**Disclaimer: This is the continuation of an already lengthy adventure story that I experienced March 7-10. Part One (“The Journey”) can be found in my previous blog post. This post, Part 2, will prove to be just as long and epic as the first… even longer, actually…. sorry.
So the bees were coming. Or rather, more accurately, they had already arrived. And we needed to get outta there!
So much for our picnic.
So much for avoiding the blazing sun and resting under the protection of shady tree.
So much for not being sure where we were going, or if we were lost, or headed 50km north to Mali, or if we would find water anytime soon.
So much for anything.
The only thing that mattered was escaping those bees. I was already stung (golly gee whiz did that hurt!!! I can’t recall ever being stung before – I think it was my first bee sting!?!); and we didn’t need any more casualties against this army of bees.
We had to pedal très vite (really fast) for a good 5-10 minutes before we outran the bees. And once we felt safe, we just kept going. No sense in stopping and giving the bees a chance to find us. Plus, we figured we had at least a good hour of biking before we would come across any village – if we had la bonne chance (good luck), that is. Remember, Bilin had been sent to scout out the situation, and he came back saying he didn’t see a village despite biking a good 45 minutes out.
Well, it sure was a surprise when after only about 20 minutes total we approached a house. Sure, it was kinda in the middle of nowhere, but people did live there and they would at least know where the nearest village was, if not be located just a few km down the road from the village in the first place. (Had I biked just a little further on my own scouting expedition earlier, I would’ve come across this house, and I can only imagine how drastically that would’ve changed our outcomes! But unfortunately I didn’t make it to this house…)
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| This is probably the family's granary to store corn. |
The children of the home greeted us and a girl of about age 14 offered us welcome water out of a calabash. We were so thirsty that most of us drank the water even though it did look questionable – there were definitely particles floating in it. The girl conveniently spoke French, and she said the village was near; she went to school there. We were so relieved! We wouldn’t die or get dehydrated or be lost en brousse. The village existed…AND it was just a few more minutes away!
As we biked away, Bilin received some questioning. He was on trial, and the rest of us were both the accusers and the jury.
Others: Hey Bilin, when you were biking, did you come across this house?
Bilin: No, can’t say I did.
Others: Really? How did you miss this? It wasn’t even that far away. Only like 15 minutes, and you said you biked out for 45 minutes.
B: I must’ve taken that other path…
O: What path? I don’t think there are any other paths besides the one we’re on.
B: Uh, I dunno. But I didn’t see this house. I don’t think I was on this path. Must’ve gotten lost. So, sorry ‘bout that. My bad.
O: Bilin, tell us the truth. What were you doing for the hour and a half you were gone?
B: Biking.
O: Seriously. Don’t be a douchebag. Just tell us. Were you sleeping? Were you tired and hot; did you just decide to take a nap? Did you need to stop and take a poop? Did you camp out under a shade tree and eat your food, waiting for us to catch up? What were you doing?!?!
B: Uhhhh….. I might have taken a nap…
O: BILIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Idiot! We hate you!!!!!
B: Sorry.
O: Did you not think you should’ve said something when we were paranoid about there being no village, after you SAID you biked 45 minutes out?!?! Was it funny watching us all freak out?
B: Yeahhhh, that was dumb of me. But it was kinda entertaining; Jason and his hand-drawn map, convinced we must have taken a wrong turn and be on our way north to Mali. I guess I should’ve said something.
O: I wish we could leave Bilin behind. But since we can’t, next best thing: no supper for Bilin tonight. And you owe each of us a beer. No, two beers. Each.
Bilin might have felt bad about lying to us, though I don’t think he really did. But he should’ve! He created a lot of unnecessary panic within our group. Had he just said, “Hey guys, I know I was gone for a while, but I only went about 10 minute out and then took a nap, sorry,” we would’ve been annoyed but accepting of his stupidity (and laziness). More importantly, we would still have been optimistic about finding the village soon. Instead, we cursed the guide who took our money and ran, leaving us “in the middle of nowhere,” lying that the village was just beyond those big trees; we freaked out about being lost and not having enough water and possibly ending up in Mali and being kidnapped by terrorists. Thanks, Bilin. You’re such a gem to our group!
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| Bilin, aka "The Boy" (This outfit is quite popular with 5-year-old Burkinabe boys....yet somehow, Bilin has managed to put it on...this image will haunt me for the rest of my life.) |
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| Yup. I might've looked for the worst pictures I could find of Bilin to post for you to see. But he deserves it. |
No matter how angry we were at Bilin, we couldn’t help but laisser tomber (let fall, i.e. to let go of) our resentment and feel overjoyed at the sight of our long lost village. The fact that the village was indeed quite close to the house we had just passed (about 5 minutes away) also prevented us from continuing to verbally abuse Bilin. Though he deserved it.
Immediately upon arrival in Ouaraba (I think that was the name of the village, pronounced war-ah-bah), we were given water. We guzzled so much water those first few minutes that I think we might have scared the villagers. Personally, I downed a whole liter in one swallow, without even breathing, as I poured l’eau down my throat. Not only were we dirty white foreigners, but we consumed an inhuman amount of water. The villagers didn’t mind, however. I doubt they ever get visitors; white or otherwise. Ouaraba is quite truthfully the most remote village I’ve ever come across in Burkina. It’s in the middle of nowhere; no real roads; not located anywhere near another village, more or less a bigger city; it has rien (nothing) to offer, so no one would ever come to it to buy or trade anything. What a sad, isolated existence. But they seemed happy anyways.
(**Please note: I say white, but that’s an extreme generalization and politically, it’s very incorrect. I might be racist? Or maybe colorblind is more like it… Tarek is half Moroccan; Bilin is half Indian – like from India, not Native American Indian; Marisol is half Filipino; Jason is Greek; Sami has Indian blood – as in Native American Indian; Sierra, Molly, Michael, Careth, and I are all some sort of Caucasian European, i.e. German/Polish/Norwegian, etc. So yeah, we’re not all “white” …. but we are. At least in comparison to the black people here.)
Also, I noticed that the villagers were thrilled that we were buying stuff from them. They definitely took advantage of having hungry, thirsty visitors, and within minutes, there were women selling us gateau (like fried donuts), fried fish, juice, and more.
Since this was the village that Jason’s hand-drawn map displayed as the half-way point between the river and Barani (our final destination), we were done biking for the day. Whew. We were exhausted!
Ironically, earlier that day, way back when we were in the first village right after the river (Koube), when we had discussed whether to rest or continue on right way, one of our reasons for pressing on was that if we got to Ouaraba early enough, we could take a small break, fill up on water, and then travel on even further. Plausibly even covering the entire 15km until the next/last village (which would be the village right before our final destination). We would camp out there, and then the next morning we’d only have a short bike ride of 20-30 minutes to the horse festival, instead of a 2-3 hour journey. Ha. Little did we know that just making it to Ouaraba would prove so frustratingly difficult and time consuming. Obviously, as it was 5pm, we wouldn’t be going any further that soir (afternoon/evening). Half-way would have to do; we’d face the other half the next morning.
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| Tarek drinking some village dolo while kids gather round. |
Having nothing further for the day, besides making camp for the night, we took our time chatting with the villagers, drinking some of their dolo, and replenishing our water supply.
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| Bilin quenching his thirst. This was actually water, not dolo. |
Molly had brought a portable hand pump/filter with, and so we cleaned bucket after bucket of cloudy well water, pumping it into our jugs and water bottles, and adding a couple drops of bleach to kill any microbes. Yeah, we had guzzled their water upon arrival (probably not a great idea), but now that we had the time and weren’t dying of thirst, we were going to be safe and make us some clean, drinkable water. We worked at that for over an hour! Which was fine, we weren’t pressé (in a hurry).
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| Filtering water -- Tarek is pumping. |
Plus, everyone was taking turns at showering. (And by showering, I of course mean we stood behind a dirt wall with a bucket of water and some soap and tried to make ourselves look presentable again – just your typical Burkinabe bucket bath.) We were filthy! I didn’t even realize how dirty I was until a clean, refreshed Molly appeared and I noticed that her leg skin was white….and my legs were definitely brown. With a tinge of red. (Like I said, I might be colorblind?)
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| Molly is clean. I am not. |
Once we were ready, we set out for camp. We could have stayed right in the village, and that might have been nice (the villagers probably would have made food for us), but we decided it was best to go a little ways down the road and find a quiet spot for just us Americans. We didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves, or be a burden to the village. Plus, we just wanted some quiet American time. It had been a rough day, we wanted to rest up, and the last thing we needed was to spend half the night traditional dancing in a circle while eating slimy leaf sauce and attempting to speak a language we didn’t understand. Also, a motivating factor to find our own space was that we had yummy food to eat and didn’t want to share with villagers. (Greedy? Selfish? Nah. They wouldn’t have appreciated trail mix and granola and cookies as much as us Americans anyways. Also: we had canned mini hot dogs! Best invention ever. They tasted just like America!!! They were delightful. We even took turns drinking the juice that the hot dogs floated in.)
We found the perfect spot to camp just as the sun was setting. Immediately we set up our tents and got to work making a fire and cutting up veggies for supper. We’re so bien intégré (well-integrated) that we made riz sauce tomate (rice with tomato sauce) over the campfire. You’d think that we’d just settle for peanut butter bread or other snacks, like our trail mix. But no. We’re practically Burkinabe now. We can make a fire anywhere and cook any meal over it. So that was why fluffy white rice happened, smothered in an almost-too-spicy-for-Beth tomato/veggie sauce (yes, we had brought some fresh veggies in our backpacks). Also, we added to the sauce one of our two cans of mini hotdogs. Mhhmm mhmm! It was so good! Possibly because it actually was delicious. Possibly because we had been biking all day and were famished and slightly (or very) dehydrated and so anything at all would have tasted good. Especially if it was loaded with salt, like our food was. We just dumped a whole handful of salt into that sauce, and as we ate, we sprinkled more salt on. If Burkina has taught me anything, it’s that salt is good and you can never have too much salt. Ever. (Sometimes I even eat it plain. Seriously.)
Our meal was accompanied by beverages of refreshing ORS (oral rehydration salts), which is what you should drink when you’re dehydrated. Normally, it tastes kinda gross. After all, it’s just a strong concentration of salt and sugar in water. We often mix the ORS with a packet of Crystal Light to help mask the taste. But, if you find that it actually tastes pleasant (especially without adding Crystal Light), then you know you need to drink it. The directions state to mix it in 1 liter of water. I mixed mine into just a ¼ liter, no Crystal Light additives…and thought it was delicious! Clearly my body was parched and needed all that salt. I think everyone drank at least 2 packets of ORS water that night.
Additionally, I’d like to add that in order to cook, we’d come well-prepared, bringing two metal pots with covers, a vegetable peeler, various fire starters (matches, lighters, flints), and a daba (a small hoe used for farming that also usefully doubles as a blunt ax that can hack at tree branches and the like….or serve as a weapon if necessary). Prepared, yes we were. Unfortunately as Molly went chopping away for more small branches to add to the fire, the head of the daba flew off, leaving only the wooden handle in Molly’s hands. We searched the grounds by flashlight and cell phone light, but didn’t see the daba head anywhere. Maybe we’d have better luck in the morning, when there was sunlight?
Right before turning in, we saw a scorpion carrier. I think the guys screamed louder than the girls. (The scorpion carrier also happened to be right next to the guys, while we girls were on the other side of the fire and didn’t even immediately notice that guys were freaking out). Fortunately Bilin redeemed himself for his stupidity that day by trapping the nasty creature, throwing it alive into the crackling fire. This bothered Molly, however. She’s a philosopher, and she reasoned that not killing it before tossing it into the flames was cruel. Later, while peeing being our designated “pee bush” located several strides away from the campsite, a snake slithered across my foot. I almost screamed. But I didn’t. Du courage (have bravery). There are worse things in this country than snakes. Namely, mosquitoes that transmit malaria and water that gives you diarrhea. Scream at those things. Not the harmless snakes.
We turned in for the night by stepping inside our bug huts and immediately conking out. I didn’t make it past the first verse of the first song on my ipod, despite the fact that I was sleeping with no pillow or blanket (it’s too hot to cover up!) on uneven ground, with small rocks and stubs of grass poking through the bottom of my tent.
I slept extremely well that night, and when 5am rolled around, I was ready to hit the road again! We packed up camp while I passed around slices of banana bread that I had baked in preparation for our journey. (It was thee best banana bread I’ve made to date in Burkina Faso, and I got lots of compliments. So moist and banana-y! Probably had something to do with being packed in a Ziploc bag inside a duffel bag where it endured temperatures of at least 120 degrees for the entire day. Lord knows our water was practically boiling. I can’t imagine the heat trapped inside the black duffel bag. But it sure made for good banana bread!)
With the sun up, we searched for the missing daba head, but it was nowhere to be found. C’est bizarre (it’s weird) how it could just disappear like that. There’s no way it could have traveled more than 30 feet from the original spot of displacement. It literally just vanished. Or maybe a genie had stolen it. Genies do exist in Burkina Faso, ya know.
The mystery of the missing daba head never was solved.
Our second day, Friday, started out beautifully. The sun was just barely up, there was a slight breeze, and while it certainly wasn’t cold outside (maybe about 85 degrees?), it was a heck of a lot cooler than the 120 degree sun that burns us from noon to 3pm. My arms almost had goose bumps on them!
We quickly came into the village of …. what’s-its-name … just a few km from Ouaraba and our camping spot. I know I said earlier that Ouaraba was the most remote village ever because it wasn’t near anything. Well that was a lie. Ouarabe is located right next to village what’s-its-name. For all intensive purposes, they might as well be the same village, they’re so close together. And ensemble (together), they are located in the middle of nowhere. Which made between Ouaraba and what’s-its-name the most perfect spot to have made camp the night before.
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| We arrive and immediately people crowd us... |
In Ouaraba, we had replenished our water supply. But at camp the night before, between quenching our dehydrated bodies and cooking and using a few splashes of water to wash hands, brush teeth, wipe our faces off, etc., we had again exhausted most of our water. Had we been anywhere else, we either would have had to gone back to the previous village and fill up on water again, or just continue on in hopes that the next 15km would be a breeze and we wouldn’t have any complications resulting in us lost en brousse with flat tires and bees attacking and no water to drink. Should something like that happen, it’d be horrible. Oh wait. That already did happen. The day before. And we weren’t about to experience déjà-vu if we could help it.
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| Getting water at the pump. |
And then off we were!
For about five minutes.
It didn’t take long before our well-marked gravel road turned into sand. Pure sand. There were even little sand dunes and ridges that had blown across the road. Bienvenu (welcome) to the desert! We undeniably seemed to have changed landscapes and vegetation since leaving the river. Which makes since, of course. We are in sub-Saharan Africa, and so really, sand is to be expected. It’s just that in our neck of the woods (or rather, our side of the river), we actually have big green shady trees, and red-brown dirt that grows things, and well, a river. But here, about 30-40 km from any water source, it was just sand. Sand and some thorny bushes and a few worthless trees that didn’t provide any shade. Oh, and palm trees. Quite a few palm trees, actually. And they looked nice. Like we should’ve been on a tropical, ocean-side island. Not a desert. (I had no idea, but apparently palm trees can grow quite well in sand.)
Now, if you’ve ever biked in sand, you know it’s basically impossible. The tires just sink in and with no hard surface to balance on, the tires skid to the left and right, and you need to pedal with an insane amount of force (strength) just to go two feet at a depressingly slow speed….and then just fall over anyways because your tire sinks down, getting a mouthful of sable (sand) in the process. No wonder why horses and camels were (and still are!) the standard method of transportation in deserts. Tires sink. Hooves don’t. (Or at least not as much.) Needless to say, we had to resort to walking/pushing our bikes yet again. Hadn’t we done enough of that yesterday? Apparently not. (Also, walking through sand isn’t really any easier or safer or quicker than biking through sand. You still slip and slide and sink, but at least if you’re walking, you can’t fall down from the bike and hit your head on the handlebars or anything.) The worst is when you’d be on solid ground for a minute or two, start building up speed, and then all of a sudden come across a pit of sand. If you were lucky, you slammed on your brakes, got off the bike, and pushed yourself through the pit of doom. If you weren’t lucky (which is the case of most of us), you were distracted by your ipod and didn’t notice the death pit until you were barreling through it (for about the first 2 feet) and then wiping out. It didn’t take long for us to put away our ipods. This route was too intense to be immersed in Justin Bieber, Mackelmore, or the Pitch Perfect soundtrack. We needed our complete attention – we had to focus, or we’d eat sand.
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| Michael's focused. But he still has his ipod... also, he's carrying our pot in which we cook food over the fire. |
And to think, we had thought this last leg of the journey would be a breeze compared to the struggle(s) we faced the day before. Also: we now understood why villagers at the start of our journey told us that the road we wanted to take wasn’t good, and that we were better off going back to the river and taking a path from there, even though it was significantly longer and not at all direct to Barani. Bumps and curves may be annoying, but they are bike-able. Sand, on the other hand, cannot be traversed by a bicycle. Those villagers, they knew what they were talking about -- we probably should have listened….
What was really frustrating was seeing people pass us from time to time. Usually they were on a moto, but some were on bikes. For example, there were these two guys effortlessly riding through the sand with five feet of shoes strapped to the back of their bikes. They were probably headed to the marché in the next village, hoping to make a few coins selling their shoes. How they managed to float across the sand and not fall or lose their balance despite the mountain of shoes on the bike was beyond me. Sure, they’ve probably taken this path hundreds of times, and so they knew exactly where the sand death traps were. But even when we were going through sand, they almost always could remain on their bikes – they didn’t fall or have a need to push their bikes through the sand! Plus, their bikes were just typical crappy rusty Burkinabe messes of metal and one old chain and no brakes. Yet, they had no trouble outdoing us Americans with our shiny mountain trekkers and multiple gears and padded seats. We tried to keep up with them, but we failed. They were outta our sights, far ahead of us, within 10 minutes.
We all struggled, but I seemed to be having a rough time in particular. I just couldn’t do sand. Normally I’m a pretty fast biker and have decent endurance, but I just couldn’t do this terrain. (I’m also bad at climbing hills, but at least I don’t fall off my bike every 30 seconds when I go up a hill….) Fortunately, Tarek was a gentleman and stayed right behind me, making sure I didn’t get left (too far) behind. After about an hour – and having gone only about 7km – we stopped for water. Tarek says, “Hey Beth, you should pump up your back tire. I noticed it’s a lil flat, and if it had more air it’d probably help you get through the sand better.”
I get the hand pump from Sierra and try to attach it to the valve on my tire, but it doesn’t fit because the valve is angled and the tire rim spokes are in the way. Tarek comes over to give me a hand, and as he’s trying to make the pump head fit onto this valve, all of a sudden there’s a whoosh of air and my tire is completely flat. “That’s okay,” Tarek says, “We’ll just pump it all back up. Now that the tire is flat we can move the air chamber so that the valve is angled correctly.”
Tarek proceeds to do just that, and as he attempts to fill my tire with air, we notice that air is escaping out faster than he can pump it in. We had caused a tear in the valve (which is something you can’t fix/patch), and now the entire air chamber needed to be replaced. Great. Just great.
“No worries,” reassures Jason. “That’s why we brought spare chambers with us – I think we still have 2 or 3 left, so you’re in luck.”
“We’ll have this done in a minute,” says Tarek.
My bike is flipped upside down, luggage and all (it’s too much effort to unstrap everything, and then retie it up again), and the back tire is removed.
And that’s when it started.
Les abeilles. (The bees.)
They were back. They were probably the same army that had swarmed us the day before. And they wanted our water. Possibly our sunscreen too. (I highly recommend not using scented sunscreen… especially sunscreen that smells like flowers.) Within minutes, the bees had multiplied from 5 or 6 little guys buzzing around to several hundred. Everyone who didn’t have bike trouble or need to reattach stuff to their bikes took off down the path. Some of the bees followed them, but most the bees stayed behind, intent on making the lives of Jason, Michael, Tarek, and me living hell. I walked in wide circles, watching the boys attempt to put a new chamber inside my tire and then pump it up. But every time they stopped for a few seconds, the bees would buzz right in their faces, so they had to keep moving. Tarek and Michael held the tire, Jason tried to pump it up, and all three moved conjointly in a circular fashion up and down the path.
“Where’s the other pump? This one isn’t working on this Burkinabe air chamber!” Jason yells.
“Bilin has it,” says Michael.
“Beth, run ahead and get the pump from Bilin.”
As already mentioned, everyone else had made a quick exit for the safety of several hundred feet ahead, but some of the bees had followed them, and so they had continued to progress further and further up the road, away from us. I finally reach a pair of my friends fixing something on their own bikes and tell them we need the pump in Bilin’s bag. The rest of the clan was further still down the road, but not too far. It’s too bad there was no cell phone reception, or we could have just called someone. But no, I had to run after people, *cough* Bilin *cough*. When I reach the rest of my friends, it turns out that Bilin is nowhere to be found. Again. It turns out he had continued to just bike along ahead by himself; no need to wait for anyone, or to make sure that we do, in fact, get our bikes in working condition again and don’t require any help or supplies from Bilin. Someone goes after Bilin by bike, and fortunately, he had stopped under a semi-shady thorn bush not too far ahead. He was probably napping.
As said by Molly, “After yesterday -- and our general life experiences with Bilin -- we should have known that you can never count on Bilin when you’re in a life-threatening situation. He’s just gonna leave you behind, leave you stranded, and he’s gonna take the only decent bike pump with him when he does it.” We came to an immediate consensus that Bilin would no longer be in charge of carrying the good bike pump. He, with his tall gangly legs, was always first in line, far in front of the rest of us when we biked anyways. (It’s also a fact that, in general, tall people aren’t responsible and can’t be trusted. Fact.) Should someone get a flat tire, Bilin would never notice, and he wasn’t astute enough to look behind him every couple of minutes to make sure everyone was doing alright. So, we passed the torch of responsibility from Bilin (tall) to Tarek (not very tall), the gentleman who was always bringing up the rear of our caravan. That made more sense: Tarek would not only be vigilantly aware if anyone had bike troubles, but he would also stop and try to help, unlike Bilin who’d go off and nap. We were chagrined with ourselves that we had not come to this realization sooner. But better late than never, right?
We got the pump from Bilin back to the boys (who had started making their way up the road towards us in an effort to escape the buzzing bees) and by this time, the bees were going crazy. There were so many! Beaucoup! (A lot!) The tire got pumped up in a few seconds, and all that was left was to put the tire back on the bike.
Michael, Jason, Tarek, and I returned to my abandoned upside-down bike. To our horror, it was completely covered in bees. You couldn’t touch an inch of the bike without also crushing several bees. How were we going to reattach my tire and flip my bike right-side up without angering the bees?
Our situation didn’t look promising… and I jokingly (but seriously) told Tarek, “This is ALL your fault; you were the one who suggested I pump up my tire and now look where we are. My tire did not NEED to be pumped; it was doing just fine, but nooooo, we listened to your suggestion and are probably going to die of bee stings if we attempt to get this tire on my bike.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s kinda my fault. You can blame me if you want. But how was I supposed to know we’d be swarmed by a hive of bees? We’ll be okay; just don’t swat at them. Let’s just do this and get outta here,” reasoned Tarek.
“Yeahhh, so I’m getting outta here right now. I can’t handle this. I’ve already gotten stung a couple times. You guys will be fine finishing this up, right?” said Michael, as he swatted his arm at the bees attempting to land on his face. Michael slowly grabbed his handlebars and moves his bike along inch by inch, trying not to disturb all the bees now inhabiting his velo. I wanted to not hate Michael as he left us behind in the swarm of bees. I mean, I couldn’t blame him for protecting his life: we all knew that attaching my tire to my bike and then flipping it up was going to be nearly impossible. But we didn’t really have a choice. Either we needed to get my bike working, or we needed to abandon it. But then how would I get around. Plus all my stuff and money was with the bike. We couldn’t stay there and wait for help – the bees were too much. And if we left, with me riding on the back of someone’s bike or just walking/running alongside everyone, someone would surely steal my bike. Then I’d owe Peace Corps a couple hundred dollars. We had no choice but to face the bees.
“Beth, put your tire on. We’ll stand back and watch in case you need help,” semi-joked Jason.
“Uh, I don’t really know how to reattach my tire…” I said regrettably (but inside I was smiling maliciously, thankful I did not possess this skill, meaning one of the guys would have to do it for me while I stood back and watched).
“It’s okay. I’ll do it. The bees and I have an understanding. I don’t hurt them, they don’t sting me,” claimed Tarek.
Tarek slowly approached my bike, tire in hand, and proceeded to lower the tire in place. He hardly moved a muscle as the bees started to cover him. He moved the chains and tightened the screws, finding places for his fingers to latch onto, despite bees claiming territory over every inch of the chains and levers and screws. At last, the tire was on my bike! Now to flip it up…
Jason was pacing in circles, trying to escape the bees, stopping here and there to pick up things we had left on the ground and didn’t want to leave behind: the bike pump, spare tire chambers, someone’s water bottle, a backpack, etc. I slowly made my way towards Tarek, found places for my hands to grasp my bike, and, in slow-motion, we turned my bike over: first lifting it a couple inches above the ground, then gently rotating it upright, a few degrees of an angle every 10-15 seconds. We were going so slow, many of the bees didn’t even notice they were being moved. Also, many of the bees who had been displaced by our hands started to land on Tarek and me. We were completely covered, and a few of the bees were angry. I had bees buzzing inside my shirt and was stung several times. Tarek didn’t say anything right away, but we later learned that he and his bees didn’t have quite as clear of an understanding as he claimed: he removed at least 10 stingers from his left leg alone. But considering it all, the situation could have been much worse. The entire hive could have revolted against me and Tarek; we could have experienced a serious allergic reaction...possibly died in the middle of nowhere from countless bee stings. I just remember trying not to breathe or flinch as bees landed in my nose, flew into my ears, inside my mouth, perched on my arms, their stingers brushing against my arms.
But finally, it was over. My bike was upright again! My luggage was still attached so all I had left to do was get outta there!
“You okay?” Tarek asked. “Slowly start walking your bike away; the bees should eventually fall behind. Also, be careful. Your tire might not be attached very well. We’ll take a look at it when there aren’t so many bees.”
Since my bike was still covered in bees – rather unhappy bees now, after the minor thump of my bike landing upright on the ground – I couldn’t actually mount my bike and pedal away. Plus, as Tarek had warned, there was the possibility that my tire wasn’t properly attached. So, petit à petit (little by little) I inched away, bees still trapped inside my shirt and covering my face.
It took about 5 minutes of slow walking to reach a safe point where I could stop for moment, regain my composure, and try to shake the bees out of my shirt. There were still plenty of bees floating around (they were following me, of course), but at least for a minute, I was able to get most the bees off of me, thus limiting the possibility of acquiring any more stings. After that, I was able to better grasp onto my bike and walk more briskly. When I finally reached my friends, I was able to get on my bike (most the bees were trailing a few hundred meters back), and told everyone, “Quick, get your stuff and go! The bees are coming!” As we pedaled away, I looked behind me to see to Tarek and Jason trying to out-pedal the swarm of bees. I also nervously kept looking down at my tire, but it seemed to be doing just fine – Tarek did a good job attaching it, despite all the bees.
After about 10 minutes, the entire clan stopped under a tree and waited until everyone had arrived so we could regroup. The bees were now gone, but we knew we could only stop for a very short time or the bees would surely find us again. We took a minute to drink water and make sure everyone was okay. That was when we pulled all those stingers out of Tarek. That was also when we mocked Bilin for leaving us behind yet again, just like the day before. Had he not biked off on his own, it wouldn’t have taken 10 minutes to obtain the bike pump. We could have fixed my tire and gotten it back on the bike before the massive amounts of bees had even appeared. Thanks, Bilin. You’re really helping to make this trip full of memories. Don’t know what we’d do without you…. Oh wait, I know: probably not freak out from being lost or get attacked by bees.
Now that the bees were behind us (we hoped), we pressed on, enduring the sand. We had hopes that the path would become progressively less sandy, but it was the opposite. More sand! And more sand! Until the entire road was just a road of sand! It was kinda like we were kids again, playing in a giant sandbox. Except this wasn’t fun.
Sometime before 11am, a good 4 hours since we had started on our morning’s journey, we arrived in the next village of what’s-its-name, where we saw women working hard. This was a very happy moment for us all: the sand path was over and there was now a real road. Gravel, of course. But nonetheless a road that was more bike-able than sand. In fact, there were even some cars and trucks passing by on it. Yup, it was definitely a real road. Hallelujah!
As soon as we hit the packed pavement, we let loose. Biking as fast as we could, swerving in and out of formations reminiscent of the Mighty Ducks movies. There might have even been some “Final Countdown” trumpet mimicking/singing. We were now quite certain that the hardships were over and we’d arrive safely into Barani within the next 30 minutes. Plus, there was tons of traffic, so even if we did have any problems, it wouldn’t be hard to find someone to help. It felt great to finally stretch our legs and ride our bikes on a straight, even path, especially after all that sand pushing the entire morning. Molly and I even practiced our bike skillz: I can ride my bike with no handlebars, no handlebars, no handlebars… but only for about 10 seconds.
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| A real road! At last! (molly in blue, me in pink) |
We knew we had made it when we passed a billboard. Billboards are not very common in Burkina, especially outside of the big cities. So to see a billboard on this road meant we were in business. Sure, the billboard was old and falling apart, cautioning against a certain sheep disease and encouraging the public to vaccinate their animals, but it was a billboard nonetheless. And its presence meant we were on a road “well-traveled.” We debated changing into our matching pagne outfits right then and there so that when we rolled into town, we’d be a striking parade of 10 tubabus on bikes, all in coordinating uniform for the horse festival. But we were really dirty and there was no good place to change in privacy. So we continued on, arriving in Barani a few minutes later.
We stopped right on the outskirts of Barani, hoping to find some water and maybe a place to wash up a bit before we paraded into town. As luck would have it, the very first courtyard had a beautiful pair of horses tied up under a tree, as well as a well where 10-12 people were getting water. Perfect. Water in abundant supply, horses that looked well cared for, and some big shade trees. We were in business.
Jason went to find the owner of the courtyard and ask permission to hang there, get water, use the latrine, etc. The family was very welcoming and showered us with hospitality, setting up some chairs and benches under the shade tree and giving us a bucket so we could shower. We would continue to have la bonne chance (good luck) as one of the organizers of the festival happened to be staying with this family. When he walked up, we immediately knew he wasn’t a villager. I’ve forgotten his name, but let’s just call him Moussa. No, we’ll go with Oumar this time. Everyone’s named either Moussa or Oumar. Oumar was dressed very sharply: blue jeans, fancy white leather shoes, and a besin (waxy type of fabric) shirt. He also carried several cell phones (a distinguishing feature typical of all functionaires) and he spoke flawless French.
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| The horses in the family's courtyard. |
Jason went to find the owner of the courtyard and ask permission to hang there, get water, use the latrine, etc. The family was very welcoming and showered us with hospitality, setting up some chairs and benches under the shade tree and giving us a bucket so we could shower. We would continue to have la bonne chance (good luck) as one of the organizers of the festival happened to be staying with this family. When he walked up, we immediately knew he wasn’t a villager. I’ve forgotten his name, but let’s just call him Moussa. No, we’ll go with Oumar this time. Everyone’s named either Moussa or Oumar. Oumar was dressed very sharply: blue jeans, fancy white leather shoes, and a besin (waxy type of fabric) shirt. He also carried several cell phones (a distinguishing feature typical of all functionaires) and he spoke flawless French.
Oumar welcomed us to Barani, which is his hometown, and explained that he was the coordinator and Ouaga contact for the festival. Naturally, any event in Burkina, especially if it wants to be bigger and have more publicity than just its 10km radius, needs to have someone in Ouaga helping to advertise nationally and print flyers and arrange transport from Ouaga to this hard-to-get-to village in the far corner of Burkina for all those fancy rich people who used to be from the area but now live in Ouaga because they’re functionaires. So that was Oumar’s responsibility.
He was also the contact that Jason had originally talked to a few months ago when first learning about the horse festival. They met in Ouaga at a bar or something, I think. Oumar said Jason should come for the horse festival, and Jason said he’d love to. Jason then did a bit of research. Since there did seem to be some existence of horse festival information available online and in Burkina Faso travel guide books, along with quite a few villagers who had heard of it, Jason deemed it to be a real thing. Not just some little village fête (party) or scheme by this Ouaga guy. Throughout the past month Jason called Oumar a handful of times to confirm the date, including the evening before we set out on our journey -- here in Burkina, it’s not uncommon for a big event to all of a sudden be changed to a week later with no warning.
So everything was just peachy. We were clean and rehydrated, had eaten some snacks, had met Oumar (our self-designated “contact” who said to come to him with any of our questions or needs), and had a friendly family who didn’t mind that we just kinda showed up and crashed at their place.
Our bikes were lined up across their courtyard wall and we were sprawled under the shade trees, sleeping on nattes (plastic mats) and the benches. There was even a slight breeze. We passed out for at least two hours. And the whole time we napped, a crowd of dirty expressionless-faced children stared at us. I’m not sure what is so entertaining about watching someone sleep, even if that someone has white skin, but no matter the village, Burkinabe kids LOVE staring at us doing boring things. Like reading books and sleeping. Entertaining, huh?
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| The kids watched Michael nap for over an hour... |
When we awoke early afternoon around 3pm, we decided it was time to hit the town and maybe find us some cold beers. For whatever reason, the guys were being dumb (like usual) and decided that they all had to wear bandanas around their heads while exploring the village…because they were pirates…? Arrrrghh, matey. Molly didn’t like this one bit, especially when Michael, Tarek, and Jason sat next to her on the bench. Ya see what we women got to put up with? American boys…urgh. So immature.The family who we had invaded let us put our bikes and bags inside their spare house, and they gave us the key so we could lock the door and not have to worry about the security of our belongings. They were so hospitable!
We wandered around the town with Ouamar, getting a brief tour. He showed us all around and pointed things out: this is the marché, here’s the mosque, the primary school is over there, this is the Prince’s house, etc. Everyone we passed was thrilled to see us. I’m sure we were a sight – ten Americans in varying sizes, shapes, and skin colors.
Oumar brought us back to the Prince’s house, where we met, bien sûr, le prince du village. We also met his mom, la reine (the queen). She was old but beautiful and showered us with prayers and blessings in their local language.
The prince then ushered us under a spacious tent/hanger in his courtyard, seated us at tables and chairs, and ordered a girl to bring us sachets of water. We didn’t really know what was going on, but figured that if Oumar had brought us here and the prince was telling us to sit down, it was fine. A pretty well-dressed woman brought out plates of riz gras et viande de chevre (“fat rice” so called because the rice is boiled in fat water, and goat meat) and we were encouraged to eat up! Which we did, of course. No one turns down free food in this country.
However, we did feel kinda bad about being treated so well. We weren’t royalty or special people in the least. Sure, I understand the village wanting to welcome us because we were strangers -- foreigners. But that is all we are. Besides being white, we are nothing. Just a bunch of just-out-of-college Peace Corps kids, with no money or real job skills. Heck, we rode to Barani on bicycles. If that doesn’t scream “unprofessional” I don’t know what does. But the Prince was thrilled to have us anyways and we were treated like kings and queens – like we were actually important to the functioning of this festival.
Afterwards, we posed for some with pictures with the Prince’s gorgeous horse.
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| The Prince (in white) and his horse. |
We also made fun of Jason. He still looked like a pirate – according to himself, a gay pirate, that is – and when the Prince grabbed Jason for a photo, putting his arm completely around Jason and smiling awkwardly, we couldn’t help but agree: Jason undeniably fit the role of a gay pirate, if such a thing should exist. We also decided that someday, Jason would most definitely play a leading role in the musical, The Prince and the Gay Pirate (written by himself and Tarek), commemorating his Peace Corps experiences. (Jason has quite the voice, so he would have no problem starring in this production of his life. Plus, he’d compose all the music.)
The Prince informed us that the luttes (fights/wrestling), the kick-off event of the Horse Festival, would start in about an hour near the school. So we had some time to kill. How’d we pass this time? Looking for some something to drink, of course. Dolo (local beer), to be exact. It didn’t take long to find the local dolo den – you just listen for the laughing and loud voices, usually accompanied by someone playing a drum.
We took a seat and calabashes of dolo were passed around. Cheapest liquor ever. About $1 for a whole gallon. It’s pretty strong too. Soon we were laughing and talking loudly. And wouldn’t you know who showed up, but the local town drunks. There were two men, one with a drum, the other with a wooden flute. And they proceeded to entertain us. It was nice for about 10 seconds. After that, it was annoying. They were also trying to dance and sing at the same time, which only made the experience worse. (As a general rule, extremely drunk people should never be allowed to have instruments…or be given the opportunity to sing or dance. It never turns out well.)
An old lady (probably also drunk) joined in on the fun and started clapping her hands and swaying, hoping to make some money too. We didn’t want to pay anyone for their performance because it wasn’t pleasant, but they weren’t going to stop until we gave them some coins. It sounds really twisted and backwards, paying for bad performances, but that’s how things work here. And you know what? They might actually be smart about that. Why play music well or express actual talent, when you can just suck and annoy people so badly that they will PAY you to stop within minutes? They’ve got business strategy, yes they do. We had only endured about 3 minutes of this awfulness when someone in our group thrusted a coin at each of the unmusical trio. They immediately stopped the noise, said merci, and proceeded on their way, looking for other people to bother and make money off of.
An old lady (probably also drunk) joined in on the fun and started clapping her hands and swaying, hoping to make some money too. We didn’t want to pay anyone for their performance because it wasn’t pleasant, but they weren’t going to stop until we gave them some coins. It sounds really twisted and backwards, paying for bad performances, but that’s how things work here. And you know what? They might actually be smart about that. Why play music well or express actual talent, when you can just suck and annoy people so badly that they will PAY you to stop within minutes? They’ve got business strategy, yes they do. We had only endured about 3 minutes of this awfulness when someone in our group thrusted a coin at each of the unmusical trio. They immediately stopped the noise, said merci, and proceeded on their way, looking for other people to bother and make money off of.
It still wasn’t time for the fights to start, but we thought we had consumed enough dolo for the time being, so we went to see what was happening around town. We came across a photographer filming some kids. We almost didn’t notice him right away because he wasn’t white (but he also wasn’t exactly black – definitely more like a caramel color); it was the camera and filming equipment that caught our eye. We then realized that he was dressed like an American. Marisol went up to him and asked, “Parlez-vous anglais?” (“Do you speak English?”).
He said he did, and so Marisol continued in English, “Are you American?”
“No, I’m from New York.” (He continued to brag that New York City is like a country on its own…)
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| New Yorker....can you spot him? |
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| Marisol, our own talented amateur photographer, getting in front of the crowd to capture some action shots. |
It was interesting chatting with him and learning about his work. He was a free-lance photographer and traveled all over the world taking pictures that he sold to magazines and such. It sounded awesome, but it also sounded terribly lonely. He said it was just him; no wife or friends or anyone accompanied him, and he was often out of the U.S. for months at a time, so he didn’t really have a home in the U.S. anymore, besides NYC, if that counts….
As per usual, a crowd of children gathered around us and just stared with their expression-less faces. Finally Bilin started talking to them. No, not talking. Gesturing. He would pick out a kid, point at him/her, and then motion for the child to come closer or back up or move to the left, etc. Bilin eventually got ahold of a big stick (kinda like Gandalf’s staff), and would draw imaginary lines to cut the crowd of children into groups and then use the stick to poke a specific kid and motion for him to move into another group. Or for the entire group to move, except for one poor kid who Bilin motioned to stay put.
Bilin even started picking on kids who weren’t paying attention, using the staff to poke them in the butt or tap them on the head, and then he’d quickly turn his head and pretend that it wasn’t him. He made dancing gestures towards a few of the kids, and soon Bilin had his own private dancers. It was quite pathetic and entertaining. Until an older man came through, yelling at the kids to leave us alone, swatting at them with a tree branch. The kids scampered. But it only took a few minutes for them to return. We then played the staring game. They wanted to stare at us? Well they weren’t the only ones good at staring! We’d pick a kid, “boy with the red shorts and no shoes” and all of us would just stare at this sorry child until the child noticed and looked away. It seems that Burkinabe children think it’s just fine and dandy to stare at someone, but as soon as they’re being stared at, they can’t take it. Most of the kids we picked on went and hid behind a tree so they could continue staring at us without us staring back at them.
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| Sami & I waiting for the fights to start... |
We also passed the time by playing with kids. What happened was that we were sitting on benches under a tree, waiting. I think Sierra was even napping.
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| Kids playing Bilin's game. The boy in front is very tall for his age and has awkardly long legs. His shirt was also much too small, poor kid. |
Bilin even started picking on kids who weren’t paying attention, using the staff to poke them in the butt or tap them on the head, and then he’d quickly turn his head and pretend that it wasn’t him. He made dancing gestures towards a few of the kids, and soon Bilin had his own private dancers. It was quite pathetic and entertaining. Until an older man came through, yelling at the kids to leave us alone, swatting at them with a tree branch. The kids scampered. But it only took a few minutes for them to return. We then played the staring game. They wanted to stare at us? Well they weren’t the only ones good at staring! We’d pick a kid, “boy with the red shorts and no shoes” and all of us would just stare at this sorry child until the child noticed and looked away. It seems that Burkinabe children think it’s just fine and dandy to stare at someone, but as soon as they’re being stared at, they can’t take it. Most of the kids we picked on went and hid behind a tree so they could continue staring at us without us staring back at them.
Eventually we got sick of sitting under the tree so we walked around a bit and then stopped under another tree. Again, within minutes, a crowd surrounded.
We argued about why they were so attracted to us, why they felt the urge to gather around the Americans. Was it Tarek and his sexy smile? Was it that Careth smelled good? Who/what were they attracted to? To test this, we tried several different variables. First we split into boys and girls. Though we had all been standing in a cluster together, on the count of three we dispersed, with the girls headed to a nearby building and the boys going the opposite direction to a different building. We waited about 3 minutes, and sure enough, there was a crowd gathering around us ladies (mostly female Burkinabe). We looked over to the guys, and they had a crowd as well (mostly male Burkinabe), about the same size as ours. So that test was inconclusive: we could not tell if Burkinabe liked male or female Americans better. We met back in the center, a crowd immediately encircled us, and this time, on the count of three, we broke out individually, with each of us claiming a spot for ourselves, no closer than 5 feet from another American. This test also didn’t work so well as the Burkinabe were very very confused about our strange behavior. The only real conclusion we agreed upon is that when we’re alone we are not very interesting or exciting specimens of human. BUT, as a collective group, we are fascinating. So much whiteness!!! And English words coming out of our mouths so quickly!! Thus, as a general rule, where 3 or 4 Americans are gathered in Burkina, there shall a crowd of Burkinabe be, in their midst.
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| People always be crowdin' |
We argued about why they were so attracted to us, why they felt the urge to gather around the Americans. Was it Tarek and his sexy smile? Was it that Careth smelled good? Who/what were they attracted to? To test this, we tried several different variables. First we split into boys and girls. Though we had all been standing in a cluster together, on the count of three we dispersed, with the girls headed to a nearby building and the boys going the opposite direction to a different building. We waited about 3 minutes, and sure enough, there was a crowd gathering around us ladies (mostly female Burkinabe). We looked over to the guys, and they had a crowd as well (mostly male Burkinabe), about the same size as ours. So that test was inconclusive: we could not tell if Burkinabe liked male or female Americans better. We met back in the center, a crowd immediately encircled us, and this time, on the count of three, we broke out individually, with each of us claiming a spot for ourselves, no closer than 5 feet from another American. This test also didn’t work so well as the Burkinabe were very very confused about our strange behavior. The only real conclusion we agreed upon is that when we’re alone we are not very interesting or exciting specimens of human. BUT, as a collective group, we are fascinating. So much whiteness!!! And English words coming out of our mouths so quickly!! Thus, as a general rule, where 3 or 4 Americans are gathered in Burkina, there shall a crowd of Burkinabe be, in their midst.
Our games and experiments killed a lot of time, and finally it was time for the fights. A large oval had been drawn in the sand, and there were chairs and rope set up to mark the boundaries. People were gathered all around, and some little boys climbed up into the nearby trees to get a better view.
Before starting, all the young men who were selected to fight had to do a traditional dance around the arena. Some were into it, but most hardly moved their feet, looking absolutely mortified and “too cool” to dance, an exact replica of the typical American teenager’s reaction to most anything their parents force them to do. Then the fights started! Two boys were called by random selection to fight each other. The ref/joker/clown (I don’t really know how to describe him – he was silly and energetic, like rodeo clowns, but also helped ref the actual fighting) met the two boys in the middle, counted them off, and watched them wrestle. The first boy to touch the sand with his back was the loser. You could fall on your knees, your stomach, anywhere but your back. Once your back hit you were out. When each match’s winner had been determined, the joker lifted up the winner’s leg. Yes, leg.
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| The ref/joker is the guy in brown, crouching in front of the drums. |
They held 8 primary matches for the 16 boys, resulting in 8 winners who then went against each other to find the top 4, and so on, until one sole champion of all was found. Sometimes, if the match was going slowly or the boys got themselves stuck in a headlock, the joker would do something funny, like leap over the boys, crawl between their legs, dance, run circles around the arena with flailing arms, etc. It was like watching the rodeo clown during bull riding.
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| The crowd gathered around the ring. |
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| We got the good seats, on the truck. It's cuz we're white. |
After the fights we went back to our “house” and got ready to crash. We’d had an epic two days so far and were exhausted. We didn’t really ask the family if it was alright to sleep in their yard, we just kinda assumed… and the family didn’t seem to mind that they had essentially adopted 10 strangers. We set up our tents while Careth made supper – macaroni with tomato sauce and, as a special treat, parmesean cheese from America!! This was accompanied by fresh village bread and, for dessert, graham cracker cookies that we dipped in chocolate frosting and peanut butter. Bon appétit! Immediately after eating, we passed out and slept soundly all through the night.
The next morning was horse day!!! A ceremony was to be held, with all the horses dressed to impress while they presented their best tricks. We saw lots of horses heading to the village center as we got ready that morning. All of the horses looked beautiful and extremely well cared for, as in they got enough to eat and weren’t overworked. In our part of Burkina, horses are rare, and those that do exist are skinny to the bone. The local men in Barani joked about how they treat their horses better than their woman….the sad thing is, it’s probably true. The horses we saw were being washed and brushed; these animals spend their days tied up under trees being fed fattening food. Women, on the other hand, are always working. They’ll be in the fields under the blazing sun, digging up weeds one-handed, with a toddler on their back and an infant at their breast. AND they’ll be balancing a bowl of leaves on top of their head throughout it all. Women don’t have it easy here, and it’s disturbing to realize that men might respect their animals more than their wives. Also, it was a ironic that the horse festival was being held on March 8, International Women’s Day. Throughout most of Burkina, women were celebrating and, if they were lucky, possibly getting a gift or meal from the men/boys in their families (the men aren’t as fond of this holiday as the women are). But this fête wasn’t so present in Barani. Instead, they had horses to celebrate. We wondered if this was done on purpose, so that they wouldn’t HAVE to celebrate huit mars (eighth of March, i.e. Women’s Day). Hopefully it was just a coincidence, and not a deliberate attempt to overshadow the women of this community…
Anyways, it was the main day of the festival, and we had to get ready. It was time to wear our coordinating pagne outfits. Everyone had gotten an article of clothing made out of the horse-printed fabric. Well okay, the horses are actually gazelle…but you can’t tell unless you look really closely. Gazelle…horses….même chose, n’est-ce pas? (same thing, right?) The only one who didn’t have a part of the uniform was me, since I had decided to come along at the last minute. But it’s okay. I’m resourceful. Molly had brought along some of the scraps leftover from the tailor making their shirts, and I turned that into a foulard (headwrap) by sewing two rectangular strips together with floss, and I also took a bigger piece that I used as a …..skirt? Yeah, I have no idea what to call the pieces of fabric/scarves that they wrap around their butts…it’s not really a skirt…but more than a belt….I dunno. But that’s what I did. So I fit in with the gang and had a part of the matching uniform too. Dang, did we look good!!! As we paraded through the streets to go the Prince’s house for breakfast, everyone stopped and stared, some people applauded, children wanted to shake our hands.
Breakfast with the prince consisted of hot tea and instant coffee, along with beignets (fritters – similar to small fried pancakes). Some people love the things, but I personally am not a fan of beignets, especially when they’re made with bean flour, so I only had coffee. The time after breakfast but before the ceremony started consisted of wandering around the marketplace. We browsed the things that were available for purchase by the local artisans who had set up shop on the streets, and we made note of what was there so we could find it again later should we decide to buy something.
Finally it was almost noon and (theoretically) the ceremony would be starting soon. We approached the big tents and saw that the horse tricks had already started! We walked right to the front of the crowds and immediately pulled out our cameras to capture all the pretty horses and their fancy tricks. Galloping, trotting, bowing down to their owner, sideways running, turning in circles, etc. it was fun, but in all honesty, it wasn’t that impressive. They all did the same stuff, so it started to get repetitive. Trotting was cute and all, but where were the men leaping from horse to horse? Doing back flips and such? That’s what we wanted to see!
I’d say the best trick was when one guy got his horse to lay down while he was still on its back. Then the man stood up and the horse sat on his hind legs only, putting his front two legs into the air. Then the man stood directly in front of his horse, and the horse rested his two hooves on his master, with one hoof on one shoulder and the other leg draped down his owner’s chest. It was cute; they looked like pals.
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| The Prince (in white) and his horse. |
I’d say the best trick was when one guy got his horse to lay down while he was still on its back. Then the man stood up and the horse sat on his hind legs only, putting his front two legs into the air. Then the man stood directly in front of his horse, and the horse rested his two hooves on his master, with one hoof on one shoulder and the other leg draped down his owner’s chest. It was cute; they looked like pals.
While the horsemen took turns doing tricks, the gunmen would randomly shoot off their pistoles (guns). Yes, gunmen. With guns. They would shoot the big guns into the air, making a loud boom, in an effort to …. I’m not really sure why… I have to assume it was purely for show and excitement.
Besides, if you’re holding a gun, it can’t just be for decoration. You gotta shoot that; show off your big toys a bit! I can’t imagine the purpose of 10 men with guns was to rile up the horses -- that just seems dumb. Hundreds of people gathered around, enclosing 20-30 horses into a small area, and we’re gonna blow rifles up? Stupid. But that’s what we (i.e. they) did. Surprisingly, the guns seemed to frighten the crowd more than the horses (I jumped a couple inches in the air every time a gun went off). They horses didn’t really notice, and they surely didn’t flinch in the middle of their prancing and trick-making.
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| Jason and Michael taking pictures of the horses. Notice the man on the right -- he has the same shirt as us! We weren't the only ones who thought gazelles could pass for horses! |
There were also some white people that we didn’t know – that was weird. It’s not like Burkina has a lot of tourists. Or any tourists. The only foreigners in country are Peace Corps Volunteers…. or people working for non-profit organizations or the government. And all those types stay in Ouaga….they don’t venture au village…there’s no air conditioning in village.
We watched horse tricks until we were bored. Then we watched people. The kids running around were cute, even the dirty ones. Unless they were dirty ones who tried to touch me. Then they stopped being cute reallllll quick.
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| Bilin took a picture of me taking a picture of cute kids (you can see my arm). |
The musicians were fun: a whole gang of men drumming, men playing traditional one-stringed fiddles, women singing/chanting/screaming.
So who were these people? And why were there here? To see all the pretty horses? Rightttttt. (We volunteers always get really defensive whenever we see other white people in our “territory.” We don’t let no one mess with our villages. Even if the village isn’t actually our village.) The family appeared to be a mom, dad, with their teenaged son and daughter. Probably French.
They were all wearing khaki pants with loose long-sleeved white cotton shirts. Ha, foreigner apparel for what everyone who’s never been to Africa thinks you should wear in the event that you do go to Africa. The dad sported a khaki archeologist sort of hat on top of his head. Okay I'm making a lot of this up -- as you can tell by their picture, my mind has warped what these people truly looked like and what garments they were wearing...but if I want to picture the guy in an archelolgist hat, I will, thank you. All of them had wrapped their heads in what appeared to be turbans. As in when you picture the middle east or terrorists (or terrorists in the middle east….), the piece of tissue completely covering their head and neck and faces, except for their eyes and nose (their mouth might be exposed as well). Ha, foreigners trying to “blend-in.” Wrong culture, people. This is Burkina Faso. Not Afghanistan. (Okay, okay, there are some Burkinabe who sport turbans -- see photo below of a guy in Barani -- particluarly in the north, but still, it's not very common and the foreigners stuck out.)
We glared at the foreigners for a few minutes, but they quickly became boring as well. They weren’t doing anything but snapping some photos. Then they left. They didn’t even stay for the ceremony. How rude. (Later, we would admit that the family had a genius idea in leaving early. We would wish that we had peaced out when they did. Brilliant, those foreigners.)
The crowd in general also gave us something to stare at while we waited for the ceremony to start, since everyone was dressed in their best outfits. Usually people wear rags here. Going naked is also acceptable. But on a special day like the Horse Festival, everyone was clean and shiny, with hats and scarves and jewelry galore! I loved looking at all the beautiful women in their bright colored outfits and recently done hair. Everyone had new braids and beads and weaves attached! 
In particular, I loved staring at the Peuhls.
They looked different from the Peuhls who live near my village. Some had piercings in their nose or chins; others had gone all out on their make-up. They all had 15 pounds of jewelry around their neck, and they had coins and beads woven into their hair (I wonder how they sleep with all that stuff now in their hair?). A couple had that protruding tooth feature (this kinda creeped me out; it looked uncomfortable). Another distinguishing mark was that they all wore glittery, sparkly, sequined scarves. I thought they were gorgeous. Fortunately, they gave me permission to take photos of them, so we had a small photo shoot.
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| We sat right in front of a group of Peuhl woemen and girls. |
Still the ceremony hadn’t started. We were waiting for some important guy to show up, and like all Burkinabe events, this dude was going to show up 3 hours late…on purpose. Oh yeah, since Barani is located so close to the Mali border (wait – that’s not accurate. My village is actually located closer to Mali than Barani is, by about 5km…but whatever.), some important Malian people were invited, like the chef of a village over there. This guy showed up in a big fancy pick-up truck. Clearly he’s got money. But right outside the ring, he got out of his truck, onto his horse, and rode into the center, with his assistants also riding horses and waving the flag of Mali. Of course, the gunmen shot their rifles during this parade. Soon after the Mali invitées sat down, the entire crowd stood up. AT LAST. The old important guy was here. Only a few hours late. Meaning he was right on time. The old guy took his place in the big chair located in the center of the very front row under the tent. And then the ceremony began!
Typical of all Burkinabe ceremonies, it was dreadfully long and boring. Just a lot of people talking, blah-blah-blahing, not really saying much of anything. It also dragged on because everything had to be said two or three times. First, it was said in local language, then another local language, and then in French. Resulting in a brief 5 minute intro turning into at least 15 minutes. Also, everyone who gets up to say something has to start with “Dear madames and monsieurs, dear the president of this club, dear guy from Mali, dear wife of the mayor, dear the mayor’s dead secretary, etc.” until they’ve named virtually everyone and anyone at the festival who isn’t just a measly village peasant. They even named us Americans a few times! Though I’m not sure why….we weren’t doing anything (except looking awesome in our matching pagnes, that is!). Every so often, there’d be entertainment, like a horse trick or little kids dancing. The Prince gave a speech about his horse that he loved so much. Then the national directrice of education for Burkina Faso spoke, and she was the only one I really bother to pay attention to. Everyone else who spoke had been a man (of course) and typically they were awful – public speaking skills are not a thing here. If you’re “important” you can mumble and stare at the ground and whisper all you want into the microphone, and no one will ever dare say, “Excuse me, I can’t hear you.” So the directrice was a nice change of pace. She was a very inspirational speaker, a woman, and she made fun of the prince: “Dear the Prince, I’m glad you love your horse so much, but why is it, that you have no princess? Perhaps next year, Barani will not only celebrate the Prince and his horses, but also a Princess. And all the girls in Barani will receive the gift of education and perhaps some of them will even ride a horse next year! It is time for Barani to lead the way for all of Burkina Faso, and show that all our village boys and girls deserve to go to school and be princes and princesses. I look forward to seeing the Princess next year!”
And finally, it was over. It had been hours and we were hot and sweaty and dirty and hungry. That ceremony consisted of far too much talking and not enough horse-entertaining, and the whole time, I had been trapped inside a ring of people. Sure, it was nice to have good seats near the front, but that also means that no breeze was able to penetrate through the crowds. Making it even hotter and smellier (deodorant isn’t a thing here).
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| Family photo in front of the horses!! We all match! |
We escaped from the masses of people, but immediately the Prince was grabbing my arm and telling me that we were all invited to his house for lunch. So we ate some food and guzzled water chez le Prince (at the house of the Prince). Then we went exploring. Which is code for “we girls went shopping.” Sadly, most the jewelry proved far too expensive for us. The dude undoubtedly was trying to rip us off and didn’t give us truthful prices. There’s no way that that collier (necklace) costs 25 mille (50 dollars) when every single 10-year-old girl I see in this village is wearing 3 of those necklaces. There’s no way her family could afford that!
We settled for some bracelets and head bead things that we had seen a lot of Peuhls wearing. They were kinda imitation Native-American-ish beads, but whatever. We liked them. And as we five walked around with our new beads on our foreheads, everyone stopped to compliment us. Yeah, I know we look good in dem beads. Looking good is just what we do. C’est normal, dat. (It’s normal….dat? the “dat” doesn’t really translate into any English…it’s just kinda a thing/sound we make at the end of certain phrases, possibly comparable to a Canadian’s “aye” as in “It’s snowing, aye?”)
We settled for some bracelets and head bead things that we had seen a lot of Peuhls wearing. They were kinda imitation Native-American-ish beads, but whatever. We liked them. And as we five walked around with our new beads on our foreheads, everyone stopped to compliment us. Yeah, I know we look good in dem beads. Looking good is just what we do. C’est normal, dat. (It’s normal….dat? the “dat” doesn’t really translate into any English…it’s just kinda a thing/sound we make at the end of certain phrases, possibly comparable to a Canadian’s “aye” as in “It’s snowing, aye?”)
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This Peuhl woman has a baby attatched to her back with the blue/pink striped blanket around her chest. |
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| Cool guys. |
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| Best buds. |
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| And this guy...well he certainly doesn't look like the rest. He's not a "villager" -- he's a functionaire from Ouaga. You can tell by his clothing and the fancy camera in his hands. |
We also bought some cool painted calabashes and gourdes. I’m picturing them as ornaments on my Christmas tree. (FYI, if you’re important enough, you might get one as a gift when I return to Americaland.)
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| After the ceremony. This is a great view of Barani's "town center" and the Muslim mosque. |
The rest of the afternoon involved drinking a warm beer at the local bar (no electricity means beers are only as cold as room temperature), eating the leg of a goat (mhhmm!!), and going to bed early. Well, we crawled inside our tents early. But we didn’t go to sleep. We had to think of superlatives for everyone in our stage (about 45 people), to be “awarded” at our upcoming COS (close of service) party. Naturally, superlatives only make sense and are only funny if you actually know the person. But, here is a taste of what we came up with anyways. I’ll let you imagine the story behind how/why these superlatives came about for each person….
Brook: Most likely to continue making Burkinabe sounds in place of real words when back in America.
Elijah: Most likely to experience a nuclear holocaust….and survive. He’ll then find a cure for cancer.
Bilin: Most likely to leave you behind stranded….and take the only bike pump with him when he does. (We still might have been a bit bitter after the recent events caused by Bilin….)
Lauren: Most likely to seduce Columbian drug lords while eating organic free-range truffle-covered chocolates in a tree house in Antarctica while studying penguins for an academic scholarship she was awarded.
Jason: Most likely to star in the musical, “The Prince and the Gay Pirate.” He’ll be aca-awesome!
Michael: Most likely to get into a bar fight with an omelet stand. He won’t punch it, however. He’ll only hit it in the face with a closed fist.
Beth N: Most likely to wake up at a bus stop and not know how she got there.
Sami: Most likely to fill stuffed animals with human hair.
Alaina: Most likely to be taken hostage in a country with no government…while wearing her cowboy boots.
Vida: Most luxurious hair. Also, the most beautiful person to ever creep you out.
Sudakshina: Most likely to refer to her future husband(s) as “what’s-his-face?”
And for me?
Beth H: Most likely to bake you a hotdish, don’tcha know, while playing in her family bluegrass band with her eight kids in a church basement. (I’m kinda sad this is what my friends came up with for me… I’m even more sad that they might be dead on…)
We all slept soundly that night, dreaming of our superlatives.
The next morning we arranged to leave Barani by bus in order to go to Dedougou and catch a bus back to our villages from there. Sure, we had biked there, but there was NO way we were biking back. We’d sooner bike to Dedougou, if we had to, in order to avoid the death bees and sand pits of doom. While Jason talked to some guys to make sure we could join the already-full bus, the rest of us packed up and put together a thank you gift for the family we had invaded. Leftover dry rice and macaroni we never ate, crushed up cookies, some peanuts, a bag of peanut butter, and all of our water jugs. We each kept a small water bottle or two, of course, but there was no longer any reason to lug around 5 liter jugs. The family was really happy to receive these – they’re perfect for taking out to the fields.
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| Our bughuts, the tents we slept in. |
At last the bus headed to Dedougou was ready to go. We stood alongside the road, waiting for them to pick us up and load up our bikes. But when they got to us, they said they didn’t have room and could only take 2 of us. What??!?!? That wasn’t the deal. The guy Jason had talked to had clearly said that all of us could fit, with our vélos on top of the bus roof, pas de problème. And now they were yelling at us, telling us to hurry up and decide which 2 were going? Gah. Burkina. What were we to do? If we didn’t take this bus, we would be stuck biking to Dedougou. There were no other transports headed that direction!
After much discussion, they finally agreed to let us on the bus. There were only a couple seats open, so most of us had to sit on the floor.
Molly and I squeezed into the narrow aisle and found a place on the dusty floor…..which, conveniently, happened to be right above the engine, so the whole trip, our butts burned. The floor quickly heated up and was very hot to the touch. I ended up sitting on my book in order to create a barrier between the burning floor and my bottom. I would have stood, but the road was bumpy and the driver wanted us to sit. So sit I did. And sweat. To make matters even more….memorable…the people on the bus decided that a group of tubabus joining them for the ride was reason to whip out the traditional fiddles and drums and start singing and clapping the whole journey. It was a party for about 2 minutes. Then it got old and annoying (for us Americans). But the Burkinabe just kept on going….they didn’t stop until they had played for almost an hour.
Finally we were in Dedougou. And it was only about noon! We got off that hot bus and immediately hopped on our bikes and headed to the pool. We spent the whole afternoon basking in the cool water, drinking beers, eating French fries, using the hotel’s Wi-Fi, playing “chicken” and various other childhood water games, etc. We also ate a large quantity of brochettes; in fact, we ordered 60 of them. The brochette guy must have thought we were crazy – it’s not normal for Burkinabe to order more than 2 or 3 each, and here, we had ordered 6 each. I personally only ordered 5, I think Jason commanded 10. Later, I would wish that I had ordered 10 for myself, maybe even 20. They were so good! We are so protein deprived!
After our soir at the pool we left and found a cheap hotel to stay in. Careth, Molly, and I shared a room, but since it had both a fan and an air conditioner, we didn’t mind sharing the one queen-sized bed. In fact, if you can easily fit 3 or 4 people on a mattress, if you just sleep the other direction and let your feet hang off.
We relaxed for a bit, and then went out for supper. Grilled chicken and salads, yes please! I think I ate a whole chicken by myself. We also munched on cashews and cookies and had boxed wine and gin to mix with sprite and mango juice, and I had milk! Dedougou’s boutiques often have cold, fresh, pasteurized cow’s milk available, and whenever I get the chance, I drink 2 or 3 of these plastic bags of milk! So good! I miss drinking milk…
You’d have thought that us being in the city for the night with electricity and lights and cold beverages would have resulted in us going dancing, or at the very least, staying up late drinking our mixed cocktails and wine….but no. With our bellies full, we all went back to the hotel and fell asleep….early. It was maybe 9pm. We’re getting old; we don’t stay up late anymore.
The next day we had a yummy breakfast of yogurt topped with granola and trail mix (thanks Molly’s aunt!), relaxed in our air conditioning while I corrected math tests (yup, that’s right. I brought with a stack of tests to grade.), and then set out to catch our bus to Tougan. From Tougan we’d get on yet another bus – the dreaded STAF or FLT – which would take us to our villages. We had some lunch while we waited for our bus, bought some masks and statues from a local artist, I corrected more math tests, we waited some more (buses, like people, never arrive on time). Then some local guy asked if we had tried the crème de glace yet. Ice cream?!?!? Where?!??! You don’t say ice cream in a sentence to an American in Burkina and then not explain how we get some. Bilin went of exploring to see if he could find the new shop that was essentially a bakery: apparently, it had croissants and pain du chocolat also. About 15 minutes later, Bilin came back with strawberry ice cream. Typical Bilin. Leaving us behind yet again. He could have at least called us and been like, “Hey guys, go down the street, turn left, and there really is ice cream!”
Since the bus still was nowhere in sight, Sami and I decided to go try some of this ice cream ourselves. It was a little expensive -- about $2 for a scoop the size of a ping pong ball -- but what can you do? The price is understandable, considering the ice cream first has to come from Ouaga. Transport isn’t free, ya know. As luck would have it, as soon as I received my ice cream, Molly calls me and tells me to hurry up, the bus there! I try to shove the ice cream in my mouth, but as I am no longer habituated to coldness, I immediately acquire severe brain freeze. We thrust a bill at the cashier to pay, paranoid we’ll miss the bus, but he was painfully slow at getting us our change. We practically run out the door, hop on our bikes, and get back to where an already overcrowded bus is waiting for us. Our bikes are attached to the top of the bus, and some lady shoves my bag and my math tests in my hands as another guy pushes me onto the bus and the bus starts to roll away. I was standing on the bus steps, with the bus was picking up speed, cruising down the road. Had there been a door, I would have been next to it. But as there was no door, I was next to nothing. Except the air coming through the space where a door should have been. All my friends had gotten on before me, and they were trying to squeeze into spots on the bus. No seats, of course. Those were already filled.
Instead, Bilin was standing (but he’s so tall that he couldn’t stand up straight without hitting ceiling); Michael was practically sprawled across an old lady’s lap, Molly was crouching behind the driver’s seat, and I was standing on the steps, hanging on to my dear life by clutching the railing near me. No matter how hard we tried to shift and find room, there wasn’t another spare inch on this bus. We hadn’t gone too far when the bus stopped and three large tantis (literally “aunts” but more casually, any large-ish or fat woman) each tried to push themselves on.
Careth: No! There’s no room on here! The bus is already full!
Bus guy: Move back! Make space!
Molly: Arguh!! I think I’m being crushed!
Beth: Help! I’m being pushed over!
The tantis were boarding, bags and all, despite there being no space, and the bus was already rolling again. Somehow Careth was able to squeeze next to Molly and Michael ended up having numerous bags piled on top of him, so that allowed me to move up a step and the tantis to stand behind me, with the bus guy hanging onto the bus’s side-mirror, head and one leg sticking out of the bus. The only good thing about these extra passengers was that I now had something (i.e. the tantis) between me and the non-existant door. There was no way I could fall out the door now! Also, it was impossible for me to move in any direction. I was firmly secure, and no matter how bumpy the bumps we went over were, I wasn’t going to move. It was so safe (note: safe does not equal “comfortable”) that I even let go of the pole I had been clutching too.
The ride, like all rides in Burkina, was miserable. But we made the best of it by getting out Jason’s speakers and playing our American musique at full volume for all to hear. We might have also sang along (loudly), possibly in harmony, while dancing (with our heads only, since the rest of our bodies were so tightly compacted we couldn’t move). The Burkinabe quite enjoyed our little performances to Gangnam Style, Call Me Maybe, Bubble Pop, (we’re all about the K-pop movement….), some Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber classics, and of course, Thriftshop.
We surprisingly made it to Tougan without any problems and enacted our game plan for getting back to village. It was still early in the afternoon, so the chances that both the buses (STAF and FLT) that could take us back to village had already come and gone from Tougan was unlikely. But it was possible. So Molly would run to the FLT gare (bus station), I’d get to the STAF gare, and everyone else would wait for our bags and bikes to be unloaded. If either Molly or I saw that the bus was at the gare, we’d immediately call the group.
Fortunately, neither bus had arrived. We assigned the girls to wait at FLT and the guys to be on the lookout for STAF, in hopes that we could catch whichever bus arrived first. With Careth on guard for the ladies, Molly and I took our time in getting cold coconut milk to drink and picking up some veggies and fruit from the local marché ladies, so we’d have something to eat back in village. Then we stood guard and Careth ran her errands. But still no bus. Ironically, my neighbor, Batoma, happened to be waiting for the bus also. She said she had come to Tougan just for the day to go to the bank and visit a friend. We chatted a bit while we waited (and hoped) for a bus.
At last the STAF bus rolled by! We grabbed our bags and bikes and ran out the FLT gare to the STAF gare, with my neighbor and her friends trailing behind us. The FLT workers gave us looks like we were crazy for not caring which bus we took; for being willing to take whatever bus passed first, rather than standing firm with a decision to take STAF. Or FLT. But not both. The STAF bus was swarming with people, but somehow we did get on. Once again, we were standing on the steps in front of the door. But whatever. It’s better than not having a place on the bus at all…. The ride was relatively harmless, and we made it back to our villages shortly after sunset.
It was strange to think that I’d only been gone for 5 days ….well, 3 days, actually, if you don’t count leaving on Thursday and getting back on Monday as days I was gone since I was, in fact, at my house those days, if only for a short while. So many adventures and stories had occurred during this trip! As I unlocked my front door, my dog, Sabari, came running to greet me, and Kamikazee, my cat, leapt onto my head from the windowsill where he had been waiting. I was home! Life was good! Now if only I didn't have to teach math to 120 middle schoolers at 7am the next morning....
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