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.