FUNtivities in Ouaga

April 23, 2013

So.  Still alive. (That's always good, I suppose.)  Also still in Ouaga.  Last post (April 16^th) I wrote: “hoping today is the lucky day that I get word from Washington giving permission for me to leave anytime now.  It’d be great to peace out tomorrow!  Or at the very least, by Friday.”  Ha.  That was SEVEN days ago.  It was just my luck that, the very next day after making that post/wish, Peace Corps Washington informed me that they would not let me go to site for at least another 10 days – just to be safe.  They said to “check back in” in a week, and if all was well, I’d be able to leave a few days following that.  Well, today makes a week and so my Peace Corps doctor, Jean-Luc, checked back in with me (he checks on me several times a day, actually) and sent a report to Washington, practically begging them to send me back to village.  (After having to deal with me every day for the past NINETEEN days, he’s had enough of me, I’m sure.)   Washington responded back saying they’d like to call me and talk to me personally before making a decision, so I made sure my phone was glued to my hip all day today.  No phone call.  Thanks, Washington.  Maybe tomorrow?  Maybe, just maybe, here’s hoping to being able to return to village on Thursday or Friday.  My poor students.  They must be completely devastated not having had math class with their favorite teacher for the past 3 weeks.  (There’s no such thing as a substitute teacher—there’s not even enough real teachers the way it is.)  Making matters worse is that there’s only about 2 weeks of the school year left.  So even if I do get back in a day or two, what am I going to do?  Teach them something and give them a test the next day?  (We’re supposed to give at least 2 tests and 1 quiz each trimester.)  And my dog, Sabari.  I’m sure no one’s been playing with her.  (There’s a good chance my village decided to eat my dog while I’m away). 

Peace Corps Washington also decided that, in addition to being on “med hold” in Ouaga, I needed to wear a back brace.  It’s lovely and oh so fashionable.  Actually, I have received several compliments on it: “Wow, it’s like a retro look!”  “I could go for that – bringing back the Victorian corset!?  Let’s do it!”  “I’m so jealous!  You’re going to have such great posture!  I wish I had a brace just for that reason.  I’d wear it whenever I wasn’t in public, if it’d give me better posture.  Do you think you’ll be wanting it once you’re better?  If not, I’ll take it!”  Oh Peace Corps – the only place where you’ll find people who actually think medical equipment is stylish.

In other news, continuing on the track of "Beth is bitter and having bad luck," my computer has eaten my Peace Corps experience in the form of digital memories.  Despite religously backing up my entire computer monthly, and spending over 2 days with tech-savy friends performing a multitude of diagnositc tests, it seems that every photo/video from the last 2 years of my life truly has completely vanished.  From BOTH my computer and my external hard drive.  Whyyyyyyyy??????  Is this a cruel joke?  Did someone see that I had written "upload all photos online and also backup on CDs" on my to-do list and think, "Well that'd be funny.  Let's delete them all!"?  What are the odds that all my photos are just fine and dandy, and the next day, when I sit down to triple/quadruple backup my memories, that they are missing?  Only in the Faso.  The Burkina gods must be smiting me.  Burkina wins again. (Beth 5 -- Burkina 849)

On a positive note, I’m feeling GREAT!  Most the aches and bruises are gone (unless I sleep weird, then my neck is messed up for a few hours every morning).  I’ve also been enjoying the phone calls, text messages, emails, and actual visits from tons of people – some of whom I don’t even know…but they know me: “The girl with the fractured vertebrae due to a bush taxi accident.”  Cool nickname/legend, right?  Even my village CSPS staff (aka health clinic friends) called me this morning and took turns passing around the phone and giving me benedictions in various local languages – most of which I didn’t understand, besides for obvious fact that they were saying “God” and “health” repeatedly.  And so, as I’ve been instructed to do whenever someone starts a sentence with “Allah” (God), I replied to each blessing with “Amina” (Amen).  Not being able to understand 95% of the words coming out of their mouths, I guess I just assumed they were saying good things about God and my health… but maybe not…?

Oh, and I got a roommate.  Her name is also Elizabeth.  And, also like me, she’s exceptionally awesome.  (I believe there are at least five Elizabeth’s in Burkina right now!  Best name ever!  Obviously.)  Starting this past weekend, I’ve been out and about.  Sometimes accompanied by the other Elizabeth.  I went to Barka, a frequented bar/club by PCVs, for the first time ever, where I enjoyed: stuffing my face with fries smothered in America-like ketchup; inhaling the best cheeseburger I’ve eaten since America (it was clearly grilled); drinking a margarita; and soaking up the sounds of the live Burkinabe jazz band (complete with a sax and trumpet).  

My new jewelry!  That big white tooth thing in the necklace on the left is camel bone.

I went jewelry shopping with Ashley Geesman after helping her study for her MCAT and drinking so much real coffee that we were shaking from caffeine overload.  I enjoyed red-red at the Ghanaian restaurant. I biked to the music store owned by the Swiss guy with dreads who prefers to speak English (his mom is French but he grew up in the German side of town so he speaks…English?) and finally bought a case for my guitar.   It’s a soft-case, not a hard-case, unfortunately.  But it’s better than nothing.  And it’s the first case I’ve ever come across for purchase in this country.  As the Swiss guy said, “Most people in Burkina don’t buy guitar cases….most don’t even buy guitars.”

Jean-Luc and Krystle (our new PC nurse) took the other Elizabeth and me out for brunch on Saturday at Cappucino, a new restaurant geared at the Ouaga’s expat population.  They have fresh pastries, ice cream, make real coffee drinks, serve great food, etc.  It was nice to get out of the med unit and have someone buy me food that I’d probably not buy myself because it’s “expensive” --- I ate a whole pizza, a salad, and had a cappuccino with real whipped cream on top!  This place is so nice, you almost forget that you’re even in Burkina Faso.  It feels and smells and tastes like America.  On the other hand, it’s definitely not like America in the fact that there are a bazillion different languages sounding simultaneously inside the restaurant.  Even in the bathroom, you’ll hear at least five different tongues. 

Me: Bonjour.

Burkinabe young woman: Comment ça va?  You are American? I speak English small small.

Man: My English, it’s not good. I am of Italy.  Italia.  You know it? 

Me: Oh!  Bongiorno!

White ladies: Was ist das?  Guten tag.  Wo ist die Toilette. Ich möchte eine Kugel Erdbeereis.  Schnitzel bitte.  (**Okay, yes, there were two German ladies.  No, they didn’t really say these things.  I didn’t understand what they were saying, so I just imagined I did.  They actually looked at me as they passed and said, “Bonjour.”  Hehe. They thought I was French.)

Man: You speak italiano?!  Parla italiano?

Me: Uhhhh….oui. Yes, I mean, si.  Un poco. Uh… andiamo! Prego!? Je suis allé in Italia during Septembro.  (**yeahhh, I was a little flustered and my “Italian” was more French and Spanish and words that don’t exist in any language, than anything else.)

Asian guy: **on his cellphone** 钱在哪里  Ni hao. Wo ting bu dong. Ying ching chou nii xing!??!?!

Blond girl my age: You’re American?  Where are you from in the states?  I’m from Canada.

Party in the bathroom.  Gotta love the expat community in third world countries.  I see people from India dressed in their saris, cute Lebanese guys selling schwarmas (well, watching their Burkinaba employees sell schwarmas), tough looking Russians with too much facial hair driving big white trucks, and more, all the time in Ouaga.  Seems likes everyone in the world wants to stake a claim in Burkina Faso…except for Burkina Faso itself.  (Ouch, maybe that was a bit mean.  Burkina has been doing a lot to develop itself, actually.  So much has changed just in the last 2 years I’ve been here!)

Proof that Ouaga is developing....its buildings, at least.  The Presidential building.

Monument of the Martyrs.  

Cappuccino's!   (Aw sad.... a P is already burnt out.  The restaruant's only been around for about a year now...)

Apparently this is the Ouaga skyline at night.  Right. Um, I think this is a fake photo, but good try  official website of Ouaga for tourism.  (Why aren't there any stars in the sky or traffic on the road?  Both are seen in abundance in Ouaga!)

After brunch, Jean-Luc drove me, the other Liz, and Krystle around Ouaga and explained the history of some of the sights and cool buildings.  Krystle just got here a few weeks ago, so she hasn’t had much of a chance to learn her way around Ouaga…or learn some survival French.  I know I shouldn’t judge, but watching her attempt to greet people or order off a menu was almost embarrassing – all the awkward hand motions, talking louder as if that’s going to make people understand her, mixing in Spanish and English words.  But hey, I was once just as bad.  Probably worse, actually.  Now, I’m like a pro.  (Not really, I’m far from it.  If I were to go to France, no one would understand me.  I only speak “village French” which probably shouldn’t even be classified as French at all.)  While cruising around, Jean-Luc blasted his music, ranging from “She chop my money! You no go believe, I no fear dis girl…dey wrong” (P Square) and “what I’ve been looking for… doo doo doo doo ….” (High School Musical I).  Oh yes, and can’t forget about “Pop that thang, nigga, rockin’ low b***h….”  ???  Uh, yeah so that song was….awkward. Liz and I had to try really hard not to laugh as 50-year-old Jean-Luc bobbed his head to the beat. I thought Jean-Luc had great English.  Maybe not?  I can’t imagine he actually liked this song…or did he?

I learned a lot about Ouaga; I realized Burkina’s capital has a lot to offer and some beautiful sights, but at the same time, it isn’t very big at all.  The very next day, I set out on my bike to see if I could manage to make it downtown without getting lost (or dying).  I did!  (Not get lost, that is.  The not dying part, too, I guess.  There was only a few times when motos were inches from colliding with me.  Oh, and once I hit a teenage boy pushing a cart.  But he was fine.  No big deal.)  I definitely have acquired a much better understanding of Ouaga’s streets, can now get myself to the airport and to places that sell ice cream without needing to take a taxi, and feel somewhat comfortable biking in the mess of the traffic anti-system they have here.  Stoplights and traffic rules are just a suggestion in Burkina.  They are rarely adhered to.  Motos weave in out of cars, semis and busses fly down the wrong side of the road despite oncoming traffic.  

Police try to maintain order and pull people over but no one stops.  They all just drive away even faster.  And it’s not like vehicles are registered and can be tracked down via a license plate.  Heck, people don’t even have license plates.  Or licenses, for that matter.  It’s not uncommon to see 12-year-old boys driving motos on their way to school.  Besides the constant fear that you’re about to be hit by a bad driver (aka, basically everyone in this country) from the back, or front, or side, is the annoyance that is Burkinabe men on motos.  (Or just all men, in general, right?)  Unfortunately, being on a moto or bike makes it really easy to talk to your neighbors, as opposed to being in a car.

**While at a stop light.  (Wow!  We actually stopped and waited til green!)

Burkinabe guy who thinks he’s so cool:  Nassara!   Ca va?   (Nassara is Moore for “foreigner.”)

Me:  ***ignoring him**

Different annoying guy: Nassara, tu es jolie, non?  (White girl, you’re pretty!)

Me:  ***ignoring him**

Guy in front of me turns around: Ma belle sœur, vous êtes marié?  (My beautiful sister, are you married?)

Me:  ***glare at all three guys**

Speaking of annoying guys…. Here’s a fun story.  It’s from about a month ago while on my way to Ouaga for my COS conference.  (I swear I wrote about this already, but didn’t see it anywhere on my past posts…so I must have only imagined I wrote about it?  Oh well, if this isn’t its first appearance, you can read it again.  It won’t hurt.)  I was all nice and cozy in my overcrowded, overheated, overdusty bus, passed out in a deep sleep because that’s about the only way the 10 hour trips from my village to Ouaga are bearable.  All of a sudden I’m being tapped on my shoulder by the young Burkinabe guy in the seat next to me. “Your papers!  Pardon, you need your papers!”  I’m half asleep but open my eyes enough to see a police officer standing over me.  He holds out his hand as I fumble to open my backpack and find my purse and take out my passport. I finally free my passport, but instead of taking it, the officer tells me to go outside and see the other officer under the tree.  About 100 feet away, under the shade of an old tree, is another young police officer.  His gun is displayed on the table and he’s seated on a metal chair, recording names of people and their contact information into a notebook.  Most the passengers from my bus are waiting next to the bus, getting some fresh air.  Some are a few steps away, urinating “discreetly” on a thorny bush (guys have no shame – when they gotta go, they gotta go).  And a handful of people -- some from my bus and some from the other stopped vehicles on the road -- are in line at the table under the tree, waiting to present their papers (or lack thereof) to the police officer. 

It appears that I’m at a checkpoint on the highway, an effort of the Burkinabe government to crack down on illegal immigrants (like terrorists from Mali, due to the war) and scare people who don’t have any form of identification to get their act together and get a Burkina ID.  Registered citizens also serve the important role of letting a country know how many people are within its population.  There’s been a big push for birth and death certificates, as well as general documentation for anyone else currently alive that never had a birth certificate or any other form of identification to prove they existed.

But why am I standing in this line?  With all the others who don’t have papers?  Is it because I’m white?  It’s because I’m white, isn’t it?!??!   I have a passport from the United States of AMERICA.  Barack Obama is MY president…even though he’s black and I’m white.  Is this really necessary?  What, do you think I’m a terrorist?  Do you think I have a fake passport?  If you’d have looked at it, you’d have seen that it’s a legit passport.  Obama gave this to me; he knows I’m here.  But noooo, you just sent me straight to the guy with gun.  Love Burkina Faso.

Officer at the table:  **glances up, smiles at me** Tubabu!  (Jula for “foreigner”)

Me:  **no response**

Officer:  Tubabu, ca va?

Me:  **acknowledge the guy, but scowl in disapproval**

Officer:  Tubabu!  Ah ka di?  (Everything’s good?)

Me:  **glare** My name is not “Tubabu.”

Officer:  No?  But it is.  You are white; thus your name is Tubabu. hahaha

Me:  **turn away**

Officer:  Tubabu!  What’s your name?

Me: My name is Barakissa.  Sawadogo Barakissa.

Everyone:  hahhaha, hehehe, Barakissa!! She’s a real Burkinabe!

Officer:  Tubabu-barakissa.  Your turn.  Come here.  **motions at me to cut in front of everyone else**

Me:  **hold out my passport**

Officer:  **takes my passport, but doesn’t even look at it.**  No, it’s not a problem.  I don’t need to see this.  Are you married?

Me:  **scowl at the guy**

Officer:  Tubabu, I’m going to keep you here. I need a wife.

Me:  I’m already married.

Officer:  Me too.  Where’s your husband?

Me:  Not here. 

Officer:  But you’re here.  Without him. So you’re not truly married.  If you were married, he’d be with you.

Me:  He’s in America.  I’m here for work.  He needed to stay and watch our kids.  **I reach out to take my passport**

Officer:  **pulls passport back, away from me**  Kids!?! How many?  What are their names.

Me:  **evil glare**  Six. Omar, Djeneba, Aicha, Ousmane, Fatimata, and Seydou.  Are we finished?  There’s a lot of people waiting in line that you haven’t helped yet.

Officer:  You don’t want stay with me?

Me:  **roll my eyes and sigh with exasperation as I step away from the table**

Officer:  Tubabu, your passport!  Come get it!

Me:  **scowl at the guy until he gives it to woman in line who hands it to me**

Professionalism.  Yeah, that’s not a thing here.