October 2011

The heat is killing me.   The rains are gone having barely filled the Dams, and leaving behind a vast number of mosquito’s and a lot of Malaria.  We are in what they call “The mini hot season”. Mini, yeh right.  We are back at 100 degree’s, so what’s mini about that?

They have filled the potholes left by the rain, with rubble – It always makes me laugh when they fill another hole, because they fill it full of sharp obtrusive looking rocks which everyone then drives around, not wanting to be the first to drive over them and risk harpooning their tyres.  It is really not that helpful.

There was a couple of fun days in the rain when I found myself driving along roads gushing with orange water, more resembling a river than a road, the water flowing furiously fast.  Eventually the ground swallows up the water but it takes hours due to the lack of drainage on the dirt roads.

I have been sick a lot.  Apparently I have 3 parasites in my body.  This is not uncommon here. At home, we wash all our salad and fruit in bleach to kill the bacteria, but of course every time you eat out you are taking a gamble.  A good strong course of antibiotics and I will be back on my feet.  Oh the joys of Africa.

I know people who are going down with Typhoid at the moment as well.  All these health issues make me so grateful for the sanitation and western medicine that we all take for granted in the West.  The streets here stink.  There are so many animals roaming free in the streets and many open drains which are used as sewers down many streets, and the smell can make you retch.  Really, its no wonder we get sick.  Last year I had a tiny cut on my foot. It was really small, not even worth putting a band aid on, but 10 days later I couldn’t walk.  My foot was red and swollen and I had this seeping wound where the cut had been.  I learned that you cannot ever leave a cut uncovered, no matter how small.  Thank goodness for antibiotics.

Our dear friend, Hannah, who is living with us right now is continuing to work with the orphans and is learning something of some of the kid’s stories.  One child is to be returned to her Father.  She has lived at the orphanage since she was born having lost her mother in childbirth.  For three years the carers of the orphanage are the only “parents” she has known.  The father was contacted and told that he must give permission for her to be adopted or come and get her.  He is coming to get her.  In three years he did not visit his daughter once. 

Hannah is also teaching English and last week we read some stories written by her students.  She had asked them to write in the past tense.  It was fascinating reading about these men and women’s life experiences.  One man told of the 1996 famine in his village, where people were starving and eating anything they could find.  First they ate their pets, then many people died from eating poisonous plants and flowers. 

People’s stories are so tragic.  Even our own guard here at the house has his own terrible story of living and working in Cote d’Ivoire, and during the harvest finding bodies in the fields.  He fled and came to Burkina where he now sits outside my house all night, and opens the gate for me in the morning.  He is such a nice man.

I find talking to people here fascinating.  It is impossible for me to understand their complex reasoning.  My French is still a frustrating barrier, but it’s more than just the language that leaves me confused and sometimes dumb founded.

 I remember when we were living in the Zambian Bush and a local old man died, his family came to us asking for permission to bury him vertically with his head sticking out of the ground, because they said “he was once raised from the dead before and we believe he will be again” They wanted his head left exposed so that when he was raised from the dead, he could shout for help to be dug out.   Naturally we said no.  apart from the fact we knew he would not be raised from the dead, we also were fairly sure that out in the African Bush there would be no head by the following morning, and goodness only knows what his family would make of that.

A couple of weeks ago, a young girl, here in Burkina, was struck by lightening.  She died and her family believe she was struck down for some terrible sin she had committed against another.  They believe she was cursed and in order to break the curse they had to first go and purchase some goats and other animals and take them to a specific person in a village (I presume in order to atone for her sin) and then they searched the land where she was struck by lightening and dug until they found a black pointed stone.  Having found the stone they are released from the curse and no further tragedy will befall their family.

It does not seem to make any difference what peoples religious beliefs are.  Somewhere I read  “Burkina is 50% Muslim 50% Christian and 100% Animist”  Their superstitions and Animist beliefs govern all their reasoning and run like blood through the veins of their culture. 

I offered to help an expectant mother with items for the arrival of her baby. Clothes, a cot, etc, but she looked at me with horror, telling me that if she had these things before the baby arrived, the baby would likely die in childbirth.  I found myself apologizing profusely for upsetting her and being so culturally insensitive, however I did then gently mention that all three of my babies had survived childbirth despite their mother already having a cot, clothing and other such essentials.  She looked at me like I was off another planet and pointed out the fact that, that is because I am white.

September 2011

So here we are back for episode 2 of our Burkina experience.

I apologise for the lack of posts in the second half of last year.  The civil and military unrest here was a little all consuming, and what with the 110 degree heat and 12 hour daily power cuts, I rather lost my sense of humor, and my will to write, with it.
Peace in Burkina is currently resumed and I now stand convinced, that the heat was actually driving people here crazy.

So year 2.   It should be a breeze.  I mean,  after all, now we have sussed the culture, got the whole thing nailed, right? Not exactly, but we do understand more of our cultural context, we can speak some of the language and we are less frustrated (on good days) by the inefficiency and amount of time it takes to achieve the simplest tasks. The electrician has been three times this week to fix, re-fix and re-fix again, various simple electrical faults in the house, and each time I smile and welcome him like an old friend, as I will when the plumber arrives next week to fix my toilet for the 179th time since we arrived here.
I also no longer get angry about the "white man's tax" that is applied to much of the produce I buy. I am no longer suprised when the fish man comes to my house and charges me $60  for two small pieces of fish ( I wasn't there, so my housekeeper kindly paid him from housekeeping money). Neither am I overwhelmed by the fruit sellers who refuse to accept my polite no thank you and thrust, throw, shove and force their fruit into my face, through my car window. I simply wind up the window, and drive away, hoping sincerely that I do not have any of their fingers unintentionally trapped in the window. They are, after all, just trying to make an living.
As I write, the household staff next door have started their weekly ritual of pounding the grain. A constant, dull, incessant thud, that can last for hours and causes you  to feel like its your head that is being pounded, rather than the millet. I breathe deeply and settle into the rhythm of it.......  
Such aspects of daily life  feel normal now, and I am learning not to "headbang" my way through each day. Life is slow. So - very - slow. No one is in a hurry, and they are not going to be pressurised into moving any quicker, no matter how loudly you blow your horn, and trust me, I have blown mine very loud.
Burkina is rich in lessons.  Lets face it, we all know how crazy our lives in the west are, with our schedule keeping, and achievement driven society. Despite my slightly sarcastic summery above, I am grateful for the opportunity here to "take my time".  It is a gift.

The rains are here again, and its a relief to see the landscape greener.  Driving along the other day I passed an area of land that back in May was a parched, cracked, desolate looking wasteland.  Now it was covered in green. I commented to my Burkinabe friend "Look grass!"  She laughed at me and said "No Emily, weeds"  I never thought my soul would be fed by looking upon a field of weeds, but after the 6 month drought of last year, I drank it in.

I visited an orphanage last week for the first time.  Our new au-pair, Hannah, will be volunteering there one day a week.   It is a refuge for babies who have lost their mothers in childbirth and are awaiting  the often long, dragged out, bureaucratic process of international adoption.  The babies were so tiny.  some of them only three or four weeks old, and still the size of a pre-mature newborn.  And there were so many of them.  Its was disturbing to see them all lined up side by side like some kind of production line. All  these tiny, motherless, lonely little people.  The smell was bad, and the conditions unacceptable to say the least.  There were some older babies too, one with big open sores on her legs - mosquito bites turned septic, I think.  One little boy is deaf and mute.  The doctors have said his hearing can be helped but it is costly and they must find a family who are prepared to take on the medical implications of his condition.  I came home feeling a little numb and overwhelmed. My own wealth and abundant good fortune screaming in my face.

I do find the poverty emotionally exhausting. The terrible truth is, that I don't like having to look at it every day. Its the constant niggling feeling of guilt that follows me around all the time.  And the feeling that its all too big.  That we only ever scratch the surface of it, no matter what we give.  That for every tiny baby who gets welcomed into a new family today, another will fill its place in the production line tomorrow.

Nazinga game park and Tiebele.

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A trip south to Nazinga Game Ranch gave us a welcome short break from the dust and daily bustle of Ouaga. The journey was long - we kept being directed off the tarmac onto pothole ridden dirt tracks, where we would race with donkey's and drive half blind in the dust kicked up by other vehicles. Through settlements sitting under the shadows of their ancient sacred Boabab tree's with pigs and goats roaming freely and children waving wildly and chasing our car. It was quite exhilerating to be beyond the confines of the city but after 4 hours of navigating potholes and avoiding blind collision with various wildstock, we were glad to arrive.

On the 35km road through the game park, to the camp, the kids kept their eyes peeled for movement in the bush. The grasses were still high making visability hard but suddenly Peter shouted "Elephants!", we reversed and sure enough there were two huge beasts right there 20 mtres from the road. The kids were excited and temporarily forgot their sore bums and cramped legs. We continued on our journey, spying toucans and a large snake. When we arrived at the water hole we were thrilled to see a whole family of elephants quenching their thirst at the waters edge. The accomodation was basic to say the least - this is Burkina after all, so no fancy safari tents for us, but once Richard had removed the several different species of large African arachnids who had set up home in our hut, it worked. We awoke before dawn and watched the elephants come for their early morning drink and wallow, then headed out with our guide to look for wildlife. The sun was just coming up and there was a distinct cold pinch in the air, and with the sound of the crickets singing their morning song, we grabbed our camera and water bottles and headed out into the bush. We spyed antelope and baboons through the haze of the morning light and climbed to the top of a hill where we could do a 360 turn and see the African savanna stretching to the horizon on all sides. More elephants, crocodiles, warthogs. In truth the wildlife was sparse in comparison with what we saw in southern Africa but it was exhilerating to be back in the wild.

Having taken in our fill of beasts, we decided to head south to the Ghanian border to a village called Tiebiele. Here we visited a traditional Kassena village. The Kassena people are one of Burkina's oldest traditional tribal people groups. Set in the heart of Gourounsi county, Tiebele is famous for its colourful windowless traditional houses. You can visit the cheifs compound which is a wonderful example of these. We picked up a guide on the street who proved to be very knowledgeable. He told us many things about the strange customs and traditions of these animist people. On entering the compound we were told that we must not take photographs of the sacred Boabab tree or the hill right by it as this was where the women of the village bury their placenta's, a ritual which offers protection over the newborn child. He told us that the hill which is known as the pourrou, was purely placenta's and was getting higher year by year - it was already as tall as your average two story house in the UK. That is an awful lot of placenta's. Sacrifices are made right in front of the sacred tree - different livestock for different purposes, a chicken does the job for protecting a newborn, but a goat or cow goes to the stone table if a village elder or chief needs favour from the spirits.

 The houses are circular, rectangular or figure-eight-shape depending on the status of its occupants. Grandparents live in the figure- eights, known as dinian, with the grandchildren, whilst the parents of the children live in the rectangular mangolo. It is their belief that the Grandparents have more wisdom and experience and should therefor raise the next generation, freeing the parents to produce more off spring which builds a strong future workforce. The circular houses, draa, are occupied by single people. The houses, which are constructed from a mixture of mud and dung, are beautifully decorated with geometric repeating patterns. The majority of the hut painting is done by the single women of the compound, taught by the grandmother's. First they sand down the surface with flat stones, then they apply a coating made of earth, cow dung and ash. The red glaze which they apply next is made from pounded laterite (Burkina's red topsoil) water and boiled seeds of the nere tree. Red paint comes from Kaolin, black from ash, and white from calcium. The result is truly a piece of art. Repeating patterns of coded symbols - the calabash is often represented (this is a kitchen object, a mainstay of Kassena culture, used for everything from a drinking goblet to a tomb stone) zigzags representing the footprints of chickens used extensively in sacrifices, Boa constrictors thought to be sacred and hold the spirits of grandmothers, lizards, thought to bring good fortune (The Kassena wait for 3 days after building a hut to see if a lizard enters its threshold. If it does not the hut is cursed and cannot be lived in) A quiver representing the hunters and warriors and pipes and sticks

representing the wisdom of old age.

 

The houses inside are low and dark. Inside the dinian, one must crouch down and crawl through a doorway, then climb over a low wall to enter through a doorway into the next chamber. This was so that if wild animals or an enemy invaded the house, the occupants would have the opportunity to grab a weapon and decapitate them as they came through.

It was absolutely fascinating, and well worth the extra hour inhaling dust and dodging goats, that it took us to get there.