Joel Turner, RPCV

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.

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.

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.

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 Burkina Faso is such an event, I would be doing you all a disservice if I didn't blog about it (again). It's like the NBA playoffs, only sweatier.

From late March until the rains arrive in June, Burkina experiences a bit of a heat wave. Daily highs in the Sahel region generally lurk around 112 degrees but can often reach temperatures that I only thought were possible inside an oven that bakes casseroles. This rise in temperature, combined with an increasingly scarce water supply makes for lean times in the North of Burkina Faso. It has not rained since September, so everything (humans, trees, cows, lizards, flies, and so on) has thirst.

Ultimately, there is nothing pleasant and absolutely everything discomforting, despairing, and in general horrible about Burkina Faso's hot season. Unlike the cold, the humidity, or realizing that your company is relocating you to a small town in Indiana, one cannot prepare, nor get used to the heat. Instead, consecutive days of 115 degree weather produce a cumulative effect of misery manifested through fatigue, sweat, urinary tract infections, heat rashes, and a general loss of all creative and social faculties (this explains why I have not written a blog entry in two months). Let me remind my faithful readers in Barstow, CA, Orange, TX and even Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso: 115° IS a big deal when you live in a mud brick Lego Palace with sheet metal for a roof and no electricity that could satisfy my longing for Air-Conditioning...or even an oscillating fan. And the nearest cold drink? An hour's bus ride away.

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 Burkina Faso hot season. Only the most shake your head and sigh at of PCVs will tell you that they'll miss everything about Burkina Faso, including the hot season.
...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!

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.

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"

Helena, MT - Lawmakers on capital hill find themselves baffled after repeated failed attempts to convince the state of Montana to lower its state speed limit from 80 to 75 MPH with the promise of two truckloads of carrots as incentive. "I just don't understand," says House Minority Whip Jack Scarborough R-NV, "Carrots have never failed us in the past. It's not like we're offering the state cabbage. Frankly, I am at a loss."

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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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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 4^th 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

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

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!

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.

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

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

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