Today is my first full day of not being a Peace Corps Volunteer. Coincidentally, it is also my last day in Burkina Faso. How do I feel? I feel good. I feel rather alive.
I fly to Prague tonight. After 9 days there, I fly to Dublin. After 19 1/2 hours in Dublin, I fly to Boston. After 6 days in and around bean town, I fly to Denver. And then at some point, much to my parents' (and my own) relief and satisfaction, I will return to Montrose. Home sweet late - summer - in - Western - Colorado - I - hope - I - have - time - to - go - fly - fishing - and - hiking - and - ice - cream - eating - and - porch - sitting - and - all - that - good - stuff - before - it - gets - too - cold home.
Because there is profundity in brevity, I will keep this post short. Also, I still haven't packed and my flight leaves in 8 hours. I hope you have all enjoyed the de temps en temps musings of life here in Burkina Faso. And keep your eyes peeled for my post-Peace Corps blog. While it does not yet exist, I am sure it will be called something like, "Well Now Then" or "Joel!: The Life". The title, along with the blog, are still in their creative stages.
So this is Joel (and his blog) signing off. I hope you enjoyed your stay.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
t-minus
Saying goodbye is never easy. But I am not there yet.
As I casually glanced at my cell phone calendar today, I saw that I have exactly two weeks remaining in Burkina Faso. I remember, vividly, my first day in this country. In fact, I remember--vividly--the first three months in this country, but that is another matter all together. About a month ago, I was consumed with memories of Burkina, good times and not so much spent with both volunteers and my village friends. I found myself caught up in the scope of two years and what it should and did mean to me. But in the past week, I have moved on to different pastures. Let us call it phase two: Freaking Out.
If I recall where I was four weeks ago (the specifics aren't important), it feels like it was this morning. The past month has flown by. Now, if I am to think about where I will be in two weeks from now (I will be on an airplane bound for Paris), I refuse to begin to believe that it is just around the corner. The fact of the matter is the end (choose your own ending: The end of school, the end of a delicious cherry limeade, even the end of a Wes Anderson film) is a difficult thing to accept. I know that in three weeks, I will be in the Czech Republic spending time with my wonderful friend Shannon. I know that in a month's time, I'll be in Massachusetts, exchanging recent Peace Corps war stories with Brooks. And I know that come late August, I will be in Colorado with friends and family, talking about that little (26 month) sojourn I had in Africa. But these actualities only exist because I recently bought a handful of plane tickets to all points not Africa. What I do know is I am sitting in a stuffy Ouahigouya cyber café on a Saturday night, just like any other night. My day-to-day isn't much different from circa 2006. But what is different is the unquiet that exists within me.
But I must be honest with myself for a moment. While I am "freaking out" about the end of my Peace Corps service, I am also VERY excited about the uncharted territory through which I am about to trudge. I am in the company of some extrordinary and extrordinarily fortunate individuals that are taking every opportunity to see the world, post-Peace Corps style. There's David, who in the next 4 months will explore Morocco, sail through the Mediterranean on a private yacht, bike across Italy, learn the tricks of both Japanese and Indian cuisine (In Japan and India, incidentally), before swinging by the rest of Europe, en route to the States. There is Lisa and Cat, who plan to traverse Eastern Africa, Uganda to Cape Town, South Africa. And let me not forget Beth, who plans to see all points between Burkina and Senegal, before jumping down to Guatemala, where she'll find herself conversant in Spanish in no time. Not only am I happy for these people, for their choice to hold on to the dream of abroad-ness, but I am also inspired by their restlessness. Though I will not be taking part in a journey that matches the caliber of their's, I have realized that my traveling days are most definitely not behind me.
I find a certain comfort that comes with ambiguity. I can't tell you where I will be in six month's time. And at this point in my life, I accept that. A good friend recently told me that we don't always know what to do with our lives, but we always know what to do next. I have my next move planned. And all I can do is trust that it will lead me to good things.
As I casually glanced at my cell phone calendar today, I saw that I have exactly two weeks remaining in Burkina Faso. I remember, vividly, my first day in this country. In fact, I remember--vividly--the first three months in this country, but that is another matter all together. About a month ago, I was consumed with memories of Burkina, good times and not so much spent with both volunteers and my village friends. I found myself caught up in the scope of two years and what it should and did mean to me. But in the past week, I have moved on to different pastures. Let us call it phase two: Freaking Out.
If I recall where I was four weeks ago (the specifics aren't important), it feels like it was this morning. The past month has flown by. Now, if I am to think about where I will be in two weeks from now (I will be on an airplane bound for Paris), I refuse to begin to believe that it is just around the corner. The fact of the matter is the end (choose your own ending: The end of school, the end of a delicious cherry limeade, even the end of a Wes Anderson film) is a difficult thing to accept. I know that in three weeks, I will be in the Czech Republic spending time with my wonderful friend Shannon. I know that in a month's time, I'll be in Massachusetts, exchanging recent Peace Corps war stories with Brooks. And I know that come late August, I will be in Colorado with friends and family, talking about that little (26 month) sojourn I had in Africa. But these actualities only exist because I recently bought a handful of plane tickets to all points not Africa. What I do know is I am sitting in a stuffy Ouahigouya cyber café on a Saturday night, just like any other night. My day-to-day isn't much different from circa 2006. But what is different is the unquiet that exists within me.
But I must be honest with myself for a moment. While I am "freaking out" about the end of my Peace Corps service, I am also VERY excited about the uncharted territory through which I am about to trudge. I am in the company of some extrordinary and extrordinarily fortunate individuals that are taking every opportunity to see the world, post-Peace Corps style. There's David, who in the next 4 months will explore Morocco, sail through the Mediterranean on a private yacht, bike across Italy, learn the tricks of both Japanese and Indian cuisine (In Japan and India, incidentally), before swinging by the rest of Europe, en route to the States. There is Lisa and Cat, who plan to traverse Eastern Africa, Uganda to Cape Town, South Africa. And let me not forget Beth, who plans to see all points between Burkina and Senegal, before jumping down to Guatemala, where she'll find herself conversant in Spanish in no time. Not only am I happy for these people, for their choice to hold on to the dream of abroad-ness, but I am also inspired by their restlessness. Though I will not be taking part in a journey that matches the caliber of their's, I have realized that my traveling days are most definitely not behind me.
I find a certain comfort that comes with ambiguity. I can't tell you where I will be in six month's time. And at this point in my life, I accept that. A good friend recently told me that we don't always know what to do with our lives, but we always know what to do next. I have my next move planned. And all I can do is trust that it will lead me to good things.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Harry Potter Project
Sometimes I feel the need to treat myself (and you all, of course) to a blog that has nothing to do with Burkina Faso save the fact that it was written here. I hope you find the following piece to be distinctly germaine yet decidedly out of left field. Enjoy.
The Harry Potter Project
The Harry Potter Project
By Joel Turner
I hold, obstinately, to the belief that you can judge a book by its cover. Assuming that it is a paperback. Let’s place credit where credit is due. Book covers provide the background: Title, author, publishing company and on occasion, price. Book covers, quite literally, paint a picture of the story. Just when the magic of book covers couldn’t get any more, well, magical, my readers will be happy to know that for every front cover there is its equal back cover. This back cover generally includes something known as a plot summary. This way, if the front cover’s pictorial depiction is just a little too cryptic, you can supplement your vague comprehension with a succinct, “spellbinding” overview of all those bland pulpy pages in between. Sure, the back cover seldom gives away the ending, but let us be honest with ourselves: Do we really ever want to know how a book ends? I rest my case. But not yet.
For 22 months, I have had a copy of J.K. Rowling’s “Extraordinary New York Times Bestseller” Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone* hibernating on my bookshelf between Lord of the Flies and Chicken Soup for the Jaded PCVs Soul. One could say that the book and I go way back. After more than a year and one half in village, I felt the time had come to begin my project. The Harry Potter Project. As I pulled the book from its place, disturbing the spider webs, dust, and lizard poop that had come to rest on and around the book, I knew at that moment that I was embarking on an odyssey of Scholastic® proportions.
Upon first glance, the magic of this book cover takes immediate hold. The front depicts an intrepid young adolescent, most certainly the buzz-word-worthy “Harry,” adorned in Benneton’s Fall Sport-Casual line (even Hogwarts can’t escape product placement), flying (yes, flying. I found this to be a tad incredulous) with a broomstick. He appears to be retrieving some sort of Nerf-inspired handball as it is falling to the Earth. The first sentence of the back cover, however, stresses that “Harry Potter has never played a sport while flying on a broomstick.” I find this direct and dare I say, audacious contrast between pictorial and written depiction to be, at the heart of it, the genius behind Rowling’s craft.
Essentially, the entire book is a canvas of contrasts. Light and dark. Good and Evil. Season tickets to Shea Stadium and junk diving in the Hudson. Brooms and vacuum cleaners. Unicorns and genetically modified produce. Rowling captures these contrasts and immediately unleashes them with lyrical authority, leaving the reader intoxicated with her tonic of prosetic prowess. But like a finished canvas, there exists hidden layers, not revealed to the even partially-clad eye. One is only offered a muted glimpse of Harry’s dark past, forcing the reader to both pity and question the motivation and heart of this young protagonist. Again, contrast. One mustn’t, however make the assumption that this is a story of regret. Above all, it is a story of hope. And flying broomsticks. And a frolicking unicorn. And feral creatures looming in the shadows. And a woman holding a candlestick (who is she?).
Reading this book, cover-and-cover almost makes me want to see what’s written on those grainy pages in-between. But then I was reminded of the quote I just made up, “A picture isn’t worth a thousand words. It’s worth about 308 pages of words.”
*Rowling, J.K. “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” Scholastic. New York. 1997
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Two
"This is Africa. This is the world. It is not chaos but only disorder. Dirt is the norm. Bad water is the norm. Filthy toilets are typical. Stinks are natural, and all dogs are wild...because this is the world. America is very unusual."
-Paul Theroux, My Secret History
A little over two years ago, I was enjoying what I knew to be my last Colorado spring until at least 2009. I loved being asked the redundant question, "So what are your plans for Summer?" for I could respond with a boastful nonchalance, "Me? Oh, I'm just moving to Africa..." I loved the myriad responses that would come my way, ranging from ingenuous envy to jubilant support to looks of confusion or even concern. In the days and weeks leading up to my departure, I couldn't help but wonder if this or that would be my last this or that for the next two years. My last hike in the mountains. My last taste of Mexican food. My last encounter with a self-checkout machine. I tried, desperately, to take in my surroundings. I found myself appreciating carpet and cross-walks, things I was certain I'd be without for the two years to come. June 3rd 2006 was the big day in which I said goodbye to my family, my friends, and to Colorado. Goodbye to a culture that is decidedly familiar. A transition from a life in the United States to two years in Africa.
As my time passed, I started to lose sight of the big picture, the two years aspect. At some point, the strangeness that seems to encapsulate Burkina Faso became normal. The foreign is only strange to the foreigner. As the months carried on, I became less and less a foreigner and―who would've thunk it―things got easier. But no amount of time spent in this country will make me fully understand what it is like to be African. Even if I was here definitively, I would always be a stranger to a certain degree. Knowing that my time here has a beginning and an end makes me all the more a stranger.
So here I sit, weeks before I am to hop back onto a plane, and I have commissioned myself to write a genuine, almost all-encompassing piece that can shed some light into the thought processes of someone that is about to return home after two years away. But up until now, I have been unable to do so. I would sit before a blank screen for hours. I would write a paragraph or two before deleting all, frustrated and unsatisfied with all that I have written. I want frankness. I want so badly to throw a net over all my past experiences, compartmentalize my anecdotes, my misadventures, my ideas about development, culture, Africa (all of which are in constant flux), and present my findings in an accessible, meaningful fashion. But I can't bring myself to write the piece I want everyone to read. I want everyone to read and understand what it is like here. Maybe then, I tell myself, people will begin to understand some of what I have experienced. Maybe then my return home will be a little bit easier.
Which is more difficult: Leaving home for two years or returning home after two years? Moving to a strange land where seemingly all ways of life are different or returning home, only to find that you are a stranger in a familiar place? Our culture and common understanding are spun from common experiences. Will the 23 years of life that I racked up before journeying to Burkina Faso be a sufficient counter-balance to the rather intense two years spent away from home? I haven't the slightest clue. But much like I was anxious to dive head first into Africa, I am very ready to reacquaint myself with America. Much as I knew Africa would test my open-mindedness, patience, and immune system, returning home will be a uniquely challenging experience.
I do not look forward to the re-entry shock I am certain to endure, but one thing is certain: It was, is, and will be worth it. I don't miss Burkina Faso yet, but I know that I will. And I know I'll be back here again someday.
Friday, May 09, 2008
heat. The Sequel
A typical dialogue between two Burkina Faso Peace Corps Volunteers:
PCV 1: It's hot. This hot season is so much worse than last year's hot season.
PCV 2: I don't think so. This year's hot season is nothing compared to last year's hot season.
PCV 1: How do you figure?
PCV2: Well, for starters, it got hotter earlier last year. Like, in February and it was consistently hotter than it has ever been this year. In short, last year I felt like dying. This year, I don't.
PCV 1: Whatever. This year got hotter earlier and it has been less windy and I'm sweatier and I think about heat more. Besides, my village chief SAID this was the hottest hot season he's seen since he fought with the Algerians during WW2.
And so on...
I, for one cannot say whether or not this hot season beats out last year's, but what I can say is that it's hot. Normally, I am not one that finds joy in conversations that focus on the weather--let alone blog about it--but the hot season here in
From late March until the rains arrive in June, Burkina experiences a bit of a heat wave. Daily highs in the
Ultimately, there is nothing pleasant and absolutely everything discomforting, despairing, and in general horrible about
During the hot season, everything seems to die except for the insects. They simply become more interested in humans. I guess when there is no water, no shade, nothing green, humans turn into a rather conciliatory alternative. Flies become particularly bold. The small black ones choose to sunbathe on my feet, whereas the larger, louder alpha-flies like to fly loudly and without relent about my head. It is a most persistent but nevertheless dissatisfying event.
Mosquitoes, after a four month hiatus, make a mysterious return and the cockroaches stop lurking in dark corners and start following me around, as if to say, "We're in this together, Turner."
Many readers must be assuring themselves that "Joel's just exaggerating. It can't be that bad."
Believe me when I say this: not only can it be, it is probably much worse than my feeble attempts at depiction can provide. The mind is good at erasing traumatic events, such as unbearably hot hot heat.
But there is good news. First of all, I am still alive. And while it isn't comfortable, and all my villagers talk about the heat as if it is the first time they've experienced it, they have proven that you can live with it. As can I. I survived last year's hot season and I am well on my way through this one.
Secondly, I can say, with a thick dose of certainty, that this will be my last
...Because we all know that the best part of waking up is a puddle of sweat on top of your pillow, a light hot breeze, and a thermometer that says 93° at 5am.
No, in time I may miss the snot-nosed 2-year old that urinated on me in the bush taxi. I may even miss going out to a restaurant where my choices of food are sheep head or goat stomach soup. But the heat? Ha! Sheesh! Scoff!
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
The Pace of Things
"...information about Africa reaches us, most of the time, through a series of filters which, by reducing the vast continent to a cluster of emotive slogans, succeed in denying us any sense of complexity, context, truth"
-Salman Rushdie
I am not an expert in community development. It has taken me 21 months in Burkina Faso to fully accept that in my position, I will never see the full picture and thus be unable to provide a cogent analysis of the state of development in this country. What I can do is collect my many observations and throw them out there to be received, contemplated, and discussed. What I have come to realize is that anything short of a healthy synthesis of ideas will result in a stagnation of forward-thinking. That’s why I write this blog: It is my “ideas” contribution. I must pre-empt my critics though and say that any analysis on my part beyond the scope of my village would prove presumptuous at best. I must be honest for a moment. My motivation as a volunteer is generally contingent upon community members’ willingness to try new approaches, to think outside of the box. 9.8 times out of 10, they have shown me to be unwilling, or at least unable. It is important, however, to admit that what I may see as a path to a better life may not be the same view by those I have been challenged to assist. What I can provide is a critical pair of eyes that have seen development in action and have seen some areas in need of improvement. So, based on observations I have made in three different areas in village, I want to paint a picture of how I see the state of development in my village. It isn’t pretty, but it is far from hopeless all the same.
Construction of New High School
By and large, the funding and establishment of schools in Burkina Faso is provided by foreign donors, including many Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) and foreign embassies. In the case of Pobé-Mengao, a German-Based NGO provided the funding necessary to build the Junior High School (CEG). The school has been in existence for over six years now and is grossly over-capacity. During the summer of 2007, this same NGO returned to Pobé and granted funding for an expansion of the school, thereby making it a Senior High School. In Burkina, there exists a well-established and largely cost-effective approach to constructing schools. The process, so far as I have gathered, is as follows: The donor provides the financial means to build. This includes money to purchase materials such as cement, roof panels, wood, doors, locks, and so forth. They also contribute the cost necessary to hire a contractor to come to village and oversee the actual construction. The village is expected to contribute natural materials (sand, gravel, and stone) and free labour to work under the contractor. During construction, five different villagers per day will work at the site. I find the system, in theory, to be uncharacteristically efficient and a model of community cooperation. But theory does not always show itself in practice. Let us take a look at what has heretofore come to pass.
October 2007: The Ouagadougou-based contractor calls the village and instructs the powers that be to begin collecting sand, gravel, and stones (approximately four tons of each) so that all the materials will be on hand once construction begins.
November 2007: Village notifies contractor that the materials (the precise amount, down to the nearest donkey cart-full) have been delivered to the construction site. The contractor immediately determines that this is no longer a sufficient amount and thereby instructs the village to retrieve more “as soon as possible.” In response the village decides to expedite the process by renting a dump truck at $280 dollars/day for three days. Though the village does spend $840 of its own money, it does meet the new mark requested by the one man that can actually carry out the construction.
February 2008: Several 10-foot mounds of gravel, sand, and yes, stone rest adjacent to the CEG, untouched, as the contractor, for yet-to-be explained reasons has failed to show up. Few people seem to know why he has not arrived, but what is almost more disquieting is the fact that hardly anyone in the village sees this as peculiar, let alone explicitly unacceptable. If he fails to arrive within the next month, there is little chance that the High School will be completed before the start of the coming school year, as all available hands will become unavailable after June. People will be working in their fields.
The Incredible, Un-Certifiable Women’s Association
Many of you may recall that over the past year I have assisted in the formation of a Women’s group in Pobé. For me, it has been an incredible learning experience as a result of both its successes and failures. All associations, community groups and the like in Burkina, should they choose to be recognized by the government (and subsequently, international donors), must apply for certification. The process is loosely as follows: Members of the group meet to discuss the vision of the association. They then draft a mission statement, list of statutes, regulations, members list, and a list of elected officers. Once typed (I must remind you all that such is not a simple task in an African village), these documents are first sent to the Departmental Capital (in our case, Pobé-Mengao) for approval. Upon approval, the documents are sent to the Provincial Capital (Djibo). At this point, the documents are reviewed by an official in the Gendarmerie (part law enforcement, part highway patrol, part entity that oversees the many associations and groups that function throughout the country, part other things). It is this Gendarme who verifies the authenticity of associations, generally by interviewing members and observing their meetings. Once the official is satisfied, the documents are sent to the high commissioner for final approval and certification. The End.
Our association, Namanegb Zanga, after 13 months has yet to receive certification. In what I see to be a convoluted process to begin with, our association has fallen victim to a highly inefficient and largely backwards process. Over the course of four months, each member of our association (23 members) has been individually interviewed at least once (I myself was questioned), in an attempt to ensure our intentions are genuine (i.e. not for financial gain). To a slim extent, there is merit in the thoroughness of the process. Associations are an all too common trend in Burkina. It seems that everybody is either a part of one, applying for one; or is joining a new one. It then makes some sense that the government adds some rigor to the process. Weeding out is necessary.
After meeting with the official myself in January, he assured me that we were on our way to being certified. I only needed to tell our secretary to come to Djibo, again, within 24 hours for an additional interview, lest our application will be put on hold until April. You see, this particular official was leaving the following day to attend a three-month training. Needless to say, our secretary was unable to come on such unacceptably short notice and thus, as it stands, our application is pending. Given the association’s reluctance to carry out and/or sponsor any activities without certification, it does not look promising that I will be around to see the association in action.
Yes, We Do Have Not No School Fees
Technically, primary-level education is free in Burkina Faso. There are, however, annual dues which are collected by each school’s Parent’s Association (APE). The annual fee comes to approximately $3 per student per school year. $1 per student goes to the APE, which is responsible for the maintenance of the school and teacher housing, among other things. $2 per student goes to the United Nations World Food Programme (WFP) which provides breakfast and lunch for all students in Pobé-Mengao (even in Burkina Faso, $2 for a year’s worth of breakfast and lunch is quite a deal). For various reasons, a significant number of parents fail to pay the school fees. Many grasp, obstinately, to the misunderstanding that primary education is gratuitous, as per the Government’s advertisements. Some hold to the suspicion that the APE and the teachers are pocketing the money. Others simply claim that the amount is too much. They cannot afford to pay. While $3 is pocket change in the United States, it must be said that for an average Burkinabé household with five children enrolled in primary school, $3 times five children can become a significant amount. But it is not an unrealistic amount. What lacks is both a vested interest on the part of parents in their children’s education and an effective accountable system of enforcement on the part of teachers and the APE. Between parents and the school there exists a crippling lack of communication and trust. What threatens to frustrate me more than the lack of concern on the part of parents is the defeatist’s approach the teachers and the APE takes to the problem. When I ask “What can we do to get the parents to pay?” the general response is, “It’s not easy” or “Parents, they just don’t understand.” Sometimes the absurdity is so immense, I know not whether to laugh or explode in a fit of anger.
Okay Joel, so do something about it
I recognize that I am being critical without providing any real solutions. I suppose then that this can be considered nothing more than a structured vent. So be it. The irony of Peace Corps is that one joins with the expectation of making a difference. One expects the satisfaction of being an agent of positive change. However, the real change that occurs, the meaningful impact is seldom witnessed by the volunteer. My Women’s Association may very well dissolve after my departure (potential failure), but for all I know, I may have convinced a generation of youth in my village that using soap when washing their hands is a good idea (potential success). The reality is, there is no way of knowing for sure.
I know that the high school will be constructed, in time. If the members of my Women’s group really want the association to take off, it will happen, eventually. And I realize that these parents who refuse to pay for their children’s education come from a generation when school was a luxury not bestowed to them. It is my hope that the coming generations will approach education with greater reverence. I think they will.
It is simply a question of time.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Onion Season
When I'm not busy teaching children the importance of not pooing on the path I take to school each morning or perfecting the art of small talk with the men in the market (I can out-talk any meteorologist about the weather. I guarantee it), I've been preparing for my future. This week I have decided that I want to become a newswriter for The Onion. Perhaps you've heard ot it? Here are a couple of articles I recently wrote, yes, in my spare time (Lately "spare time" = between books). Do enjoy.
13 February 2008 - "States no Longer Wooed by Carrots"
Congress has used carrots as a means of affecting policy changes at the state level for decades. For the first time, lawmakers are faced with the pressing question: If not carrots, then what? Sam Lungen, Montana resident and retired beet farmer sees it as a simple matter of benefit-cost analysis. "It's not that we don't like carrots. Shoot, we love 'em. I think I speak for the whole of this great state when I say that carrots are tasty, nuturitious, and an essential addition to any beef stew. But it's a question of quantity. Are we willing to sacrifice our right as Montanans to drive 80 MPH down I-90 for the sake of two truckloads of carrots? What do we look like? A bunch of Nebraskans?" When asked if three truckloads of carrots would do, Lungen responded, "now then we would have ourselves a deal!"
President of the Montana Institute for Ensuring that Montana Has and Always Will Have the Highest Speed Limit in the Country (MIEMHAWHHSLC) Sandra McCullen disagrees. "Cost-benefit or no, I still don't understand why the Federal Government is offering us produce. They would have better luck threatening us with a metaphorical big stick that would symbolize the imminent threat of suspending federal funding for our highways. We should have joined Canada when we had the chance."
For the moment, the speed limit in Montana remains unchanged. Given Congress' upcoming recess and its keen tendency to forget that Montana is actually a state in the union, few see the issue of carrot-based incentives being resolved any time soon.
14 February 2008 - "McCain Announces Prominent Zombie as Running-Mate"
Washington, D.C. - With the 2008 Presidential Primary election season in full swing, the remaining candidates in both the Republican and Democratic parties are vying for the essential delegate votes necessary to become their respective party's candidate. While the two Democratic candidates are locked in a tight race, the Republicans have all but settled on John McCain as their nominee for the election in Novemeber. After weeks of speculation as to who McCain would choose to share the presidential ticket, it has been announced that his running-mate will be a Zombie.
Social conservatives and Republican hard-liners welcome the move as they see it as an earnest attempt on the part of the McCain campaign to bring itself further in line with traditional conservative values. In his first press conference since accepting the offer to share the ticket, the Zombie said, "Unnnnnhhh...[gutteral sound]...brains."
"I feel McCain's choice of running mate will prove a distinct advantage for the Republicans come November," says Steven Dunlap of the Brookings Institution, a D.C.-based conservative think-tank. "The Zombie will prove to be an essential stabilizing counter to McCain's maverick tendencies."
Not everyone sees the move as a step in the right direction. Martha Reed, a retired sub-prime mortgage consultant feels that such a running-mate might send the wrong message abroad. "I know Zombies are misrepresented in the media, but does the Kremlin know that? What about that down-right charming President of Iran? In November, I'll be voting for security."
With the general election still months away, it is still uncertain whether the American public is ready for a Zombie in the White House.
13 February 2008 - "States no Longer Wooed by Carrots"
Congress has used carrots as a means of affecting policy changes at the state level for decades. For the first time, lawmakers are faced with the pressing question: If not carrots, then what? Sam Lungen, Montana resident and retired beet farmer sees it as a simple matter of benefit-cost analysis. "It's not that we don't like carrots. Shoot, we love 'em. I think I speak for the whole of this great state when I say that carrots are tasty, nuturitious, and an essential addition to any beef stew. But it's a question of quantity. Are we willing to sacrifice our right as Montanans to drive 80 MPH down I-90 for the sake of two truckloads of carrots? What do we look like? A bunch of Nebraskans?" When asked if three truckloads of carrots would do, Lungen responded, "now then we would have ourselves a deal!"
President of the Montana Institute for Ensuring that Montana Has and Always Will Have the Highest Speed Limit in the Country (MIEMHAWHHSLC) Sandra McCullen disagrees. "Cost-benefit or no, I still don't understand why the Federal Government is offering us produce. They would have better luck threatening us with a metaphorical big stick that would symbolize the imminent threat of suspending federal funding for our highways. We should have joined Canada when we had the chance."
For the moment, the speed limit in Montana remains unchanged. Given Congress' upcoming recess and its keen tendency to forget that Montana is actually a state in the union, few see the issue of carrot-based incentives being resolved any time soon.
14 February 2008 - "McCain Announces Prominent Zombie as Running-Mate"
Washington, D.C. - With the 2008 Presidential Primary election season in full swing, the remaining candidates in both the Republican and Democratic parties are vying for the essential delegate votes necessary to become their respective party's candidate. While the two Democratic candidates are locked in a tight race, the Republicans have all but settled on John McCain as their nominee for the election in Novemeber. After weeks of speculation as to who McCain would choose to share the presidential ticket, it has been announced that his running-mate will be a Zombie.
Social conservatives and Republican hard-liners welcome the move as they see it as an earnest attempt on the part of the McCain campaign to bring itself further in line with traditional conservative values. In his first press conference since accepting the offer to share the ticket, the Zombie said, "Unnnnnhhh...[gutteral sound]...brains."
"I feel McCain's choice of running mate will prove a distinct advantage for the Republicans come November," says Steven Dunlap of the Brookings Institution, a D.C.-based conservative think-tank. "The Zombie will prove to be an essential stabilizing counter to McCain's maverick tendencies."
Not everyone sees the move as a step in the right direction. Martha Reed, a retired sub-prime mortgage consultant feels that such a running-mate might send the wrong message abroad. "I know Zombies are misrepresented in the media, but does the Kremlin know that? What about that down-right charming President of Iran? In November, I'll be voting for security."
With the general election still months away, it is still uncertain whether the American public is ready for a Zombie in the White House.
Friday, January 11, 2008
change is good, apparently.
And sometimes, understandably so hard, stressful, intimidating, boring, not all it's cracked up to be, questionable, boring, sad, iffy, ho-hum. Sometimes. But mostly good. Take it from me.
This blog is dedicated to all my friends (you all know who you are) that have made a bold move this new year by making a major change (namely, moving to a new place. Not knowing where you will work, where you'll live, how you will get by, where you'll find that coffee shop with that cup of coffee that tastes "just right", etc and so on). I know it is not easy to make a change. But (and please excuse my Halmark Channel-esque sappy tone here) know that making this bold move is so worth it.
As of late ("as of late" meaning, the past two years of my life, give or take a few calendar pages), I've been consumed with the idea of "being alive". Feeling alive. Doing, acting in a manner that makes you grasp, in all its wonder and peculiarities, life. I think living in Burkina Faso has helped me in this process. It's addictive. Yes folks, I, Joel Turner, am High on Life.
The cynical, sardonic, facetious Joel is cringing at this blog post (as are, I am sure, select blogging compatriots...i've failed you, Dabbler). I can hear my critics already: "How can you write such light, good-hearted sentiments, Joel? We want dirt! Disdain! The grass is always less brown on the other side-ness! You are tilting the blogosphere balance!" True. I tend to gravitate towards the "glass is half-empty because we ran out of water to fill it all the way up" perspective, but sometimes, on occasion, I like to be disgustingly positive. Forgive me. No, indulge.
So. Observation. I like - no - LOVE, to use commas. I am, as they say, a comma fiend. I am confident that my comma usage is legitimate, albeit excessive. I guess it is a product of how I think. I think in commas. For instance, right now. I also think in periods. So. Kind of like this. You know?
Readers of this blog, forgive me. I have fallen into that river of chocolate in Willy Wonka's (circa Gene Wilder, mind you, NOT Johnny Depp (shudder)) chocolate factory. The deep end.
Where was I? Oh yes! Bold moves. Big changes. People that are, to me, inspirational. Thank you guys for making a conscious decision to scare yourselves. To feel alive. You won't (i'm about 90% sure) regret it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to hop on a bus and return to my mud hut just north of the middle of nowhere. Google Earth me sometime. I'll be waving from below.
j
This blog is dedicated to all my friends (you all know who you are) that have made a bold move this new year by making a major change (namely, moving to a new place. Not knowing where you will work, where you'll live, how you will get by, where you'll find that coffee shop with that cup of coffee that tastes "just right", etc and so on). I know it is not easy to make a change. But (and please excuse my Halmark Channel-esque sappy tone here) know that making this bold move is so worth it.
As of late ("as of late" meaning, the past two years of my life, give or take a few calendar pages), I've been consumed with the idea of "being alive". Feeling alive. Doing, acting in a manner that makes you grasp, in all its wonder and peculiarities, life. I think living in Burkina Faso has helped me in this process. It's addictive. Yes folks, I, Joel Turner, am High on Life.
The cynical, sardonic, facetious Joel is cringing at this blog post (as are, I am sure, select blogging compatriots...i've failed you, Dabbler). I can hear my critics already: "How can you write such light, good-hearted sentiments, Joel? We want dirt! Disdain! The grass is always less brown on the other side-ness! You are tilting the blogosphere balance!" True. I tend to gravitate towards the "glass is half-empty because we ran out of water to fill it all the way up" perspective, but sometimes, on occasion, I like to be disgustingly positive. Forgive me. No, indulge.
So. Observation. I like - no - LOVE, to use commas. I am, as they say, a comma fiend. I am confident that my comma usage is legitimate, albeit excessive. I guess it is a product of how I think. I think in commas. For instance, right now. I also think in periods. So. Kind of like this. You know?
Readers of this blog, forgive me. I have fallen into that river of chocolate in Willy Wonka's (circa Gene Wilder, mind you, NOT Johnny Depp (shudder)) chocolate factory. The deep end.
Where was I? Oh yes! Bold moves. Big changes. People that are, to me, inspirational. Thank you guys for making a conscious decision to scare yourselves. To feel alive. You won't (i'm about 90% sure) regret it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to hop on a bus and return to my mud hut just north of the middle of nowhere. Google Earth me sometime. I'll be waving from below.
j
Monday, January 07, 2008
looking at my breath in Fès
Greetings from Morocco!
I haven't much time but I felt compelled to make a mini-entry while here in Morocco. As the title of this entry suggests, I am in the city of Fès (aka Fez), yes home to those cute red hats with tassles that look like Rolos (the chocolate candy) and yes I can see my breath as I type in this very chilly, non-heated cyber café. Fès is an interesting place (note: interesting = understated description of the century). In fact, it is quite spectacular. Intense. Beautiful. Warm (even though it is cold). Vibrant. Confusing. Intricate. Dichotomous. Unique. Smelly (in a very good way. Not in a Burkina Faso way). Across from this cyber café is a Century 21 Medina Properties office, in a building that predates Christ's time on Earth. Interesting fact Number 287: Fès is home to the world's oldest University. All this history makes me feel very small. But in a humbling good way.
We leave for Burkina Faso tomorrow. One 5.5 hour train ride and a 3 hour flight later, I'll be in a more familiar, markedly warmer climate. I am ready for some dust and sand.
That's all for now! I will do everything in my power to post photos upon my return to the Faso. I hope the new year is finding everyone living at least partially up to their respective resolutions. Be strong!
and be well.
j
I haven't much time but I felt compelled to make a mini-entry while here in Morocco. As the title of this entry suggests, I am in the city of Fès (aka Fez), yes home to those cute red hats with tassles that look like Rolos (the chocolate candy) and yes I can see my breath as I type in this very chilly, non-heated cyber café. Fès is an interesting place (note: interesting = understated description of the century). In fact, it is quite spectacular. Intense. Beautiful. Warm (even though it is cold). Vibrant. Confusing. Intricate. Dichotomous. Unique. Smelly (in a very good way. Not in a Burkina Faso way). Across from this cyber café is a Century 21 Medina Properties office, in a building that predates Christ's time on Earth. Interesting fact Number 287: Fès is home to the world's oldest University. All this history makes me feel very small. But in a humbling good way.
We leave for Burkina Faso tomorrow. One 5.5 hour train ride and a 3 hour flight later, I'll be in a more familiar, markedly warmer climate. I am ready for some dust and sand.
That's all for now! I will do everything in my power to post photos upon my return to the Faso. I hope the new year is finding everyone living at least partially up to their respective resolutions. Be strong!
and be well.
j
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Welcome to their Hut
So apparently, while enjoying a delicious beverage at the Marz bar last night, I didn't even notice that this woman was sitting behind me. I guess that's Telluride for you. I spent the last night of 2007 in T-Town. Apparently, it was the place to be. Why? Do not ask me. It was so cold. No. Let me rephrase. It. Was. SO. COLD. After the kickball was tossed at 11:55pm from the steps of this building (the clock was 5 minutes slow. I found the absurdity of it all, when combined with the fact that my knees went numb, to be distinctly Telluride), we shuffled quickly to the car, wanting nothing more out of the new year than a warm bed to crawl into.
It's New Year's day. I feel compelled to write something to mark this once-a-year event. But I just don't have the energy to come up with anything of notable (or otherwise) substance. So I found a piece that I wrote for a Volunteer Quarterly Newsletter. Each issue has a story called "welcome to my hut" (think MTV's Cribs, Peace Corps Burkina style). I went to my nearest neighbors' home (the home of this married couple) and wrote about my findings. Do enjoy.
Oh yeah, and Happy New Year.
And forgive me for being so lazy as to not write a real blog entry.
Titao. 45-55 km northeast of Ouahigouya (depending on which set of road meters you trust), on the cusp of the majestic, lip-chapping Sahel lies this burgeoning spud of a provincial capital. Even though this dusty town boasts such amenities as 100 franc meat sandwiches, tepid beer and a boutique equipped with over priced Pringles, I found Titao, at its heart, to have a lingering bucolic tranquility. Frankly, I could see myself retiring here. But I'm a few years away from retirement and I didn't come here to find out if the Nescafe/bread stand has a senior citizens discount (they don't). I came to Titao to see what all the fuss was surrounding the McKay-Fleisch estate.
Now, I am no expert in Burkina Faso real estate, but upon entering the paint-chipped, lockless gates of their courtyard, “cha-ching” were the only words that could escape my mouth, because the place was MONEY. If certain Peace Corps policies and basic codes of common decency existed not, I would move in with this happily married couple of three years. Just inside the courtyard, I see a lone, quaint structure to the right. “What is this cute little cottage with its own little chimney?” I ask, with furious curiosity. “Guest quarters? Teleportation chamber?”
“Um, Joel, that is our latrine.”
A latrine is a place where people can do their business. Others would refer to it as a comfort salon. I'm not sure what that means. Anyway, if the relative opulence of their latrine was any indicator, I could not wait to set foot in their actual home. The anticipation was mounting like those mashed potatoes Richard Dreyfus was mounting in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
The courtyard is a lovely sanctuary, a place where animal, insect, and human alike can enjoy Burkina Faso's diverse foliage. The courtyard is home to eleven species of noxious weeds, two cats, one chicken, six large rats, and a colony of lizards. Shade is provided by an encroaching shea plant and various west African endemic trees. The high courtyard walls allow you to have practically no idea what events may be unfolding outside, in the town of Titao in the country of Burkina Faso. If you're thinking oasis, you've got it.
Perhaps my favorite part of the entire estate is the terrace. Shaded by a lattice-inspired thatch hangar, this shady area is a great place to read one of Jill and Markus's many outdated National Geographic Magazines. Plenty of rocks are on hand to throw at the chicken, which is an old McKay-Fleisch Titao family tradition. Markus is generally on hand to help you with long division and adding fractions in between rounds of tea, if you are so inclined. Jill is on hand to tell you all about Sigmund Freud, evolutionary psychology, and how the two combine to epitomize her love for the social sciences.
Upon entering the house, be not surprised if you smell something tasty coming from your right. No, it is not the smell of the litter box situated just next to their very own solar panel power system. It is probably Markus whipping up some concoction that involves mayonnaise, taco seasoning, and canned processed chicken. Snap! Culinary genius. The salon is a modest open floor plan, with the kitchen area to the right, and a petit bois table to the left, piled with all kinds of science magazines, GRE prep books, and old paperbacks. There is no shortage of pulp in this house. Their west-facing wall is clothed in postcards from around the world.
Beyond the salon is what saw as a labyrinth of rooms, corridors, secret passageways, and hidden staircases (probably). I am still not entirely certain how many rooms Jill and Markus have in their house. Frankly, I am not entirely certain that they know. I lost count at four, not counting the newly tiled bathroom, which I will get to in a moment. “What do they do with all those rooms?” you may ask. I asked the same question. Room 1: the master bedroom. This is, I assume, where Jill and Markus sleep the two months out of the year that it is not too hot to sleep inside. The water stain in the northwest corner of their paneled ceiling add a nature lover's feel to the bedroom. Moving on. Room2: this is where the care package cardboard boxes go to rest. Without this room, they would be forced to address the issue of their ever growing arsenal of cardboard. Luckily, the room is only 40% cardboard. Room 3: in the very back of the house, these is a hidden room, of equal size to the other rooms, which contains seasonal items. On one visit, I saw a table with two chairs. Another time, I saw two bikes and a confused cat. Hallway 1: when the bikes are not in room 3 nor are they transporting their owners to and from the high school, they are most often left in hallway 1. Other than that, I have no other comment on this dark corridor of sadness. Hallway 2: this hallway ultimately leads to a secret second entrance into the McKay-Fleisch residence; however, one must never open this door. Ever.
And finally, on to the bathroom. I know, I know, you must all be confused. If you refer to paragraph two of this piece, you will be reminded that they do have a latrine house. But nothing says bling like having a latrine AND an indoor douche, complete with non-functioning European style toilet and sink. The McKay-Fleisches recently went guns blazing and got their bathroom floor professionally tiled. I even think they made a friend out of the mason. Either that, or he simply fell in love with their house. Can you blame him?
All good things, like a smothered black bean burrito or a game of Scrabble must come to an end. Such was the case with regards to my visit of the McKay-Fleisch estate. The house alone leaves the guest satisfied, but let us not forget the wonderful hosts, Jill and Markus, for it is they who put the “we” in SWEET. Is it possible to fall in love with a married couple's home? Well, if this isn't love, I don't know what love is.
The End.
It's New Year's day. I feel compelled to write something to mark this once-a-year event. But I just don't have the energy to come up with anything of notable (or otherwise) substance. So I found a piece that I wrote for a Volunteer Quarterly Newsletter. Each issue has a story called "welcome to my hut" (think MTV's Cribs, Peace Corps Burkina style). I went to my nearest neighbors' home (the home of this married couple) and wrote about my findings. Do enjoy.
Oh yeah, and Happy New Year.
And forgive me for being so lazy as to not write a real blog entry.
Welcome to Our Hut
By Joel Turner.
Titao. 45-55 km northeast of Ouahigouya (depending on which set of road meters you trust), on the cusp of the majestic, lip-chapping Sahel lies this burgeoning spud of a provincial capital. Even though this dusty town boasts such amenities as 100 franc meat sandwiches, tepid beer and a boutique equipped with over priced Pringles, I found Titao, at its heart, to have a lingering bucolic tranquility. Frankly, I could see myself retiring here. But I'm a few years away from retirement and I didn't come here to find out if the Nescafe/bread stand has a senior citizens discount (they don't). I came to Titao to see what all the fuss was surrounding the McKay-Fleisch estate.
Now, I am no expert in Burkina Faso real estate, but upon entering the paint-chipped, lockless gates of their courtyard, “cha-ching” were the only words that could escape my mouth, because the place was MONEY. If certain Peace Corps policies and basic codes of common decency existed not, I would move in with this happily married couple of three years. Just inside the courtyard, I see a lone, quaint structure to the right. “What is this cute little cottage with its own little chimney?” I ask, with furious curiosity. “Guest quarters? Teleportation chamber?”
“Um, Joel, that is our latrine.”
A latrine is a place where people can do their business. Others would refer to it as a comfort salon. I'm not sure what that means. Anyway, if the relative opulence of their latrine was any indicator, I could not wait to set foot in their actual home. The anticipation was mounting like those mashed potatoes Richard Dreyfus was mounting in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
The courtyard is a lovely sanctuary, a place where animal, insect, and human alike can enjoy Burkina Faso's diverse foliage. The courtyard is home to eleven species of noxious weeds, two cats, one chicken, six large rats, and a colony of lizards. Shade is provided by an encroaching shea plant and various west African endemic trees. The high courtyard walls allow you to have practically no idea what events may be unfolding outside, in the town of Titao in the country of Burkina Faso. If you're thinking oasis, you've got it.
Perhaps my favorite part of the entire estate is the terrace. Shaded by a lattice-inspired thatch hangar, this shady area is a great place to read one of Jill and Markus's many outdated National Geographic Magazines. Plenty of rocks are on hand to throw at the chicken, which is an old McKay-Fleisch Titao family tradition. Markus is generally on hand to help you with long division and adding fractions in between rounds of tea, if you are so inclined. Jill is on hand to tell you all about Sigmund Freud, evolutionary psychology, and how the two combine to epitomize her love for the social sciences.
Upon entering the house, be not surprised if you smell something tasty coming from your right. No, it is not the smell of the litter box situated just next to their very own solar panel power system. It is probably Markus whipping up some concoction that involves mayonnaise, taco seasoning, and canned processed chicken. Snap! Culinary genius. The salon is a modest open floor plan, with the kitchen area to the right, and a petit bois table to the left, piled with all kinds of science magazines, GRE prep books, and old paperbacks. There is no shortage of pulp in this house. Their west-facing wall is clothed in postcards from around the world.
Beyond the salon is what saw as a labyrinth of rooms, corridors, secret passageways, and hidden staircases (probably). I am still not entirely certain how many rooms Jill and Markus have in their house. Frankly, I am not entirely certain that they know. I lost count at four, not counting the newly tiled bathroom, which I will get to in a moment. “What do they do with all those rooms?” you may ask. I asked the same question. Room 1: the master bedroom. This is, I assume, where Jill and Markus sleep the two months out of the year that it is not too hot to sleep inside. The water stain in the northwest corner of their paneled ceiling add a nature lover's feel to the bedroom. Moving on. Room2: this is where the care package cardboard boxes go to rest. Without this room, they would be forced to address the issue of their ever growing arsenal of cardboard. Luckily, the room is only 40% cardboard. Room 3: in the very back of the house, these is a hidden room, of equal size to the other rooms, which contains seasonal items. On one visit, I saw a table with two chairs. Another time, I saw two bikes and a confused cat. Hallway 1: when the bikes are not in room 3 nor are they transporting their owners to and from the high school, they are most often left in hallway 1. Other than that, I have no other comment on this dark corridor of sadness. Hallway 2: this hallway ultimately leads to a secret second entrance into the McKay-Fleisch residence; however, one must never open this door. Ever.
And finally, on to the bathroom. I know, I know, you must all be confused. If you refer to paragraph two of this piece, you will be reminded that they do have a latrine house. But nothing says bling like having a latrine AND an indoor douche, complete with non-functioning European style toilet and sink. The McKay-Fleisches recently went guns blazing and got their bathroom floor professionally tiled. I even think they made a friend out of the mason. Either that, or he simply fell in love with their house. Can you blame him?
All good things, like a smothered black bean burrito or a game of Scrabble must come to an end. Such was the case with regards to my visit of the McKay-Fleisch estate. The house alone leaves the guest satisfied, but let us not forget the wonderful hosts, Jill and Markus, for it is they who put the “we” in SWEET. Is it possible to fall in love with a married couple's home? Well, if this isn't love, I don't know what love is.
The End.
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