A little over a year has escaped since I last sent word of my travels and, with its flight, have disappeared thirteen of the most blessed, trying, reflective, and fulfilling months I’ve ever encountered. I can’t explain how I allowed such time to go so unshared nor can I apologize enough for having done so. I can only pray that your interest in Africa, the Peace Corps, and the intersection between the two, have remained as alive as they were before silence deadened our exchange. In the event that they have, I’ve included a selection of comical (and not-so-comical) tales, describing varying aspects of my life and of my service as they’ve evolved over the last year. I hope that they sate your interests with at least a fraction of the abundance that the last thirteen months have sated mine.
So, on to the first tale…
Ambushed
Over the last year gone by, I’ve gotten quite skilled at fighting off the army of bacteria seeking to destroy my GI system. Although many an assault has been launched, and many a battle lost, the predictability of this foe has made him increasingly easy to defend against. Staying away from street food, from children’s handshakes, and from any unidentifiable pieces of meat, have been enough to get me through these last few months with relatively little misery suffered. Even in times when these precautions weren’t completely effective, I eventually won each combat with an arsenal of medications in hand and an armor of Depends tucked where needed.
But where the vigor of one adversary (stomach ailment) has begun to wane, the larger enemy of general disease/ illness has found the most creative of ways to wreak havoc. Around last August, I started noticing some spots of discoloration on my cheeks. Over the next few weeks, the area spread and became more pronounced. Beginning to worry that I was on the brink of some Michael-Jackson-like skin catastrophe, I started speaking to other volunteers to see if they were experiencing similar symptoms. It turned out that one girl was. A Health PCV in a village not to far from my city, had recently reported experiencing some facial discoloration to our doctors here. After testing some water samples that she sent in, the doctors found that all the water pumps in her village had dangerously high levels of arsenic in them and, furthermore, that the arsenic was at the source of her skin problems.
Not 15 minutes after hearing this, I had already started pondering my exit from Burkina. They somehow left the possibility of arsenic poisoning off the brochure that I received before coming. Not cool! Mid-way through my panic, I made an appointment with the doctors to have my spots looked at. I traveled to the capital city and hurried to our Peace Corps Bureau, where the doctor’s office is located. I didn’t have to wait long. The nurse called me into her office and immediately began an investigation of my spots. Since my skin had lightened, not darkened, she immediately ruled out arsenic as the culprit. Yippee!!! She then opened a medical book on skin disorders and began flipping through. After about 5 minutes, she was certain she’d found our offender. Its name is Tinea Versicolor and it’s…a fungus. A fungus that thrives in humid regions, is contracted by methods unknown, is highly unresponsive to medication, disappears on its own, but reappears over indefinite spans of time. What a fun-guy!
Although I was initially ashamed to admit that there was a fungus among us, I’m ecstatic that the condition wasn’t more severe. Like the bat that lives in the hole of my latrine, that often makes its exit while I (or a guest) is squatting over it, Burkina is full of not-so-pleasant surprises. Today, my skin is fungus free but, tomorrow, who knows what terrors will come my way. Whatever ones do though, I’ll take them in stride and in the comfort of knowing that I only have 5 ½ months of unpleasant Burkinabé surprises left.
Somebody Leaked Victoria’s Secret
As an initiative to increase our visibility in the community and to thank our members for 26 years of dedication, my credit union launched a 9-week project titled “Girls Entrepreneurship Camp” on April 12th of this year. The camp, geared towards teaching high-school aged girls principles of marketing and accounting, would allow its participants to cultivate a set of competencies that could aid in strengthening their family’s businesses and in bettering their livelihoods. Ideally, the camp would’ve been offered uniquely to men and women business owners, but since my grasp of the local language, Mooré, remains limited (and most small business owners don’t speak French) and the funds secured to run the camp were earmarked specifically for women’s development projects, the original idea of hosting a mixed-sex “Entrepreneur’s Seminar” evolved into the reality of hosting the “Girl’s Entrepreneurship Camp.” To select the girls, we encouraged members to add the names of their daughters to a lottery, if they had completed Freshman year of high-school, were involved in the family’s business or a business of their own, and were interested in receiving business training. 12 girls were then drawn and invited to take part in what could be an exciting opportunity for them.
The camp runs twice weekly, Wednesday and Sunday evenings, and is lead by myself, with weekly assistance on Sundays by a Health PCV, Heather, and occasional aid on Wednesdays from two of my colleagues at the credit union, Fiacre and Boly. Our Sundays meetings are mostly theoretical: I prepare a lesson, work through a case study with the girls, and answer any questions they might have. The Wednesdays are much more interesting. The girls were divided into two groups and each given 75 dollars to start a small business. The 75 dollar loan eventually needs to be returned to the credit union, but any profit the girls make is theirs to keep. On Wednesdays, we analyze the businesses’ performance over the past week and see how the girls can increase their profitability in the upcoming week.
At first, the girls weren’t even mildly enthused about putting their new-learned business principles to practice. But three weeks into the camp something changed. Perhaps the girls had more time to focus on their businesses (since the school year was nearly finished) or perhaps they were just now more confident in their abilities but, for whatever reason, the girls shared their proposals with me that third Wednesday with assertion and with the intent of being successful.
So what activities had the girls chosen? One group decided to produce and sell mango jam. Excellent idea! Its mango season, so, production costs are low, while the demand for mango products remains high. The other group…well…their idea was a little less “conventional.” They decided to sell…panties. And their rationale for doing so: “During the hot season, girls need to change their panties more frequently.” I had to check my pants to make sure I didn’t wet myself after laughing so hard! Needless to say, Heather and I were a little skeptical of their proposal. But after hearing them speak of their strategy, we were completely won over by their level of motivation: “We’re going to take those panties to school and we’re going to sell them. We’re not embarrassed. And when the school year ends, we’ll go door to door.” So they were given the stamp of approval and, as of that third week, two new businesses were born in the town of Kongoussi.
Now six weeks into the camp, both groups have profitable businesses and are looking at continuing their activities long after the camp has finished. The mango jam group has produced an incredible product and counts myself amongst its loyal customers. They’ve, since, expanded their product line and now sell chocolate biscuits too. The panties group has done surprisingly well also. They were right to be confident; the underwear sales as if it were plated in gold! This group has also increased its product offers—they now sell women’s tank tops and shoes in addition to the panties—and is looking for ways to further diversify their brand. As my time with the girls quickly approaches its end, I already regard working with them and with their panties as one of the most rewarding experiences I’ve had here, lol. I’m wowed by what they’ve managed to do with the limited resources they were given, and will always wonder what risqué ideas they would’ve dreamt up of if given more.
Fishing for Trouble
In most villages and cities across Burkina, the World Food Program is present to aid in the fight against malnutrition. Pregnant women, breastfeeding mothers, and young children are routinely weighed in town health clinics and, if below an acceptable weight, are provided with free meals until their weight falls within the suitable range. So how have Burkinabé women responded to such aid? Many, by starving themselves, and even worse their children, enough to ensure that their gratuitous food rations aren’t suspended. Has the WFP’s assistance saved lives in Burkina? Without a doubt. But has it significantly reduced the incidence of malnutrition amongst the groups receiving aid? I wouldn’t believe the data if it said that it has.
The World Food Program, like most international development agencies, is awash with perverse and misaligned incentives. At their best, these agencies can considerably contribute to a people’s economic advancement. On average though, they leave these people in a situation that’s comparable to, if not noticeably worse than, their original. The following story illustrates just how harmful international “aid” can be:
As you may remember from my last correspondence, some of the work I do here is focused on creating and maintaining women’s savings and credit clubs (SCCs). These clubs of 6-12 members meet weekly to deposit money into a wooden saving’s box and to extend loans to members in need. Recently, I spoke with members in one club and determined that, in addition to helping with their savings and lending activities, they would appreciate receiving some training on disease prevention, animal raising methods, and refined agricultural techniques. Well, as luck had it, I just received word that some funds had been made available for interested volunteers to hire an agricultural specialist to come into their town/ village to lead a three-day seminar. So I typed a brief proposal and, a week later, was notified that my request had been granted. Great! I rushed to the SCC to share the good news.
When I encountered the group, I could hardly contain my excitement. I gave them all the information I had about the seminar, suggested dates, and awaited any questions they had. There was only one: “What’s the trainer going to give us?” I was sure that they had just misheard something I said, so I repeated, “Oh you didn’t understand me? The trainer’s going to give you a three-day agricultural seminar, on whatever topics you choose, free of charge.” Their next response left me absolutely dumbfounded: “You mean (s)he’s not going to give us any money or gifts? We won’t just leave the fields for three days for nothing. We’re not interested.” Not interested?! After picking my jaw off the floor and making sure I didn’t loose any teeth, I didn’t know what to say. The president of the association of which the members of the SCC belong, Cissé, filled the silence: “I’m sorry but the women are just used to getting things when they attend a seminar. It’s just the way things are here.” Just the way things are?!
I walked around Kongoussi the next few days in a mixed-state of rage and confusion. I tried to rationalize the situation but couldn’t. Each of these women’s principal occupation is market-gardening (growing vegetables such as onions, carrots, and tomatoes and selling them at the market). Additionally, they each are subsistence farmers (the staples they grow during rainy season—corn, millet, beans—are essentially all their families feed off of in the coming year). I just couldn’t imagine being one of these women, having a qualified technician approach me, understanding that (s)he’s offering to teach me skills to literally better feed my undernourished family (free of charge), and turning her away because she didn’t include a check in her offer. It’s just unfathomable! But, unfortunately, not surprising. Development agencies have so handicapped women (and men) like these that they’ve become incapable of grabbing on to decent opportunities when in view. The agencies have taught these men and women that the best things in life aren’t the only things that come freely and, consequentially, have erased any incentive for them to make a fist out of their open hand and fight for a better life.
As of today, the seminar has still yet to be performed, the money to lead it remains in my account, and my frustration over it remains as alive as ever. Some progress has been made though. I’ve gotten all the women to agree to attending for one day so, instead of doing a three-day seminar with all the women, we’ll do three (or two) one-day seminars in divided groups. The first group of women is scheduled for this Saturday—we’ll see how many attend.
Although it’s uncertain whether or not the upcoming seminar will be a success, one thing is definite: my skepticism and distrust of international development work will remain long after my interaction with these women is complete. With all its problems (and I alone could cite a book’s worth), the Peace Corps and its “teach a man to fish and he’ll eat for a lifetime” approach to development, continues to be a lone hope in the struggle against global poverty. In the absence of it, and the few comparable agencies that exist, I’d just say, “Let’s call the whole thing off.”
Thanks everyone for reading. I’ll end by trying to answer a few questions that you may have. As always, feel free to e-mail if you have any specific questions, or if you just want to say hello.
How’s your French?
It’s finally gotten to a level where I can say it’s pretty decent. I’m still no Oxford French scholar but, nonetheless, I’m finally comfortable living and working in a francophone world.
What’s been your most memorable experience?
My mother’s visit this past February. Burkina Faso is certainly not the most luxurious of vacation destinations, but my mother braved its rough terrain with the courage of a lion and the calm of a dove. The 10 days we spent together in Kongoussi visiting friends, entertaining guests, walking (or more precisely biking) through my daily routine, watching DVDs, and enjoying each other’s company, are 10 that I’ll thank God for everyday until my dying day.
What projects are you working on at the credit union?
In April, I completed a customer service project in which I interviewed 90 of our members to gauge their perception of our products, services, fees, efficiency, and hospitality. Following the interviews, I drafted a report of my findings, led two staff-wide meetings on ways that we can better serve our clientele, and recommended some institution-wide changes that we should consider adopting to senior management.Currently, I’m conducting a feasibility study of three possible sites for opening up a new branch of the union. I just finished interviewing a sample of the population at one of the sites, and am now in the process of analyzing whether or not the acquired responses indicate a strong desire for our services.
How are you eating?
Much better! There’s still a lot of repetition—bread and honey in the morning, oatmeal at lunch (the local grocery store now carries Quaker!)—but come dinner time there’s a lot of variety. I vary between preparing things myself (e.g. tuna salad and pasta), buying a bean dish called samsa from local sellers, eating at one of the now three restaurants in town (when I moved here there was only one), and inviting myself over to friends’ homes to eat.
What other work do you keep yourself busy with?
In addition to my work at the caisse, with the savings clubs, and with the girl’s camp, I teach four weekly computer tech courses, participate in the French Literature Club (last month I facilitated a discussion about the Harlem Renaissance), and continue to frequent the town’s English Club (just last week I led the group in interpreting the lyrics to John Mayer’s “Belief”).
In June, I hope to launch the Kongoussi Development Club—a club focused on getting youth involved in the development of their town and country. The group will attempt to analyze the source of problems in the community, and then take actions to bring about lasting solutions.
What will you do when you return?
Pray! As I come close to crossing the 5-months-left barrier, I find myself getting more and more nostalgic about my experience here and increasingly nervous about life after its completion. I still have no idea where I’ll go from here, but I’m confident that wherever it is will lead me closer to where I’m suppose to be.
Ok, thanks again! I hope that all is well with you and I look forward to seeing you all upon my return!
Warm Regards,
James Justin
WELCOME
Welcome everyone to The Not So Simple Life! This blog was created as a means of sharing my experiences in Burkina Faso with friends and family back home and as a vehicle for transporting awareness about Burkinabé culture beyond the region of West Africa. As mandated by the Peace Corps, I must begin by declaring that “the contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps.”
At this point I’ve been in Burkina for a little over five months. I apologize that it’s taken me so long to post information to this site and apologize in advance for the infrequency of which future posts may be added. From this point forward, though, I am going to try to post at least one entry a month (give or take a month or two, lol).
Before I begin to describe my experiences, I want to direct your attention to the following:
1.) My predecessor, Chris Wilson, produced an informational video on Burkina Faso that he’s posted to you-tube. If you’re interested in actually seeing what life is like here, I HIGHLY recommend watching this 12-minute video. On the right of the screen, you can find the link.
2.) Contact information:
E-mail: Jshepherd3@hotmail.com
I have pretty regular internet access at my site. Unless I’m traveling within the country, I should now be able to respond to e-mails (at least briefly) within a week’s time. Note: From March 10th -28th, I will be away from my site at training. Any e-mails that I receive within this period will be responded to upon my return.
Cell Phone: 011 226 7649-7408
I can receive both calls and texts without incurring a charge. It’s important to note, though, that some cell phones can’t send international texts, so, if you text me and don’t receive a response, I definitely didn’t receive your text. Since it’s not terribly expensive for me to send one or two reply texts, I will ALWAYS acknowledge a received text.
Mailing address:
James Justin Shepherd, PCV
s/c Corps de la Paix Americain
01 BP 6031
Ouagadougou
Burkina Faso
West Africa
3.) I’ve journaled everyday since I’ve been in Burkina, so I have amassed quite a collection of tales. From time to time, I will copy entries directly from my journal and paste them here. Since these entries are as random and diverse as my experiences are, I apologize if many postings seem unorganized, disjointed, and incomprehensible.
4.) There are a number of stories that I can’t post here because they are either political in nature (Peace Corps Volunteers are strictly prohibited from involving ourselves in political matters), require the use of insulting language to describe the encounter (i.e. require me to endanger my safety by speaking badly about a particular community member), or are just too explicit for posting (e.g. the details surrounding just how sick I was during training). Rest assured that these events have been properly documented in my journal; I will be more than willing to share them upon my return.
5.) I’ve taken a million pictures since I’ve been here—links to all of the albums I’ve created are to the right of the screen. Since no one could possibly have the time to scroll through all the photos, I’ll direct you to some of the more interesting albums:
Ouaga to Ouahigouya, E.C.L.A. Arrival, Chez Tao, Demystification I, SED Technical Training, Life in Ouahigouya, Joyeux Noel, Chez Moi, Bam!, My Kind of Town
6.) Since I’m sure inquiring minds want to know, I’ll answer the most frequently recurring question that I’ve received from friends and family back home, before I post my first official entry:
How’s the weather?
HOT; VERY HOT!!! When I arrived in October the temperature was upwards of 100˚F during the day and around 80˚ at night. In November it began cooling off though, and by January it was around 75˚ during the day around 45˚ at night. The hot season is beginning now and I’m being told I can expect temperatures as high as 115˚ by April. At the end of May, the rainy season should begin and, when it does, its showers should usher in temperatures around 85˚ that should last until October when the dry season begins again.
Thank you all for taking the time to read about my not so simple life in the not so simple world of Burkina Faso. I hope that you find the following postings as exciting, disturbing, intriguing, and distressing as I’ve found my experiences here to be. Now, without further ado, I commence the tale of my journey…
At this point I’ve been in Burkina for a little over five months. I apologize that it’s taken me so long to post information to this site and apologize in advance for the infrequency of which future posts may be added. From this point forward, though, I am going to try to post at least one entry a month (give or take a month or two, lol).
Before I begin to describe my experiences, I want to direct your attention to the following:
1.) My predecessor, Chris Wilson, produced an informational video on Burkina Faso that he’s posted to you-tube. If you’re interested in actually seeing what life is like here, I HIGHLY recommend watching this 12-minute video. On the right of the screen, you can find the link.
2.) Contact information:
E-mail: Jshepherd3@hotmail.com
I have pretty regular internet access at my site. Unless I’m traveling within the country, I should now be able to respond to e-mails (at least briefly) within a week’s time. Note: From March 10th -28th, I will be away from my site at training. Any e-mails that I receive within this period will be responded to upon my return.
Cell Phone: 011 226 7649-7408
I can receive both calls and texts without incurring a charge. It’s important to note, though, that some cell phones can’t send international texts, so, if you text me and don’t receive a response, I definitely didn’t receive your text. Since it’s not terribly expensive for me to send one or two reply texts, I will ALWAYS acknowledge a received text.
Mailing address:
James Justin Shepherd, PCV
s/c Corps de la Paix Americain
01 BP 6031
Ouagadougou
Burkina Faso
West Africa
3.) I’ve journaled everyday since I’ve been in Burkina, so I have amassed quite a collection of tales. From time to time, I will copy entries directly from my journal and paste them here. Since these entries are as random and diverse as my experiences are, I apologize if many postings seem unorganized, disjointed, and incomprehensible.
4.) There are a number of stories that I can’t post here because they are either political in nature (Peace Corps Volunteers are strictly prohibited from involving ourselves in political matters), require the use of insulting language to describe the encounter (i.e. require me to endanger my safety by speaking badly about a particular community member), or are just too explicit for posting (e.g. the details surrounding just how sick I was during training). Rest assured that these events have been properly documented in my journal; I will be more than willing to share them upon my return.
5.) I’ve taken a million pictures since I’ve been here—links to all of the albums I’ve created are to the right of the screen. Since no one could possibly have the time to scroll through all the photos, I’ll direct you to some of the more interesting albums:
Ouaga to Ouahigouya, E.C.L.A. Arrival, Chez Tao, Demystification I, SED Technical Training, Life in Ouahigouya, Joyeux Noel, Chez Moi, Bam!, My Kind of Town
6.) Since I’m sure inquiring minds want to know, I’ll answer the most frequently recurring question that I’ve received from friends and family back home, before I post my first official entry:
How’s the weather?
HOT; VERY HOT!!! When I arrived in October the temperature was upwards of 100˚F during the day and around 80˚ at night. In November it began cooling off though, and by January it was around 75˚ during the day around 45˚ at night. The hot season is beginning now and I’m being told I can expect temperatures as high as 115˚ by April. At the end of May, the rainy season should begin and, when it does, its showers should usher in temperatures around 85˚ that should last until October when the dry season begins again.
Thank you all for taking the time to read about my not so simple life in the not so simple world of Burkina Faso. I hope that you find the following postings as exciting, disturbing, intriguing, and distressing as I’ve found my experiences here to be. Now, without further ado, I commence the tale of my journey…
The Routine
My God! Where do I begin to describe my time thus far?! I guess I can start by getting the lackluster task of explaining “my routine” here these past few months out of the way. The following, therefore, is a description of what a normal week has looked like for me since training ended, December 7th, and I arrived in Kongoussi (the city where I’ll spend the next two years)…
Every morning begins as the night before left off—in a state of starvation. My morning routine therefore begins with a visit to the kitchen where I commence making toast, by frying bread in a pan, and preparing a glass of milk, by mixing milk powder with water (it’s a little chalky but it does the job). Monday through Friday, I then depart to either meet with a savings and credit club (I’ll discuss these later) or head directly to my host organization, URCBAM.
Every small enterprise development (SED) volunteer is assigned to a host organization that provides the volunteer’s housing and that serves as his/ her “primary project.” Most frequently, volunteers are paired with cotton unions, artisan associations, or caisses (credit unions). My host organization falls into this last category. The Union Régionale des Caisses du BAM (URCBAM) provides a range of micro-credit services to inhabitants of the Province of Bam. My primary task is to help the union develop a uniform system of information storage across its four member caisses and, in turn, to use the information gathered to develop and implement a system of financial analysis. So to achieve this objective, I work in the union’s bureau from 9:00am to 12:00pm everyday before heading home for the “repos” (the break from 12:30 to 3:00 when most businesses shut down).
After heading home, I then either make more toast, oatmeal, a grilled cheese sandwich, or Blédine (baby food that I’ve taken to eating in the absence of other hot cereals such as Cream of Wheat and Malt-o-Meal) for lunch. Immediately following, I carry two buckets outside and sit on my terrace to wash dishes. I scrub the dirty utensils in one bucket filled with soap and water (the wash bucket) and dip them into the other bucket that’s filled with just water (the rinse bucket). While the dishes are drying on the ledge of my terrace, I heat a pot of water, pour it into a bucket, then carry the bucket to my latrine where I bathe by splashing water on myself from the bucket. The latrine’s walls are rather low, so I’m often greeted by children walking down the street, while bathing. After my bath is complete and the dishes are brought into the house, I normally nap for a little bit and, depending on the day, I either meet with a savings and credit club (S&CC) or journal/ read for the rest of the afternoon.
Right now, we new volunteers are in a three-month period called the Etude de Milieu (Study of the Environment) where we’re “technically” not supposed to be working but, instead, simply learning about/ “establishing a positive rapport” within our communities. Every month of this period, we submit a report to our supervisor detailing the specific needs of our communities and the ways we might be able to help meet these needs. Practically, “establishing a positive rapport” requires being as involved as possible in our communities—this, therefore, explains why I’ve been going to the URCBAM bureau daily and meeting with 7 S&CCs weekly.
Every SED volunteer is encouraged to create and maintain savings and credit clubs in our communities. These clubs are mostly women’s groups comprised of 6-12 members, which meet weekly to deposit money into a wooden saving’s box. Each group decides on their own rules and regulations governing who receives loans, when they should be repaid, how much interest they should be repaid with, and what happens in the event of a member defaulting on the loan. My predecessor started a number of these clubs with an organization called Association de Developpement Song-Taaba de Kongoussi (ADST), an association of cultivators and animal herders. It’s common for these groups to stop during the rainy season, since most people are busy in the fields, and divide the amount saved in the box amongst the members. Every one of my predecessor’s groups did just this, so I’ve been helping to recommence the saving and lending activities amongst existing groups while also working to form new groups with other interested women within this organization.
Although my work with these groups is just beginning, I’ve already experienced an incredible sense of fulfillment from the little I’ve done. When I initially received my site assignment, I struggled with the question, “is this what I wanted?” I wasn’t particularly thrilled to have a “9:00 to X:00 job,” and I didn’t know how to feel about living in what’s essentially a typical American townhouse (well, minus the plumbing) in a small city. I had this romanticized notion of living the “simple life,” the life typical of peace corps volunteers working in the domains of health education (HE) and girl’s education (GE): small village, no access to fruits, vegetables, nor cold beverages, no electricity…no life that I’ve ever known. But now I feel rather privileged to live in a city like Kongoussi. Although my living arrangements are “fairly” Western-like, the living arrangements for the women in the S&CCs that I work with are identical to those in Burkina’s poorest villages. When one travels outside the urban part of the city (meaning if one biked 5 minutes in any direction; Kongoussi is more of a town than a city) one would find these women, and thousands of other women and families, living in homes constructed from a mixture of mud, pebbles, and straw. All of this said, I now think I have the best of both worlds. I, myself, live in conditions pretty similar to conditions back home (well similar in most respects; it’s taken a few months of living here to find the similarities), but I’m able to serve a community in the most desperate need of aid. There’s yet to be a time when I’ve left these women and not have been reminded of why I’ve voyaged so very far: to use the skills that privilege has afforded me, to help those of whom I believe my privilege has come at the expense of.
Monday and Thursday evenings I head to PLAN Burkina (a NGO dedicated to improving the lives of children in developing countries) where I teach an English class to its staff with another volunteer, Anna Cap. Anna is a third-year health education (HE) volunteer that works for PLAN. I’m one of just a handful of volunteers who’s lucky enough to have another volunteer at his/ her site. Having her here has been a great a blessing in disguise—I didn’t want a site mate initially, because I didn’t want my relationship with him/ her to interfere with the community integration progress, but she’s proven an incredible help (not a hindrance) with this process, pointing me in the direction of resources that I may’ve not discovered on my own. At our English classes, Anna and I usually provide text studies on various issues affecting developing countries and ask the class to explain and evaluate the author’s argument. Since the most lucrative jobs in Burkina are with NGOs (a distressing sign of the desperate state of affairs here and the general lack of other employment opportunities), PLAN is incredibly well-staffed. Teaching here, therefore, is a pleasure.
On Saturdays, I attend meetings of the Kongoussi English Club, of which I’m a member. The club really is the coolest thing since sliced bread. When I was asked to join, I initially thought it would be more of a class than a club. But, thankfully, I was proven wrong. The very first week that I attended, the club read an excerpt from the Autobiography of Malcolm X and commenced a debate of whether X’s philosophy or Dr. King’s was/ is the better. It was so surreal to be discussing pacifism and the use of violence with Africans while actually being on the continent. Since that first day I attended, we’ve debated the topics of forced marriage, how food security can be best be achieved in Africa, and whether or not a woman can/ should be the head of state (following the assassination of Benazir Bhutto). The Kongoussi English Club has immensely broadened my perspective on a number of issues, and furthermore, has provided an excellent way of meeting/ building relationships with people in the community.
I must admit, though, that being in a town where so many people speak English has been terrible for my French learning endeavors. I am now fairly conversational but am by NO MEANS fluent. I will never again believe anyone who says that the language “will just come.” If you’ve never studied the language before it does not just come—it takes a great deal of work.
My Sunday’s are extremely low key. I meet with two S&CCs in the morning, but spend the rest of the day relaxing on my terrace. I have two friends who normally come to pay me a visit, Donald and Rouki, so I spend the afternoon chatting with them. Following their departure, I normally prepare the same thing that I had for lunch, for dinner. I then retire to bed, as I do every night, with my stomach only partially satiated, but with my spirit fully ready to take on the next week.
And thus a typical week for me in Kongoussi comes to its close. Although it’s assured to change in the months ahead (after my “Etude” period ends), it shall remain, for now, all that I know of normality.
Every morning begins as the night before left off—in a state of starvation. My morning routine therefore begins with a visit to the kitchen where I commence making toast, by frying bread in a pan, and preparing a glass of milk, by mixing milk powder with water (it’s a little chalky but it does the job). Monday through Friday, I then depart to either meet with a savings and credit club (I’ll discuss these later) or head directly to my host organization, URCBAM.
Every small enterprise development (SED) volunteer is assigned to a host organization that provides the volunteer’s housing and that serves as his/ her “primary project.” Most frequently, volunteers are paired with cotton unions, artisan associations, or caisses (credit unions). My host organization falls into this last category. The Union Régionale des Caisses du BAM (URCBAM) provides a range of micro-credit services to inhabitants of the Province of Bam. My primary task is to help the union develop a uniform system of information storage across its four member caisses and, in turn, to use the information gathered to develop and implement a system of financial analysis. So to achieve this objective, I work in the union’s bureau from 9:00am to 12:00pm everyday before heading home for the “repos” (the break from 12:30 to 3:00 when most businesses shut down).
After heading home, I then either make more toast, oatmeal, a grilled cheese sandwich, or Blédine (baby food that I’ve taken to eating in the absence of other hot cereals such as Cream of Wheat and Malt-o-Meal) for lunch. Immediately following, I carry two buckets outside and sit on my terrace to wash dishes. I scrub the dirty utensils in one bucket filled with soap and water (the wash bucket) and dip them into the other bucket that’s filled with just water (the rinse bucket). While the dishes are drying on the ledge of my terrace, I heat a pot of water, pour it into a bucket, then carry the bucket to my latrine where I bathe by splashing water on myself from the bucket. The latrine’s walls are rather low, so I’m often greeted by children walking down the street, while bathing. After my bath is complete and the dishes are brought into the house, I normally nap for a little bit and, depending on the day, I either meet with a savings and credit club (S&CC) or journal/ read for the rest of the afternoon.
Right now, we new volunteers are in a three-month period called the Etude de Milieu (Study of the Environment) where we’re “technically” not supposed to be working but, instead, simply learning about/ “establishing a positive rapport” within our communities. Every month of this period, we submit a report to our supervisor detailing the specific needs of our communities and the ways we might be able to help meet these needs. Practically, “establishing a positive rapport” requires being as involved as possible in our communities—this, therefore, explains why I’ve been going to the URCBAM bureau daily and meeting with 7 S&CCs weekly.
Every SED volunteer is encouraged to create and maintain savings and credit clubs in our communities. These clubs are mostly women’s groups comprised of 6-12 members, which meet weekly to deposit money into a wooden saving’s box. Each group decides on their own rules and regulations governing who receives loans, when they should be repaid, how much interest they should be repaid with, and what happens in the event of a member defaulting on the loan. My predecessor started a number of these clubs with an organization called Association de Developpement Song-Taaba de Kongoussi (ADST), an association of cultivators and animal herders. It’s common for these groups to stop during the rainy season, since most people are busy in the fields, and divide the amount saved in the box amongst the members. Every one of my predecessor’s groups did just this, so I’ve been helping to recommence the saving and lending activities amongst existing groups while also working to form new groups with other interested women within this organization.
Although my work with these groups is just beginning, I’ve already experienced an incredible sense of fulfillment from the little I’ve done. When I initially received my site assignment, I struggled with the question, “is this what I wanted?” I wasn’t particularly thrilled to have a “9:00 to X:00 job,” and I didn’t know how to feel about living in what’s essentially a typical American townhouse (well, minus the plumbing) in a small city. I had this romanticized notion of living the “simple life,” the life typical of peace corps volunteers working in the domains of health education (HE) and girl’s education (GE): small village, no access to fruits, vegetables, nor cold beverages, no electricity…no life that I’ve ever known. But now I feel rather privileged to live in a city like Kongoussi. Although my living arrangements are “fairly” Western-like, the living arrangements for the women in the S&CCs that I work with are identical to those in Burkina’s poorest villages. When one travels outside the urban part of the city (meaning if one biked 5 minutes in any direction; Kongoussi is more of a town than a city) one would find these women, and thousands of other women and families, living in homes constructed from a mixture of mud, pebbles, and straw. All of this said, I now think I have the best of both worlds. I, myself, live in conditions pretty similar to conditions back home (well similar in most respects; it’s taken a few months of living here to find the similarities), but I’m able to serve a community in the most desperate need of aid. There’s yet to be a time when I’ve left these women and not have been reminded of why I’ve voyaged so very far: to use the skills that privilege has afforded me, to help those of whom I believe my privilege has come at the expense of.
Monday and Thursday evenings I head to PLAN Burkina (a NGO dedicated to improving the lives of children in developing countries) where I teach an English class to its staff with another volunteer, Anna Cap. Anna is a third-year health education (HE) volunteer that works for PLAN. I’m one of just a handful of volunteers who’s lucky enough to have another volunteer at his/ her site. Having her here has been a great a blessing in disguise—I didn’t want a site mate initially, because I didn’t want my relationship with him/ her to interfere with the community integration progress, but she’s proven an incredible help (not a hindrance) with this process, pointing me in the direction of resources that I may’ve not discovered on my own. At our English classes, Anna and I usually provide text studies on various issues affecting developing countries and ask the class to explain and evaluate the author’s argument. Since the most lucrative jobs in Burkina are with NGOs (a distressing sign of the desperate state of affairs here and the general lack of other employment opportunities), PLAN is incredibly well-staffed. Teaching here, therefore, is a pleasure.
On Saturdays, I attend meetings of the Kongoussi English Club, of which I’m a member. The club really is the coolest thing since sliced bread. When I was asked to join, I initially thought it would be more of a class than a club. But, thankfully, I was proven wrong. The very first week that I attended, the club read an excerpt from the Autobiography of Malcolm X and commenced a debate of whether X’s philosophy or Dr. King’s was/ is the better. It was so surreal to be discussing pacifism and the use of violence with Africans while actually being on the continent. Since that first day I attended, we’ve debated the topics of forced marriage, how food security can be best be achieved in Africa, and whether or not a woman can/ should be the head of state (following the assassination of Benazir Bhutto). The Kongoussi English Club has immensely broadened my perspective on a number of issues, and furthermore, has provided an excellent way of meeting/ building relationships with people in the community.
I must admit, though, that being in a town where so many people speak English has been terrible for my French learning endeavors. I am now fairly conversational but am by NO MEANS fluent. I will never again believe anyone who says that the language “will just come.” If you’ve never studied the language before it does not just come—it takes a great deal of work.
My Sunday’s are extremely low key. I meet with two S&CCs in the morning, but spend the rest of the day relaxing on my terrace. I have two friends who normally come to pay me a visit, Donald and Rouki, so I spend the afternoon chatting with them. Following their departure, I normally prepare the same thing that I had for lunch, for dinner. I then retire to bed, as I do every night, with my stomach only partially satiated, but with my spirit fully ready to take on the next week.
And thus a typical week for me in Kongoussi comes to its close. Although it’s assured to change in the months ahead (after my “Etude” period ends), it shall remain, for now, all that I know of normality.
Arrival
Although most of my hours the first week here were spent in mundane training sessions, the hour between landing in Burkina Faso and being ushered behind the walls of our temporary training site was EASILY the most intense period I’ve ever lived. In this interval between 4:30 & 5:30pm on October 5th, my mother, whose birthday was today, came incredibly close to receiving the gift she most desired—having her son back home.
At 4:35pm on October 5th, a plane carrying myself and 36 other volunteers (22 Health Education Volunteers and 14 other Small Enterprise Development Volunteers) touched ground in Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso. In the seconds between our landing and our exit, my mind ran rampant with imaginings of what Burkina Faso would be like. Of every possibility that ran through my head, however, the reality of life in Ouagadougou, at least as I perceived it this first day, was far beyond even my wildest imaginations.
At around 4:55pm, I entered one of the cars that had been sent to take us to our training site with six other volunteers. While we waited for the driver to secure our belongings, a boy around the age of 13 approached the car window. He was one of what seemed like hundreds of vendors who mobbed us while walking from the airport terminal to our vehicles. When he approached our car, it was apparent that he wanted to sell one of us some sort of toy he had. After five minutes of holding the toy up to each of our faces, he decided to direct all his efforts toward one person—me. I don’t know what made this boy focus on me, but he did so with unyielding resolve. I shook my head in a manner to suggest that I’m not interested, but with every side-to-side motion he appeared to grow in determination. Realizing that I didn’t have the language capacity to communicate with this boy, another volunteer told me to tell him “merci, mais non (thanks, but no).” Like the refrain of a song, I repeated this phrase over and over again in hopes that it’d lead to the boy’s departure. It didn’t; he stood with dogged perseverance and stared at me boldly, passionately. I quickly became fearful of this boy. I wasn’t so much afraid of him (after all he was just a young boy), but I was absolutely TERRIFIED of the person behind that piercing stare. His, was the stare of an African boy who seemed to have been anesthetized to pain and numbed to suffering, the stare of an African boy who seemed to have been robbed of his innocence, the stare of an African boy who seemed to have been groomed into a boy soldier. The driver eventually entered the car and began driving away but, as he did, I remained captured by the boy’s stare. His firm gaze was matched with a guttural recurring shout, “Demain (Tomorrow)! Demain! Demain!...” I didn’t know how he would, but I was never more assured of anything—tomorrow that boy would find me and, when he did, my fate, like the toy he tried selling, would be in his hands.
From around 5:05 till 5:25pm, I was transported through Ouagadougou, in what became as intense an experience as my encounter with the boy at the airport. Not even the word primitive, a word that I’ve long considered to be extremely offensive when used to describe African societies, goes far enough to sum up the pre-industrialized world that I first found Ouagadougou to be. The main road on which we traveled to the training site was one of only a few paved roads that I could remember seeing this day. This road was lined with hundreds of vending booths that were made of little more than corrugated tin and tree limbs. Donkeys, goats, and chickens maneuvered the side streets amongst thousands of bike and moped riders. Alongside the main road, urinating men and pooping children helped to complete this first picture of my surroundings. As I stared out at what appeared to be life in Burkina Faso, I was absolutely certain that I wasn’t going to make it past this first week. The “slum-like” landscape of Ouagadougou was identical to (if not more regressive than) African sceneries depicted in films like Hotel Rwanda and Blood Diamond. Realizing this, one thought came to dominate my thinking: if genocide occurred in those scenes, and this scene is identical to those, genocide must have occurred/ must still be occurring here. Although I understood how irrational this thought was (since I knew the Peace Corps would never send volunteers to an area that’s in the grips of civil conflict), I couldn’t rid my mind of it. I’m not exaggerating when I say I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE AFRAID OF ANYTHING than I was, at this moment, of remaining in this country. Suddenly, I was reminded of “boy soldier” from the airport and, when he came to mind, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began begging my dear Lord to please get me the [INSERT EXPLETIVE] out of Burkina Faso!!!
At just past 5:25pm, my vehicle pulled safely behind the gates of our temporary training site, SIL. In SIL, I had found a secure haven away the dangers that lied just beyond its gates. Here, my fear began to dissipate and my lost confidence began to be renewed. Before the hour that elapsed between landing at the airport and reaching SIL drew to a close, I channeled the whirlwind of emotions that I was feeling into one semi self-encouraging message: “Justin, you can do this, but…if for any reason you don’t think that you can, know that it was nice of you to try.”
Now 3:32pm on March 6th 2008, five months past my tumultuous first hour in Burkina, it’s nice to know that I’m still trying.
A brief addendum to the above posting:
It’s unbelievable how much one’s perception changes over the course of a few months. As I look back at my understanding of life in Burkina Faso on October 5th, I can’t help to be ashamed of my ignorance. My thinking was so flawed in so many ways. First, the fact that I thought the boy at the airport was a “boy soldier” is utterly ridiculous. I’ve since met many boys like him and, having done so, can declare with certainty that he was, at best, a tough salesman. Secondly, the fact that I described Ouagadougou as primitive is not only extremely offensive, as I’ve always known it to be, but also…utterly ridiculous. Sure it’s not the booming metropolis that New York City is, but it is similar to NYC and other urban hubs throughout the world, in many respects (e.g. it’s densely populated, moderately developed, fairly liberal, etc.). And lastly, the fact that I was convinced that Burkina Faso must be some war torn savage land is—take a guess—UTTERLY REDICULOUS! I have never felt safer anywhere than I do in my community here. There’s certainly nowhere in Chicago, or at least nowhere that I’ve ever lived, where I can sleep outdoors without fear of being robbed, raped, killed, or all of the above. Here though, when the hot season arrives, I will remove myself from the fiery pits of hell (i.e. my 95˚ house) and sleep as everyone else in the country does, outdoors.
Wrapping up, I just want to comment on how misleading, deceptive, and dangerous mainstream media depictions of Africa can be/ are. Although I knew better than to assume that Burkina was some hot bed of civil strife, I couldn’t get the images of atrocities that I’d seen committed elsewhere on the continent, in films, out of my mind as I stared out at Burkina’s “rough” landscape. My hope is that volunteers in the decades to follow will come to associate abstractions such as intelligence, beauty, and cultural depth that they derive from media portrayals of life in Africa, with varying landscapes throughout the continent (even the “roughest” of ones). I guess that’s the great thing about hope: it makes even the most remote possibilities seem attainable.
At 4:35pm on October 5th, a plane carrying myself and 36 other volunteers (22 Health Education Volunteers and 14 other Small Enterprise Development Volunteers) touched ground in Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso. In the seconds between our landing and our exit, my mind ran rampant with imaginings of what Burkina Faso would be like. Of every possibility that ran through my head, however, the reality of life in Ouagadougou, at least as I perceived it this first day, was far beyond even my wildest imaginations.
At around 4:55pm, I entered one of the cars that had been sent to take us to our training site with six other volunteers. While we waited for the driver to secure our belongings, a boy around the age of 13 approached the car window. He was one of what seemed like hundreds of vendors who mobbed us while walking from the airport terminal to our vehicles. When he approached our car, it was apparent that he wanted to sell one of us some sort of toy he had. After five minutes of holding the toy up to each of our faces, he decided to direct all his efforts toward one person—me. I don’t know what made this boy focus on me, but he did so with unyielding resolve. I shook my head in a manner to suggest that I’m not interested, but with every side-to-side motion he appeared to grow in determination. Realizing that I didn’t have the language capacity to communicate with this boy, another volunteer told me to tell him “merci, mais non (thanks, but no).” Like the refrain of a song, I repeated this phrase over and over again in hopes that it’d lead to the boy’s departure. It didn’t; he stood with dogged perseverance and stared at me boldly, passionately. I quickly became fearful of this boy. I wasn’t so much afraid of him (after all he was just a young boy), but I was absolutely TERRIFIED of the person behind that piercing stare. His, was the stare of an African boy who seemed to have been anesthetized to pain and numbed to suffering, the stare of an African boy who seemed to have been robbed of his innocence, the stare of an African boy who seemed to have been groomed into a boy soldier. The driver eventually entered the car and began driving away but, as he did, I remained captured by the boy’s stare. His firm gaze was matched with a guttural recurring shout, “Demain (Tomorrow)! Demain! Demain!...” I didn’t know how he would, but I was never more assured of anything—tomorrow that boy would find me and, when he did, my fate, like the toy he tried selling, would be in his hands.
From around 5:05 till 5:25pm, I was transported through Ouagadougou, in what became as intense an experience as my encounter with the boy at the airport. Not even the word primitive, a word that I’ve long considered to be extremely offensive when used to describe African societies, goes far enough to sum up the pre-industrialized world that I first found Ouagadougou to be. The main road on which we traveled to the training site was one of only a few paved roads that I could remember seeing this day. This road was lined with hundreds of vending booths that were made of little more than corrugated tin and tree limbs. Donkeys, goats, and chickens maneuvered the side streets amongst thousands of bike and moped riders. Alongside the main road, urinating men and pooping children helped to complete this first picture of my surroundings. As I stared out at what appeared to be life in Burkina Faso, I was absolutely certain that I wasn’t going to make it past this first week. The “slum-like” landscape of Ouagadougou was identical to (if not more regressive than) African sceneries depicted in films like Hotel Rwanda and Blood Diamond. Realizing this, one thought came to dominate my thinking: if genocide occurred in those scenes, and this scene is identical to those, genocide must have occurred/ must still be occurring here. Although I understood how irrational this thought was (since I knew the Peace Corps would never send volunteers to an area that’s in the grips of civil conflict), I couldn’t rid my mind of it. I’m not exaggerating when I say I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE AFRAID OF ANYTHING than I was, at this moment, of remaining in this country. Suddenly, I was reminded of “boy soldier” from the airport and, when he came to mind, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began begging my dear Lord to please get me the [INSERT EXPLETIVE] out of Burkina Faso!!!
At just past 5:25pm, my vehicle pulled safely behind the gates of our temporary training site, SIL. In SIL, I had found a secure haven away the dangers that lied just beyond its gates. Here, my fear began to dissipate and my lost confidence began to be renewed. Before the hour that elapsed between landing at the airport and reaching SIL drew to a close, I channeled the whirlwind of emotions that I was feeling into one semi self-encouraging message: “Justin, you can do this, but…if for any reason you don’t think that you can, know that it was nice of you to try.”
Now 3:32pm on March 6th 2008, five months past my tumultuous first hour in Burkina, it’s nice to know that I’m still trying.
A brief addendum to the above posting:
It’s unbelievable how much one’s perception changes over the course of a few months. As I look back at my understanding of life in Burkina Faso on October 5th, I can’t help to be ashamed of my ignorance. My thinking was so flawed in so many ways. First, the fact that I thought the boy at the airport was a “boy soldier” is utterly ridiculous. I’ve since met many boys like him and, having done so, can declare with certainty that he was, at best, a tough salesman. Secondly, the fact that I described Ouagadougou as primitive is not only extremely offensive, as I’ve always known it to be, but also…utterly ridiculous. Sure it’s not the booming metropolis that New York City is, but it is similar to NYC and other urban hubs throughout the world, in many respects (e.g. it’s densely populated, moderately developed, fairly liberal, etc.). And lastly, the fact that I was convinced that Burkina Faso must be some war torn savage land is—take a guess—UTTERLY REDICULOUS! I have never felt safer anywhere than I do in my community here. There’s certainly nowhere in Chicago, or at least nowhere that I’ve ever lived, where I can sleep outdoors without fear of being robbed, raped, killed, or all of the above. Here though, when the hot season arrives, I will remove myself from the fiery pits of hell (i.e. my 95˚ house) and sleep as everyone else in the country does, outdoors.
Wrapping up, I just want to comment on how misleading, deceptive, and dangerous mainstream media depictions of Africa can be/ are. Although I knew better than to assume that Burkina was some hot bed of civil strife, I couldn’t get the images of atrocities that I’d seen committed elsewhere on the continent, in films, out of my mind as I stared out at Burkina’s “rough” landscape. My hope is that volunteers in the decades to follow will come to associate abstractions such as intelligence, beauty, and cultural depth that they derive from media portrayals of life in Africa, with varying landscapes throughout the continent (even the “roughest” of ones). I guess that’s the great thing about hope: it makes even the most remote possibilities seem attainable.
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