Marches, Money, and More

Sunday, February 26, 2012

As I eat an apple and drink cold mango juice, sitting on the queen-sized bed in my hotel room with a fan blowing on me and music sounding from my computer, I will attempt to recap my past few days…which have not gone like planned…at all.  Although, then again, things not going according to plans are the norm here.  Your first thought is probably, “Hotel room.  That sounds nice.  Why does Beth have the luxury of a hotel room and a cool breeze blowing on her face?  Where is she?”  Well, I’m in Tougan.  I should actually be in Dedegou right now -- another  “big” city and regional capital, located about 4 hours south of Tougan -- internetting, visiting with friends, and enjoying the Mask Festival (which occurs only once every 2 years in West Africa, and is always held in Dedegou, Burkina Faso)…but like I said, things rarely go according to plans here.  And so I’ll start from the beginning (Friday’s events)…. end with camping out in my hotel room (today -- Sunday)… and in between, intertwine a few stories/facts/info about Burkina as well, as they fit into my story of why I’m in a hotel in Tougan and not taking in all the sights and sounds of Dedegou’s Mask Festival.

Friday’s Events:

I.                    Marché Madness and Money Matters

II.                  The Fete in Tourou: Lauren’s parents

Marché Madness and Money Matters

Marché day: A day to stock up my kitchen pantry, aka, the hand-made basket I keep next to my water filter that holds cucumbers, onions, tomatoes, papaya, and anything else I buy to eat for the week.  Lately I’ve been trying to stick to a 2.000 mille limit each marché -- $4 American.  And by “trying” to only spend 2.000 mille I mean that I literally only bring 2.000 with me and once it’s gone, it’s gone.  Sometimes I return home with a few coins, but generally I use every last cent of my 2.000 mille.  In fact, while I usually can get a little bit of everything and anything I want to satisfy my 5 days of eating until the next marché day, every now then I’m confronted with difficult decisions: I have 200 CFA left…would I rather buy a papaya or 4 bananas?  Can’t have both this week…gotta pick one.  My 2.000 mille cap is also good because I should be trying to budget my money -- or at least be aware of about how much I spend each month to “live” in Burkina Faso, not including any miscellaneous expenses I incur (but a normal Burkinabe citizen wouldn’t), like traveling and spending the night at a hotel, and going out for pizza and beer.  Just the actual money I put forth to literally “live” in this country – food and water expenses. Furthermore, my budgeting also serves to prevent me from making unnecessary purchases.  Despite being in the middle of nowhere, there’s a lot of really weird stuff people get their hands on and then try to sell at the market, like traditional medicine made from hippo bones and multi-colored plastic cups that say ‘happy birthday’ in English with icons of smiling rainbows and mushrooms (?) … the marché could be compared to the dollar section of Target that you see when you first enter the store... and it’s all very tempting.  I don’t know why I have even the slightest desire to buy this weird stuff, but there’s just something about it that’s so appealing.  Included in the category of “unnecessary purchases” and appealing plastic cups sporting English words is purchasing too much food in general, resulting in not being able to eat the majority of it within the week before it goes bad.  But this day in particular, because I only had a few 5.000 mille bills in my house (it’s approaching the end of the month and funds start to get low – we should have our monthly living allowance money placed in our bank accounts any day now), I had to take one of those 5.000 mille bills and hope someone could break it at the marché.  

And so now, I present to you a lesson on the exchanges of money in Burkina Faso….. A 5 mille bill is fine if you’re buying something that’s expensive and its cost actually totals at least 2 or 3 mille, like a hammer or a pair of shoes, but if you’re only looking to buy a few onions or a bag of green beans, you better search out some smaller bills/change first…or else plan to buy a few mille worth of veggies.  You see, in Burkina Faso, change is golden, and handing someone a bill (especially a big bill, i.e. a 5 or 10 mille bill) is the equivalent of a death sentence.  They glare at you with evil eyes and sometimes out rightly refuse to accept it.  I’ve even had vendors take back the object I was about to purchase and tell me to go buy it from someone else and/or not to come back until I had smaller bills/change to work with.  In America, we don’t think twice about paying for a $2.99 meal at McDonalds with a $20 bill.  Not an issue in the USA.  As a business, it’s their responsibility to have the means to provide us with the appropriate change after we make a purchase, not matter how big or small.  Plus, more often than not these days, everyone just pays via debit card and other electronic transmissions courtesy of our ability to utilize technology, and so there’s no direct change – the counting out of pennies, nickels, and dimes – involved anyways. 

But like I said, in Burkina, it’s the opposite mentality.  It’s our job, as the customer, to have the change to buy whatever product it is that we desire.  As inconvenient and frustrating as this can be, I understand where Burkinabe are coming from.  People don’t have a lot of money, and when they buy things, they buy it in small amounts.  For example, it’s more common for a woman to go and buy one Magi (bouillon) cube, a little baggie of salt, and a spoonful of oil to prepare the evening’s meal (totaling about 100 CFA) every afternoon, each day of the week, than it is for her to just buy 7 Magi cubes, a kilo of salt, and a bottle of oil to last her the week.  The price wouldn’t cost any more than what she already spends each week on the ingredients (it would actually cost less), but she doesn’t purchase in “bulk” because she often doesn’t have the 700 CFA to purchase a week’s supply at once.  Every day she might make a few coins from selling gateau or doing someone’s laundry, and then can buy ingredients for that night’s supper, but she rarely will make enough in a day to buy a “bulk” supply.  And then with the vendors themselves (like at the marché), they’re only selling one thing: bananas, or tomatoes, or woven baskets.  You have to buy each item from someone else.  Vendors rarely offer more than one type of product.  And so, you end up spending 100 CFA here, 200 CFA there, 25 CFA for a fried bean cake, etc.  Again, not like in America, where we pick out everything we want, throw it into our shopping cart, and then proceed to the checkout counter to have the total price calculated in one lump sum and then hand money to one person. Considering the total worth of that entire sack of green beans the green bean lady is hoping to sell at the marché (for 100 CFA per small pile) probably only amounts to 3 mille total, why on earth would she accept the big bill you thrust towards her hands when you’re only buying the equivalent of 25 cents of green beans.   It’s a continuous cycle, but everything functions based on having small change.  What can you buy if you don’t have small change?  Not much, that’s for sure.  And even if you have a decent amount of small change, to break someone else’s big bill so that he/she can have small change basically results in you just screwing yourself, because now you have a big bill that no one wants to deal with.  It’s ironic that big bills have more monetary value and yet at the same time, they’re pretty much worthless here, because you can’t use them.  Having 5 and 10 mille bills might make you “rich” but if you can’t ever spend any of that money, it’s not worth a thing.  You’re better off (and “richer” – as in able to buy things) having coins and 1 mille bills amounting to only 3 or 4 mille total than you are having a 10 mille bill in your pocket.  Funny how that works.  But like I said, change is golden here.

We volunteers are notorious for having big bills than no one can break, due to our money coming from a bank or ATM machine that spits out bills in 10.000 mille increments.  Thus, we have A LOT of 5 and 10 mille bills and have to be creative in finding places to break these big bills into workable amounts.  Some of our solutions are nicer than others, and they don’t all always work all the time (we still get nasty glares and occasional refusals to comply), but nonetheless, the following methods are our go-to attempts to breaking our big bills.

1.       Bigger boutiques, typically found in larger villages and big cities.  A lot of money flows in out and of these stores each day, and usually it’s possible to get small change.  Of course we have to buy something first, which is fine is we’re in need of powdered milk or credit for our cellphones or any of the other merchandise the boutiques offer (which typically are at least 500 CFA an item, if not 1 or 2 mille, like the cans of powdered milk).  But if we have no immediate need for these things, we still have to buy something anyways with the thought that, “Well, we’ll use it eventually, right?”  Often, when this is the case, we look for the cheapest and yet most useful thing we can find on the boutique shelves and buy it, handing the shop owner a 10 mille, with a nervous smile while simultaneously uttering, “Désolé” (sorry).  Just the other week, Jason had to do this, but didn’t need or want anything from the boutique, nor did he have a lot of money to “spare” on buying non-needed items – he needed every cent to pay for some furniture he had ordered, as well as his food for the week.  So, in typical American fashion, he shrugged of the meanness of his act, and bought 3 small cans of tomato paste (totaling 300 CFA) and paid with a 10 mille (of course), thus requiring 9.700 in change.  The shopkeeper wasn’t happy, but Jason got his change.

2.       Camping out in the “big” city for a day or more and going to every boutique or bigger restaurant several times a day and only buying one or two things at a time, each time paying with a big bill and claiming that the small change we got from them an hour ago when we bought only 2 cans of tuna is gone already, as we try to buy a container of oatmeal and again pay with another big bill.  Cruel?  Yes.  Necessary?  Yes.

3.       Going to a “real” restaurant and/or ordering cokes and beers.  Everyone pays their individual total in exact change (if possible) – generally between 500 CFA and 2 mille depending on how much they ate/drank – and the pile of change and small bills is then collected in a heap on the table.  The first person to claim it (or grab it) then gets to exchange a big bill.  For example, if the total amounts to 12.300, the lucky individual will take 10.000 out and put in one of his/her 10 mille bills.  Then perhaps the same individual or another lucky person will take the remaining change (2.300) and stuff it into his/her wallet, throw in a big bill of his/her own, and go pay, thus getting to keep all the change we get back from having paid our 12.300 bill with 20.000 mille (two 10 mille bills).  Yes, the Peace Corps is comprised of geniuses. 

4.       Paying for bus transportation with a 10 mille.  Yes, the trip to Tougan only costs 1 mille… and thus I will get 9 mille back, mwahaha.   Typically everyone on the bus is paying at least a mille (if not 6 or 7 mille depending on their destination), and so it’s usually pretty easy to break a big bill on the bus.

But enough on money matters in Burkina Faso; back to today’s story, specifically, the marché today and my having brought 3 mille more than my normal allotted amount of 2 mille.  Surprisingly, I was able to break my 5 mille at the peanut butter lady.  I figured I’d give it a try, and if she wouldn’t take it, I’d break my bill somewhere else and come back later to pay for my jar of peanut butter (which cost me 600 CFA).  She didn’t look too happy to see the light green bill (each bill has a different color; 1 and 2 mille bills -- which are more liked/accepted than the 5 and 10 bills -- are pink and blue, respectively) but she didn’t turn me away.  Success.  And I didn’t even have to buy a random can or two of unwanted tomato paste at the local boutique in order to break my large bill.

I continued throughout the chaos of the marché, buying this and that and then more of this because that lady’s tomatoes looked better than the ones I bought from the first lady.  I saw a truck full of potatoes, so I got a bunch of those, too – our marché hardly ever has pommes de terre’s!  Besides, they keep well compared to most other produce here.  I still have a few potatoes left from when I bought them in Tougan about a month ago, and they’re just fine.  They haven’t been going bad or tasting weird or anything.  I also got my canteen full of fresh milk from the Peuhl women.  Pronounced “pole,” the Peuhl people live in their own little groups/villages in brousse (which is the land located not along or near a road or main pathway of some sort) and are generally herders, raising cattle, goats, and sheep.  Each marché, they journey as much as 20k to sell their milk and “yogurt” (soured/curdled milk) out of calabashes -- which are bowl-like containers carved out of dried gourds -- that they carry on their heads as they gracefully walk along. 

By the end of my shopping, I discovered I had spent almost 4.000 mille total.  Dang, so much for my 2.000 mille cap.  But I guess when you spend 750 CFA on potatoes and 600 CFA on peanut butter and then 300 CFA on milk and 400 CFA to buy 2 papayas, well, that’s already over 2 mille right there.  And for some reason, even though I had plans to be voyaging to Dedegou in a few days, I still bought more than enough veggies.  Why?  What was I thinking?  I wasn’t thinking….that’s why.  And shopping is fun.  I always liked malls and Targets and grocery stores in America, why would an African marché be any different?  If anything, a marché is even more fun!  Chaotic…slightly nerve-wracking…bartering/haggling for prices…people everywhere, whether friends, orphans begging for money, or pickpockets…but nonetheless, fun.  You should try it sometime; come visit me and I’ll be sure to plan a shopping extravaganza or two to the local marché!

So, as I was saying, I spent more than I wanted.  I was trying to call it quits and leave the marché, when I saw other white people!  This leads me into part II of my story:  The Fete in Tourou. 

The Fete in Tourou: Lauren’s Parents

I was trying to call it quits and leave the marché, when I saw other white people!  But not just any other white people, or even the other volunteers who use the same marché as me, but Lauren (another volunteer in the area who generally goes to the marché held in the village of Di because it’s closer to her village) and her PARENTS.  Yes, her parents were visiting from America.  They had been in Burkina for over a week already, spending a few days in the capital of Ouaga and a few more days down south, checking out other big cities and famous locations.  Now they were finally visiting Lauren’s actual home and surrounding region.  They happened to be at our marché because the next day (Saturday) they would be having a fête in Lauren’s village, and they needed to buy sacks of rice, 10 heads of cabbage, a jug of oil, some goats to slaughter, etc.  Now Lauren lives in what you would actually call a village.  I know I refer to my site as a village, but really, Lauren lives “in village.”  Her site, the village of Tourou (pronounced “Too-roo”) is not located on a main road – you have to travel at least 8k through brousse to get to her little cluster of huts and mud buildings that are the home to the 200 people in her village.  That’s right, 200 people.  In honor of her parents visiting, they were having a fete (party/feast).  Well, actually, let’s get this straight, her parents were throwing a fete for the village: it was her parents who shelled out the money for the 200 people in her village to eat riz gras (rice cooked in tomato paste and oil with some veggies on top) and goat meat, as well as drink muga-ji (kind of like a juice but mainly sugared water with some flour in it), and have a traditional dance and drumming group perform entertainment.  This was all quite a treat for the village…they generally (or never) can afford to have something like this.  It cost a bunch of money, but actually, when you think about it, not a whole lot at all (by American standards).  For less than $300 dollars, Lauren’s parents were going to feed an entire village.  Over 200 people (in addition to ourselves, “the Americans,” and a few other people who had been invited) would enjoy one of the best meals in their lives (in terms of quantity, quality, and nutritional value), plus have entertainment: all of this for less than $300.  Not bad.

So I spot Lauren and her parents buying some onions or something and approach them to introduce myself and welcome them to Africa.  I had hardly said more than, “Hi,” when her parents took over the conversation, starting with, “Do you speak English?  …Oh good!  How nice it is to see another American and understand what they’re saying!”  Lauren’s parents, who are from Texas, are characters – very, very interesting, nice, and intelligent people – and I chatted with them and answered their nonstop questions for over an hour as we wandered throughout the marché, accompanying Lauren as she bought things for the next day’s fete.   I was able to give them some insight into the educational side of Burkina Faso, its children/students, and its school systems and curriculum, which both of Lauren’s parents were extremely curious about.  After all, Lauren’s mom used to write/edit math text books and other curriculums published by textbook companies; Lauren’s dad is a rocket scientist – really, a scientist who builds/designs rockets and other things for space exploration.  To further give you an idea of Lauren’s family and why they are so unique/interesting/refreshing, Lauren’s mom is a middle-aged woman (50 something?) who speaks French along with babbling in 10-12 other languages.  She possesses a very elegant and educated vocabulary and yet isn’t afraid to bluntly speak her mind, saying things how she sees them, including profanity and vulgar adjectives if necessary.  And somehow, she has connections to tons of famous people.  It wasn’t unusual for her to say something along the lines of “and when I was working for so and so on this project, I thought, ‘well why don’t I give *insert famous person’s name here* a call and see if he/she’s interested in helping?’”  On the other hand, Lauren’s dad (the rocket scientist), is a 73-year-old man.  Naturally, he’s very smart also (I mean, come on, he builds rockets!), and was very concerned about the math and physics education that students get here.  When I told him students hardly ever do experiments or hands-on activities to demonstrate math/physics concepts, he immediately said, “Well I’m sure my friends back home and maybe NASA could put together some supplies to send out here to demonstrate the velocity… blah blah blah…intense math vocabulary…blah blah blah.”  To which I had to reply: thank you, that’s very nice of you, but receiving the supplies (transportation to village) would be difficult, and also, I’m not sure the students are ready to do this kind of math: I’m still working on basic math concepts -- like 12 times 7 equals 84, or that the angles in a triangle always have a sum of 180 degrees -- we’re not ready to handle velocities and accelerations or surface areas and densities of objects.  Nope, definitely not ready for that stuff.  I gotta get my kids to add, subtract, multiply, and divide correctly first (very important since there are rarely calculators available to calculate these numbers for them), before we can do anything else...like build mini rockets.

Anyways, Lauren’s parents are great, and it was fun to chat with them and share my perspectives about Burkina Faso.  Also, having “foreigners” around really made me realize how much we volunteers have grown in the past 8 months.  Not just with our language skills, but also in our ability to adapt to the culture and develop an extreme tolerance for anything, constantly displaying high levels of patience.  We’ve adapted to our surroundings so much so, that we don’t even notice things that should bother us or raise concern (if we were in America).  Example 1:  We’re chatting near the side of a building, when Lauren’s mom suddenly grabs my arm and tries to pull me towards her.  “There’s a fire/hot-metal-thingy/man-chopping-bones-and-fat right behind you!” she exclaims.  I glance over my shoulder.  I’m a good 18 inches away from the man and his brochette-making operation.  “Oh thanks, but it’s fine.”  “But you were getting close to the fire…and he has a big knife…and”  Lauren then jumps in and says, “Mom.  Stop.  She’s fine.  We live here.  We know what we’re doing here; you don’t.  Trust me, it’s okay.”  Example 2:  We’re standing in the road/pathway.  There are people everywhere, ladies with enormous pots of boiling oil set over huge wood fires to fry fish or bean cakes on both sides of the path, kids running, men carrying displays of hats and sunglasses that they hope to sell as they wander through the crowds of people, etc.  Typical marché scene.  Lauren, her parents, and I are all talking, when her dad stops mid-sentence about something math related: “What is that man doing?!?  He’s hitting that donkey with an ax and forcing his donkey and cart to go through that crowd of people!  But there’s no room on the path!  He’s just pushing himself through all the people!  Look!”  “Yeah, Dad, that’s how they do things here.”  “What?  But why?  That’s dumb.  This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen!”  “Dad.  Stop.  Breathe.  It’s okay.  You’re right: it’s dumb and doesn’t make any sense.  But they do it anyways.”  “Well why doesn’t someone tell him to stop?  Tell him that there’s not enough room for him to be able to drive his donkey cart through the small paths of the market!” “Dad.  Look around.  It’s not just him.  There are motorcycles and cows and kids pulling wagons and men riding bicycles all through the marché.  They all push through crowds of people, whether or not there’s room, whether or not it makes it any sense.  That’s how things are we.” 

I suppose I should be more concerned about things that could potentially be a safety hazard – oh wait, that’s EVERYTHING here – but things become so common and such an everyday, typical occurrence, that you forget that these actions are things we should be worried about at all.  It just becomes normal, not dangerous…even though it still, quite obviously, is very, very dangerous….which might explain why I was mugged a few weeks ago while buying carrots in the marché…lost 25 mille…the story (creatively entitled “Beth Gets Mugged” to come later.

The afternoon with Lauren’s parents was enjoyable, and it allowed me to spend even more time wandering around the marché, even though I really should have left hours ago…but at least I didn’t spend any more money when chatting with the parents.  I finally went back to Sierra’s house (the volunteer who lives in Guron, the village where our marché is held), and gossiped with the other volunteers who had come in for the marché.   Suddenly, Molly and I had a brilliant idea: with the fete in Tourou the next day, we should bike up to Lauren’s village later this afternoon, rather than bike there tomorrow morning.  Then we could spend the night (aka slumber party with Lauren), help set up for the fete in the morning, party and dance with the village all day, and then leave via vehicle with Lauren’s parents that evening to go back to Tougan, instead of having to bike back to our villages (it’s about a 90 minute bikeride).  Lauren had rented a car and a driver to chauffer her parents around Burkina rather than deal with the horribleness of Burkina’s transportation, and so her parents were staying in a hotel in Tougan, rather than in Lauren’s mudhut.  Thus, conveniently, we’d catch a ride with Lauren’s parents to Tougan, get a hotel room for the night, sleep on a real bed with a ceiling fan, take a real shower and thoroughly wash our hair, eat good food for supper, and then eat some more while we simultaneously snack and watch a movie on our computer.  Note: we recently discovered “Mister Potato Crisps” – the Arabic knock-off of Americans’ Pringles – and so we were banking on getting a canister of the sour-cream-and-onion crisps to munch on during our movie…and perhaps a box of wine, too.  The next morning, bright and early, 6am or so, we’d part our separate ways.  Molly had to catch the bus to Ouaga for a formation on latrine building with her homologue and a mason from her village, and I wanted to go to Dedegou for the once-every-two-years, weeklong “West African Mask Festival.”

I had been planning on going to the Mask Festival, but up until this point, I still wasn’t exactly sure when I’d be making the voyage; it depended on school, and how much class I could miss, and when I could get transportation, etc. etc.  But within minutes, Molly and I had decided that our idea was perfect and put our plan into action.  We made sure it was alright to crash at Lauren’s house and to ride the car to Tougan the next day with her parents.   Then I made sure I’d have a place to stay if I showed up in Dedegou on Sunday (the festival doesn’t start until Tuesday).  It was currently 3pm and we had to leave by 5pm if we wanted to make it to Lauren’s before dark, so before pedaling home on our bikes as fast as we could to pack our bags and take care of any other necessities since we’d be gone for a week (i.e. telling our neighbors to water our gardens and feed my dog), we threw the majority of the food we had just bought in the marché into Lauren’s rental car.  There was no since in us taking it home, as we wouldn’t be there to eat it anyways.  Better to take it to Lauren’s house where we could eat some of it for supper, and anything we didn’t finish, Lauren could just keep.  While it wasn’t a huge problem, I realized that I had just “wasted” 4 mille at the marché buying things that I now had no use for.  Great.  So into the car, we tossed onto Lauren’s mom’s lap a sack of green beans, a few cucumbers, a small bag of potatoes, a loaf of bread, 2 bags of salad/lettuce, etc.  Much better to have the car take it, rather than us bike it up, as we’d have to attach our backpack and computers to our bikes anyway, and the less weight on the bike, the better.

I returned home in sweat with aching muscles from biking so fast, started grabbing clothes and other travel necessities, and stuffed them into my backpack.  Towel, yes.  Shorts to sleep in at night, check.  Swimsuit cuz there’s a pool in Dedegou, super important.  Jeans, so I can dress like an “American” when around all the other volunteers coming for the festival.  Daily medicine, to prevent getting malaria. Hairbrush, that’d be helpful, I suppose.  Money, oh yes.  Bank card, so I can withdraw even more money when I spend too much buying cool stuff in Dedegou. Tests that I should have finished correcting weeks ago….nope, they can wait.  I’d rather bring a book to read to help pass the long hours of waiting on transport.  A week is a long time, but I got everything I “needed” into my hot pink school-girl backpack.  We’ve learned how to travel REAL light here, and if that mean’s wearing the same thing almost every day and washing at night, so be it.  The fewer things you bring on transport, the better (ideally it should all fit in your lap, if necessary, and you should be able to carry everything at once and still have a free hand).  And the same goes with biking, too, of course.  Would you rather bike 30k with 10 pounds strapped to your bike or 50 pounds?  Unfortunately, I had to bring my computer with me, and even though I packed light, my computer and case is heavy.  Thus I probably had about 50 pounds strapped to my bike.  Not exaggerating.  But oh well.  It was only this once, the 90 minutes to Lauren’s house.  After that I’d be riding in a car with my 50 pounds of baggage, not physically exerting energy to get my stuff from one location to another. 

I finished up some last minute things…or didn’t finish them…like all the dirty dishes currently lying on the floor of my house…and the window shutters that I’m pretty sure I left wide open.  Dang.  Now my house will be infiltrated with dust when I get back.  As I attached everything to my bike, I realized that I probably should tell my school that I was leaving…and wouldn’t be back for a few days…and thus wouldn’t be having classes on Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, possibly even Thursday, depending on when I got back.  Probably a good idea to inform the school director and other teachers…  so I went to school.  With stuff on my bike and me dressed in “sporty” clothes for biking.  Oh well, I look weird to them all the time anyways.  I bike my 300 meters to school and when I show up, pretty much everyone is sitting outside, under a tree, drinking tea…naturally.  What else would you do at school? …certainly not teaching of any sort or mentoring students….yes, school, the place to drink tea and chat with other teachers.  As I pull up on my bike, they give me the typical greetings and essentially the equivalent of a Burkinabe “high-five” handshake/finger-snap thing as I shake each of their hands.  They’re happy to see me, but also surprised.  The director is sitting outside, so I tell him that I want to leave for a few days.  Well, okay, I didn’t exactly ask him to leave (and skip school).... no, unlike a professional person, I did not ask “permission” to have some time off from work.  Instead, I bluntly said that I was leaving for 4 or 5 days and thus wouldn’t have class.  “Okay,” everyone says, and also, “Bon voyage!”   Really?  Is it really that simple?  Is it really not important or a big deal that I’m skipping school?  Guess not…  They asked when I was leaving; I pointed to the stuff on my bike. “Toute de suite.  J’attend Molly.  On va aller ensemble.”  “Oh! Ca, c’est bon!  C’est meilleur de voyager avec quelqu’un et pas seul.”  (Me: Immediately.  I’m waiting for Molly.  We’re going together. --- Teachers: Oh, that’s good!  It’s better to travel with someone and not by yourself.)  I chatted with the teachers a few more minutes, then Molly called and said she was at my house and ready to go.  After saying goodbye to the teachers and then shaking everyone’s hands again, I biked back to my house to meet Molly. 

Note:  It’s still Friday in my story…and we have not yet actually left for Lauren’s house or had the fete in Lauren’s village.  But as my time is running out and I haven’t finished my story yet, I will post what I have written and finish the rest next time….there’s a lot.  We’ve got the story of searching jolly jus before leaving my village, pre-fete/slumber party at Lauren’s house; the events of SATURDAY (fete, biking to Tougan and almost dying, and more….); Sunday (relaxing in Tougan aka too sore to travel so I didn’t and laid in my hotel bed instead, meeting a possible terrorist?); Monday and beyond (West African Mask Festival – fun with friends, hanging out at the pool…)

So, the adventures of Beth in Burkina Faso: to be continued….

Riding the Bus / Struggles with Tougan / Good Luck Getting Your Money Out of the Bank

**This a long post, with several intertwining stories.  There’s a few more stories I could add to this, but I’ll write about them in a separate post, as they are equally as long.

Monday, December 5, 2011

So last time I didn’t get a chance to even start my reminiscing about what final events led up to the end of stage…and I probably won’t this time either, as it late (9:14pm aka 21H14 – we use military time here) and I’m just waiting for my computer to finish charging.  The electricity has been cutting in and out, which makes it difficult to do anything and to charge my computer quickly, but it’s at 88% right now.  Go, computer, go!  I’ve been hanging out at the pharmacy A LOT these past few days, doing a lot of computer work.  I’ve written tests for both of my math classes -- in fact, two versions of each test!  Mwahaha, take that, students who like cheat (aka each and every one of the 120 students in each of my classes)!  My two versions of each test were made all with the hope of slightly deterring the amount of cheating that happens…but I really can’t blame them for copying each other’s work.  They can hardly help it; there’s so many students crammed into the classroom that they’re practically sitting on top of each other…how can they not happen to see their neighbor’s work or answers?  I also made an excel sheet with all of my students’ names for easy grade calculation at the end of the trimester and entered their grades from their previous test and exercises.  I leave for Ouaga on Sunday to attend IST (Inter-Service Training) for about 2 weeks.  Bien sur (certainly/of course), I will be staying in a nice hotel with internet access, and I’ll probably eat so many hamburgers and ice cream cones that I get sick…but it’ll be worth it.  I’ll return to village just before la fête de Noel, so I’ll be able to celebrate Christmas with my villagers…and don’t think that just because everyone’s Muslim here means that there’s no Christmas.  Burkinabe know how to take advantage of every opportunity possible, including “Christian” holidays, to have a fête, take a day off from work, and eat good food!  BUTTTTT…. before I can get excited about seeing my other volunteer friends at IST, eating hamburgers in Ouaga, celebrating Christmas, and leaving village in general (sometimes it’s nice to get away), I need to give my final (aka second) test of the trimester, correct the tests (over 200 of them), enter grades, and then calculate the trimester averages with coefficients and this whole big mess of other numbers that the Burkinabe school system uses… all this work might kill me.  Grading 200 tests is not fun.  Not fun at all.  Especially when I need to finish it within a matter of 2 or 3 days while still having classes and doing my other work as well, like the clubs I’ve organized and spending time at the CSPS (hospital).  I should be thankful, however, that I have the ability to use a computer (aka Microsoft Excel) to calculate my grades easily for me…the rest of the teachers must do everything by hand (sometimes they have the aide of a calculator) for over 800 students.  Yikes. 

Anyways, a little update on my life in village.  I actually have been getting cold.  As in I put on a sweatshirt the other evening.  And then all the people at the pharmacy laughed at me because “the tubabu is cold” and usually I’m always saying how it’s so hot and I am not cold, even when they have their winter coats and earmuffs on.  Also, this morning, I wore pants to school and a light ¾ sleeve jacket over my blouse.  Yup, I guess the “cold” truly has arrived, if the tubabu is sporting long-sleeves and pants...during the morning/night, anyways.  As soon as the sun is out, it gets hot realllll quick and the cold leaves, not to return again until the sun has set.

My last few weeks in village have been pretty crazy, complete with mishaps in Tougan and struggles riding the bus, painting my house, celebrating the Muslim fête of Tobaski, getting sick (twice!), not having any money (story to follow), wedding crashing, teaching my neighbors how to make bread, and all the things with school.  So before I return to recalling what I was doing 2-3 months ago during Stage, I’m going to fill you in on what exciting adventures I’ve encountered in village, and specifically, riding the bus.

Riding the Bus / Struggles with Tougan / Good Luck Getting Your Money Out of the Bank

I’m quite lucky to live in a village that’s situated on a main road, and thus is along the bus route.  I don’t need to bike to a nearby village or to a bus stop or even travel that far at all.  I literally walk about 300 feet to the gravel road to get on the bus.  The bus (referred to as STAF, because that’s the bus company’s name), usually arrives in Lanfiera around 8am every morning (give or take an hour) and travels to Ouaga, approximately an 8 hour trip.  Along the way, there are plenty of stops.  The first main stop is in Tougan, the city/village (regional capital of my area) located about 42km away.  So, if I have a need to go to Tougan (for example, to go to the bank and use the Internet), I can hop on the bus in the morning, arrive in Tougan around 9:30am, do whatever I need to do until about 4pm, and then get on the afternoon bus to return to village sometime later that same afternoon/evening….theoretically.  The afternoon bus departs from Ouaga in the morning and makes the journey to my region, spends the night at the last stop, and then starts again bright and early the next day, doing the voyage in reverse, and in effect, becoming the morning bus that I can take to Tougan/Ouaga.  So this is how STAF is supposed to work.  But this is Africa.  Things are never consistent.  Time is flexible.  And thus, my experiences with the transportation here have been…interesting…if not downright frustrating…to say the least. 

Story 1:  Before Halloween I had gone to Ouaga for a meeting with other volunteers to plan Camp GLOW, a summer camp for kids here.  Transport to Ouaga wasn’t bad.  Long, sure.  Hot, yes.  Dirty, definitely.  Squished, bien sur (there were 2 women, 2 babies, a toddler, and me, crammed into a row of 3 seats.  If that’s not squished, I don’t know what is).  But overall, not a bad 8 hour ride.  Especially compared to the trip back that was to come a few days later.  On the way back, the bus kept breaking down and having insanely long rest stops, and before I knew it, it was getting dark and we had first just arrived in Tougan.  Technically, as Peace Corps Volunteers, we are not to be traveling at night…safety/security reasons.  But the sun was just beginning to set, and my village was only about another hour past Tougan, so should it turn into “night” while on the bus, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.  I’d much rather just get back to village and sleep in my own bed.  Though of course, once we arrived in Tougan, the bus sat.  For a LONG time.  Soon it was past sunset.  The men who man the bus kept saying, “We’ll leave toute de suite” (aka immediately). Ha.  Toute de suite. That means nothing here.  Burkinabe find nothing wrong with telling someone they’ll be back immediately, and not returning until 2 hours later…. So toute de suite?  Take that as you will. 

Some nice functionaire guy, who was also on the bus and now waiting like the rest of us, bought cold cokes for me, Vida, and Brooke (the other 2 volunteers from my region who also attended the Camp GLOW meeting and thus were on the bus with me) and we had a nice discussion.  But soon it was really dark and past our bedtime.  We were tired and crabby.  Didn’t really have the energy to endure another hour (or more) of bus riding and plus then deal with finding our houses in the dark once we actually arrived in village.  Furthermore, the bus showed no signs of running anytime soon -- the mechanics were busy dinking around with some engine in the front of the bus.  Fortunately there are 2 volunteers stationed in Tougan (one guy and one girl; no, they are not married or a couple…yet), so we gave them a call.  They came to our rescue, mounted our bags, packages, and boxes of goodies (aka cans of oatmeal and other “necessary” food items we had bought in Ouaga) onto their bikes, and took us to Sue’s house, where we were able to wash the dirt of our faces and spend the night. 

The bus breakdown was bad enough.  But the whole situation was further complicated by the fact that we had NO money.  Had we not had friends in Tougan, we would have had to pay for a hotel, which we maybe could have scrounged up the money for, but still...it’s not easy on the mind to be broke and in an unfamiliar place.  Being in Ouaga, we had depleted most of our funds, buying hamburgers and good smelling shampoo.  But it was near the end of the month, so we didn’t hesitate too much with our purchases of things to indulge in and to bring back to village.  After all, our next living allowance payment would be in our accounts at any moment.  In fact, it should have already been in our accounts (according to Peace Corps), but the Burkinabe banking computer system hadn’t yet registered our installment, so we couldn’t withdraw any of our money that was supposedly there.  I had had a decent chunk of money on me, but with everyone else’s funds running low, I had been borrowing money to friends, and soon, I had essentially no money either. Like literally, about the equivalent of $5 American in my pocket and maybe another $5 back in my house in village.  But here, that’s certainly enough to get by, especially if you’re eating meals with neighbors and friends.  While I wasn’t too worried about going hungry due to not having money, I was still quite frustrated that our attempts to withdraw money at the bank had failed – not once, but twice!  We had gone to the bank, waited in line for over 2 hours, only then to find out that we had no money to withdraw but were told we could come back the next day and it would be ready for us then, returned the next day, waited in line for a ridiculous amount of time again, and still had no money….oh, Africa….why must you be difficult?  But having no money isn’t the end of the world (unless an emergency or something out of the ordinary should arise).  I’d just have to be really careful with what I buy…though, when I can buy a plate of beans and rice for 100 CFA, 6.000 mille (aka 6000 CFA) goes a long ways… and also, I’d need to find a day to journey to Tougan – a day when I didn’t have classes scheduled – hopefully, probably, sometime within the next week, and go to the bank then. Not a big deal.  A bit of an inconvenience, considering I had just been in the big city for a few days with relatively easy access to the bank, but not a big deal. I could handle coming back to Tougan for a day. In fact, Halloween was in a week, and I’d be back in Tougan anyway, for our Peace Corps Halloween Weekend get-together.  Certainly our money would be in our accounts a week from now…  Oh yeah, and our bus, the one that had broken down and caused us to spend the night with Sue…well, turns out they got it fixed…eventually… around midnight. 

Story 2:  Halloween Weekend.  The get-together with a bunch of other volunteers stationed in this area was great.  There were about 15 of us, plus a few extras who endured a long bus trip across the country to join us.  It was nice to see everyone and share our stories of what our first month in village was like.  We stayed at a nice-ish hotel, where we had electricity, fans, air-conditioning, showers, real toilets, etc. and took advantage of eating cold yogurt, omelet sandwiches, fried chicken, fresh bread from the bakery, and cold watermelon.   Also, I had some caramel apple suckers my sister Erin had sent in a care package that I shared with friends, and so those were a nice treat that helped us get into the Halloween/fall spirit.  We drank boxed wine (wine typically comes in boxes here, not bottles, and we like to refer to our boxes of wine as “adult juice boxes”) , danced at the bar/restaurants who played music and had a “dance floor” and all in all, basically just were lazy and sat around talking or watching movies in our air-conditioned hotel rooms. 

We were able to make a pit stop at the bank at the start of the weekend, but our money still wasn’t in. So, I decided to withdraw the last bit of money that was still in my account – my crutch/emergency fund.  Courtesy of advice from Peace Corps and horror stories from current volunteers who didn’t budget their money wisely, I had the ingenious idea of keeping at least 25.000 mille in my account at all times, but now I had to use that money.  I guess that’s why I have a crutch fund, for times like this when bank systems aren’t working and I can’t get my monthly living allowance on time like expected….  25.000 mille isn’t a huge amount of money, but it was certainly more than enough to pay for my “fun” and hotel room in Tougan that weekend, along with taking a decent chunk of money back with me to village until the next time I could make it to the bank in a few weeks or so.  So I had no worries.  When the weekend came to a close, we said our goodbyes and headed our separate ways, with some taking their respective buses, others biking back to their village, and still others taking bush taxies.  My bus came that late that afternoon like normal, and Sami, Molly, and me took our places on the crowded bus.  We waited.  And waited some more.  I pulled out my book for a while…and then I think I even fell asleep.

Next thing I know, it’s been over an hour since we loaded the bus, and the bus hasn’t moved.  In fact, the engine is no longer even running.  Everyone’s still sitting in their seats, as if the bus is ready to leave any moment now, but then I hear some guy say something about the bus being broken and that a new bus is on the way.  No way.  You’ve got to be kidding me.  Bus troubles again?  Two times within a week?  No way.  This couldn’t be happening.   I wake up Sami and Molly, and we decide to get off the hot, smelly, overcrowded bus and see if we can figure out what’s going on.  Is the bus indeed broken?  Is another one coming?  If so, when?  Within the hour?  Or in 5 hours?  Are we better off just spending another night in Tougan?  Or should we wait for this bus so we can return home tonight?  We all had things to do in village the next day, me especially, since I had class at 7am.  I really couldn’t just “spend the night” in Tougan again and not show up for school.  But maybe we could find someone with a car or truck to take us back to our villages tonight or early tomorrow morning…or maybe someone from our village could come pick us up.  But wait.  Who has a car?  The chances of finding a person that evening who actually owns a vehicle was slim to none.  Oh Africa.  Once again, things are more complicated than they should be.  After a bit of waiting and some discussion, we decided to pull our bags off the bus and wait at Yogurt Place (so called because it has thee BEST yogurt ever in little plastic sachets!), conveniently situated right next to the bus stop.  We figured we’d maybe eat some more yogurt and give the bus an hour to either get fixed or for a new one to show up, before we’d give up, call it a night, and go back to the hotel.  Some of our friends who weren’t planning on leaving until the next morning were still at Yogurt Place from when we had said goodbye over an hour earlier, and when they saw us walk up, the reactions on their faces were priceless: 

“What are you doing here?  Did the bus come back for something?”

“Uh, no.  The bus actually hasn’t left yet.”

“Oh…we didn’t notice.  So.  Were you sitting on the bus all this time?”

“Yup.  We were.”

“I’m sorry.”

We chilled for a bit, tried our best to relax and not be overly frustrated with Burkina’s transportation systems, and did indeed eat some yogurt as well as my watermelon – we were hungry, plus I didn’t feel like lugging a watermelon around with me anymore, so I figured it was best to just eat it up.  Yogurt and watermelon: not a bad supper.  We were just about to call it quits waiting and march back to the hotel when another bus rolled into town.  Wow, they weren’t lying!  There actually was another bus.  And it didn’t take 5 hours for it to arrive.  In Africa, this sort of occurrence could be considered a miracle!  We packed up our bags, headed to the new bus, and attempted to climb on.  But they (the bus staff/employees? If that’s who they were?) proceeded to push us away and tell us this was the wrong bus and we should quickly find our places on the other bus.  What?  But isn’t that bus broken?  What is going on?  Why is there another bus here if it’s not to take us home? Why don’t we ever understand what is going on in this country?!?  Much to our dismay, the new bus refused to let anyone on, and 5 minutes later, it drove away.  But everyone was making a mad dash towards the broken bus, which hadn’t moved, started its engine, or even had any mechanics dinking around to try and fix the problem the entire time we had been waiting.  We were hesitant, but made our way towards the bus also.  We climbed up the steps of the bus, but that was as far as we went, despite the crowd of people behind us pushing and shoving to get on the bus also.  You see, before we boarded, we had a few questions/concerns.  Molly took control of the situation and her conversation went something like this, with its literal English translation making everything all the more frustrating and simultaneously, ridiculously hilarious:

Random guy on bus: « Madam, il faut entrer. »   Madam., you must enter. (i.e. enter the bus)

Molly : « Primèrent, j’ai une question.  Est-ce que, on va partir ? »  Firstly, I have a question. We will leave?

Guy: « Oui, trouvez un place.»  Yes, find a place.

Molly : « Le bus n’est pas cassé ? »  The bus isn’t broken?

Guy: « Non, c’est prêt. »  No, it’s ready.

Molly : « Qu’est-ce que c’était le problème ? »  What was the problem?

Guy: « Il n’y a pas des problèmes. »  There weren’t any problems.

Molly : « Pas des problèmes !?! Puis….pourquoi nous avons attendu beaucoup de temps? »  No problems ?!? Then…why we have waited a lot of time?

Guy: « Oui, c’est nécessaire de attendre. »  Yes, it’s necessary to wait.

Molly : « Mais pourquoi ?  Qu’est-ce que la raison? »  But why? What’s the reason?

Guy: « Madame, s’il vous plait. » Madame, please.

Molly : « Donc, on va partir maintenant ? »  So, we will leave now?

Guy: « Oui, toute de suite. »  Yes, immediately.  (But we all know what « toute de suite » means in Africa…anything from 5 minutes to 5 hours….)

Molly: « A quelle heure? »  At what hour?

Guy: « Ce soir.  Madam, il faut asseoir.»  This evening.  Madam, you must sit down.

Molly: « Mais, à QUELLE heure, exactement? »  But at what hour, exactly?

Guy : « Je ne sais pas. C’est n’importante pas. »  I don’t know. It’s not important.

Molly: « Non, ça c’est très importante ! »  No, this is very important.

Guy : « Oui, ça va aller. Il faut entrer. »  Yes, it will go. You must enter.

Molly : « Ca va aller…quand? »  It will go…when ?

Guy : « Oui. »  Yes.

Molly : « Quand? A quelle heure ?  »  When? At what hour?  (Molly is practically yelling at the top of her lungs…)

Guy : « Madame…»  Madam…

Molly : « Encore, je demande: QUAND? A quelle heure ?  »  Again, I ask/demand: WHEN? At what hour?

Guy : « Madame… »

*awkward silence while Molly glares ferociously*

Guy : « Cinq minutes »  Five minutes…

Molly : « Ok.  Merci.  Je peux asseoir maintenant.  »  Ok.  Thank you.  I can sit down now.

Molly’s conversation/argument to find out when/if the bus was leaving definitely ranks as one of my top ten stories in Africa so far.  We couldn’t help but to laugh until our stomachs hurt once we finally took our seats, and even to this day, we still find it amusing to reenact the bus situation and imitate Molly and the man she argued with.  It’s probably one of those times when “you had to be there” but whatever… it was funny…at least for us.  Surprisingly, the bus did actually leave “toute de suite”…as in within 20 minutes after we took our seats, and we were able to make it home that night.  Oh yeah, but that hour ride to my village in the dark was rather terrifying.  I now fully understand why Peace Corps rules state that we are not to travel at night.  There’s a very good chance we could die. If bus rides aren’t scary enough during the daytime to begin with, due to horrible road conditions, random animals standing in the middle of the road, and drivers who speed along like they’re Nascar racers, try riding the bus at night…when there’s absolutely zero light to see anything, whether it’s large potholes or donkeys sleeping in the road.  Yes, the chances of an accident occurring are very, very high.  I’m still shocked that I made it home safely that night.  I also have come to the conclusion that, while in Africa, I will not in the least bit miss amusement parks or carnivals.  I have my own roller coaster and thrilling action rides here, in the form of public transportation…  Public transportation: it gives Disneyland a run for its money.  Whether bus, taxi, or donkey cart, they’re all guaranteed to leave you thrilled…if not fearing for your life.  Plus, considering that public transport lasts much longer than your typical ride on a roller coaster or spin on the Ferris wheel and is also significantly cheaper (i.e. an 11-hour bus ride for $10 American), it’s not a bad deal: you definitely get your money’s worth…along with a few bruises.

Story 3:  So this mishap was my own fault.  I’d like to blame Africa, but I can’t.   I’ll admit I screwed up and should’ve been thinking more clearly, but I’ve learned my lesson.  I now know that Sundays are not a good day to go to Tougan.   And hopefully I’ll never forget that.  Here’s what happened:  It was a Saturday morning, and while painting my house, I get a phone call from one of my education supervisors in Peace Corps.  He asks about some forms that I apparently was supposed to read via email and send back over a week ago; I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about as I hadn’t checked my email in over a month.  He encourages/demands that I go to Tougan and check my email as soon as possible, but I am hesitant to agree, because I have tons of things going on in my village, my class schedule is packed for the week (resulting in me not having a free day to journey to Tougan), and I’ll be going to Ouaga in just a few weeks for IST.  He isn’t satisfied with this response and again insists that I get to Tougan within the next few days.  He asks what I’m doing tomorrow (Sunday) and if I could go then, since I can’t go during the week because of school.  I think about it for a minute, decide that my laundry can wait a few more days and that it’s either tomorrow or never for going to Tougan before IST.  I tell my supervisor that yes, I’ll take tomorrow to check my email in Tougan, and then I immediately get back to painting my house, as there were over 12 students helping me paint and they were going crazy and making a mess – i.e. painting themselves instead of the walls – while I had been outside talking on my cellphone.

I was slightly annoyed, because, as aforementioned, I had plenty of things I wanted to get done in village (like laundry), and I really had nothing I needed to do in Tougan besides check my email.  But I figured what the heck, it’s not the worst thing in the world to spend a day running errands around Tougan, going to the bank, buying a few cans of tuna to take back to village, and relaxing for a few hours at the Cyber while waiting (patiently, of course) at least ten minutes for each Internet page to load.  And considering I had just spent pretty much all my money buying paint for my house, I probably should be heading to the bank anyways.  I went to bed that night, thinking only of the fact that I was going to get up early, catch the bus, and spend the day in the “big city.”  So when I got up the next morning, I grabbed all things I thought I would need for the day and stuffed them into my backpack: my computer, my bank card, a book, water bottle, and a few bills so I could buy my bus ticket.  I left a few bills at home, but in all honesty, I really didn’t have a whole lot of money left to either take with me and/or leave at home; I had planned to withdraw a rather large sum of money at the bank, and then with that money, buy my cans of tuna and other goodies. 

My ride into Tougan went smoothly; for once, there was hardly anyone on the bus, so I had no difficulties finding a seat!  As soon as I arrived in Tougan, I indulged in some cold yogurt to which I added a cut-up banana and apple that I bought from fruit lady on the corner of the street.  Then I casually strolled to the bank, smiling and greeting everyone I passed by.  But as I walked down the street, a feeling of something not being right overtook my body.  Then it hit me.  It was Sunday.  How could I not realize that it was a SUNDAY?!?  What was I thinking?  I mean, I knew it was Sunday, but for some reason it didn’t register in my head that Sundays aren’t like the other days of the week.  There’s no bank on Sunday.  Duh.  In village, you never have to think about whether something is open or not, since there aren’t any businesses to begin with.  There’s no such thing as store hours.  So why would Sunday be any different?  But I had forgotten that such modern phenomena as “weekends” and “business hours” exist throughout most of the world, even in Burkina Faso…well, at least in Burkina’s bigger cities, anyways.   I felt ridiculously stupid for my mistake, but kept my hopes up as I continued to make my way to the bank to see if, for some odd reason, it was actually open.  But of course it wasn’t.  Then I became mad.  What was I going to do in Tougan all day with no money to spend?  I couldn’t buy anything.  I barely had enough money on me to pay for my bus ticket back to village, let alone anything else I’d need to pay for throughout the day, like a plate of rice and sauce for lunch, some sachets of water, or a couple hours at the cyber.  Seriously, what was I going to do?

As I tried not to freak out too much or be too angry at the world, I made my way to the cyber.  I didn’t have a lot of money, but I had enough to at least pay for an hour of Internet to check my email like I had planned.  Since email was the main reason I was in Tougan in the first place, I decided to get that taken care of and figure out how I was going pass the rest of the day with zero money after my Internetting was done.  I arrived at the cyber with optimism.  But again, my hopes were crushed: the cyber was closed.  It was Sunday, duh.  And apparently, sometimes it’s open on Sundays, and other Sundays, it’s not.  How was I supposed to know that today would be a Sunday when it decided to be closed?  So much for my day in Tougan.  Pas de l’argent.  Pas de cyber.  Pas de quelque chose.  (No money, no cyber, no anything).  Now really, what was I going to do?  I had a whole day to kill, with absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go.  I wandered around town for a little bit, perused through the marché as if I had money and was going to buy stuff, and then went back to Yogurt Place to sulk and mope about my horrible day.  It was only 11am, and I still had at least 5 hours before the bus would arrive and I could go home.  I called a few friends on my cellphone and whined to them, and their only suggestion was to spend the day slowly eating lots of cold yogurt – savoring every bite – at Yogurt Place while reading my book.  Urgh.  This was not how my day was supposed to go.

I tried the “savor yogurt and read” thing for little while, but after an hour I was bored, hot, and tired.  Plus, it was weird to sit at yogurt place for so long…by myself… with people staring at me.  After all, it’s not a normal occurrence in Burkina Faso to, one, read a book, or two, use a “restaurant” as a coffee house type setting…considering coffee houses also don’t really exist here…  Since I had my computer, I figured I should take advantage of all my “free time” and get some computer work done.  I’d just need to find a place to do that…somewhere not out in the open and where I had access to electricity.  My best bet was the local hotel we had stayed at during Affectation (the 2 days we got to spend in Tougan buying stuff for our houses before we were permanently moved to our villages).  The hotel had electricity, ceiling fans, and a toilet in each room, plus a comfy queen sized bed.  That was all I needed.  Somewhere where I could get some work done in private, and maybe also stretch out and take a nap under a cool ceiling fan.  I walked to the hotel, talked to the owner, and convinced them to give me a room for the day – for about 4-5 hours until the bus came.  I argued down the price, pulling the “but I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer and don’t have much money” card, and in the end, I ended up paying the equivalent of $3 American.  Not bad.  I relaxed in my room, turned on the fan, played music on my computer, charged my cell phone, took a nap, and typed up a few pages of things that have now been posted on my blog.  But mainly I napped.  I was really tired.  Had a headache.  Throat was aching.  Was really warm – my face was burning up.  All just a natural result of being stressed and frustrated, right?

Later that afternoon, around 2pm, I met my friend Eric for lunch.  It was refreshing to talk to another volunteer (also a math teacher) and share ideas and strategies for our classrooms, as well as the future plans/projects we hoped to implement in our communities.  Lunch was good (I had ingyams – aka yams – in a tomato sauce) but my throat was so sore that I could hardly swallow my meal without flinching at every bite.   What I couldn’t finish, I gave to Eric and he happily cleaned off my plate.  After lunch, I went back to my hotel room with the intent of actually getting some blogs written up, but within minutes I found myself giving into another nap.  I slept until it was time for me to pack up my bag and head to the bus station to catch my bus and go back to my village.  I bought my bus ticket and then plopped myself down at Yogurt Place to eat a yogurt while waiting for the bus to arrive.  I waited.  And waited some more.  And then I ordered a sachet of water.  And waited.  I watched the French world news that was on the little TV above the stove at Yogurt Place.  And waited.  Soon (well, not soon at all, it took forever), it was well past the time the bus should’ve arrived.  As in the bus was over 2 hours late, even by African standards.  I was so tired and my head was pounding so much I thought I was going to die.  When/if the bus ever showed up, how was I possibly going to endure an hour of bumpy, dusty bus-riding?  I put my head down on Yogurt Place’s counter, and almost fell asleep.  But finally the bus arrived.  I pushed and shoved to get on the bus and find a place.  I set the alarm on my phone for 7:30pm, a little over an hour past the current time, in fear that I should pass out on the bus and not be awake when the bus drove through my village.  There was no way we’d be at my village in an hour, even if we left immediately (which we wouldn’t…we never leave immediately), and so this way, with my alarm set, I could attempt to sleep soundly and be reassured that I wouldn’t miss my stop.  Sure enough, I fell asleep, and when my alarm woke me up, I discovered that we hadn’t yet even left the Tougan bus station.  Urgh.  Seriously?  Is this really happening again?  Why can’t I just get home?  Why must this be SO ridiculously difficult? 

I set my alarm for another hour later, and went back to sleep.  Thank goodness when I awoke again, the bus was moving and about half-way to my village.  I finally got home after 9pm.  It was pitch black --there’s no electricity to light up the houses or streets, and it was silent -- every human and animal in village was sleeping.  I somehow found my house in the dark, plopped myself down on the floor, and tried to eat an orange.  But again, my throat was so tight and painful, that I couldn’t eat.  My head was spinning and every muscle in my body ached.  Lately, I’d been getting a little chilly at night, but this night, I was burning up.  Transport in Africa is never easy, but feeling like this after a bus ride was not a normal occurrence.  Something had to be wrong.  I dug out my medical kit, found the thermometer, and took my temperature: 103.5 degrees.  Yikes!  No wonder I felt like I was dying…

I took some meds to combat my headache, muscle aches, and dangerously high fever.  After flushing my face with “cool” water, I went to bed.  Every hour or so throughout the night, I got up to stagger towards the latrine and relieve my bladder, followed by drinking some more water.  I awoke around 6am the next morning feeling even worse than when I had gone to bed, partly due to being sick, but mostly due to it being Monday and knowing that I was supposed to go to school.  I tried to heat up some water to make tea and oatmeal, thinking that if I could just eat something, I’d feel better – or at least well enough to make it through my morning classes – but was so dizzy that I gave up and took my temperature again.  102 degrees.  An improvement.  But still not good at all; I was in no condition to go to school, more or less leave my house.  So now I had another problem to deal with: missing school.  What do I do?  Who do I tell?  Will someone inform my students that we’re not having class? 

This ordeal presented a whole mess of problems.  In America, a teacher simply has to call in sick, usually by phoning the office and talking to the secretary.  Then, a substitute teacher will be found so that the students can continue learning and their education isn’t (too) disrupted for the day.  But in Burkina Faso, there are no substitute teachers – heck, there aren’t even enough “real” teachers!  And there certainly isn’t an “office” to call.  My school does have a woman who works as a secretary, but I didn’t have her cell phone number, plus I didn’t even know whether she’d be at school that day or not, or if it’s standard procedure to inform her of absences, anyways.  So much to think about, but not enough time: it was nearly 7:00am.  School would be starting, my students would all be at school already, and most of the other teachers would be there as well….well, maybe not THERE as in at school (teachers rarely arrive at school early before the students, or even on time….), but they would at least be on their way, driving their motos down the road, unable to hear their ringtones if I tried to call them.  I had attempted to call my homologue, and sent him a text message as well: “Je suis malade.  Je ne peux pas enseigner aujourd’hui.” (I’m sick.  I can’t teach today.)  But he hadn’t responded yet.  Did he get the message?  Did school know that I wasn’t coming?  Did they even really care whether or not I showed up?  What were my 120 students doing?  Sitting nicely in the classroom, studying their math notebooks?  Doubt it.  Going crazy running around, jumping over desks, boys wrestling, girls braiding each other’s hair, shouting loud enough that the classroom next door can’t even hear their own teacher?  Probably.  Oh god.   What had I done?  My being sick had (probably) resulted in my 120 students causing utter chaos.  All the other teachers were going to hate me…  It was about quarter after 7 and I still hadn’t heard anything from school.  I was just about ready to put on some clothes (don’t worry, I wasn’t naked -- I had shorts and a tank top on but I can’t wear that in public, so I was going to slip a skirt over my skirt and a t-shirt over my tank), hop on my bike, and go to school in person, just to make sure that someone knew I was sick and wouldn’t be having classes that day.  I wasn’t sure how riding a bike the whole 3 minutes to school would go, considering how dizzy and sore I was, but I felt like I had no other choice.  How unprofessional for me to not show up at school and not to inform anyone (though I had tried to contact my homologue).  As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I’m supposed to be setting a good example for others, especially the other teachers that I work with, encouraging them to take pride in their job and show up on time and not just randomly cancel classes, etc.  But here I was, sitting in my house, clearly not setting a good example…even if I was sick. 

Fortunately right at the moment when I mustered up the energy to go find some clothes to throw over my shorts and tank, I saw my homologue drive into my courtyard on his moto.  I’ll admit I was slightly scared, expecting him to say something along the lines of, “What are you doing?!? School started 15 minutes ago!  You’re late!”  But he must have seen my text message and missed calls, as he instead said, “You’re sick?  Should we call the doctor?  You should go to the hospital.  They can give you medicine.”  We had a brief conversation during which I discovered that he was very concerned I might be seriously ill with Malaria (common in Africans, not so common in foreigners who have the “luxury” of being able to take preventive medicines to combat Malaria before it even starts), and he thought I was ridiculous for refusing to go the hospital.  Also, although he didn’t say anything, I could tell that he thought what I was wearing was beyond bizarre.  More than likely he probably felt uncomfortable seeing me so “exposed” but to be honest, I’m pretty sure that I felt more awkward than him, flashing around my whiter than white legs (with my gym shorts helping to reveal a few inches of thigh above the knee!) that contrasted ever so nicely with my bronze arms and not quite as golden – but not white – shoulders.  I might as well have been naked, I felt so scandalous in my cultural faux pas wardrobe.  Anyways, bad wardrobe aside, my homologue told me not to worry about school, get some rest, and he’d come check on me when morning classes had finished (around noon).  He left, and I felt better, knowing that they knew I was sick and thus I wasn’t a complete unprofessional by not showing up to school.  I took some more meds, and then passed out on the floor in the middle of my kitchen/main room….

…only to be awoken less than an hour later to the sound of someone knocking on my door and saying “co-co” (the Burkinabe equivalent of Americans saying “knock-knock”).  Dang it.  No.  Leave me alone.  I am sick and do not have the energy to deal with greeting neighbors and other villagers, nor do I have the brain power to think in language other than English right now.  Go away!  But alas, I had no choice but to answer the door, as the neighbor had seen me: he looked through my windows… which apparently is not creepy or taboo here.  In America, if we’d catch someone we didn’t know looking through our windows, there’s a good chance that the police would be called, a rifle would be brought out, or yelling would commence…perhaps all of the above.  I tried to quick grab a pagne or something to wrap around me so that I wasn’t “naked” in my shorts and tank like I had been in front of my homologue, but there was nothing near me.  Plus, my hair was a sweaty disaster from my fever.  Great.  I love looking completely awful in front of non-Americans.  (Ok, it’s not as if I especially like looking awful in front of Americans either, but at least here in Burkina, any other Americans who’d see me would know that it was just a bad day and not what I normally look like…) You can thank me, America,  I’m really giving all the villagers a good impression of what Americans “look” like with my wardrobe choices and crazy hairdos.  Anyways, the neighbor and I go through all the typical greetings (How’s the family?  How’s work?  How’d you sleep?  And your family?  They’re good?) to which I just had to respond, “ca va,” (it goes or they’re fine) to everything he said.  Simple enough.  I can handle that.  Even when sick.  Then he asked me why I wasn’t at school.  What?  Really?  Since when do you even know my schedule?  Every other time you come over to my house to greet me (which tends to be anywhere from 1 to 5 times a day) you ask me if I have class that day, or in the morning, or in the afternoon, etc.  You never know my school schedule, despite it being the SAME THING every week.  I didn’t want to say that I was sick, because he would feel it was his duty to inform others that “the American” was sick, which would cause the whole village to show up at my doorstep, offering me food and water (that would probably make me sick, not healthier) and various traditional medicines.  No thank you.  I just want to be in my house and sleep.  All day.  Alone.  With no one bothering me or “co-co”ing at my door.  Go away.  So instead of telling him I was sick, I just said that I didn’t have school today.  He countered with, “But it’s Monday, every Monday you go to school from 7-11am…” and so I repeated that today, I didn’t have school.  Which he took to mean that, in general, there was no school today.  For anyone.  Fine.  Clearly you didn’t put two and two together in that there were hundreds of kids in blue shirts and khaki pants/skirts that walked by your house on their way to school this morning… but if that’s what you want to think, sure. Go ahead.  No one has school today.  I’ll agree with you.  Just let me go back to sleep. 

I was able to get a few good hours of rest, and when I awoke I discovered my fever had finally broken and dropped below 100 degrees. I sent a text message to Molly, my closest Peace Corps friend/neighbor who lives about 2 minutes away by bike – we practically live in the same village; it’s virtually impossible to tell where my village ends and her village starts – to come to my house because I was sick and she needed to get groceries for me.  It was marche day, and thus, if I wanted any food to eat for the next 5 days, someone had to pick me up some things at the marche – I was in no condition to venture out of my house.  Plus, Thanksgiving was coming and we were planning a big get-together with all the volunteers in the Sourou Valley.  Between my house, Molly’s house, and Sierra’s house, we had plenty of space for everyone (about 15 of us) to make American food and crash on the floor for the night.  But that meant, as a good hostess, I should be prepared with plenty of fresh fruits and veggies and anything else we might need to make our Thanksgiving meal as official as possible, as well as enough ingredients to make pancakes for the next morning.

Molly stopped by, put my grocery list in her purse, and we proceed to visit for a bit (I was feeling better enough by this time to chat).  She also had brought me a surprise: freshly popped popcorn (mhmm!) and a bag of meat (ew?).  Yes, a bag of meat.  Possibly goat or mutton, but who knows.  As she pulled the bag of meat from her backpack, she said, “Soooo….my neighbor gave this to me.  I’m not really sure what to do with it…meat’s not really my thing.  Is this edible?  Can you make it edible?”  And even though I was still not feeling top-notch, I proceeded to wash off this meat, cut away the dry and dirt covered parts, as well as random bone shards, marinate it in a homemade sauce, and then fry it up with some onions and garlic.  It turned out all right, a little tough, but edible.

Of course, just as we’re eating, my homologue stops by to check in on me.  Whelp, I sure look sick, don’t I, visiting with Molly and eating popcorn and fried meat?  Great impression I gave off there.  At least I was still in my shorts and tank top and my hair was a disaster – that hopefully helped prove that I wasn’t faking it…

Molly went to the marche for me, bought me lots of goodies, and came back later that afternoon.  I continued to spend most of the day interchanging between sleeping, reading, and drinking water, and then went to bed early that night.  After a good night’s rest, I was ready to return to school the next day, although my voice was still hoarse and I felt tired and weak.  All the teachers were overly concerned for my health, but were of course glad to see me up and about and could put their minds at ease knowing that I wasn’t going to die of malaria or anything…