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

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

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.