La Visiteur

My host mother is the youngest of Ziba Youssef’s four wives. As far as I can tell she has two children, Ousman and Marwarn, thirteen and four, respectively, but I can’t be sure because everyone calls everyone mamma. Two of Ziba Youssef’s wives, both significantly older than my host mother, come calling several times a day to babble at me in a language I don’t understand and giggle when I imitate them. Wizened and mostly toothless, the first of these two wives currently has a massively swollen foot, which I estimate she broke about a week ago. Despite this fact, she insists on hobbling around the compound with a spindly stick ignoring my requests that she sit down and elevate it. The second of these two wives has a broken wrist. Last week I tried to wrap it with the ace bandage from my med kit and told her not to move it, but the ace bandage disappeared by sundown and she, too, refuses to sit still.

I am not allowed to sit on the floor. When I come to greet the two older wives, both offer me their chairs. Taking a chair from a 60+ year-old woman with a broken foot is against everything I consider okay, but I’m not allowed to refuse. Nor am I allowed to eat on or help with homework on the floor. I am always brought a small table or a little stool so that I don’t have to bend down too far from my chair. The children are often commanded to fetch my bucket from my room so I don’t have to move, and whenever I try to help my host mother sweep she looks and me kindly and shakes her head.

 

But none of this compares to how I am fed. Our host families are paid handsomely to feed and house us (some even built new structures and latrines to accommodate the trainees), and it seems a unanimous trend across households to feed the nasara as much as possible. I usually get enough portions for four or more people (which I can never finish), and when I return it to my host mother the children hungrily finish it. It is unclear to me whether this is the only dinner the kids get. My hope is that, when Ousman and a few cousins (and occasionally my host mother) attack the half finished plate of rice I hand them, it is dinner number  two or three.

My host family isn’t too bad off as far as people who live on approximately $2 a day go: They have one house in the compound with electricity, several flashlights for late night activities, plenty of to to eat and all the children are in school. This does not change the fact that I, a visitor in the household, am overfed and expected to take precedence over everyone in the family save for my host father. To say this makes me uncomfortable would be an understatement. Furthermore, it is hard to take on labor intensive activities with an injured thumb. This is a challenge that I have yet to overcome. 

La Stagiaire

Last Sunday was the first full day I spent with my host family, being that Sunday is the only day of the week that we do not have programming. I must admit, when Saturday night came I was moderately terrified: All the activities I had planned for the day were impossible without a left thumb. I couldn’t help them pound the millet for to, play the guitar for them, or even help with laundry or dishes. What, then, to fill an entire day with? If I couldn’t think of anything I knew most of it would be spent sitting in the shade while being stared at by small children or being laughed at by older women. Neither seemed appetizing.

Sunday morning I had thee audacity to wake up at almost 6:30am. My host mother came knocking at my door to make sure I wasn’t dead, so I rolled out of bed and prepared for my twice daily bucket bath. This is, I am convinced, the best way to bathe by far. In the evening, my host mother takes my bucket and fills it with a mixture of hot and cold water and deposits it in the outdoor shower area, a barely private concrete square with a tiny drain. With my little cup and my little Moroccan scrubbie glove I dispose of the day’s grime, wiping away layers of dust, sweat, sun screen, bug spray and all of the other terrible substances that visit the body throughout the day. My morning bucket baths, while much less extensive, are equally as pleasant.

I took my breakfast in my room as always, Nescafe with powdered milk (which is growing on me), and two oily little dough balls the Burkinabe call “gateaux” but might be classified as a “beignet” in English. When I had finished I had only two ideas: to exhaustively take photographs (which the Burkinabe love), or to go analog. I grabbed my sketchbook and a pencil and headed outside.

I greeted my host mother with a smile and sat on a stool near where she was working. Ousman was playing with Marwan, his younger brother, so I sat and sketched them as they played. My host mother looked over my shoulder and smiled. As visitors came in, all of whom I had seen and none of whose names I remembered, I asked them if they wanted to be drawn. My request was always met with a bashful but enthusiastic yes, so I sketched my host mother, two older women, one of the teenage girls (maybe a cousin), three children, my host father and one of the older boys. Each time I asked them to spell out their name for me so I could attach it to their face. It was enormously enjoyable for me, and seemed to really tickle my host family, so I kept at it most of the day.

I put down my sketching however when my host mother beckoned me to the well to fetch water. Accompanied by a small army of children, we trekked up a brushy path to one of a few community wells where a young boy was ready to fill the two enormous pails we had brought. My host mother helped me hoist the smaller one onto my head and fill it. Then I followed her, sloshing this way and that down the path that now seemed impossibly long and treacherous. I likely spilled about a third of the water and probably sprained a neck muscle on the first trip. On the second trip I think I pulled hamstring. I pulled something. But Samisiatou, the five-year-old who joined us for the second trip, was easily carrying as much water as I was, and seemed injury free at the end of the arduous journey. Go figure.

When we arrived back at the compound, my host mother showed me how to do laundry. With my gimp thumb I helplessly watched in fascination as she scrubbed my pants. I had strategically omitted my underwear from the laundry pile, not desiring the embarrassment of seeing my delicates strewn across the courtyard’s laundry line. Those I would wash and dry on my own. 

 Later that day, sitting under the shade of thatched shelter and hiding from the sun, I managed to communicate that I wanted my hair braided, and one of the young women from the village came and spent two hours on me, gently taming my hair into two dozen even, neat corn rows. Thank goodness: it is very hard to make a pony tail with only one thumb. You try it. Oh, you can do it? Now try it with my hair. Impossible ​

At the end of the day, I felt good about what I had accomplished: 10+ drawings of family members, neatly braided hair, and no sun burn. I fell asleep stuffed full of to and dreamed of finally killing and eating that rooster that wakes me up every 10 minutes from 3:00 to 5:30 in the morning. 

Yup, That Looks Sterile

**Before you read this, especially if you are my grandmother, know that I am fine and healthy and everything is ok!**

I had just completed a pleasant day of language classes in the mango grove, and I was home in my little hut wondering what to do with my last hour of daylight. Oh the choices! I could move my suitcase from over here to over there! Or... I could reorganize that pile of paper, again. Or even sweep! Or I could fold my clothes, wash some undies, spend some time in the rarely visited corner of the room or even-oh! Remove that bike pump from the packaging and put it on my bike so that when I get a flat tire I can toy with it helplessly until someone who knows how to fix a flat tire comes to help me.

Having finally decided, I retrieved the bike pump and my swiss army knife with which to slice through the plastic cables binding it to the packaging. Swish, swish, two successful and graceful first cuts. The bike pump was almost free and I felt like Rambo. Just one more and-

Well shit.

 I dropped the bike pump and the knife in that order. My left thumb, inconveniently in the way, apparently, was spewing blood like something out of a Quinton Tarantino movie. In fact there was so much blood I was momentarily fascinated, not truly believing it all belonged to me. My ‘survival’ skills kicked in pretty quickly when it started dripping on the floor, and I rushed for the roll of toilet paper, which was, as you might expect, not unlike trying to block a ruptured dam with a handkerchief. My next move was the water filter which just made things messier, so finally I got into the med kit and somehow managed to open a gauze pad and throw it onto the wound.

With the bleeding slowed down, I had time to think. A Band-Aid wasn’t going to work. Should I tell my host mom? Call the medical office? The fresh stream of blood down my arm told me that the answer to both questions was yes. Moments later I was on the phone with a calm and collected Peace Corps Medic and my host mother was mumbling in a concerned manor as she whipped blood off my floor. A small crowd had already gathered to witness the drama and all three of the Peace Corps LCFs (Language and Culture Facilitators) living with us in the village had collected in the tiny courtyard, seemingly ready to build a helicopter out of mud and straw to med evac me out.

Fortunately, no helicopter was necessary.  A car had been called to bring me to the hospital, and I shuffled outside with my ever-growing crowd of spectators to wait for the friendly white Peace Corps van. Half the village waited with me. Yes, hello, I am this evening’s entertainment. The car arrived in no time and I had already stopped gushing. The kind, soft-spoken driver looked at my sympathetically as I clumsily got in, supported Siaka, the Peace Corps duty officer.  

It was a bumpy ride to the hospital, and I was thankful that I had a superficial cut and not a broken bone. When we arrived at the hospital it was almost dark outside, but the collection of dusty, spread out buildings was well lit and alive. I was led into one of them and made to wait in a room with a sickly looking man on an IV drip and a cheeky, bored nurse. She reached for my finger but Siaka stopped her saying “Wait, wait until I call the Peace Corps Medic so she can tell you what to do.”

After being told to clean and examine the wound to see if it needed stitches, the nurse sat back and produced an expression that said with the utmost clarity, I can’t believe you just called that white lady to have her tell me what any idiot knows to do with a spoiled Western kid who nicked her finger. During the extensive waiting period that encompassed the time it took to purchase and have someone go and get the equipment needed to clean my cut and the time it took to wait for the doctor, I got a good look at the room I was in.

Let me tell you how spoiled we are in the United States.  Hospital rooms are (typically) fully equipped with a standard stock of sterile equipment, plenty of gloves, disinfecting soap, and clean and white as can be. There are standards and regulations that, while draconian I’m sure, keep people safe and infections out (for the most part). I was sitting in a room with a dirty floor, dirty ceilings, a filthy sink and a bed containing a very sick man that looked like it was about to cave in. I gloomily watched the man wheeze for a moment and then the nurse came in to put something new in his IV.

Koom, he rasped, koom.

It took me a couple moments to realize that I actually understood the word. “Koom!” I said to the nurse, and she turned around to find me waving my water bottle for her to give to him. She laughed at me, then asked in French, Is that the only word you know in Moore? He’s not allowed to have water. I put my water bottle back on the table sadly and proceeded to studiously  recite for her the entire first page of the packet we had been given the first week of training on basic Moore (which I had memorized).  She chuckled and disappeared.  

When the doctor finally arrived, he took one look at my cut and decided it needed stitches. He the proceeded to give Siaka a list of things he would need to purchase from the hospital in order for this to happen: Gauze, a needle, local anesthetic, a bandage, and thread. That’s right, folks, you as the patient need to purchase all of the supplies you need for your treatment before it happens. Including but not limited to gauze. Yeah, I’ll never complain about a US hospital again. To be fair, I’m sure the process is much more expedient when there is an emergency.  

The Doctor managed to fit 4 stitches in my finger. By the time he was finished I was convinced that stitches remain among the most unsightly and grotesque forms of treatment that exists in modern medicine. I tried not to focus too hard on the lack of care that was taken with my bodily fluids or the absence of a biohazard container into which to dispense hazardous material. Well, there was a lot I tried not to focus on.

He wrapped my finger securely and told me to come back Monday for a follow up. The stitches would come out in 10 days. 10 Days without a thumb. You try it. I traipsed out of the hospital with my finger still numb, feeling a little under confident with my swiss army knife skills and glad I had so much material for another blog post.

 

L'Etranger

Zoro was the second village along our route where volunteers were dropped off. When I shuffled off and managed to carry my bags to the designated spot at the center of a small clearing preceeding the village, I took comfort in standing with my fellow, equally terrified Trainees. We were at the center of an outdoor space surrounded by benches on which, to our left, sat a collection of men from the village. In front of the mosque, to our right, a group of women and children gathered slowly. There was a lot of staring. After the initial introduction and speeches from Peace Corps personnel as well as the chief of the village, we were matched with our host fathers. My host father, Ziba Youssef, was a tall, lanky imam with an aging, bright face. He embraced me enthusiastically, and as soon as we had all been matched there was an explosive moment when all the everyone flooded the luggage. I thought that, as my host father made me lead him to my bags, he would hoist one over his back and I would carry the other two. But this is Africa. The women carry the heavy things.

As though I had packed a suitcase full of pillow clouds and goose down, my host mother and two other women threw my 50+ pound suitcase over their heads and traipsed off briskly along the path before us. I would be lying if I said my jaw did not openly drop. A small army of children relieved me of EVERYTHING I was carrying, right down to my water bottle, and I followed the entourage unburdened.

My host family’s complex was not far from the clearing, and soon we all burst through the door of a courtyard home to multiple mud buildings. To my left was a small covered area with pots, pans and a water basin, and not far from that was a fire I would soon learn would never burn out. Straight ahead was my room, a separate building across the courtyard with a loud metal door and bug screens everywhere. There must had been at least 15 people following me, and as soon as they dropped everything off in my room the women began to sing and clap their hands. When I joined in, they flipped, raising their voices and encouraging me even though I had no freaking clue what they were saying. After the excitement died down I had a moment to survey my room. It is small and grey with a bed and mosquito net in the corner and a small table and chair next to a water filter in the opposite corner. Currently my otherwise pristine room is diseased by a smattering of clothing, a yoga mat, various light sources and two perpetually dusty pairs of shoes.

My little breakfast table

After unpacking a bit I gathered my courage, dropped my dignity and ventured outside for some good old cultural immersion. I was relatively relieved to find only young children in the courtyard, who promptly got a stool for me and organized themselves before me. In slow, practiced French I asked I introduced myself and asked their names and ages. To date I can’t remember any but one, Ousman, who is one of my host brothers. He is an ever-smiling, strong and very intelligent thirteen-year-old who, it has become clear, has a bit of a crush on me. Ousman is actually hand-capped being that his right leg never developed properly, so he walks is a squatting position, raising himself to his full height on his healthy leg occasionally to give me a bashful smile.

Ziba Ousman

After running out of things to say I had the brilliant idea to ask what kinds of games they play. The response I got was something along the lines of I thought you’d never ask! The children dispersed and returned with handfuls of rocks which they placed in a pile while Ousman drew eight circles in two rows in the dirt. They then proceeded to reach me warre, which is a game not unlike mancala. After the first few rounds, a large crowd gathered to watch the nasara (Western person) badly play this very simple yet seemingly riveting game. This went on for HOURS until it got dark and subsequently became a nightly ritual.

When my host father returned, I had temporarily redirected the childrens’ attention to writing names in the dust. My host father crouched as I spelled his name out in Arabic. He smiled, and corrected it. Then he wrote out some vowels in Arabic which I dooly recited. Pleased, he took his leave.

Playing Warre after dark

Later that night, my host mother called me into their house to eat a second dinner with my host father. I still attribute this honor to our bonding over Arabic vowels. Utterly terrified, I stepped in very tentatively, but still managed to trod on the prayer rug (a big NO NO). My host father showed me how to wash my hands and encouraged me to eat out of a large pot of to, a firm, maize-based porridge which we dipped into a pot of delicious sauce. Mange, mange! He encouraged, breaking off the only piece of meat in the pot for me. By the end of my second dinner I was bloated but happy. I lumbered into bed around 8:45 confident that I had made a good impression.

Ziba Youssef and two of his sons. 


Red Dust

It is truly amazing what packing before hand can do for your general relaxation and mental health the day of departure. Who could have guessed that stuffing, weighing and securing your baggage (two checked bags under 50 lbs, one carry on and one personal item) would eliminate the fits, panic attacks, and unnecessary last minute second-guessing? As I loafed into the elevator looking like a proper, over-excited Western person going to West Africa, not once did I think “Oh, I forgot to bring a light sweater!” (Which I did, in fact, forget), or “maybe I don’t need those 7 extra pairs of socks?” (Which I objectively don’t).

What I did need, and just barely remember to pack, were my social skills. Not long after I was dropped off at the Crown Plaza Hotel in Philadelphia and managed a teary goodbye to my parents, I was confronted by my first major challenge: Learning the names and various impressive life stories of the 40 other souls with whom I would spend the next 3+ months as a Peace Corps Trainee (PCT). Ready to confront my first challenge, I threw myself into the veritable social watering hole like I had my first day of college eager to find all the other like-minded beasts, sniff out the lions and cozy up to the elephants. But what do you know? It seemed like all of us Peace Corps folks came from the same kind of jungle. All 40 of us lovely animals rubbing noses for the first time and quickly establishing relationships and forgetting first names.

Staging was a bit of a marathon. In five hours it was the Peace Corps’ goal to train is to be ready for…more training. That evening they stuffed us full of information I have already forgotten, leaving me with the firm impression that I should have paid more attention to the reams of documents the Peace Corps sent me over the course of the past few months. Oops.

I’ll fast forward through the trip, suffice to say that it was full of confused time zones, debates between sleep and coffee, bad airplane food and layovers that were just too short and just not short enough. We landed in dusty Ouaga around 4 in the afternoon in a single runway airport with an unexplainable volleyball court casually propped up beside the tarmac. In the airport we were screened for fevers and fingerprinted before meeting the Country Director, Keith, who kindly got to know our names and faces before we even picked up our bags.

My first impression of Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso was one involving dust. Almost as soon as we stepped outside of the airport and piled into 3 small vans I covered in a timid layer of fine red particles that seem to coat everything without discrimination during this season. We drove through the capital to the site where we would be staying for approximately a week before driving to Leo, a city on the border of Ghana where most of our training would take place. What do you know? More dust. But there were also fruit and vegetable vendors, tiny shacks or ‘boutiques’ where I observed everything from cell phone credit to yogurt, donkey carts, motor bikes, furniture salesmen, trucks piled too high with too many things, children running barefoot across the road and staring at our vans, and of course the perfect smells of a healthy West African market that made my mouth water. Thank goodness, I thought as we reached the gates of the compound, I made it!

A week later my left arm was tattooed with the tiny pinpricks of vaccinations and I had an enormous medical kit, 2 information packets, a notebook and countless other sheets of paper to figure out how to pack. Orientation week was beautifully overwhelming. Between getting used to the food, familiarizing myself with new faces, constantly hunting for toilet paper and devouring hours and hours of information a day, it’s not wonder I slept like a baby every night until the call to prayer and a persistent donkey roused me around 4:30 am. Our number had swelled to 42 since our arrival in Ouagadougou, all of us comprising the new group of Health and Community Economic Development Trainees that, upon swearing in, would comprise nearly 40% of the volunteers in Burkina Faso. I myself am a Community Economic Development (CED) Trainee. Does my degree in Fine Arts and Islamic Studies qualify me for that, you ask? You’re damned right it does.

On Friday we squeezed everything into our suitcases once again and piled onto the bus that would take us to Leo where we would meet our host families and begin the next two months of intense training. Our group of Trainees will spend 2 months in Leo, 3 months at our perspective sites and then return to Leo for 2 weeks to received additional technical training. Then and only then will we be sworn in as true Peace Corps Volunteers (PCV’s). I dozed unsuccessfully on the bus to Leo. The driver insisted on playing Bruce Almighty dubbed in French the whole ride there which I simply couldn’t keep from watching.

 More likely however my inability to sleep came from the nervousness: As soon as we arrived in Leo, we would be take to our respective villages, Sanga, Mouna and Zoro, where were could be introduced to our host families with whom we would live for the next 2 months. We had been given several sessions on how to adjust to this new change but I had a feeling there was very little that would prepare me for living in a rural village with an African family without electricity, running water, or a western toilet. And with a language barrier to boot. I had been placed in Zoro with a dozen other CED volunteers with a family by the name of ‘Ziba.’ And I was so anxious to meet them.