One of the things Mamina and I did while in Bobo was to visit her oldest sister, Awa. Awa lives in an informal neighbourhood known as Secteur 22, way the heck out on the edge of town. To get there, we took a taxi through 20 minutes of Bobo's relatively tranquil streets and got out at a point where the number of donkeys on the street far outweighed the number of cars. From there we left the paved road and walked through narrow streets that twisted around the houses with not even a nod at the idea of a grid. No car could ever fit down those streets.
An informal neighbourhood can mean anything from the dirtiest slum to something only slightly removed from normal city life. Awa's neighbourhood is the latter.
There is no electricity other than what is stolen from the main lines, no water other than what is brought in in oil drums, no sewage system, cooking is done with wood fires and gas burners, and the people of Secteur 22 do not own their properties.
Awa's house was typical - two small rooms, one for the whole family to sleep in and another for everything else. This is what houses are like in the village too, but village homes are grouped around a family courtyard where most living actually takes place and Awa's tiny house fronts onto the street. So most of life in this neighbourhood takes place in the streets.
Secteus 22 was a clean and friendly place with lots of families. Everyone there was poor and uneducated, but it seems like the government is taking a step towards improving life in the neighbourhood. I noticed small signs on each house with the family's name and a number, which Mamina explained are the first steps towards formalizing each family's property title.
I took lots of photos, hopefully I'll figure out a way to get them posted one day.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Two Weeks in a Small Muslim Family
I haven't been able to write to y'all these last two weeks because I've been visiting my friend Mamina, who was my counterpart during Canada World Youth. She lives in a village called Safane about 55 km north of Boromo, which places it in the west of the country in an ecosystem that has too many trees to be called Sahel but not enough water to make agriculture, and therefore life, easy.
Mamina went to school until she was 14, longer than most Burkinabes. At that point she had to drop out due to lack of means, but she retained her French which allowed her to participate in Canada World Youth. After CWY ended, she married a man from her village and moved in with his extended family, which is where I visited her last week.
Given that six years had passd and she had had two babies in that time, we weren't sure that we would recognize each other. But when my bus pulled up in Boromo and I saw her there I knew. We were a little stiff around each other at first, but it only lasted a few minutes once we squeezed into the bush taxi that would take us to Safane (a 55km trip cost $2.50). Shyness is not possible in a bush taxi when the temperature is at least 40 degrees, especially when her six month old started to cry (he's adorable, but she swears she'll box him up and ship him to me to deal with unless he stops breastfeeding every other second). Mamina's husband, a very nice and educated man named Gaoussou, picked us up at the station and, along with one of his friends, took us back to the family on mopeds.
I dismounted in the central courtyard to a scene of general surprise. The family had not asked, and Mamina had not told them, that the friend coming to visit was white. Having a white guest is a very, very big deal in rural Burkina Faso. It brings honour and status to the family in general, Mamina in particular, as well as to anyone else Mamina had me visit. I can only imagine what was going through everyone's heads when I showed up in their courtyard.
I had lots to take in as well. Mamina's father-in-law has four wives, each of whom has between four and six living children. Of them all, Gaoussou alone has finished high school. This is fairly normal for village life. The courtyard had plenty of chickens and goats, and one small cow that spent all its time in a shaded corner with its food. Three of the wives have their houses in the family courtyard while the fourth one lives with the rest of the family in Bobo-Diolasso. The father-in-law also has his house in the courtyard and he spends most of his time reading the Koran, listening to the radio, or hanging out with other old men near the mosque. The mothers-in-law still do some work around food preparation and raising the grandkids, but they have lots of leisure time too.
So much for the older generation. Gaoussou and four of his brothers also live in little houses around the compound with their wives. The other brothers live in other villages and in Bobo-Diolasso, while the sisters are all married and live with their in-laws. So far only one of the brothers has two wives. Some traditions die hard.
Family planning, however, has made an impact on the village and the younger generation has significantly fewer children than their parents had. With fewer children, odds are greater that they will go to school. Mamina is bound and determined that she will stop at two. In that, she had my full sympathy, especially when one considers how much more dangerous and excruciating childbirth is when one has undergone genital mutilation.
Life for a married woman in a big family is not easy. There's a lot of scheming and pettiness, even though individually they might all be very nice people. As the only woman in the family to have an education greater than primary school, Mamina often finds herself at odds with her female in-laws about what she should and shouldn't be able to do. They don't like it, for instance, when she works outside the home for goverent campaigns against polio or other things that require the help of literate locals. They complain that such things take her away from her cooking duties, even though they know that she and Gaoussou are the least well-off in the compound and she has to do what she can to contribute to the household finances. The father-in-law doesn't give them financial support because he's retired, he has other children to help out, and he feels that he's spent plenty on Gaoussou's education already.
Naturally everyone was very sweet to me and kept feeding me every time I turned around, and I am very fond of all of them. If Mamina hadn't told me about normal life in the courtyard I would never have known.
I stayed eight days in the village, during which time I visited Mamina's parents and siblings twice (questions mostly centred on which crops we grow in Canada), experienced two market days, attended a relative's funeral in a traditional Muslim boubou, and visited the gold mines outside the village. These were the small, Burkinabe run gold mines as opposed to SEMAFO, the much larger Canadian-run mines a little farther outside town.
After eight days in the village without electricity, running water, or anything cold to drink, I was looking forward to going to visit Mamina's uncle in Bobo. He's her father's half-brother (same father, different wife) and he's a Major in the Burkinabe army and thus quite well-off. He has a large house in Bobo, only one wife, six kids (all in school), and, joy of joys, ceiling fans!! He also has a TV, where I managed to catch a few Olympic highlights and follow the coup d'état in neoghbouring Niger and the mass protests in Cote d'Ivoire. I won't be visiting either of those countries.
Mamina and I did a lot of sightseeing and souvenir shopping in Bobo. We saw the old mosque, built in 1880, the old quarter of the city, where we actually got to go onto the oldest house in the city and see the tomb of the city's founder (he's buried standing up in the living room, only the head of the tomb protrudes above ground). It was unusual for is to get into that house because the founder's descendents still live in it.
Random fact: Bobo also goes by the name of Sia, which was the name of the founder's favourite wife who made the best dolo in town back when it was brand new.
Then Mamina, the baby, her cousin Adiaratou, and I borrowed her uncle's car, hired a chauffeur and drove the 85km to Banfora. Banfora is far in the south-west, practically on the border with Cote d'Ivoire, and it's lush and green. The country's sugar is produced there and they had fruit-bearing trees of all kinds. We first visited the Sindou Peaks, which are otherworldly hoodoos rising suddenly out of a flat and uninspired countryside. After sweating our way up and down the peaks in the midday sun we booked it for the Karifegula waterfalls. We brought a picnic and splashed around in the water for the whole afternoon. It was the first time I'd gotten cold in Burkina, and it was bliss!
Mamina and I parted ways at Boromo and I continued on to Ouaga. I'll be here for the better part of a week getting my visa for Ghana and preparing for the next part of my trip. If any of you want o call me, now would be a good time :).
Mamina went to school until she was 14, longer than most Burkinabes. At that point she had to drop out due to lack of means, but she retained her French which allowed her to participate in Canada World Youth. After CWY ended, she married a man from her village and moved in with his extended family, which is where I visited her last week.
Given that six years had passd and she had had two babies in that time, we weren't sure that we would recognize each other. But when my bus pulled up in Boromo and I saw her there I knew. We were a little stiff around each other at first, but it only lasted a few minutes once we squeezed into the bush taxi that would take us to Safane (a 55km trip cost $2.50). Shyness is not possible in a bush taxi when the temperature is at least 40 degrees, especially when her six month old started to cry (he's adorable, but she swears she'll box him up and ship him to me to deal with unless he stops breastfeeding every other second). Mamina's husband, a very nice and educated man named Gaoussou, picked us up at the station and, along with one of his friends, took us back to the family on mopeds.
I dismounted in the central courtyard to a scene of general surprise. The family had not asked, and Mamina had not told them, that the friend coming to visit was white. Having a white guest is a very, very big deal in rural Burkina Faso. It brings honour and status to the family in general, Mamina in particular, as well as to anyone else Mamina had me visit. I can only imagine what was going through everyone's heads when I showed up in their courtyard.
I had lots to take in as well. Mamina's father-in-law has four wives, each of whom has between four and six living children. Of them all, Gaoussou alone has finished high school. This is fairly normal for village life. The courtyard had plenty of chickens and goats, and one small cow that spent all its time in a shaded corner with its food. Three of the wives have their houses in the family courtyard while the fourth one lives with the rest of the family in Bobo-Diolasso. The father-in-law also has his house in the courtyard and he spends most of his time reading the Koran, listening to the radio, or hanging out with other old men near the mosque. The mothers-in-law still do some work around food preparation and raising the grandkids, but they have lots of leisure time too.
So much for the older generation. Gaoussou and four of his brothers also live in little houses around the compound with their wives. The other brothers live in other villages and in Bobo-Diolasso, while the sisters are all married and live with their in-laws. So far only one of the brothers has two wives. Some traditions die hard.
Family planning, however, has made an impact on the village and the younger generation has significantly fewer children than their parents had. With fewer children, odds are greater that they will go to school. Mamina is bound and determined that she will stop at two. In that, she had my full sympathy, especially when one considers how much more dangerous and excruciating childbirth is when one has undergone genital mutilation.
Life for a married woman in a big family is not easy. There's a lot of scheming and pettiness, even though individually they might all be very nice people. As the only woman in the family to have an education greater than primary school, Mamina often finds herself at odds with her female in-laws about what she should and shouldn't be able to do. They don't like it, for instance, when she works outside the home for goverent campaigns against polio or other things that require the help of literate locals. They complain that such things take her away from her cooking duties, even though they know that she and Gaoussou are the least well-off in the compound and she has to do what she can to contribute to the household finances. The father-in-law doesn't give them financial support because he's retired, he has other children to help out, and he feels that he's spent plenty on Gaoussou's education already.
Naturally everyone was very sweet to me and kept feeding me every time I turned around, and I am very fond of all of them. If Mamina hadn't told me about normal life in the courtyard I would never have known.
I stayed eight days in the village, during which time I visited Mamina's parents and siblings twice (questions mostly centred on which crops we grow in Canada), experienced two market days, attended a relative's funeral in a traditional Muslim boubou, and visited the gold mines outside the village. These were the small, Burkinabe run gold mines as opposed to SEMAFO, the much larger Canadian-run mines a little farther outside town.
After eight days in the village without electricity, running water, or anything cold to drink, I was looking forward to going to visit Mamina's uncle in Bobo. He's her father's half-brother (same father, different wife) and he's a Major in the Burkinabe army and thus quite well-off. He has a large house in Bobo, only one wife, six kids (all in school), and, joy of joys, ceiling fans!! He also has a TV, where I managed to catch a few Olympic highlights and follow the coup d'état in neoghbouring Niger and the mass protests in Cote d'Ivoire. I won't be visiting either of those countries.
Mamina and I did a lot of sightseeing and souvenir shopping in Bobo. We saw the old mosque, built in 1880, the old quarter of the city, where we actually got to go onto the oldest house in the city and see the tomb of the city's founder (he's buried standing up in the living room, only the head of the tomb protrudes above ground). It was unusual for is to get into that house because the founder's descendents still live in it.
Random fact: Bobo also goes by the name of Sia, which was the name of the founder's favourite wife who made the best dolo in town back when it was brand new.
Then Mamina, the baby, her cousin Adiaratou, and I borrowed her uncle's car, hired a chauffeur and drove the 85km to Banfora. Banfora is far in the south-west, practically on the border with Cote d'Ivoire, and it's lush and green. The country's sugar is produced there and they had fruit-bearing trees of all kinds. We first visited the Sindou Peaks, which are otherworldly hoodoos rising suddenly out of a flat and uninspired countryside. After sweating our way up and down the peaks in the midday sun we booked it for the Karifegula waterfalls. We brought a picnic and splashed around in the water for the whole afternoon. It was the first time I'd gotten cold in Burkina, and it was bliss!
Mamina and I parted ways at Boromo and I continued on to Ouaga. I'll be here for the better part of a week getting my visa for Ghana and preparing for the next part of my trip. If any of you want o call me, now would be a good time :).
Monday, February 8, 2010
Welcome to Ouagadougou
If only every country could have a capital with a name as cool as Ouagadougou! Mama Zida dropped me off at my adorable hotel - Le Pavillon Vert - at 8:30 Thursday morning before heading off to a planning meeting for the national orphanage association's upcoming AGM. I haven't stopped moving since.
The first thing I did was make friends with the hotel reception and get directions for the French Cultural Centre, for whence I departed after lunch. It turned out there was a concert there that evening, so I had my plans made for me. After going back to the Pavillon for a nap I went to the concert with two French girls I met at the hotel. The concert itself was put on by a French jazz trio called Hakuba Trio and every French ex-pat in Ouaga must have been there. The music was related to jazz, I guess, but it was heavily laced with psychadelic trance lounge music. The Burkinabes in the audience didn't last past the first half of the concert, and those few brave souls that remained with their white significant others looked like they were about to pass out from boredom. Personally I enjoyed the atmosphere they created in the FCC's open air venue, but I wouldn't listen to that kind of music unless it were live. I only got a few blurry pictures of the whole thing, but I feel they capture the trippy vibe perfectly.
The next morning I woke up early to see the Mora-Naaba ceremony, which takes place just outside the Naaba's palace every Friday morning at 7 am. I arrived at 7:30, but luckily for me the ceremony had been pushed back to 8:30 for some reason unknown to all the tourists but known by the Burkinabes, who showed up 5 minutes before the main event. Here's the story behind the Mora-Naaba ceremony. Hundreds of years ago, two Mossi brothers ruled the cities of Ouagadougou in the centre and Ouahigouya in the north. The Ouagalese Naaba was the elder brother and supreme ruler and, as such, carried the sacred gri-gri which gave him power. One day, his brother in Ouahigouya stole the gri-gri and brought it back to the North with him. The Ouagalese Naaba prepared for war. He walked from his house the next morning dressed entirely in red and commande his servants to saddle his horse and prepare his cannon. The lesser Naabas from Ouaga's various sectors and suburbs, learning of their king's intentions through the drumming of the palace griots (griots are the musician caste) came to the field in front of the palace and begged their king not to go to war. He listened to their pleas and advice, returned to his house, and came back out dressed in white. His horse was desaddled and the cannon fired off harmlessly outside the palace gates. To this day, every Friday the Mora-naaba prepares for war and the lesser Naabas and other prominent Mossi gather in order of importance and beg him not to go. I took no pictures, as it's forbidden.
Since then I've been out dancing, I've gone to another concet at the FCC, visited the sacred crocodiles and stayed for a village party. But more on that another day, it's siesta time now.
The first thing I did was make friends with the hotel reception and get directions for the French Cultural Centre, for whence I departed after lunch. It turned out there was a concert there that evening, so I had my plans made for me. After going back to the Pavillon for a nap I went to the concert with two French girls I met at the hotel. The concert itself was put on by a French jazz trio called Hakuba Trio and every French ex-pat in Ouaga must have been there. The music was related to jazz, I guess, but it was heavily laced with psychadelic trance lounge music. The Burkinabes in the audience didn't last past the first half of the concert, and those few brave souls that remained with their white significant others looked like they were about to pass out from boredom. Personally I enjoyed the atmosphere they created in the FCC's open air venue, but I wouldn't listen to that kind of music unless it were live. I only got a few blurry pictures of the whole thing, but I feel they capture the trippy vibe perfectly.
The next morning I woke up early to see the Mora-Naaba ceremony, which takes place just outside the Naaba's palace every Friday morning at 7 am. I arrived at 7:30, but luckily for me the ceremony had been pushed back to 8:30 for some reason unknown to all the tourists but known by the Burkinabes, who showed up 5 minutes before the main event. Here's the story behind the Mora-Naaba ceremony. Hundreds of years ago, two Mossi brothers ruled the cities of Ouagadougou in the centre and Ouahigouya in the north. The Ouagalese Naaba was the elder brother and supreme ruler and, as such, carried the sacred gri-gri which gave him power. One day, his brother in Ouahigouya stole the gri-gri and brought it back to the North with him. The Ouagalese Naaba prepared for war. He walked from his house the next morning dressed entirely in red and commande his servants to saddle his horse and prepare his cannon. The lesser Naabas from Ouaga's various sectors and suburbs, learning of their king's intentions through the drumming of the palace griots (griots are the musician caste) came to the field in front of the palace and begged their king not to go to war. He listened to their pleas and advice, returned to his house, and came back out dressed in white. His horse was desaddled and the cannon fired off harmlessly outside the palace gates. To this day, every Friday the Mora-naaba prepares for war and the lesser Naabas and other prominent Mossi gather in order of importance and beg him not to go. I took no pictures, as it's forbidden.
Since then I've been out dancing, I've gone to another concet at the FCC, visited the sacred crocodiles and stayed for a village party. But more on that another day, it's siesta time now.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Christmas at the Orphelinat Teega-Wende (Jan. 23 2010)
Christmas at the orphanage took place today, Saturday January 23rd. All the orphans and vulnerable children who live in and around Yako with their extended families came to the orphanage for food, gifts, and good company.
We started preparing the food the day before. A full fifty kilo sack of rice was emptied into an enormous cauldron over an outdoor log fire. Beef cubes sizzled in six inched of oil, eggplants and tomatoes were chopped, and untold cabbages gave their heads to make riz gras. I chopped the tomatoes over a bucket with the tomato in my left hand and the dull knife in my right, as one does in Burkina Faso, and managed not to cut myself. Five chickens were slaughtered in front of me that evening. Because I was there, I helped carry two of them over to the block. Their feet were warm in my hand, which for some reason I had not expected. Vegetarian that I am, I apologized silently over and over as I carried them, and thanked them for giving their lives that we might party.
Between 60 and 75 people came to the orphanage today, and each family left with a bag full of clothes, toys, and soap, 5 pounds of dried beans and a 50 kilo bag of rice or sorghum. We were there from 8:30 until nearly 3 pm, right through the heat of the day. It went really well, even if it was somewhat subdued because there had been a death in the SEMUS, the orphanage's local partner organization. Normally there would have been beer and dolo for all.
My job was to run around and take pictures, we'll see if any of them turned out. It was great seeing all the kids who have "graduated" from the orphanage and are back with their extended families or in foster families. For me, the best part of the day was when I learned that one of my favourites from 6 years ago, who was very sickly, has grown into a healthy 8 year old.
It really is amazing to see the transformation of the orphanage from how it was 6 years ago. It used to be a small, barren place that sucked the hope out of me each time I approached the gate. Now, thanks to funding from CARO, the Canadian charity I volunteer with, the orphanage has a new building on a new site. It's full of sunshine and trees and there's lots of room for the kids to play. They stay at the building until they're 2 or 3, at which point they go back to their extended families or into foster care. The orphanage pays for all their schooling until the end of primary, which is more education than many Burkinabes ever get. Now when I go through the front gate, I know that Mama Zida's superb work and our funding means that these kids have a good chance in life.
We started preparing the food the day before. A full fifty kilo sack of rice was emptied into an enormous cauldron over an outdoor log fire. Beef cubes sizzled in six inched of oil, eggplants and tomatoes were chopped, and untold cabbages gave their heads to make riz gras. I chopped the tomatoes over a bucket with the tomato in my left hand and the dull knife in my right, as one does in Burkina Faso, and managed not to cut myself. Five chickens were slaughtered in front of me that evening. Because I was there, I helped carry two of them over to the block. Their feet were warm in my hand, which for some reason I had not expected. Vegetarian that I am, I apologized silently over and over as I carried them, and thanked them for giving their lives that we might party.
Between 60 and 75 people came to the orphanage today, and each family left with a bag full of clothes, toys, and soap, 5 pounds of dried beans and a 50 kilo bag of rice or sorghum. We were there from 8:30 until nearly 3 pm, right through the heat of the day. It went really well, even if it was somewhat subdued because there had been a death in the SEMUS, the orphanage's local partner organization. Normally there would have been beer and dolo for all.
My job was to run around and take pictures, we'll see if any of them turned out. It was great seeing all the kids who have "graduated" from the orphanage and are back with their extended families or in foster families. For me, the best part of the day was when I learned that one of my favourites from 6 years ago, who was very sickly, has grown into a healthy 8 year old.
It really is amazing to see the transformation of the orphanage from how it was 6 years ago. It used to be a small, barren place that sucked the hope out of me each time I approached the gate. Now, thanks to funding from CARO, the Canadian charity I volunteer with, the orphanage has a new building on a new site. It's full of sunshine and trees and there's lots of room for the kids to play. They stay at the building until they're 2 or 3, at which point they go back to their extended families or into foster care. The orphanage pays for all their schooling until the end of primary, which is more education than many Burkinabes ever get. Now when I go through the front gate, I know that Mama Zida's superb work and our funding means that these kids have a good chance in life.
Manga, 1; Dukoral, 0; Immodium, 1 (Jan 17 2010)
I have decided to found a new country. It shall be called the Democratic Republic of Immodium Partiers (D.R.I.P.) and its national slogan shall be, "Without Immodium, There is no Party." My parents's friends started the Immodium People's Party while in South-East Asia; founding a nation is the next logical step.
The people in Manga are really friendly and love to show hospitality to foreigners. This means plying us with even more food and drink than they do their Burkinabe guests, and since there were funerals to attend everyone was expected to eat more than usual anyways. It was the combination of meat and dolo (homemade millet beer) that did me in. I ate more meat in one sitting than I had over the last six years, and my body revolted. I guess the Dukoral did it's best, but it's intended to prevent cholera more than anything else. Anyways, Mama Zida blamed my illness on the dolo-to combination (to is an unappetizing staple of the Burkinabe diet and was also served at the funeral) and she won't allow me to eat anymore to or drink anymore dolo. I'm not going to disabuse her of that; I'd rather eat meat than to.
I really liked meeting Mama Zida's mother and the rest of the family. One of the kids made it his personal mission to educate me in Moore (the local dialect) and he taught me all the barnyard animals as well as the word for stomach ache and some other useful phrases. Mama Zida's mother is quite the character. She is tiny and wrinkled as anything, and even though I couldn't understand a word she said I could tell that she has a wicked sense of humour. She reigns supreme over the family's dolo-making operation from her stool on the front porch.
It's 10 am Tuesday morning as I write this and we just got back from Manga after a four hour drive. I'm going to take my siesta now and in the afternoon I'll go to the orphanage to see how it has changed.
The people in Manga are really friendly and love to show hospitality to foreigners. This means plying us with even more food and drink than they do their Burkinabe guests, and since there were funerals to attend everyone was expected to eat more than usual anyways. It was the combination of meat and dolo (homemade millet beer) that did me in. I ate more meat in one sitting than I had over the last six years, and my body revolted. I guess the Dukoral did it's best, but it's intended to prevent cholera more than anything else. Anyways, Mama Zida blamed my illness on the dolo-to combination (to is an unappetizing staple of the Burkinabe diet and was also served at the funeral) and she won't allow me to eat anymore to or drink anymore dolo. I'm not going to disabuse her of that; I'd rather eat meat than to.
I really liked meeting Mama Zida's mother and the rest of the family. One of the kids made it his personal mission to educate me in Moore (the local dialect) and he taught me all the barnyard animals as well as the word for stomach ache and some other useful phrases. Mama Zida's mother is quite the character. She is tiny and wrinkled as anything, and even though I couldn't understand a word she said I could tell that she has a wicked sense of humour. She reigns supreme over the family's dolo-making operation from her stool on the front porch.
It's 10 am Tuesday morning as I write this and we just got back from Manga after a four hour drive. I'm going to take my siesta now and in the afternoon I'll go to the orphanage to see how it has changed.
The Naaba-fest (Jan. 29 2010)
In Burkina, traditional chiefs play an important role in local politics. The major Mossi chiefs (the Mossi are Burkina's dominant ethnic group) are so important that the Burkinabe government still makes a show of consulting them before taking major policy decisions.
Here in Yako, the chief, or naaba, is holding his annual meet and greet to welcome in the new year. It's a two week process during which several hundred people have come to Yako from the surrounding villages to pay their respects. Different villages come on different days, and they all come loaded down with enough food to feed everybody in Yako several times over. Women gather in the naaba's compound to prepare the food while the men and superfluous women sit around under trees socializing and drinking dolo.
As night falls the party really gets started. Drums pound, drink flows, and the women's ululating cries carry into the night. I know, because the Zidas live so close to the naaba's compound that I can hear the party from my room every night. I can even hear it now.
Tomorrow it's the turn of Yako's more important families to greet the chief and I'm lucky enough to be invited to that ceremony. Tonight I went to the naaba's compound with Mama Zida and helped get ready for the next day. I must have peeled 50 cloves of garlic while the women around me chopped what looked like several hundred onions. People, and by people I mean women, here chop vegetables without the use of such frivolous things as tables or cutting boards. Why would you need them when you can chop the vegetable into your hand over a bucket? They don't seem to cut themselves, even though one of the women was using a traditional hunting knife and the woman next to me was chopping onions into her bare hand with a switchblade.
Tomorrow (the 30th) I'm going to go greet the chief and I'll tell you all about it!
Here in Yako, the chief, or naaba, is holding his annual meet and greet to welcome in the new year. It's a two week process during which several hundred people have come to Yako from the surrounding villages to pay their respects. Different villages come on different days, and they all come loaded down with enough food to feed everybody in Yako several times over. Women gather in the naaba's compound to prepare the food while the men and superfluous women sit around under trees socializing and drinking dolo.
As night falls the party really gets started. Drums pound, drink flows, and the women's ululating cries carry into the night. I know, because the Zidas live so close to the naaba's compound that I can hear the party from my room every night. I can even hear it now.
Tomorrow it's the turn of Yako's more important families to greet the chief and I'm lucky enough to be invited to that ceremony. Tonight I went to the naaba's compound with Mama Zida and helped get ready for the next day. I must have peeled 50 cloves of garlic while the women around me chopped what looked like several hundred onions. People, and by people I mean women, here chop vegetables without the use of such frivolous things as tables or cutting boards. Why would you need them when you can chop the vegetable into your hand over a bucket? They don't seem to cut themselves, even though one of the women was using a traditional hunting knife and the woman next to me was chopping onions into her bare hand with a switchblade.
Tomorrow (the 30th) I'm going to go greet the chief and I'll tell you all about it!
Somewhere Over the Atlantic
It's pitch dark on the plane and everyone else is sleeping soundly. The Dutch stewardesses float by like ships in the night. Every one of them is tall and blonde. I'm not sure whether this reflects on KLM's hiring strategy or Holland's level of genetic diversity. Maybe all of Holland is descended from the same small group of Viking colonizers...
I passed out for 2 hours after take off and now I'm wide awake, feeling fresh as the proverbial daisy. I'm going to feel like pushing up daisies if I have to navigate Amsterdam's airport on 2 hours' sleep.
I passed out for 2 hours after take off and now I'm wide awake, feeling fresh as the proverbial daisy. I'm going to feel like pushing up daisies if I have to navigate Amsterdam's airport on 2 hours' sleep.
I made it! Call me!
After flying ten thousand kilometres over two days with a ghastly white night in Charles de Gaulle, I have arrived safe and sound in Burkina Faso! My lovely family away from family, the Zidas, picked me up at Ouagadougou International Airport and took me back to their home in Yako. No, there are no neighbouring towns named Whacko and Dot.
Here is my cell phone number:
011 226 7500 2125
Please call me anytime, it's so nice to hear voices from home. Don't worry too much about the time difference, I'm going to put my phone on silent when I'm sleeping or otherwise unable to answer.
Mama Zida is taking me to Manga, her village, this weekend. I'll meet her mother and go to a couple of funerals. We leave at 6am Saturday morning. I'll be back on Tuesday, at which point I'll visit the orphanage and gather info for an interim report on its status. For those who don't know, I volunteered in this orphanage when I was last in Yako 6 years ago. Mama Zida runs it, and it's called L'Orphelinat Teega Wende.
Hopefully shortly after that I'll get some Internet access and will actually be able to post these.
Here is my cell phone number:
011 226 7500 2125
Please call me anytime, it's so nice to hear voices from home. Don't worry too much about the time difference, I'm going to put my phone on silent when I'm sleeping or otherwise unable to answer.
Mama Zida is taking me to Manga, her village, this weekend. I'll meet her mother and go to a couple of funerals. We leave at 6am Saturday morning. I'll be back on Tuesday, at which point I'll visit the orphanage and gather info for an interim report on its status. For those who don't know, I volunteered in this orphanage when I was last in Yako 6 years ago. Mama Zida runs it, and it's called L'Orphelinat Teega Wende.
Hopefully shortly after that I'll get some Internet access and will actually be able to post these.
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