It's Wednesday, May 26th, and I'm going home! I'm waiting in the Amsterdam airport for my flight and its exciting to think that I'm potentially surrounded by other Vancouverites. I can't wait to fly over the Georia Strait and the coast mountains and see my family waiting at the gate.
As some of you may know, yesterday I was back in Paris with my friends and their baby. It was also my 25th birthday, so we toasted champagne and went salsa dancing. I hadn't wanted to make a big deal about it, but Matias an Alessandra are lovely and wouldn't hear of anything less. It was my first time salsa dancing in four and a half months!
It doesn't quite feel real that I'm going home, but then, it didn't quite feel real when I left for West Africa either. To all of you who read this blog, thank you so much. Writing it was one of my greatest pleasures on this trip, and it would have been pointless without you.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Welcome to Stepford, I mean Geneva
Have you ever been to a place that just feels too clean? A place so perfect that it must be hiding something? If you haven't, then you should go to Geneva.
Nestled among the Swiss Alps next to a sparkling glacial lake, Geneva has some of the best views in the world. I went hiking with my friend who moved here recently and the beauty of our surroundings blew me away. The only difference between hiking in the Alps and hiking in BC's mountains is that at home you have to be alert for bears and cougars, and in the Alps the only animal that might attack you would be a sheep, or at worst a rabid squirrel. Europeans killed all their wildlife a long time ago.
But Geneva appears to have no soul. It has lots of watches, banks, and clean air, but no soul.
So what happened? I have a theory that Geneva sold its soul for neutrality and got very, very rich in the process. Geneva claimed neutrality during WW2 and then proceeded to hold Nazi assets - meaning they hid the Nazis' looted property in high-security vaults. Swiss banks issued credit to the Third Reich and Swiss companies participated in, and profited from, the military-industrial marriage that fuelled Germany's economic recovery after the Depression. The Nazi military-industrial complex was especially profitable because it used slave labour from the concentration camps. In a sick twist of history, a Swiss company also designed the gas spigots disguised as shower heads that played the lead role in murdering those same prisoners. Today Swiss banks hold the assets of warlords and dictators just as bloodthirsty, kleptomaniacal and sociopathic as ever Hitler was, no questions asked, utter discretion guaranteed. I think the city lost its soul when it stopped asking questions.
Another theory is that a city whose population is 40% financiers never had a soul. One thing's for sure, the Genèvois are fairly cold and they run like clockwork - they look down on you if you're five minutes late. It's so different from West Africa, where people are generally warm, welcoming, and at least half an hour late for everything.
I'm sorry if you're of Swiss descent and you think that I'm spouting out opinions without actually knowing or living in Geneva. The thing is I didn't get to know any Swiss people who could have balanced my views because they're rather insular and xenophobic. My friend, who is laid back and friendly, has lived here for 6 months and all the friends he's made are expats.
So Geneva is a quiet little town amidst beautiful scenery. There's great hiking and boating around the lake, and no perceivable social inequities. I loved looking out at Montblanc every morning, walking the lakeshore, and eating fondue. It is a city with lots of clean air and dirty money, and if you like Stepford-esque perfection then it's the place for you.
Nestled among the Swiss Alps next to a sparkling glacial lake, Geneva has some of the best views in the world. I went hiking with my friend who moved here recently and the beauty of our surroundings blew me away. The only difference between hiking in the Alps and hiking in BC's mountains is that at home you have to be alert for bears and cougars, and in the Alps the only animal that might attack you would be a sheep, or at worst a rabid squirrel. Europeans killed all their wildlife a long time ago.
But Geneva appears to have no soul. It has lots of watches, banks, and clean air, but no soul.
So what happened? I have a theory that Geneva sold its soul for neutrality and got very, very rich in the process. Geneva claimed neutrality during WW2 and then proceeded to hold Nazi assets - meaning they hid the Nazis' looted property in high-security vaults. Swiss banks issued credit to the Third Reich and Swiss companies participated in, and profited from, the military-industrial marriage that fuelled Germany's economic recovery after the Depression. The Nazi military-industrial complex was especially profitable because it used slave labour from the concentration camps. In a sick twist of history, a Swiss company also designed the gas spigots disguised as shower heads that played the lead role in murdering those same prisoners. Today Swiss banks hold the assets of warlords and dictators just as bloodthirsty, kleptomaniacal and sociopathic as ever Hitler was, no questions asked, utter discretion guaranteed. I think the city lost its soul when it stopped asking questions.
Another theory is that a city whose population is 40% financiers never had a soul. One thing's for sure, the Genèvois are fairly cold and they run like clockwork - they look down on you if you're five minutes late. It's so different from West Africa, where people are generally warm, welcoming, and at least half an hour late for everything.
I'm sorry if you're of Swiss descent and you think that I'm spouting out opinions without actually knowing or living in Geneva. The thing is I didn't get to know any Swiss people who could have balanced my views because they're rather insular and xenophobic. My friend, who is laid back and friendly, has lived here for 6 months and all the friends he's made are expats.
So Geneva is a quiet little town amidst beautiful scenery. There's great hiking and boating around the lake, and no perceivable social inequities. I loved looking out at Montblanc every morning, walking the lakeshore, and eating fondue. It is a city with lots of clean air and dirty money, and if you like Stepford-esque perfection then it's the place for you.
Poor, but Sexy
You'll have to wait for an explanation of the title, but I'll give you a hint: it doesn't refer to me.
I spent five days in Berlin, from May 16th to May 20th, which is nowhere near enough. If you want to understand the events of the 20th century, then you have go to Berlin because that's where it all went down. I doubt any other world capital has had to rebuild itself so many times. This is the city where the First World War was lost and the Second was born. During the Great Depression one trillion Reichmarks was worth one US dollar and couldn't buy a loaf of bread. In desperate times people turned to extreme politicians promising extreme measures. Goebbels burned thousands of books and organized the "spontaneous" anti-Semitic riots of Kristalnacht. In the Reichstag, people passed the laws that institutionalized anti-Semitism and murdered my relatives. Hitler killed himself in this city, buried in a shallow grave by terrified junior officers trying to get out ahead of the Red Army. They could feel the ground shake as millions of Soviet soldiers marched into Berlin amid the ruins of the Third Reich. After WW2 colonialism began its slow death, in part because the war nearly bankrupted the Great Powers of the 20th century. East and West stared each other down at Check Point Charlie for forty years, the Berlin Wall and its "Death Strip" became the definitive symbol of the Cold War's divisiveness, cruelty, and paranoia of "the other." And it was East Berliners who stormed checkpoints and tore down the Berlin Wall, ushering in a new era of unification and peace for Europe (except the Balkans), but also an era where wars between countries gave way to savage wars and genocides within countries from Kosovo to Rwanda. So if you get Berlin, then you get the twentieth century.
I visited a concentration camp. It was an emotionally exhausting day, but I got a lot out of it. I count myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to visit a concentration camp and the trans-Atlantic slave forts in one year. The Holocaust hit European Jews like a tsunami - fast, violent, and devastating. The slave trade was more like erosion. It took smaller amounts of people at a time, but over 400 years it shredded the soieties of West Africa. Both showed me what happens when one group of people thinks that another is sub-human.
But I greatly admire Berliners' ability to remember. They don't try to gloss over the terrible things that happened in their city, nor do they sweep them under the rug. I have never been to a city with so many memorials. And Berliners are very careful about which memories they emphasize and which ones they keep in the background. The Holocaust memorial takes up a full city block and never fails to spark the interest of passers-by. Not coincidentally, it is a stone's throw from Hitler's bunker, which is covered by a parking lot and only marked by the smallest of signs. The German government has decided against allowing people to enter and excavate it, fearing that it might turn into a pilgrimage site for neo-Nazis. There's a used clothing collection box on the corner where Hitler's body was found, and no kind of plaque or recognition. This juxtaposition shows very clearly whose memory Germany intends to honour.
I went out a lot in Berlin because I have friends there and because it's so cheap! Berlin doesn't tax alcohol, so a bottle of good wine costs between 4 and 5 euros. If you really wanted to splurge you might spend 15 euros on wine. My favourite night out took me to the Maria Club in former East Berlin. The Maria Club is an old warehouse on the Rhine that has been converted into a haven for electronic music lovers. Actually, all of Germany is a haven for electronic music lovers. Whenever the cigarette smoke got too intense I could just go to the little patio and breathe the air from the river. I don't think Europeans got the memo about smoking being deadly.
I walked past the East Side Gallery to get home. The East Side Gallery is the largest remaining segment of the Berlin Wall and it's covered with colourful, artistic graffiti. It wasn't lit up at all and I almost missed it. I suppose the fact that the Wall is dark at night is one of the most potent signs of the Cold War's end. Only 20 years ago it would have been flood lit so that armed guards could shoot anyone attempting to escape.
Today, Berlin is a hip, vibrant city that I didn't want to leave. It discusses its problems - both past and present - with a frankness and vigour that's very refreshing, and then they usually do something about their problems. Berliners today don't earn much compared to the rest of Western Europe, but they love their city and they don't seem to desert for higher wages. They say that they are arm, aber sexy - poor but sexy. Who couldn't love a place like that?
I spent five days in Berlin, from May 16th to May 20th, which is nowhere near enough. If you want to understand the events of the 20th century, then you have go to Berlin because that's where it all went down. I doubt any other world capital has had to rebuild itself so many times. This is the city where the First World War was lost and the Second was born. During the Great Depression one trillion Reichmarks was worth one US dollar and couldn't buy a loaf of bread. In desperate times people turned to extreme politicians promising extreme measures. Goebbels burned thousands of books and organized the "spontaneous" anti-Semitic riots of Kristalnacht. In the Reichstag, people passed the laws that institutionalized anti-Semitism and murdered my relatives. Hitler killed himself in this city, buried in a shallow grave by terrified junior officers trying to get out ahead of the Red Army. They could feel the ground shake as millions of Soviet soldiers marched into Berlin amid the ruins of the Third Reich. After WW2 colonialism began its slow death, in part because the war nearly bankrupted the Great Powers of the 20th century. East and West stared each other down at Check Point Charlie for forty years, the Berlin Wall and its "Death Strip" became the definitive symbol of the Cold War's divisiveness, cruelty, and paranoia of "the other." And it was East Berliners who stormed checkpoints and tore down the Berlin Wall, ushering in a new era of unification and peace for Europe (except the Balkans), but also an era where wars between countries gave way to savage wars and genocides within countries from Kosovo to Rwanda. So if you get Berlin, then you get the twentieth century.
I visited a concentration camp. It was an emotionally exhausting day, but I got a lot out of it. I count myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to visit a concentration camp and the trans-Atlantic slave forts in one year. The Holocaust hit European Jews like a tsunami - fast, violent, and devastating. The slave trade was more like erosion. It took smaller amounts of people at a time, but over 400 years it shredded the soieties of West Africa. Both showed me what happens when one group of people thinks that another is sub-human.
But I greatly admire Berliners' ability to remember. They don't try to gloss over the terrible things that happened in their city, nor do they sweep them under the rug. I have never been to a city with so many memorials. And Berliners are very careful about which memories they emphasize and which ones they keep in the background. The Holocaust memorial takes up a full city block and never fails to spark the interest of passers-by. Not coincidentally, it is a stone's throw from Hitler's bunker, which is covered by a parking lot and only marked by the smallest of signs. The German government has decided against allowing people to enter and excavate it, fearing that it might turn into a pilgrimage site for neo-Nazis. There's a used clothing collection box on the corner where Hitler's body was found, and no kind of plaque or recognition. This juxtaposition shows very clearly whose memory Germany intends to honour.
I went out a lot in Berlin because I have friends there and because it's so cheap! Berlin doesn't tax alcohol, so a bottle of good wine costs between 4 and 5 euros. If you really wanted to splurge you might spend 15 euros on wine. My favourite night out took me to the Maria Club in former East Berlin. The Maria Club is an old warehouse on the Rhine that has been converted into a haven for electronic music lovers. Actually, all of Germany is a haven for electronic music lovers. Whenever the cigarette smoke got too intense I could just go to the little patio and breathe the air from the river. I don't think Europeans got the memo about smoking being deadly.
I walked past the East Side Gallery to get home. The East Side Gallery is the largest remaining segment of the Berlin Wall and it's covered with colourful, artistic graffiti. It wasn't lit up at all and I almost missed it. I suppose the fact that the Wall is dark at night is one of the most potent signs of the Cold War's end. Only 20 years ago it would have been flood lit so that armed guards could shoot anyone attempting to escape.
Today, Berlin is a hip, vibrant city that I didn't want to leave. It discusses its problems - both past and present - with a frankness and vigour that's very refreshing, and then they usually do something about their problems. Berliners today don't earn much compared to the rest of Western Europe, but they love their city and they don't seem to desert for higher wages. They say that they are arm, aber sexy - poor but sexy. Who couldn't love a place like that?
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Rain in Spain
Hola de Barcelona, where it's grey and cloudy. The rain in Spain inspired Audrey Hepburn to burst into song, but I have not felt the same desire.
I arrived in Madrid a little later than expected because of the volcano, but that was ok because I met some really nice musicians. I was sitting next to this band on the plane and we chatted for the whole flight. They're called the Skatalites; I'd never heard of them before but apparently they're a big deal.
From Madrid I caught the train to Salamanca, where I stayed with my good friend Juan and his family. Juan's mother is not quite five feet tall and she's really cute. She is also an amazing cook and she took it upon herself to ensure that I sampled all the dishes of Spain. Any weight I may have lost has surely been regained. Juan showed me around old Salamanca and introduced me to the delightful Spanish custom of taking canas y pinchos at random times during the day. Canas are small servings of beer - about a glassfull - and pinchos are a small snack, like fried cheese or bread with tomato, that comes with the cana. The Spanish indulge in this custom any time they feel like it, so basically you can drink all morning in Spain and nobody judges you.
After a few days in Salamanca and an afternoon in Madrid, I hopped on a plane to Barcelona where I met my dad. It was so great to see him! We stayed in this little apartment in the trendy Gothic Quarter, where we bore witness to the fact that Barcelona never sleeps. The week passed in a pleasant blur. Pavement was pounded, sights were seen, and art appreciated. My favourite things about Barcelona were La Rambla and its market, the Gaudi houses, and the tapas.
La Rambla is the place to meet the weird and the wonderful, and even the famous. I met Michael Jackson, Edward Scissorhands, Jack from The Nightmare Before Christmas, the Nutty Professor, and many fairytale princesses. You just never know who will dress up as what. There were some street performers dressed as demons who managed to hover above the pavement. I couldn't figure out how they did it. It was really cool.
The market is a swirling bustle of colour and noise that opens off La Rambla. The front part is full of fruit and candy while the fish-mongers are at the back. Did you know there are three different sizes of octopus? And that a tuna's head weighs as much as I do? The market was like Granville Island on steroids.
Gaudi was a renowned and imaginative architect from Barcelona, and even if he weren't from Barcelona they would probably tell you that he was. (Aside: they claim that anyone famous is from Barcelona, even Christopher Columbus, who was Italian). Gaudi lived during the golden years of the fin-de-siecle. This period was marked by Barcelona's industrialization and the rise of modernism - a cultural movement which sought to cast off all things related with the 19th century. The nouveau-riche were looking for nouveau houses to demonstrate their wealth. Enter Gaudi. The bourgeois hired him to build them houses that would stand out from all their neighbours' and gave him a blank cheque. The results were spectacular. My favourite house was Casa Batllo, which was constructed without a single straight line. Walking in the front door feels like entering a magical underwater realm. I wanted to live there.
And the tapas... oh, the tapas! Spanish tapas are so good! Dad and I decided to be adventurous and try the All You Can Eat Tapas restaurant. We rolled each other home, but it was worth it.
After our week was over my dad went home and I boarded a flight to Berlin. Onwards to the land of bratwurst!
Monday, May 10, 2010
A Canadian in Paris
It's so cold!! Do you know what temperature it is here? It's 10 degrees. And it's May. What is wrong with this country?? Why did I think it would be a good idea to come here? I need a check up from the neck up.
It was 46 degrees on the day I left Ouagadougou. I was wearing a sundress and flip flops when I disembarked to 6 degrees in Paris at 6 am on Monday, May 3rd. I still had my hair in braids and the wind whistled through them icy as the reaper's own breath. Luckily I had brought the Air France blanket with me and I wrapped it around my shoulders. It was quite the fashion statement.
As soon as I got my bags I made a beeline for the bathroom and changed into my jeans, which were still warm from the African sun despite 7 hours in the baggage hold. Then I got myself to the metro and began my journey to the heart of Paris. I was still wearing the Air France blanket.
After several misadventures with broken escalators and heavy bags, I made it to my friend Matias' flat in downtown Paris. He and his partner, Alessandra, kindly put me up in the spare room even though Alessandra is studying for a career move and they have an eight-month old baby boy. Luca, the baby, is too cute for words and both new parents are besotted.
I borrowed sweaters and rain gear and hit the town. For the first time in months I felt comfortable giving my camera to a stranger so that I could be in the picture. So now I have pictures of Erica beside the Eiffel Tower, Erica at the Arc de Triomphe, Erica on the Champs d'Elysees, Erica by the River Seine, etc etc.
And the food is amazing. If I have to choose between sheep's head and fondue, or to and baguette, I will choose fondue and baguette every time. It's nice to be in a place where I can eat cheese and drink wine for a fraction of the price I'd pay in Canada. And since I lost a few pounds (when it's 45 degrees your body sheds anything that counts as insulation) I can eat as much Brie and Camembert and chocolate as I want!
I spent some time in Notre Dame, which is my favourite cathedral. A world-renowned choir was going to perform there the next day and I happened to drop in for the dress rehearsal. It was exquisite. On the way out I checked the schedule of who would perform mass the coming week. I noticed that neither the regular priest or many of the visiting priests came from Europe. They all came from Africa. Europe now has so few faithful and produces so few priests that all the up-and-comers are from Africa. In a beautifully ironic twist of history Africans are coming to Europe as missionaries, bringing the light of God to non-believers.
I spent a few more days in Paris hanging out with Alessandra, Matias, and Luca, and now I'm heading to Spain. I sure hope it will be warmer there!
It was 46 degrees on the day I left Ouagadougou. I was wearing a sundress and flip flops when I disembarked to 6 degrees in Paris at 6 am on Monday, May 3rd. I still had my hair in braids and the wind whistled through them icy as the reaper's own breath. Luckily I had brought the Air France blanket with me and I wrapped it around my shoulders. It was quite the fashion statement.
As soon as I got my bags I made a beeline for the bathroom and changed into my jeans, which were still warm from the African sun despite 7 hours in the baggage hold. Then I got myself to the metro and began my journey to the heart of Paris. I was still wearing the Air France blanket.
After several misadventures with broken escalators and heavy bags, I made it to my friend Matias' flat in downtown Paris. He and his partner, Alessandra, kindly put me up in the spare room even though Alessandra is studying for a career move and they have an eight-month old baby boy. Luca, the baby, is too cute for words and both new parents are besotted.
I borrowed sweaters and rain gear and hit the town. For the first time in months I felt comfortable giving my camera to a stranger so that I could be in the picture. So now I have pictures of Erica beside the Eiffel Tower, Erica at the Arc de Triomphe, Erica on the Champs d'Elysees, Erica by the River Seine, etc etc.
And the food is amazing. If I have to choose between sheep's head and fondue, or to and baguette, I will choose fondue and baguette every time. It's nice to be in a place where I can eat cheese and drink wine for a fraction of the price I'd pay in Canada. And since I lost a few pounds (when it's 45 degrees your body sheds anything that counts as insulation) I can eat as much Brie and Camembert and chocolate as I want!
I spent some time in Notre Dame, which is my favourite cathedral. A world-renowned choir was going to perform there the next day and I happened to drop in for the dress rehearsal. It was exquisite. On the way out I checked the schedule of who would perform mass the coming week. I noticed that neither the regular priest or many of the visiting priests came from Europe. They all came from Africa. Europe now has so few faithful and produces so few priests that all the up-and-comers are from Africa. In a beautifully ironic twist of history Africans are coming to Europe as missionaries, bringing the light of God to non-believers.
I spent a few more days in Paris hanging out with Alessandra, Matias, and Luca, and now I'm heading to Spain. I sure hope it will be warmer there!
Wedding Bells are Ringing
Potatoes: 100 kg
Rice: 250 kg
Sheep: 5
Chickens: 50, minimum
Bulls: 1
Tomatoes: 500, approx.
Cube Maggi: don't ask
Drinks: open bar
Kitchens: 5
Cooks: a small army
Slaughter, chop, roast, and serve.
This is the recipe for a large, successful Burkinabe wedding. The Zidas invited 200 or so guests to the wedding but everyone knew that another two-hundred people - at least - would show up although they weren't invited or even informed. And they were factored into the food preparations. Wedding crashing doesn't seem to be perceived as a problem here.
The food detailed above is only what the Zida family provided. Mama Zida's family in Manga contributed 5 pigs to the wedding feast and Yako's Naaba made a contribution of several sheep.
I was put in charge of filming the wedding preparations with Papa Zida's video camera. I guess they figured it was a Western device and I'm a Western girl, so there should be no problem. But the problem was precisely that I was a Western girl trying to film a Burkinabe wedding. How was I supposed to know that Auntie's arrival with a large basket of cook-ware for the bride was a hugely important ceremony? And when the nuns showed up to congratulate the proud parents, I just didn't realize that I was supposed to drop everything and run to film them. Most of the time I was alerted to my filming duties when someone started yelling, "Mais, ou est Erica/ la nasara!!" But all's well that ends well, and the most important thing is that I managed to film the entire 4 hour wedding ceremony even though the video camera battery only has a 90 minute life span.
The wedding was a typical Catholic wedding (read: long, with a strong emphasis on the joys of monogamy) but there were some twists. There was lots of drumming and joyful ululating, for one, and the priest went out of his way to make the service really funny. There were two choirs, one to sing in Moore and the other in French, and at the end of the service the entire wedding party conga-lined down the aisle dancing and singing while the crowd ululated some more. I think conga lines should be a part of all wedding ceremonies!
It should go without saying that it was hot. I'm not sure what the temperature was, but 44 or 45 feels like a safe bet. I spent the whole day on my feet running around and filming things, but despite my exhaustion I was far from the tiredest person there. That prize went without a doubt to Adama and Armelle, neither of whom had slept for 48 hours. They looked like they'd been bitten by zombies. I had at least managed to grab 5 hours of sleep every night that week by avoiding late-night planning meetings and making myself scarce after 11 pm.
The celebrations continued long into the night of the wedding. After the church service all 200 official guests went to Wend Panga for lunch and gift-giving, and after that we joined the 200 unofficial guests who were waiting at the Zida household. There were large tents set up in the courtyard and outside the property to accommodate everyone, and we ate until we nearly burst. The DJ kept the beats pounding and as the sun went down the Moore choir showed up with their djembes. That's when the party really began.
Around 9 pm most people went home and we wrapped up the festivities because we had to get Armelle ready to go to her husband's house. (After the reception the groom went to his house while the bride went to hers and waited to be called). Mama Zida and the Aunties made sure that Armelle had everything she would need - the pots, the millet flour (for making to), the bowls made from gourds, the cooking utensils, etc. And then all 100 of us sat down for a well-earned break.
Adama's brother came over around 11 to tell us that they were ready for their new family member. There was another flurry of activity while we got Armelle and her culinary materiel into a pickup truck and packed about 40 of her closest relations into a bus (hire for the occasion) to see her off. Armelle couldn't help because she had to be totally veiled so that no one but her family and her husband whould see her that night. Auntie guided her into the pickup and off they all went, leaving Papa Zida looking a little teary.
I took a nap for an hour and then went to an Uncle's house with the rest of the under-30 crowd. Uncle had kindly offered his courtyard up as a makeshift disco and we danced until 4 in the morning.
I guess marriage was on the mind, because I got an unusual amount of propositions that night. Most of them were pretty standard (like, "You're pretty. I've always wanted to marry a foreigner." Forget about getting to know me or anything like that). But there was one proposal that stands out as worthy of mention. I got proposed to by somebody's mother. She was one of the Aunties who spent a little more time drinking dolo and a little less time helping, and she came up to me endearingly tipsy. She put her arm around my waist and whispered confidentially, "I've been watching you and seem like a nice girl. I want you for my son. He's been to university, you know, and he has a good job with the state telephone company. You talked to him earlier, do you remember? No? That's OK. Come, we'll go ask Papa Zida to give you away."
Papa Zida had been fielding requests for my hand all day - mostly joking ones from his friends - so he just informed Auntie that there was a queue and he would see what he could do to get her name bumped up the list.
The next morning I overslept and missed my bus back to Ouaga. Luckily my plane didn't take off until 8 pm, so I was able to hitch a ride into town with an Uncle and Auntie and their small kids. This meant there was ample time for a now sober Auntie to reiterate her request and remind me to take her son's contact info. I also learned what we do with sheep's heads in Burkina. All parts of the animal must be eaten, nothing is wasted. I left the room when Armelle started chowing down on an eye and Adama dug into a brain.
I made it to the airport in plenty of time and said goodbye to Burkina in the relatively cool twilight when I love it most. I was feeling a little sad as I went through security, but then my stomach made that ominous, all too familiar sound and I had to make a break for the bathroom while the guard was searching my carry-on. There are some things I won't miss.
Goodbye Burkina, I'll miss you.
Rice: 250 kg
Sheep: 5
Chickens: 50, minimum
Bulls: 1
Tomatoes: 500, approx.
Cube Maggi: don't ask
Drinks: open bar
Kitchens: 5
Cooks: a small army
Slaughter, chop, roast, and serve.
This is the recipe for a large, successful Burkinabe wedding. The Zidas invited 200 or so guests to the wedding but everyone knew that another two-hundred people - at least - would show up although they weren't invited or even informed. And they were factored into the food preparations. Wedding crashing doesn't seem to be perceived as a problem here.
The food detailed above is only what the Zida family provided. Mama Zida's family in Manga contributed 5 pigs to the wedding feast and Yako's Naaba made a contribution of several sheep.
I was put in charge of filming the wedding preparations with Papa Zida's video camera. I guess they figured it was a Western device and I'm a Western girl, so there should be no problem. But the problem was precisely that I was a Western girl trying to film a Burkinabe wedding. How was I supposed to know that Auntie's arrival with a large basket of cook-ware for the bride was a hugely important ceremony? And when the nuns showed up to congratulate the proud parents, I just didn't realize that I was supposed to drop everything and run to film them. Most of the time I was alerted to my filming duties when someone started yelling, "Mais, ou est Erica/ la nasara!!" But all's well that ends well, and the most important thing is that I managed to film the entire 4 hour wedding ceremony even though the video camera battery only has a 90 minute life span.
The wedding was a typical Catholic wedding (read: long, with a strong emphasis on the joys of monogamy) but there were some twists. There was lots of drumming and joyful ululating, for one, and the priest went out of his way to make the service really funny. There were two choirs, one to sing in Moore and the other in French, and at the end of the service the entire wedding party conga-lined down the aisle dancing and singing while the crowd ululated some more. I think conga lines should be a part of all wedding ceremonies!
It should go without saying that it was hot. I'm not sure what the temperature was, but 44 or 45 feels like a safe bet. I spent the whole day on my feet running around and filming things, but despite my exhaustion I was far from the tiredest person there. That prize went without a doubt to Adama and Armelle, neither of whom had slept for 48 hours. They looked like they'd been bitten by zombies. I had at least managed to grab 5 hours of sleep every night that week by avoiding late-night planning meetings and making myself scarce after 11 pm.
The celebrations continued long into the night of the wedding. After the church service all 200 official guests went to Wend Panga for lunch and gift-giving, and after that we joined the 200 unofficial guests who were waiting at the Zida household. There were large tents set up in the courtyard and outside the property to accommodate everyone, and we ate until we nearly burst. The DJ kept the beats pounding and as the sun went down the Moore choir showed up with their djembes. That's when the party really began.
Around 9 pm most people went home and we wrapped up the festivities because we had to get Armelle ready to go to her husband's house. (After the reception the groom went to his house while the bride went to hers and waited to be called). Mama Zida and the Aunties made sure that Armelle had everything she would need - the pots, the millet flour (for making to), the bowls made from gourds, the cooking utensils, etc. And then all 100 of us sat down for a well-earned break.
Adama's brother came over around 11 to tell us that they were ready for their new family member. There was another flurry of activity while we got Armelle and her culinary materiel into a pickup truck and packed about 40 of her closest relations into a bus (hire for the occasion) to see her off. Armelle couldn't help because she had to be totally veiled so that no one but her family and her husband whould see her that night. Auntie guided her into the pickup and off they all went, leaving Papa Zida looking a little teary.
I took a nap for an hour and then went to an Uncle's house with the rest of the under-30 crowd. Uncle had kindly offered his courtyard up as a makeshift disco and we danced until 4 in the morning.
I guess marriage was on the mind, because I got an unusual amount of propositions that night. Most of them were pretty standard (like, "You're pretty. I've always wanted to marry a foreigner." Forget about getting to know me or anything like that). But there was one proposal that stands out as worthy of mention. I got proposed to by somebody's mother. She was one of the Aunties who spent a little more time drinking dolo and a little less time helping, and she came up to me endearingly tipsy. She put her arm around my waist and whispered confidentially, "I've been watching you and seem like a nice girl. I want you for my son. He's been to university, you know, and he has a good job with the state telephone company. You talked to him earlier, do you remember? No? That's OK. Come, we'll go ask Papa Zida to give you away."
Papa Zida had been fielding requests for my hand all day - mostly joking ones from his friends - so he just informed Auntie that there was a queue and he would see what he could do to get her name bumped up the list.
The next morning I overslept and missed my bus back to Ouaga. Luckily my plane didn't take off until 8 pm, so I was able to hitch a ride into town with an Uncle and Auntie and their small kids. This meant there was ample time for a now sober Auntie to reiterate her request and remind me to take her son's contact info. I also learned what we do with sheep's heads in Burkina. All parts of the animal must be eaten, nothing is wasted. I left the room when Armelle started chowing down on an eye and Adama dug into a brain.
I made it to the airport in plenty of time and said goodbye to Burkina in the relatively cool twilight when I love it most. I was feeling a little sad as I went through security, but then my stomach made that ominous, all too familiar sound and I had to make a break for the bathroom while the guard was searching my carry-on. There are some things I won't miss.
Goodbye Burkina, I'll miss you.
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