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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.
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