Highlights From the First Three Months

Okay, so I know I have not posted in about two months but with good reason. I originally was going to post last month but classic Brittany style I procrastinated until the very end of my etude period to finally start my Etude du Milieu. So…instead of blogging, I was writing my Etude. The Etude du Milieu is pretty much a community analysis of my site's health needs. With this, I will have a base for assisting my community in its health development. During this time, I was not supposed to do anything but my Etude. My assignment for the first three months was to just to try to integrate into the community by attending community events and the like. "Try" being the operative word. However, like all things, I am sure my integration will come with time as well as my local language level. At times it is difficult because only like 1% (probably not even that) of my village speaks French. Sometimes, I feel like if I had gone to an English speaking country, it would have been a lot easier for me to have integrated. But then I think where is the challenge in that? And you know, I love speaking my Franglisa (French+English+Bissa). My Bissa level is slowly improving. I have been taking individual lessons for about a month now (every three days). In a lot of ways, Bissa is easier to learn than French or English as there are no verb conjugations. However, it is still very hard and I am rather confused by the sentence structure. If a cavewoman and Yoda, from Stars Wars, were to conceive, I would be the resulting child. For example, instead of saying “I eat bread,” you would say, “I bread eat.” The noun always goes before the verb. When I speak to the villagers e.g. a three or four word phrase or sentence that I constructed in which afterwards I feel proud of myself, I usually wait for some recognition of what I said. If they understand me they will usually respond in Bissa. 100% of the time, I don’t catch a word of it. It’s like; I don’t understand you so just listen to me ramble. The first three months were challenging. Because I could not start any projects, I had a lot of free time. Yep. Lots and lots of free time. My wall and I are like BFF now. However, I did help three times a week at the maternity with baby weighing and vaccinations. It was my job to help put the baby in the slings and read out the weights. It’s a very important job. Sometimes, I would feel a certain wetness come on my feet, and I think to my self hmmmm...what is that???... I look down and the baby peed on me. No biggie, really. I just consider it a perk that comes along with the job. Part-time Starbucks employees get healthcare, I get urine. It all evens out. Even though I enjoy helping out at the maternity, it is really emotionally trying. I see ALOT of malnourished babies who come in month after month with no increase in weight or they just keep decreasing. There are times, when I am weighing one of the severely malnourished children, that I become nauseous. I don't know if it's my giardia kicking in, the smell of urine, or just the site of the malnourished infant in front of me, but I have to excuse myself from the room. I also have been involved in lots of vaccination campaigns: three tetanus campaigns and three polio campaigns. For the tetanus campaigns, the women come to the clinic, but for the other two campaigns we have to go in brousse visiting all of the family compounds. My partner Antoinette (member of the COGES) and I spend anywhere between five and eight hours biking/walking en brousse delivering the vaccinations to the children and women. I also conducted a community survey but I will go more into depth on that in another blog entry. I also go to Church every Sunday. Even though I do not understand a word of it, it gives me something to do and allows me to interact with the villagers a bit. The Catholic masses are two hours and conducted in Bissa; whereas, the Protestant services are four hours and conducted in French. Two hours of not understanding a word vs. four hours of understanding the majority of the mass. Hmmmm...tough decision. Needless to say, the Catholic mass always wins out. Sometimes, a boy will give his French bible and show me the verses for the day so that helps. I also always arrive late. Not that I am a bad Catholic, although I do consider myself a Cafeteria Catholic, but I just never know when mass starts. Here, nothing, starts on time and were always waiting. I will explain that in another blog. So I always arrive late and there never is usually any space for me to sit. However, no worries, the ushers just kick people out of their seats so I can have a seat. The Sunday before last, like usual, I arrive late, and there was no where to sit. So what do the ushers do? They kick a woman who seriously looks like she’s ninety and about eighty pounds (with a cane!!) off of her stool so I could have her seat. The Niscarra has arrived! Make way! You try to say no, but they just don't listen. Mass does have its entertaining parts, though. The ushers always make their rounds and poke sleeping people to wake them up. If a baby starts to cry, the usher motions to the woman to either a) take out her boob, or b) leave. I also have picked up walking. Burkinabe really do not understand the concept of walking just to walk or exercising in general. Many times I will be stopped to ask where I am going. I will respond no where really and that I am just walking to walk. They usually will respond and gesture, “Are you going to Yorko?” for example. I will then say, “No, I am just walking.” They tend to look confused and then say, "But Yorko is that way. You are heading towards Yorko?" I say, “No, not Yorko.” The villager will then say, "But Yorko is that way..." Finally, I will just say, "Sure, that sounds good. I am walking to Yorko.” They will then respond or make a gesture that says, "Well hop on the back of my moto and/or bike and I will take you to where you are going." I then say no that is okay I prefer to walk. Other people in neighboring villages or my own village who either know me or have seen me ride my bike will stop and ask me why I am walking. I will usually respond that I just want to walk. They will then ask, “Is your bike broken?" I will say, no. It is usually followed up with, "But you're walking???" Yep, I am walking. Here, if you have a bike, moto, or car (I never see cars in my village), are status symbols. Hence, if you have one, you use it. That is why they are always confused as to why I prefer to walk. My official counterpart, who lives like 50 feet away from the clinic, I will never see walking. He will moto-it those long fifty steps to the front door of the clinic. I will usually walk three hours a day (an hour and half in the morning and an hour and a half at night). In the beginning, I just did it to have something to do and it gave me a great way to meet the villagers and practice my Bissa, but then I just kind of kept with it. I also am reading a lot and one of my favorite things to do is to listen to the BBC on my shortwave.

Making Friends

In the last two weeks I have had quite a few encounters with creepy crawlers. Needless to say, these encounters were unwanted. I almost stepped on a scorpion with my barefoot. While I do not condone the killing of animals, I did not have a problem with this one. In fact, I took great pleasure in killing the scorpion with my sandal and then proceeding to watch about a million ants eat him until all that remained was his skeletal frame. One small victory for mankind. I also came across a snake in the road and I was also accosted by a spider 3/4 the size of my hand. Actual size, I kid you not. How did it accost me? It jumped in my lap(twice!) when I was eating dinner with my family in their courtyard. Come to find out, this is no ordinary spider....,Ohhh nooo..that would be far too easy. This is a scorpion carry spider. Apparently, these spiders are so big that scorpions like to hop on their backs to catch a ride. The thought of this spider still makes me shudder.

What is in a Name?

It is customary for a village to give a new name to a volunteer when they arrive. When I arrived to site my family said my new name would be _______ Bobalaine. ________ would be my last name and Bobalaine would be my first. When you introduce yourself to someone you address yourself by stating your last name first, and then your first name. Your last name is determined by the village you were born in. Hence, if I ever go to a neighboring village and introduce myself the locals will know immediately where I am from/living.(If you are wondering why I did not tell you my last name, it is because if there really was a very determined and equally creepy stalker, he/she could find out my location simply by knowing my name---Peace Corps rule--understandably, so). While I was not thrilled with the new name, I did not want to insult my family by asking for a new name. However, when I was first introduced to the chief of the village and I introduced myself as Bobalaine, he was taken back and said it was an insult to be called by that name. He tried to explain that it had a connotation of jealousy and that he had no idea why my family would give me that name. The chief tried to explain my name by telling an anecdote of two wives(of the same man) being jealous of each other. This left me thoroughly confused. He also informed me that my family had no right to give me a name and that it was the village's right(namely, him) to give me my name. He announces authoritatively that from here on out I will no longer be known as Bobalaine, but Todarra. This name I gladly accepted because the latter name is alot prettier than former. About a week later when I was having dinner with the Mayor(of the district capital) and a couple other volunteers in my region, I decided to ask him if he could explain the chief's disdain for my name(the mayor is an English-speaking, French educated, Burkinabe who I know who could explain in English precisely what my name meant. He laughs and says the chief does not know what he is talking about and that the literal translation for my name is, "if you want me to shut up, what would you like for me to do with my mouth?"---use your imagination.... Well isn't that lovely image? I think the other volunteers and I almost peed our pants laughing. He then explained that my new name meant "new to _____(insert my village name)." Flash forward to the night of my grandma's funeral (she had died 7 months prior to my arrival). Burkinabe usually wait to have parties/celebrations during the dry season because that is the time of the year they tend to have more money. That night I came to find out the name of my deceased grandma. What was that name you ask. None other than, Bobalaine.

"America is good. America is really good."

A few days ago I had a conversation with Olantine, my sister, that was a pretty defining moment of my Peace Corps experience thus far. After a dinner of to, my sister, my mom, and I were relaxing out in the courtyard. Olantine was talking to her mom in Bissa while I was looking up at the stars. My sister turns and asks me, "Brittany?" This is usually the way she starts out her questions. "Yes?," I respond. "Do they have stars in America?" I laughed. Not at her question but at my family's knowledge of my weird obsession with the African night sky. My family always seems to catch me looking up at the stars in awe. I tell her that in America there is way too much pollution and lights too see the stars,let alone to appreciate them. As we were looking over head, I noticed the lights of a plane in the distance and pointed it out to her. She asked me if one could eat in a plane. I tell her yes and she gasps in surprise and quickly tells her mom in Bissa the exciting news. I then tell her I had to take a plane to get from America to Burkina Faso. We sit in silence for a few moments and then she says, "Brittany?" "Yes?" I answer. "America is good. America is really good," she states in a definitive tone. I take a few seconds to think about what she has just said. America is good in lots of respects but we do have problems. Lots of problems. Ranging from pollution to the deepening economic recession(and everything in between). I chuckle, nod in accordance, and then ask her, "and what do you know of America?" Olantine gasps like she had not been expecting the question/I do not really think she knew anything herself. I was both interested and amused to know what my 15 year old sister, who had probably never left our small village of 3,000 people, had to say about American culture and/or American values. In about 90% of Burkina, newspapers, journals, magazines and televisions are non-existent and even radios are a rare commodity. When I talk with some of the male doctors in my village and the bigger district village they usually just say phrases like, "Obama. Bush. Americans love war." With the latter I usually try to dissuade them from having that mentality but with our track record, it is hard to make them think anything but. I return to looking at the sky and we sit in silence for a few more moments. Olantine then says, "Brittany." "Yes?", I respond expecting a question to follow. Olantine repeats herself, "Brittany. I know Brittany."

Cooking Up A Storm

Ahhh...food. Since my arrival to site, I have been a cooking fiend. I have been both experimenting and using the "When There Is No Microwave/Fridge" cookbook that was provided to me by the PC. Some of my favorite recipes are eggplant parmesan, chili, eggplant-lentil stew, and lemon pepper veggie pastａ....mmmｍｍｍ. I think they all turn out pretty well considering for the last couple of years I have survived on Ben and Jerry's and Chipotle. All three have been incredibly good to me. While my access to vegetables/fruits is quite limited, I have learned to make due. In my village market I can find tomatoes, onions, African eggplant, eggplant,oranges, rice, beans, and "scary meat" amongst a few other things. I can also find organic peanut butter---I eat this like it is my job. Imagine a person eating cheese whiz/whip cream from a spray bottle, but me, with peanut butter--minus the bottle. In the bigger market in neighboring Zabre, I can find a few more things like papaya(seasonal), bananas, green peppers/hot peppers, bread, lettuce, and cabbage but other than that everything is pretty limited. I am pretty excited that I am in the capital so that I can buy actual super-market(Marina market) items that I can bring back to site. Marina is the closest thing you will find to an actual super-market back home. The items at the market are super, super expensive but def. worth it. I am stocking up on baking supplies this weekend--when I get back to site I am doing to build a dutch oven so I can make banana bread, brownies, granola, and other wonderful yummies. Because I am just starting to learn how to cook, I really do not know how to gauge proportions. Hence, sometimes when I make something like eggplant, lentil stew, I make way too much. Therefore, I know that I will not be able to finish it before it spoils. Here, without a fridge, I am lucky if my left-overs last one day, one and-a-half days, max. So about once a week when I make way too much food I will usually share it with my host family. The first time that I shared with my family I made an eggplant and bean stew. So after lunch I brought out a heaping bowl of the stew, gave it to them, and they thanked me for it. Well since I eat (to) with my family every night, I thought that it was quite strange that for the first time since my arrival I was eating in one corner of the courtyard with my aunt and the rest of the family was huddled in another corner. I also thought it was rather odd that that night we had something different other than to(every night, we have the same to with the same sauce). In fact, I thought to myself, this food tastes oddly familiar. I was like this food has eggplant, it has beans, it has tomato paste. The only difference was that their food was more of a pate than a stew and it had piment (pepper). I could not really look at the food because I prefer to eat with my family by the light of the moon. Normally, we all eat together. Then it hit me, I was like, they did not just reject my stew, mash it up, put pepper in it, and try to give it back to me. It's like, I know I just started cooking but if I am living in the second poorest country in the world(second to Sudan), and if even they will not eat my food, what does that say about my cooking skills. I was beside myself. I ate in silence for the rest of the meal and felt kind of depressed about my cooking skills(or lack thereof), I did not stick around after dinner to converse with my family. As I was heading back to my courtyard, I thought I just had to know if they we were eating something different from what they had served me. So I took out my flashlight and peered into the bowls of food that my moms had prepared. And what was in these bowls? Eggplant and bean pate. I do not know what I was more relieved about...the fact that family was actually eating something nutritious(to has no nutritional value) or that they had not rejected my original bowl of stew. I would like to think that my great cooking skills inspired them to make something similar to my stew.

Marriage Proposals to Date: 95...ish

Market days are always fun/interesting to say the least. Because my market is such a small one, I normally have to travel the larger one in Zabre, a neighboring village. And since only a small portion of the population speaks French, it is always quite difficult to find certain items. When I got to site I was so excited that I could cook for myself that I was bound and determined to find eggs so that I could make a veggie omelet. For the first couple of weeks, every time I went to Zabre I kept forgetting to learn the Bissa word for . Hence, a very fun game of charades would ensue. For example, I would ask someone where I could find eggs and they would either look at me with a blank stare or motion over to someone to help translate. When that did not work, I would put my hands under my armpits and bob my head and kind of walk like a chicken. Afterwards, I would then attempt to crack open an imaginary egg, point at it, and “try” to explain that was what I was looking for (in “Franglisa”=Francais+Bissa). After a few times of making a fool of my self, I thought I would try to limit my social awkwardness/ embarrassing myself and make a cheat sheet of popular words. Turns out, there is a season for eggs, and outside of this season it is nearly impossible to find eggs outside of the big cities. Hard to imagine there is a season for egg laying but there is. So I will just have to wait another five months for eggs. On market days, besides planning on making a fool of myself in that respect, I can always count on multiple marriage proposals. This comes from both drunk and sober men. Here, market days are huge dolo drinking days. Men, young and old, insist on proposing to me multiple times even after I tell them, "No thank-you. Have a nice day." If they keep asking, I usually say, "look, I already have four husbands and to take on another husband would be too many men to support. So no, I cannot marry you." I have gotten pretty good at saying this. They are usually, normally confused because in Burkina polygamy is only allowed for males. Sometimes, before I have a chance to walk away, some might say, "You mean you have four children?" to which I respond, "No, I meant four husbands." Then, I try to make a quick exit. I think it is quite funny that about 98 percent of my marriage proposals come from me who do not know me. They usually meet me on the street and after saying hello, they ask for my hand in marriage. If only dating in the States was this easy! However, while they are asking me, I always think to myself....”hmmmm, I could be this nagging, clingy, back-stabbing, cheating, manipulative, and lazy wife and they would have no idea what they were getting themselves into”(for those who do not know me, I am not these things, btw). I know I have an dazzling personality, but not enough for someone to propose to me after three seconds of conversation. When they see me, I think they just see green.... Green for money. Green for green card.

Best Part Of Waking Up Is Dolo In Your Calabash

Dolo. What can I possibly say to describe dolo? Dolo is the local beer. Upon first taste, the words warm cat pee come to mind. While I have never consumed cat pee, I am thinking that this would be a euphemism for dolo. However, like most things here, the more you try it, the more you like it. Now, I actually really like it. I have started to think that it tastes more and more like a funky, diluted apple cider. There are two types of dolo: the fermented kind(alcoholic) and the non-fermented (non-alcoholic) kind. My first actual morning at site my three moms were like, "come on, Brittany, we are taking you somewhere." I was thinking to myself, "great! I am going to meet some neighbors, to the market, or something of the like.” Where do they take me at 8:30 in the morning? Why, to a dolo bar of course! Here, the best part of waking up, is not Folgers in your cup, it is dolo in your calabash(a wooden bowl). Now the next day, a neighbor comes over after breakfast and they of course bring dolo. I assumed they had brought the non-alcoholic dolo over that morning because I saw one of my moms give her baby some. Sharing dolo is a big custom here--and you normally offer it to the people around you/ offer it to visitors. As they say in Rome, do as they Romans do, I thought I would carry on this philosophy in Burkina. So I offer my dolo to my 8 year old and 15 year old sisters. They both decline and I thought hmmmmm...okay. A few minutes later I thought to myself, I wonder which of the two dolo's I was drinking (they both taste pretty much the same). So I say to my sisters, "Just curious, would this happen to be the alcoholic dolo?" to which they reply "yes." Of course it would be. Nice, Brittany. Real nice. Note to self: check to see if I am consuming an alcoholic drink prior to offering it so small children. I guess they must have brought over BOTH types of dolo over that morning. Whoops.　But then the next day, much to my dismay, I definitely saw one of my mom's offer the alcoholic dolo to her two year old! While witnessing this event did not make me feel any less guilty about my accidental attempt of trying to corrupt the future of Burkina, I did not feel as bad about the "little" mix-up. However, after seeing this, it definitely made me re-think the mix-up and think that　the neighbor had only brought over one type of dolo that day.