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!