be well.
j
Let me tell you a story.
Last week, I was having lunch with my new neighbor Blaise, a CP1 (Kindergarten) teacher at the newly installed primary school (translated: a patch of sand under the shade of a baobab tree with a small desk for the teacher. The government has yet to provide an actual building for the students) south of Pobe-Mengao. We were listening to a radio station based out of Ouagadougou, where a forum was taking place on the subject of “the fight against poverty.” Much as Americans are saturated with catch phrases such as “The War on Terrorism," “The War on Drugs,” “The War on Illegally Downloaded Music,” and even "The War on obesity," the Burkinabe have “the fight against [insert fundamental problem here]” Blaise quickly interrupted the radio to say, “You know, that phrase just bothers me. 'The fight against poverty?’ Politicians, NGOs, and non-profits always talk about the fight against poverty, and look at this village. What has changed? We are still impoverished. They’re just words.”
He’s right. Things are improving every year, but at an unacceptably laggard pace. I felt compelled to jump in and provide my complimentary sentiments, but I restrained and asked him to elaborate on why he felt things were not improving. “Its quite simple, Joel. Too many people are invested in the poverty of Africa. If there is nothing to fight against, if there is no malaria, if there is no guinea worm, if there is no VIH/SIDA, if there is no poverty, there will be no more business for the men and women in their clean white SUVs. Poverty is a business.”
I had to hold back my desire to laud that which he had said. I agree with him to a desperate degree. Development has become a business. Development workers need something to develop if they are to stay in business. Development is “ongoing.” Clearly, this is not an auspicious realization. After all, do we not want to “make poverty history”?
Ultimately, these are massive themes, much too big for a lowly Peace Corps Volunteer to tackle. But I guess what I want to convey is this: For every day that passes here, my view of the world is constantly changing. My ideas towards development and poverty, what these terms mean and how they should be approached, is in constant flux. I do not deny that I have learned so much here in Burkina Faso. The fact that I am so confused about the world, its problems and how one should go about solving them is a testament to the amount in which I have learned. Before I came here, the ills of the world were a simple, albeit large problem, requiring a simple solution. I thought that perhaps the only obstacle was the question of means. I was confident that the solution was realized, but simply not yet attainable. I know better now. I know I have no idea.
I guess it sounds like I am a little jaded. I think I am. But I wear that label with an odd sense of pride. I am jaded, but hopeful. I am jaded, but I have not lost touch with my passion in life: Understanding people. It is easy to get lost in the nebulous complexities of development theory. When I feel I am becoming too detached, I think about the friendships created here, I think about the connections made, and yes, some of the work I have done. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I have the utmost faith in the grassroots level of development. It is indisputably the most human level, but all the same the most volatile. To find out what I mean, keep your eyes peeled for my next post, which will probably be written in the next 12 hours. After all, I am sure you all would rather hear about what I am doing as opposed to what I am thinking.
In any event, enjoy the day. And of course, be well.
j
Friday, October 05, 2007
Don't take my word for it.
The following was written by Shannon Potter, my good she-chum who, in the wet month of August, hopped on Mystery Air Flight ??? to Ouagadougou. Objective? Pay old high school friend a visit in Burkina Faso. In an attempt to show you, my readership, a new perspective on life in Burkina, I have provided, in unabridged fashion, the musings of Ms. Potter. I hope you find what she had to say fascinating and moving. I think you will.
Do enjoy.
-Joel
Hi friends! Well. Here I am, writing another update email. I’ll warn you now that this one will be the longest and definitely the least funny to date. Read this only if you have at least 10 minutes to spare and are in the mood for a heavy topic. Otherwise, save it until those conditions are met…
So I went to Africa for 16 days. West Africa. A little country called Burkina Faso. Raise your hand if you've heard of it. Burkina Faso is a little country about the size of the Czech Republic sandwiched between Ghana and Mali in the western part of Africa. (It's nowhere near Darfur, in case you're wondering). It gets only a handful of tourists per year, mainly because it doesn't have much to offer. I was told that it's the 4th poorest country in the world. I believe it.
My buddy Joel (with whom I have been friends since 8th grade) is in the Peace Corps doing development work in Burkina. He’s been there since June 2006. I’m in this travel kick, and I’ve always wanted to see Africa, so I figured now would be the best time to go. Especially since I’m geographically closer to Africa than if I were still in the States. So I packed my backpack, got some vaccinations, bought some sunscreen and took off for Africa!
The first thing I noticed was the smell: dust and exhaust and oil and fire and human waste and sweat and cooking food and… who knows what else. The air was extremely humid and thus thick with this indescribable olfactory onslaught. The first few days were a constant jumble of this type of overstimulation. We were in the capital city, Ouagadougou, for about 6 days, in the second largest city, Ouahigouya, for a few days, and the rest of the time was spent in Joel’s village. Let me say here that in the majority of villages there is no electricity and no running water. The depth of this is hard to envision. I thought before I went: “I’ve been camping before; I know how to rough it!” Let me also say here that when you go camping, you can go to the outhouse for a shower every couple of days. You can go to the convenience store and buy ice for your beer. You can buy beer. You can lie on the beach or go hiking (i.e., partake in an entertaining activity). Not so in rural West Africa. Life in these conditions is impenetrably hard. In Joel’s village (which is a decent sized village of 5,000 people), you can’t even buy vegetables. You want a tomato, you take a bush taxi 25k to the next village over.
So I travelled like the locals, ate like the locals, hung out in the dark and crapped in a hole in the ground like the locals. Joel has one of four latrines in his village. Four. And all of them are more or less private. This means that in a village of 5,000 people, 4,996 of them are doing their business wherever the inclination strikes. Considering that many serious diseases (e.coli, for example) are spread via human fecal matter, it isn’t difficult to understand the inherent problems in containing these diseases. There’s human crap literally everywhere.
Joel told me before I went to Burkina Faso: You’ll be able to see the plight of Africa firsthand in all its glory, because in Burkina, plight abounds. I was anxious to get some kind of perspective on this plight, but when I did see it up close and personal, I didn’t even know how to characterize it. The Burkinabe have a saying: The foreigner has eyes but cannot see. That’s how I felt. I can never comprehend their way of life, only observe from an indefinite distance.
I did realize a couple of things about the “Africa problem” that surprised me While it most certainly is multi-faceted (and to even call it the “Africa problem” is really quite unfair, since there are 49 separate countries in Africa, each with their own set of issues), there are two very major players: the Western world and Africa itself.
Developed nations are truly doing a lot in the name of development, health, and education. Billions of dollars in aid are given, and volunteers (like Joel) dedicate their lives to these efforts. But there’s definitely something in it for the givers. As it turns out, there are a lot of rich people getting richer off of helping a small number of poor people. Example: Burkina grows green beans. France buys green beans. France gives itself a pat on the back for helping a poor African country (eases guilt a bit for that whole colonization thing). France cans green beans. France sends canned product back to Burkina and sells it at 10x the cost. France profits. Burkina suffers. The West is doing so much in the name of development, but what they aren't doing (and the absence is notable) is enabling the people to get from raw product to finished product. They aren’t willing to do this because of the effects on their own economies. Teach a man to fish and he’ll stop buying fish from your market…
But do the Burkinabe want to learn how to fish? This was unclear to me. The Burkinabe are most definitely aware of modernization, and they want to be rich and healthy and more comfortable, but they seem at the same time content with their simple way of life. They seem to want the impossible, which is modernity on top of traditionalism. This paradox was most evident in the fact that most villagers have cell phones. They have no electricity, their water comes from a well, their homes are made of rudimentary sun-dried mud-bricks, yet they are one SMS away from instant international communication. With wealth and development, they lose simplicity. They might have to trade it for western-style conveniences. From our perspective, that’s a good thing, but from the perspective of a group who has maintained certain traditions and a certain lifestyle for thousands of years, a certain reluctance is likely.
It's the rainy season now, and this was the first time I've seen firsthand how a group of people can have such a love/hate relationship with nature. It rains for 3 months of the year, during which they farm and stockpile all of the food that they will need for the remaining 9 months. They depend on the rainy season as their primary means of survival. But at the same time, it is a deadly means. The lack of infrastructure is such that after a medium to heavy rain, roads are destroyed, people are stranded, reservoirs flood, and people drown. The first day we arrived in Joel’s village, a man from the area had been trying to cross the road over a nearby reservoir on his motorcycle when he was swept away into the water. They didn’t find his body for a couple of days.
The rain was a large part of my experience in Burkina. My absolute favorite experience involved a bus ride from the village of Titao to Joel’s village, Pobé. Let me interject here that when you pay for transportation in Burkina Faso, you’re not just paying to get from Point A to Point B, you’re paying for excitement! Adventure! Entertainment! Each time guaranteed. So we’re on this bus about 5k from the village we just left, when the bus driver stops and instructs everyone to get out and go collect rocks from the river. Rocks. So everyone gets out, grabs large rocks, and stows them in the baggage compartments under the bus (the token white people included). Meanwhile, we have no idea what the rocks are for. Some of our speculations included: he’s selling them; perhaps a suspension problem with the bus; a landscaping project, etc. We get back in and keep on truckin for another 3k or so, when the bus stops again. This time we can see that there are three large vehicles stuck in the road. Upon further inspection (everyone immediately piled out of the bus to get a closer look), we see that there are massive flooded sinkholes all over the road. The three large vehicles (a livestock transport truck of some sort, a trailer with a big tractor on the back, and another bus just like ours) are stuck in the mud. Here we realize what the rocks are for: we get to fill in the holes and fix the road so our bus can continue. So we worked for a while unloading all of the rocks (there were probably hundreds), then the bus driver unceremoniously gets back in and barrels on through to the stable side of the road. People clapped, got back in, and we were on our merry way again.
A couple of things are notable about this experience. First, the fact that it happened at all. This sort of thing would not go over well in the US or in Prague. For one thing, if there’s a problem with the road, the Dept. of Transportation is called and a crew is sent out to fix it. No such department exists in Burkina, so the people have to fix these things themselves. Secondly, if the bus stopped for ANY reason, people would be irritated. If the bus driver asked you to do something, especially something that involved getting dirty, phone calls and angry threats would be made. Money-back would be demanded. Not in Burkina. People complied with whatever was asked of them with a smile on their faces. Everyone helped: old people, women with babies on their backs, there was even a guy on crutches. After we were back on the road, a guy came back and thanked us for our hard work. I learned through this experience about the “togetherness” that these people live by.
A few days after I got back to Prague, I saw a BBC news report about how the floods in that part of West Africa had reached emergency status, the worst they had been in living memory. In Ghana alone, over half a million people were homeless (I see now how this is possible, since their homes are built with bricks made of dirt, straw, cow crap, and water) and many crops were destroyed. This is major: we're talking widespread famine, disease outbreak, malaria... So I saw the one article, and then no update, nothing else on any other news source. There’s (right now!) a huge humanitarian crisis affecting millions of people, and no one even knows about it. The reality is that it isn’t newsworthy because it isn’t news; it’s the status quo. The plight of Africa.
I think I fell in love with this little country. I know that most of what I’ve said about Burkina Faso has probably portrayed it as a miserable place, but that most certainly is not the case. There are so many beautiful and admirable aspects of this place and these people, and I truly have much more to say. Sorry (for those of you who were patient enough to read this whole thing) that this email wasn’t funny. But in truth, these are the most significant things that I want to share about my experience, not the silly adventures I had in a latrine, or on a rented bike, or in a dance club (although those are funny, and I’ll get to them eventually…).
At any rate, I’ll be writing much more about this topic, and if you’re interested, let me know. Women, ethnic groups, languages, food, beer (which I'm convinced was actually bottled goat urine masquerading as beer), cockroaches, giardia, sheep testicles, and much much more.
Funny stories to come.
-Shannon
Do enjoy.
-Joel
Hi friends! Well. Here I am, writing another update email. I’ll warn you now that this one will be the longest and definitely the least funny to date. Read this only if you have at least 10 minutes to spare and are in the mood for a heavy topic. Otherwise, save it until those conditions are met…
So I went to Africa for 16 days. West Africa. A little country called Burkina Faso. Raise your hand if you've heard of it. Burkina Faso is a little country about the size of the Czech Republic sandwiched between Ghana and Mali in the western part of Africa. (It's nowhere near Darfur, in case you're wondering). It gets only a handful of tourists per year, mainly because it doesn't have much to offer. I was told that it's the 4th poorest country in the world. I believe it.
My buddy Joel (with whom I have been friends since 8th grade) is in the Peace Corps doing development work in Burkina. He’s been there since June 2006. I’m in this travel kick, and I’ve always wanted to see Africa, so I figured now would be the best time to go. Especially since I’m geographically closer to Africa than if I were still in the States. So I packed my backpack, got some vaccinations, bought some sunscreen and took off for Africa!
The first thing I noticed was the smell: dust and exhaust and oil and fire and human waste and sweat and cooking food and… who knows what else. The air was extremely humid and thus thick with this indescribable olfactory onslaught. The first few days were a constant jumble of this type of overstimulation. We were in the capital city, Ouagadougou, for about 6 days, in the second largest city, Ouahigouya, for a few days, and the rest of the time was spent in Joel’s village. Let me say here that in the majority of villages there is no electricity and no running water. The depth of this is hard to envision. I thought before I went: “I’ve been camping before; I know how to rough it!” Let me also say here that when you go camping, you can go to the outhouse for a shower every couple of days. You can go to the convenience store and buy ice for your beer. You can buy beer. You can lie on the beach or go hiking (i.e., partake in an entertaining activity). Not so in rural West Africa. Life in these conditions is impenetrably hard. In Joel’s village (which is a decent sized village of 5,000 people), you can’t even buy vegetables. You want a tomato, you take a bush taxi 25k to the next village over.
So I travelled like the locals, ate like the locals, hung out in the dark and crapped in a hole in the ground like the locals. Joel has one of four latrines in his village. Four. And all of them are more or less private. This means that in a village of 5,000 people, 4,996 of them are doing their business wherever the inclination strikes. Considering that many serious diseases (e.coli, for example) are spread via human fecal matter, it isn’t difficult to understand the inherent problems in containing these diseases. There’s human crap literally everywhere.
Joel told me before I went to Burkina Faso: You’ll be able to see the plight of Africa firsthand in all its glory, because in Burkina, plight abounds. I was anxious to get some kind of perspective on this plight, but when I did see it up close and personal, I didn’t even know how to characterize it. The Burkinabe have a saying: The foreigner has eyes but cannot see. That’s how I felt. I can never comprehend their way of life, only observe from an indefinite distance.
I did realize a couple of things about the “Africa problem” that surprised me While it most certainly is multi-faceted (and to even call it the “Africa problem” is really quite unfair, since there are 49 separate countries in Africa, each with their own set of issues), there are two very major players: the Western world and Africa itself.
Developed nations are truly doing a lot in the name of development, health, and education. Billions of dollars in aid are given, and volunteers (like Joel) dedicate their lives to these efforts. But there’s definitely something in it for the givers. As it turns out, there are a lot of rich people getting richer off of helping a small number of poor people. Example: Burkina grows green beans. France buys green beans. France gives itself a pat on the back for helping a poor African country (eases guilt a bit for that whole colonization thing). France cans green beans. France sends canned product back to Burkina and sells it at 10x the cost. France profits. Burkina suffers. The West is doing so much in the name of development, but what they aren't doing (and the absence is notable) is enabling the people to get from raw product to finished product. They aren’t willing to do this because of the effects on their own economies. Teach a man to fish and he’ll stop buying fish from your market…
But do the Burkinabe want to learn how to fish? This was unclear to me. The Burkinabe are most definitely aware of modernization, and they want to be rich and healthy and more comfortable, but they seem at the same time content with their simple way of life. They seem to want the impossible, which is modernity on top of traditionalism. This paradox was most evident in the fact that most villagers have cell phones. They have no electricity, their water comes from a well, their homes are made of rudimentary sun-dried mud-bricks, yet they are one SMS away from instant international communication. With wealth and development, they lose simplicity. They might have to trade it for western-style conveniences. From our perspective, that’s a good thing, but from the perspective of a group who has maintained certain traditions and a certain lifestyle for thousands of years, a certain reluctance is likely.
It's the rainy season now, and this was the first time I've seen firsthand how a group of people can have such a love/hate relationship with nature. It rains for 3 months of the year, during which they farm and stockpile all of the food that they will need for the remaining 9 months. They depend on the rainy season as their primary means of survival. But at the same time, it is a deadly means. The lack of infrastructure is such that after a medium to heavy rain, roads are destroyed, people are stranded, reservoirs flood, and people drown. The first day we arrived in Joel’s village, a man from the area had been trying to cross the road over a nearby reservoir on his motorcycle when he was swept away into the water. They didn’t find his body for a couple of days.
The rain was a large part of my experience in Burkina. My absolute favorite experience involved a bus ride from the village of Titao to Joel’s village, Pobé. Let me interject here that when you pay for transportation in Burkina Faso, you’re not just paying to get from Point A to Point B, you’re paying for excitement! Adventure! Entertainment! Each time guaranteed. So we’re on this bus about 5k from the village we just left, when the bus driver stops and instructs everyone to get out and go collect rocks from the river. Rocks. So everyone gets out, grabs large rocks, and stows them in the baggage compartments under the bus (the token white people included). Meanwhile, we have no idea what the rocks are for. Some of our speculations included: he’s selling them; perhaps a suspension problem with the bus; a landscaping project, etc. We get back in and keep on truckin for another 3k or so, when the bus stops again. This time we can see that there are three large vehicles stuck in the road. Upon further inspection (everyone immediately piled out of the bus to get a closer look), we see that there are massive flooded sinkholes all over the road. The three large vehicles (a livestock transport truck of some sort, a trailer with a big tractor on the back, and another bus just like ours) are stuck in the mud. Here we realize what the rocks are for: we get to fill in the holes and fix the road so our bus can continue. So we worked for a while unloading all of the rocks (there were probably hundreds), then the bus driver unceremoniously gets back in and barrels on through to the stable side of the road. People clapped, got back in, and we were on our merry way again.
A couple of things are notable about this experience. First, the fact that it happened at all. This sort of thing would not go over well in the US or in Prague. For one thing, if there’s a problem with the road, the Dept. of Transportation is called and a crew is sent out to fix it. No such department exists in Burkina, so the people have to fix these things themselves. Secondly, if the bus stopped for ANY reason, people would be irritated. If the bus driver asked you to do something, especially something that involved getting dirty, phone calls and angry threats would be made. Money-back would be demanded. Not in Burkina. People complied with whatever was asked of them with a smile on their faces. Everyone helped: old people, women with babies on their backs, there was even a guy on crutches. After we were back on the road, a guy came back and thanked us for our hard work. I learned through this experience about the “togetherness” that these people live by.
A few days after I got back to Prague, I saw a BBC news report about how the floods in that part of West Africa had reached emergency status, the worst they had been in living memory. In Ghana alone, over half a million people were homeless (I see now how this is possible, since their homes are built with bricks made of dirt, straw, cow crap, and water) and many crops were destroyed. This is major: we're talking widespread famine, disease outbreak, malaria... So I saw the one article, and then no update, nothing else on any other news source. There’s (right now!) a huge humanitarian crisis affecting millions of people, and no one even knows about it. The reality is that it isn’t newsworthy because it isn’t news; it’s the status quo. The plight of Africa.
I think I fell in love with this little country. I know that most of what I’ve said about Burkina Faso has probably portrayed it as a miserable place, but that most certainly is not the case. There are so many beautiful and admirable aspects of this place and these people, and I truly have much more to say. Sorry (for those of you who were patient enough to read this whole thing) that this email wasn’t funny. But in truth, these are the most significant things that I want to share about my experience, not the silly adventures I had in a latrine, or on a rented bike, or in a dance club (although those are funny, and I’ll get to them eventually…).
At any rate, I’ll be writing much more about this topic, and if you’re interested, let me know. Women, ethnic groups, languages, food, beer (which I'm convinced was actually bottled goat urine masquerading as beer), cockroaches, giardia, sheep testicles, and much much more.
Funny stories to come.
-Shannon
Friday, September 14, 2007
The Scoop.
The ides of September are upon us and all I can say is, "finally."
This blog is coming to you all in the spirit of urgency. After spending a summer with frequent access to the Internet, I have taken for granted the fact that I can write a blog, at practically any moment, updating you all on my misadventures. Sufficed to say, I have made a few entries since May, but it is by no means proportionate to the frequency in which I have been connected. So, urgency. I say this, because in one day, I return to my village, for good. As in, I have no more summer conferences, no more trainings to facilitate, no more trips to Ghana, no more Internet at my disposal to type up a blog, no more High School friends showing up to get a taste (or rather an odiferous whiff) of Burkina.
It is time to go back home and actually do what I am supposed to do.
Here's a news-ticker layout of what's been and what will be going on in my life.
Shannon visits Burkina Faso amid mosquito bites and threats of e.coli
My wonderful and tall friend since 8th grade Shannon made her way down to Burkina in August. While we didn't see all the exotic sites, I am so happy to know that she was able to see a little bit of the life here. She battled mosquito torture and gastrointestinal acrobatics in the name of visiting a friend in a far away land. Thank you Shannon for making the trip!
Rain Continues to Fall, Villagers in the North Happy and Saturated
Even though the wonderfully temperate month of August has passed, the rain continues to fall as the temperature begins to rise once again. Reports from up north suggest that this should be a strong harvest, high yields and the like.
Workshop in Ouaga Leaves Joel Enlightened and Exhausted Beyond Belief
Today was the 5th and final day of a collaboration-based workshop including 9 Girls Education PCVs, members of our APEs/AMEs (Association of the Parents of Students/Association of Mothers of Students), and key members of the Ministry of Primary Education. It was our attempt to devise tangible strategies by which PCVs can work more effectively in Primary Schools and with our APEs/AMEs. It was an exhausting week, and while much of the work we have done is in the roughest of draft form, it is still exciting to know that efforts are being made to make our sector, the education and empowerment of girls, a more focused and effective branch of the Peace Corps Burkina program. In time, the work that we have done this week will reveal itself in the form of a manual for both volunteers and their respective APEs/AMEs. To this date, we have no such manual to help guide us in the field. We're like the Continental Congress of GEE Burkina, if you will. Except I don't wear tight pants and a white wig.
Joel Returns to his Site.
That's right, in one day I will be returning to my village, with no real intentions of leaving anytime soon. The school year is to start in less than two weeks. That should be enough time for me to settle back into my village routine before putting all that I have learned this past summer into good practice.
A few work ideas I am throwing around:
1. Women's Association: We finally turned in our paperwork to the government powers that be in an attempt to receive official association status. I have taken on a much more behind the scenes role in this project, mainly because I am of the belief that if this Association is to survive, they will need to show motivation without my presence. I do not, nor should I be, the figurehead of the association (never mind the fact that I am a guy).
2. APE/AME training: I hope to hold a series of meetings with both my APE and AME in Pobe-Mengao in an attempt to re-train the bureau members on their roles and responsibilities. In doing this, I hope to garner a higher level of motivation and responsibility on the part of the positioned members.
3. Birth Certificate Bonanza: For whatever reason, students must have a birth certificate in order to take the CEP exam (the exam necessary to pass out of Primary School). Furthermore, students must obtain their birth certificate before their 2nd year of Primary school if they wish to continue on to secondary school. Everyone follow? SO, it is my hope that in the following months, we can develop a practically fool-proof system of ensuring that EVERY student in their first year of Primary School acquires their birth certificate. Easier said than done, and while the logistics are not completely hashed out, the President of my APE and I have drafted a proposed plan. The main issue is the cost. It currently costs 600 f.cfa ($1.30) to obtain a birth certificate. While this isn't an impossible sum for a village family, it is certainly something, and given the relative lack of understanding on the part of many parents on the importance of obtaining Birth Certificates EARLY, it makes sense why there is such a high number of students without B.C.'s. I'll keep you all posted on its progress.
4. Debate Club: Same as last year. Plan to start the club in October with interested secondary school students.
5. Other stuff. I'll keep you all posted!
America. iPod Nanos, Big Macs, Ryan Seacrest...December arrival imminent
Tickets. Bought. Sitting in the book I am reading. I'm coming home for the holidays! I plan to arrive in Motown the 19th of December. I'll only spend a few days there before heading with my family to KC for Christmas. I should be in the land of everything one needs until the 3rd of January. I will then spend 4 days in Morocco, soaking up the sights before my return to the Faso.
Obituary. Summer 2007-2007.
It's been a long road since May. But all seemingly endless things must eventually, in theory, come to an end. I think the Summer of 2007 is one of those things.
For those of you with the means, enjoy Autumn for me. What I wouldn't give to rake some leaves. Be well, everyone, and thank you for reading.
Joel
This blog is coming to you all in the spirit of urgency. After spending a summer with frequent access to the Internet, I have taken for granted the fact that I can write a blog, at practically any moment, updating you all on my misadventures. Sufficed to say, I have made a few entries since May, but it is by no means proportionate to the frequency in which I have been connected. So, urgency. I say this, because in one day, I return to my village, for good. As in, I have no more summer conferences, no more trainings to facilitate, no more trips to Ghana, no more Internet at my disposal to type up a blog, no more High School friends showing up to get a taste (or rather an odiferous whiff) of Burkina.
It is time to go back home and actually do what I am supposed to do.
Here's a news-ticker layout of what's been and what will be going on in my life.
Shannon visits Burkina Faso amid mosquito bites and threats of e.coli
My wonderful and tall friend since 8th grade Shannon made her way down to Burkina in August. While we didn't see all the exotic sites, I am so happy to know that she was able to see a little bit of the life here. She battled mosquito torture and gastrointestinal acrobatics in the name of visiting a friend in a far away land. Thank you Shannon for making the trip!
Rain Continues to Fall, Villagers in the North Happy and Saturated
Even though the wonderfully temperate month of August has passed, the rain continues to fall as the temperature begins to rise once again. Reports from up north suggest that this should be a strong harvest, high yields and the like.
Workshop in Ouaga Leaves Joel Enlightened and Exhausted Beyond Belief
Today was the 5th and final day of a collaboration-based workshop including 9 Girls Education PCVs, members of our APEs/AMEs (Association of the Parents of Students/Association of Mothers of Students), and key members of the Ministry of Primary Education. It was our attempt to devise tangible strategies by which PCVs can work more effectively in Primary Schools and with our APEs/AMEs. It was an exhausting week, and while much of the work we have done is in the roughest of draft form, it is still exciting to know that efforts are being made to make our sector, the education and empowerment of girls, a more focused and effective branch of the Peace Corps Burkina program. In time, the work that we have done this week will reveal itself in the form of a manual for both volunteers and their respective APEs/AMEs. To this date, we have no such manual to help guide us in the field. We're like the Continental Congress of GEE Burkina, if you will. Except I don't wear tight pants and a white wig.
Joel Returns to his Site.
That's right, in one day I will be returning to my village, with no real intentions of leaving anytime soon. The school year is to start in less than two weeks. That should be enough time for me to settle back into my village routine before putting all that I have learned this past summer into good practice.
A few work ideas I am throwing around:
1. Women's Association: We finally turned in our paperwork to the government powers that be in an attempt to receive official association status. I have taken on a much more behind the scenes role in this project, mainly because I am of the belief that if this Association is to survive, they will need to show motivation without my presence. I do not, nor should I be, the figurehead of the association (never mind the fact that I am a guy).
2. APE/AME training: I hope to hold a series of meetings with both my APE and AME in Pobe-Mengao in an attempt to re-train the bureau members on their roles and responsibilities. In doing this, I hope to garner a higher level of motivation and responsibility on the part of the positioned members.
3. Birth Certificate Bonanza: For whatever reason, students must have a birth certificate in order to take the CEP exam (the exam necessary to pass out of Primary School). Furthermore, students must obtain their birth certificate before their 2nd year of Primary school if they wish to continue on to secondary school. Everyone follow? SO, it is my hope that in the following months, we can develop a practically fool-proof system of ensuring that EVERY student in their first year of Primary School acquires their birth certificate. Easier said than done, and while the logistics are not completely hashed out, the President of my APE and I have drafted a proposed plan. The main issue is the cost. It currently costs 600 f.cfa ($1.30) to obtain a birth certificate. While this isn't an impossible sum for a village family, it is certainly something, and given the relative lack of understanding on the part of many parents on the importance of obtaining Birth Certificates EARLY, it makes sense why there is such a high number of students without B.C.'s. I'll keep you all posted on its progress.
4. Debate Club: Same as last year. Plan to start the club in October with interested secondary school students.
5. Other stuff. I'll keep you all posted!
America. iPod Nanos, Big Macs, Ryan Seacrest...December arrival imminent
Tickets. Bought. Sitting in the book I am reading. I'm coming home for the holidays! I plan to arrive in Motown the 19th of December. I'll only spend a few days there before heading with my family to KC for Christmas. I should be in the land of everything one needs until the 3rd of January. I will then spend 4 days in Morocco, soaking up the sights before my return to the Faso.
Obituary. Summer 2007-2007.
It's been a long road since May. But all seemingly endless things must eventually, in theory, come to an end. I think the Summer of 2007 is one of those things.
For those of you with the means, enjoy Autumn for me. What I wouldn't give to rake some leaves. Be well, everyone, and thank you for reading.
Joel
Friday, August 10, 2007
Dark Continent, Iluminated?
“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to save the world and a desire to savor the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”
-E.B. White
What is the Africa Question, anyway? I once thought I knew it. To add to such audacity, there was a time when I thought that maybe, just perhaps, I knew the answer. The reality is there are as many answers to the Africa Question as there are Africa Questions. To say it is a complex continent does not even begin scratch the surface of the issue. To highlight this aphorism, try beginning to understand the intricacies of one African country. Then try to understand the intricacies of one ethnic group within one country. For every step towards the specific, you find that using the word “complex” to describe
After personally accepting the fact that I probably will never understand the etiology of the plight of
The other day I was having a conversation with a fellow GEE volunteer. Tim is nearing his close of service and is in the process applying to
It is both exciting and incredibly frustrating being at the bottom looking up. Amid it all, I believe that grass-roots development is the most effective, rewarding form. The conversations, debates and stories I have shared with my friends in village will always remain. If I am able to leave knowing that I helped one student understand the concept and importance of critical thinking and independent thought, I would consider my two years a success. But it all has its drawbacks. For it is at the grass-roots level that you cannot escape the frequent realization that perhaps our work here is making no measurable difference. On a macro, bureaucratic level, where figures and statistics are the language of development, it is very easy to be optomistic.
My biggest challenge is fostering sustainability with my efforts in village. I don't want my projects and activities to exist in a vaccum. It is very hard not to throw money at things in village. Kids don't have enough notebooks? Sure I'll give the school $30 bucks so they can buy 120 notebooks. I'll feel good and then 1/5 of my school will have one notebook for one subject. But what happens next year? Will I give another $30 dollars? Is it not better to work with the school to find a locally feasible, sustainable approach to ensuring that students will have enough school supplies? It is better, but it is fighting against the status quo. Altruism and charity, in many respects, has hurt my village, especially my school. Why should a school director try to find ways to raise money for more desks when there is the constant possibility that some NGO from
I guess it all comes down to how you look at it. I try to see through the incessant requests for cash and focus on the core needs, all the while evaluating to what extent I can be of help. I've never given a cent to a cause in village (aside from buying tea for those that come to the Women's Association meetings), and I'd like to think that I am still welcome. Just as Africans have come to expect money, many of us from the economic north feel it natural to give what we can in dollar signs. It is a challenge, and I am still trying to rid myself of such instincts. I am still confident that change can occur without grants or gifts.
Depending upon how you define development, it can be said things are getting better. Africa, the
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
13 months, 2 weeks
"C'est pas facile, deh?" With an obligatory smile, I assure the bush taxi driver that I have been in many a cramped vehicle in an attempt to get from point A to point B. So as I climb into the very very back of the tiny Peugeot truck, I throw a couple parting blessings to my colleagues in Korunfé, I soak up the fresh air that came with barreling down a pot-holed, washed out road at 50 mph....and I realize, this is unique.
And sometimes, a little fun.
If a friend or other loved one was able to come visit me for just one day, one 24 hour period of time, I would take them on public transport. A close neighbor of mine once said, "I never feel more like a volunteer than when I am on transport." I have no choice but to agree with her. Few other experiences offer a traveler with such a candid, inviting look into the life and culture of Burkinabés. So many of my favorite memories come from going between point A and B. Whether it is riding in the back of a truck with two camels and a cow or it is helping push the bus through a waist-deep river, few transport experiences are without memories.
"You see the thing is," a friend starts, "your bus is either going to get you there on time or you're going to have a good story to tell when you get to your destination. Either way, the trip allows itself to be worth it." I've made it halfway through my service here in Burkina Faso. If one was to ask me in what way have I changed the most, I would say that I have perfected the art of patience. I know many would be quick to compliment me on such an accomplishment. But while I do see it as an accomplishment, it was anything but a voluntary undertaking. It is, for lack of a better explanation, a means of survival, being a 20-something from the West, transported, courtesy Air France into the daily grind of a land not forgotten, but simply never known.
So whether I am sitting on the side of the road, profiting from the shade of the tiny Peugeot, waiting for the driver to walk 5km to the nearest town to find a litre of gasoline, or I am sitting in an empty classroom, waiting for people to show so a meeting can start, I have learned that here in the Faso, patience is not simply a virtue, it is also a necessity.
I know it may not seem it, but sometimes, it isn't easy.
Here's the thing: for me, a one Joel D. Turner, PCV Burkina Faso, hindsight most certainly is not 20/20. Rather, it is cotton candy, balloons and gumballs, sno cones and other things that are sweet and wonderful. I didn't choose this method of outlook, but alas, I air on the side of positive. But it really isn't always like that. It just depends on how you look at it all. I could have hopped into that mini truck which happened to have 31 passengers (this truck is the size of a Buick LeSabre) and had the most discouraging, horrible day of my service up to that point. It was hot, I had a goat strapped above me that could have decided to relieve its bladder at any moment, a young child was expelling her mucus onto my pants, and an old man was trying to give me his grand-daughter as a cadeaux. But you have to take things in stride.
While it is true that I have reached the halfway point of my Peace Corps service, the reality is that I am much more than halfway through it all. After all, I applied for Peace Corps 16 months before I left for the Faso. While I wasn't picking rocks out of my lunch in the heat the entire time, Peace Corps has definitely been a part of my life for longer than the last 13 months and two weeks.
So what does this all mean? Mid-Service Crisis. No, I'm not going to go out and buy a Camel or anything rash like that...but it is a significant period of reflection for many volunteers. Peace Corps has been a part of my life for some time now, and the thought that it will some day (within the next year, give or take) be a thing of the past is a very sobering reality. Life in Burkina is real in every way America is fake...and Peace Corps Burkina is fake in every way America is real. I have no genetically modified tomatoes nor re-runs of Melrose Place, but I have no credit card bills nor junk mail. Same same but different, only...different.
Logistically speaking, I am here in Ouaga this week doing (incidentally) Mid-service medical. It is not a comprehensive medical check, but I do get a physical, dental check-up, and I even get to poop into a cup three times over the course of three days to see if I have any latent amoebas, worms, 25 cfa coins, etc lingering in my system. Thursday and Friday us GEE's have our 2nd year In-Service training. Just another opportunity for us to swap ideas and head back to site with an armful (or three) of resources, xeroxed sheets of info, and so on.
I head back to village for one week, where I can tend to my Eggplant crop and my Sunflowers (they are now 3 feet tall!). Rumor has it I will be cultivating corn and watermelon this rainy season. Following my week in Pobé, I return to Ouahigouya, to work another couple weeks with the trainees. Like I said in a previous post, they're a good group, and I really look forward to working with them again.
THEN, and I must say I am so excited about this, in August, my wonderful friend Shannon will be coming to visit me! So Shannon, if you're out there, don't forget to bring insect repellent. And be sure to bring me a t-shirt from Prague. Okay. Enough said. Until next time.
Be well.
j
And sometimes, a little fun.
If a friend or other loved one was able to come visit me for just one day, one 24 hour period of time, I would take them on public transport. A close neighbor of mine once said, "I never feel more like a volunteer than when I am on transport." I have no choice but to agree with her. Few other experiences offer a traveler with such a candid, inviting look into the life and culture of Burkinabés. So many of my favorite memories come from going between point A and B. Whether it is riding in the back of a truck with two camels and a cow or it is helping push the bus through a waist-deep river, few transport experiences are without memories.
"You see the thing is," a friend starts, "your bus is either going to get you there on time or you're going to have a good story to tell when you get to your destination. Either way, the trip allows itself to be worth it." I've made it halfway through my service here in Burkina Faso. If one was to ask me in what way have I changed the most, I would say that I have perfected the art of patience. I know many would be quick to compliment me on such an accomplishment. But while I do see it as an accomplishment, it was anything but a voluntary undertaking. It is, for lack of a better explanation, a means of survival, being a 20-something from the West, transported, courtesy Air France into the daily grind of a land not forgotten, but simply never known.
So whether I am sitting on the side of the road, profiting from the shade of the tiny Peugeot, waiting for the driver to walk 5km to the nearest town to find a litre of gasoline, or I am sitting in an empty classroom, waiting for people to show so a meeting can start, I have learned that here in the Faso, patience is not simply a virtue, it is also a necessity.
I know it may not seem it, but sometimes, it isn't easy.
Here's the thing: for me, a one Joel D. Turner, PCV Burkina Faso, hindsight most certainly is not 20/20. Rather, it is cotton candy, balloons and gumballs, sno cones and other things that are sweet and wonderful. I didn't choose this method of outlook, but alas, I air on the side of positive. But it really isn't always like that. It just depends on how you look at it all. I could have hopped into that mini truck which happened to have 31 passengers (this truck is the size of a Buick LeSabre) and had the most discouraging, horrible day of my service up to that point. It was hot, I had a goat strapped above me that could have decided to relieve its bladder at any moment, a young child was expelling her mucus onto my pants, and an old man was trying to give me his grand-daughter as a cadeaux. But you have to take things in stride.
While it is true that I have reached the halfway point of my Peace Corps service, the reality is that I am much more than halfway through it all. After all, I applied for Peace Corps 16 months before I left for the Faso. While I wasn't picking rocks out of my lunch in the heat the entire time, Peace Corps has definitely been a part of my life for longer than the last 13 months and two weeks.
So what does this all mean? Mid-Service Crisis. No, I'm not going to go out and buy a Camel or anything rash like that...but it is a significant period of reflection for many volunteers. Peace Corps has been a part of my life for some time now, and the thought that it will some day (within the next year, give or take) be a thing of the past is a very sobering reality. Life in Burkina is real in every way America is fake...and Peace Corps Burkina is fake in every way America is real. I have no genetically modified tomatoes nor re-runs of Melrose Place, but I have no credit card bills nor junk mail. Same same but different, only...different.
Logistically speaking, I am here in Ouaga this week doing (incidentally) Mid-service medical. It is not a comprehensive medical check, but I do get a physical, dental check-up, and I even get to poop into a cup three times over the course of three days to see if I have any latent amoebas, worms, 25 cfa coins, etc lingering in my system. Thursday and Friday us GEE's have our 2nd year In-Service training. Just another opportunity for us to swap ideas and head back to site with an armful (or three) of resources, xeroxed sheets of info, and so on.
I head back to village for one week, where I can tend to my Eggplant crop and my Sunflowers (they are now 3 feet tall!). Rumor has it I will be cultivating corn and watermelon this rainy season. Following my week in Pobé, I return to Ouahigouya, to work another couple weeks with the trainees. Like I said in a previous post, they're a good group, and I really look forward to working with them again.
THEN, and I must say I am so excited about this, in August, my wonderful friend Shannon will be coming to visit me! So Shannon, if you're out there, don't forget to bring insect repellent. And be sure to bring me a t-shirt from Prague. Okay. Enough said. Until next time.
Be well.
j
Saturday, June 30, 2007
On the road again
I'm going back to village tomorrow! After spending 35 days living out of a backpack and a messenger bag, I finally return to Pobé-Mengao. I left at the end of May and embarked on a series of adventures; a little travel, a lot of work, little sleep. I really have no intention to spend this much time out of my site ever again. It just so happened to work out this way, as I had trainings, then vacation, then more training, and lastly, the past week spent training new trainees. I am all trained out.
I am trying to neglect the reality that 2 weeks after I return to my site, I must return to Ouaga for my Mid-service training. Why all the training?! I'll tell you why? Its summer. Low work season in village (for volunteers, that is). I have been staying in cell contact with friends in Pobé, and they gave me three pieces of good news.
Piece of good news #1: It finally rained, I mean really rained in Pobé! The rains came late this year, so people are getting nervous...but one week ago, my village got their first real rain (they refuse to count little 20 minute rains..go figure). This, of course means people are not out in the fields, growing their means of survival, between now and October.
Piece of good news # 2: Pobé-Mengao won the Mayor's cup soccer competition! Beginning in April, all the villages in the department of Pobé-Mengao take part in a soccer tournament. Nevermind the fact that Pobé is the largest village in the department, I have every right to be excited for my home team's success.
Piece of good news # 3: 29 out of 32 CM2 students passed their C.E.P. exam! Background: CM2 is the equivalent of 6th grade and at the end of the year, each student must take the exam in order to continue on to 2ndary school. According to my colleague Hamidou, this is the highest passing percentage he has ever seen. So who wouldn't be excited? The closing ceremony for the primary school is on Monday. If I had the means, I would bake a cake!
My last two weeks have been spent working PST (a.k.a. stàge) here in Ouahigouya. It has been a lot of fun getting to know the new trainees. They seem to be a really strong group and I am pretty confident they will all be upstanding volunteers. And they're a lot of fun. Spending time in Ouahigouya always makes me a bit nostalgic, seeing as how I spent my first 3 months of my Peace Corps life here...add to that spending 6 days a week working stàge, at times, I myself have felt like a trainee once again. But not quite. Spending time here has taught me a few things. First of all, I am so thankful that stàge, for me, is a thing of the past. I forgot how grueling it really is. 6 days a week, 9 hours of session a day...and at the end of the day, I return to a host family that speaks no English, minimal french. You have no free time.
Secondly, I have been able to see how far I have come in the past year. I came to Burkina Faso with minimal French. Spending time with the stagiares has allowed me to see how far I've actually come in the past 13 months. Aside from French, I have learned so much about the culture here..arguably a much more difficult language to master. I'm still not there...but I'm pretty happy with my progress.
Lastly, working stàge has helped give me fresh ideas of what I can do in village. I have, believe it or not, learned a lot from the stagiaires....they are full of so many good ideas, I couldn't help but take note. My biggest goal for the upcoming school year is to work more closely with the APEs/AMEs (parent associations) in regards to capacity building. I'd think the APE and AME in Pobé are well-functioning, but there is so much more that they can do.
I can't recall the last time I have been so exhausted. I look forward to returning to the slow life in village. There is much to think about, much to process. Its been a long time out of site.
Thanks to everybody that has sent kind words re: my blog. I am glad you enjoy what I have to say. You know me, I like to stay in touch with friends...I have no doubt the same will continue heading into my second year of service.
That being said, until next time.
j
I am trying to neglect the reality that 2 weeks after I return to my site, I must return to Ouaga for my Mid-service training. Why all the training?! I'll tell you why? Its summer. Low work season in village (for volunteers, that is). I have been staying in cell contact with friends in Pobé, and they gave me three pieces of good news.
Piece of good news #1: It finally rained, I mean really rained in Pobé! The rains came late this year, so people are getting nervous...but one week ago, my village got their first real rain (they refuse to count little 20 minute rains..go figure). This, of course means people are not out in the fields, growing their means of survival, between now and October.
Piece of good news # 2: Pobé-Mengao won the Mayor's cup soccer competition! Beginning in April, all the villages in the department of Pobé-Mengao take part in a soccer tournament. Nevermind the fact that Pobé is the largest village in the department, I have every right to be excited for my home team's success.
Piece of good news # 3: 29 out of 32 CM2 students passed their C.E.P. exam! Background: CM2 is the equivalent of 6th grade and at the end of the year, each student must take the exam in order to continue on to 2ndary school. According to my colleague Hamidou, this is the highest passing percentage he has ever seen. So who wouldn't be excited? The closing ceremony for the primary school is on Monday. If I had the means, I would bake a cake!
My last two weeks have been spent working PST (a.k.a. stàge) here in Ouahigouya. It has been a lot of fun getting to know the new trainees. They seem to be a really strong group and I am pretty confident they will all be upstanding volunteers. And they're a lot of fun. Spending time in Ouahigouya always makes me a bit nostalgic, seeing as how I spent my first 3 months of my Peace Corps life here...add to that spending 6 days a week working stàge, at times, I myself have felt like a trainee once again. But not quite. Spending time here has taught me a few things. First of all, I am so thankful that stàge, for me, is a thing of the past. I forgot how grueling it really is. 6 days a week, 9 hours of session a day...and at the end of the day, I return to a host family that speaks no English, minimal french. You have no free time.
Secondly, I have been able to see how far I have come in the past year. I came to Burkina Faso with minimal French. Spending time with the stagiares has allowed me to see how far I've actually come in the past 13 months. Aside from French, I have learned so much about the culture here..arguably a much more difficult language to master. I'm still not there...but I'm pretty happy with my progress.
Lastly, working stàge has helped give me fresh ideas of what I can do in village. I have, believe it or not, learned a lot from the stagiaires....they are full of so many good ideas, I couldn't help but take note. My biggest goal for the upcoming school year is to work more closely with the APEs/AMEs (parent associations) in regards to capacity building. I'd think the APE and AME in Pobé are well-functioning, but there is so much more that they can do.
I can't recall the last time I have been so exhausted. I look forward to returning to the slow life in village. There is much to think about, much to process. Its been a long time out of site.
Thanks to everybody that has sent kind words re: my blog. I am glad you enjoy what I have to say. You know me, I like to stay in touch with friends...I have no doubt the same will continue heading into my second year of service.
That being said, until next time.
j
Friday, June 15, 2007
Banana Pancakes, etc.
I hope you all have taken the opportunity to see my Ghana Photos. If a picture speaks a thousand words and I posted 55 photos, then it is sufficed to say I have already written quite the novella about my trip to Ghana. Before I was able to let my woes drift away like the coastal winds, I had to first GET to Ghana. Hardly a timely process. Our destination: Green Turtle Lodge in the Western Coastal Region of Ghana (about 80 km from the border of Cote d'Ivoire). First leg of the trip, a 1000 kilometer bus ride from Ouaga to Kumasi. This bus trip can take anywhere from 13-48 hours, depending upon myriad nail-biting factors ("will my bus get a flat? Will we be attacked by road bandits?" etc). Upon arriving in Kumasi, Ghana's second largest city, one must then find a Tro-Tro (this is the Ghanaian term for Bush Taxi..generally a minivan turned bus). From Kumasi to Takoradi (a semi-large coastal city) is 5 hours. After arriving in Takoradi, one must find another tro-tro or taxi to take you the 45 km to Green Turtle lodge, an exceptionally off-the-beaten track but not short on amenities all-inclusive budget beach resort. And like that, you are there. We left Ouaga on a Saturday morning and arrived at Green Turtle Sunday afternoon. Well worth the drive.
There are so many stories, so many mishaps, I will not be able to share them all, but I will talk about a few memorable Ghana moments.
The Border
There are only about 412 things one must do when crossing the border and if you forget one of these 412 things, you will probably be denied entry. So I made sure I had my passport, my visa for Ghana, my renewed Burkina Faso visa (so I could get back into BF), my World Health Organization Immunization Card with proof of Yellow Fever vaccination, and of course, Cash in hand to exchange into Ghana's ridiculous currency, the Cedis.
So this is how it goes: The CFA (Burkina's currency) is roughly 500 francs to 1 US dollar. The Cedis is 10,000 to 1 US dollar. So, if Joel has 150,000 CFA (essentially 15 - 10,000 cfa notes) and would like to change it into the Cedis, how many suitcases of cash will he get? In truth, I do not know, but my 150,000 CFA turned into 3.5 MILLION cedis. Let me also mention that the largest bill in Ghana is a 20,000 note. So 3.5 million divided by 20,000 equals 175 notes. But I was given half my cash in 20,000 notes and half in 10,000 notes. So I was carrying around close to 300 bills. If you see my photos, you'll know what 3.5 million Cedis looks like. I'll tell you right now, it is a hassle.
To make the chaos of the border crossing all the more tumultuous, you have random men with duffel bags of money and calculators tied to lanyards around their necks, asking to take your CFA for Cedis. There exist no Currency exchange kiosks. Just weird old men with calculators and sacks of money. The potential to get ripped off is high, also considering some immigration officer just took your passport and WHO immunization card into some dark building and you see your bus inching closer to the border. Distractions abound. But I was on my game. I double-checked his currency conversion with my own calculator, and double counted the 3.5 million cedis. My passport, stamped and signed, was returned, along with my WHO card. I got back on to my bus, and slept, dreaming of the slow life on the beach.
Two Beaches, One Awesome Vacation
Essentially, my trip was split up into two parts: 4 nights, 5 days at the Green Turtle Lodge, then 4 nights, 4 days in the small fishing town of Busua. Both are considered to have the nicest beaches in all of Ghana, and I had no reason to dispute such a claim. Green Turtle is an "eco-friendly" resort...and I even have a hard time calling it a resort. The entire place uses solar power, as it is isolated from any town. Most nights we ate dinner on the beach under candle light. Meals included Swordfish with veggie curry and rice, Bangers and Mash (I believe it's British...sausage and mashed potatoes, so good!), and the always famous Ghanaian dish, Red-Red. The best part of all, aside from the huge waves and the obligatory relaxation is the price. I left green turtle spending 800,000 cedis, or $80. That's lodging, food, drink, everything.
While Green Turtle gave me the relaxation I needed, I was certainly ready to move on to Busua. Again, please see my photos, as I think they are the closest I can get to doing this wonderful town justice. We came during the rainy season, which means there were few tourists. I had no problem with this. Unlike most other tourist destinations, the locals of Busua were exceptionally friendly and engaging. They are no strangers to budget travelers such as myself, but I seldom felt as though I was out of place. We spent much of our time at the Black Star Surf Shop, owned by a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Bolivia. He opened shop one year ago and is currently the only Surf Shop in all of Ghana. His hospitality was greatly appreciated, so if you're reading this, Pete, I thank you a thousand times over. I hope your business takes off. I find myself wanting to describe Busua, so I can better portray the type of community it is, but I would fail at doing it justice. I have every intention to visit this place again. I miss it.
All Good Things Come to an End
The time finally came where I had to make the long journey back to Burkina Faso, the land of not so plenty. But for all the fun I had in Ghana, I was ready to return. After a painless taxi ride to Takoradi and a straight-forward Tro-Tro journey to Kumasi, I lucked out and landed the last ticket on the Monday night STC bus (this is the nice, A/C bus that usually requires advance reservation), 4 hours before its scheduled departure. I show up at 9pm Monday night, no bus. 10pm, no bus. The bus finally arrives at 2am. I board and happen to get the only seat on the bus without the ability to recline. "Oh well," I tell myself, "its only a 16 hour bus ride." The bus decided not to move until 4am. At 7:30am (Tuesday now), my bus, going full speed, clips the back corner of a parked semi-truck trailer, ripping the door off my bus and shattering the windshield and three side panes of glass. Those in the first 4 rows were covered in shattered glass, but thankfully, nobody was hurt. Rather than stop and investigate the damage, the bus driver refused to stop, fearing that the engine was damaged, and wanted to get us to the next town so we would have cell coverage (to call for a new bus) and food to eat. We arrive in the next town and spent 12 hours there waiting for a new bus. I guess I should have been upset and frustrated, but looking back, it was actually a fun day. I met many interesting people on my bus, including two Med Students from Georgia (the state, not the country), two documentarians from Ghana, a Malian mother that spoke perfect English, and so on. Had we not shared in the misery of transport, we probably would have never met. I am thankful for those conversations.
So, our replacement bus arrives at 7pm, and drives us the 8 hours to the border, where we slept, as the border was closed for the evening. After a simple crossing at the border, I arrived in Ouaga, 38 hours later, tired, but smiling.
There are so many stories, so many mishaps, I will not be able to share them all, but I will talk about a few memorable Ghana moments.
The Border
There are only about 412 things one must do when crossing the border and if you forget one of these 412 things, you will probably be denied entry. So I made sure I had my passport, my visa for Ghana, my renewed Burkina Faso visa (so I could get back into BF), my World Health Organization Immunization Card with proof of Yellow Fever vaccination, and of course, Cash in hand to exchange into Ghana's ridiculous currency, the Cedis.
So this is how it goes: The CFA (Burkina's currency) is roughly 500 francs to 1 US dollar. The Cedis is 10,000 to 1 US dollar. So, if Joel has 150,000 CFA (essentially 15 - 10,000 cfa notes) and would like to change it into the Cedis, how many suitcases of cash will he get? In truth, I do not know, but my 150,000 CFA turned into 3.5 MILLION cedis. Let me also mention that the largest bill in Ghana is a 20,000 note. So 3.5 million divided by 20,000 equals 175 notes. But I was given half my cash in 20,000 notes and half in 10,000 notes. So I was carrying around close to 300 bills. If you see my photos, you'll know what 3.5 million Cedis looks like. I'll tell you right now, it is a hassle.
To make the chaos of the border crossing all the more tumultuous, you have random men with duffel bags of money and calculators tied to lanyards around their necks, asking to take your CFA for Cedis. There exist no Currency exchange kiosks. Just weird old men with calculators and sacks of money. The potential to get ripped off is high, also considering some immigration officer just took your passport and WHO immunization card into some dark building and you see your bus inching closer to the border. Distractions abound. But I was on my game. I double-checked his currency conversion with my own calculator, and double counted the 3.5 million cedis. My passport, stamped and signed, was returned, along with my WHO card. I got back on to my bus, and slept, dreaming of the slow life on the beach.
Two Beaches, One Awesome Vacation
Essentially, my trip was split up into two parts: 4 nights, 5 days at the Green Turtle Lodge, then 4 nights, 4 days in the small fishing town of Busua. Both are considered to have the nicest beaches in all of Ghana, and I had no reason to dispute such a claim. Green Turtle is an "eco-friendly" resort...and I even have a hard time calling it a resort. The entire place uses solar power, as it is isolated from any town. Most nights we ate dinner on the beach under candle light. Meals included Swordfish with veggie curry and rice, Bangers and Mash (I believe it's British...sausage and mashed potatoes, so good!), and the always famous Ghanaian dish, Red-Red. The best part of all, aside from the huge waves and the obligatory relaxation is the price. I left green turtle spending 800,000 cedis, or $80. That's lodging, food, drink, everything.
While Green Turtle gave me the relaxation I needed, I was certainly ready to move on to Busua. Again, please see my photos, as I think they are the closest I can get to doing this wonderful town justice. We came during the rainy season, which means there were few tourists. I had no problem with this. Unlike most other tourist destinations, the locals of Busua were exceptionally friendly and engaging. They are no strangers to budget travelers such as myself, but I seldom felt as though I was out of place. We spent much of our time at the Black Star Surf Shop, owned by a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Bolivia. He opened shop one year ago and is currently the only Surf Shop in all of Ghana. His hospitality was greatly appreciated, so if you're reading this, Pete, I thank you a thousand times over. I hope your business takes off. I find myself wanting to describe Busua, so I can better portray the type of community it is, but I would fail at doing it justice. I have every intention to visit this place again. I miss it.
All Good Things Come to an End
The time finally came where I had to make the long journey back to Burkina Faso, the land of not so plenty. But for all the fun I had in Ghana, I was ready to return. After a painless taxi ride to Takoradi and a straight-forward Tro-Tro journey to Kumasi, I lucked out and landed the last ticket on the Monday night STC bus (this is the nice, A/C bus that usually requires advance reservation), 4 hours before its scheduled departure. I show up at 9pm Monday night, no bus. 10pm, no bus. The bus finally arrives at 2am. I board and happen to get the only seat on the bus without the ability to recline. "Oh well," I tell myself, "its only a 16 hour bus ride." The bus decided not to move until 4am. At 7:30am (Tuesday now), my bus, going full speed, clips the back corner of a parked semi-truck trailer, ripping the door off my bus and shattering the windshield and three side panes of glass. Those in the first 4 rows were covered in shattered glass, but thankfully, nobody was hurt. Rather than stop and investigate the damage, the bus driver refused to stop, fearing that the engine was damaged, and wanted to get us to the next town so we would have cell coverage (to call for a new bus) and food to eat. We arrive in the next town and spent 12 hours there waiting for a new bus. I guess I should have been upset and frustrated, but looking back, it was actually a fun day. I met many interesting people on my bus, including two Med Students from Georgia (the state, not the country), two documentarians from Ghana, a Malian mother that spoke perfect English, and so on. Had we not shared in the misery of transport, we probably would have never met. I am thankful for those conversations.
So, our replacement bus arrives at 7pm, and drives us the 8 hours to the border, where we slept, as the border was closed for the evening. After a simple crossing at the border, I arrived in Ouaga, 38 hours later, tired, but smiling.
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