Thanks for all the beach Ivory Coast, but I've got a plane to catch

It's been 4 days and 3 nights since I settled down here in the Grand Bassam.  I've laid on the beach, eaten good street food and explored Abidjan.  But now it's finally time to go back to the USA.

Abidjan is a cool city, though still a little war torn.  They haven't picked up all the pieces or torn down all the partially destroyed buildings.  But in maybe 5 years, I will definitely want to come back.  There are about a half-dozen city sectors and each one has there own color taxi, but the orange ones go everywhere.  There are big buildings and malls and crowed residential buildings and corner markets and street sandwiches with fish, meat, guacamolé, fries, fried plantains and all sorts of vegetables.  There's lots of Mediterranean inspired restaurants.  Grand Bassam is a 1$ taxi van ride away and you can easily get $10-20 rooms.  I estimate that may go up to the $50 range when things get going, but still pretty cheap for what you get.

Maybe I was easily impressed because the standard of hotel rooms was so much higher than in my small Burkinabé village.  This trip was a great transition for me.  I was pretty morose on the train ride over from Ouagadougou.  Getting all the depression from leaving my village out of my system, and on the beach no less, will make my homecoming much happier for me.

Barry Goes to Côte d'Ivoire

I boarded the train at 9am Saturday thinking I would arrive at 2am Tuesday, sleep in the station till sunrise, and then go on to my hotel.  The 2nd class seating (1st class was sold out) consists of unpadded McDonalds style benches.  It wasn't too comfortable and sleeping was impossible.  But the view was incredible.

10 hours going through the jungle and all of a sudden this basilica pops up out of the palm trees.

Unfortunately, we got in at 6pm Sunday.  I was happy to be off the train but finding a hotel in a strange city at dusk makes me a little nervous.  I got a taxi and said to take me to a hotel in the 20-30$ range.  After an hour of driving around, looking for this guy's buddy in the Angré quarter, we found him and he took us to a couple of hotels that are called 'residences' for tax purposes.  It was dark and I was a little nervous, but being from Ouagadougou and knowing so much about Burkina Faso helped me because this guy says he specializes in helping Burkinabe businessmen find lodging in Abidjan.  The 2nd place we check out seems fine and I pay the $22 and half expected to get robbed, my comeuppance for poor planning.  But my luck held out and I was more than happy.

I think the guy, despite my appearing to know about Burkina, was still worried that I would be Americanly unimpressed with the lodgings.  Dude, I've been living in a village of 4000 for 2 years.  There was a tiny kitchen, a toilet, a TV with Canal+ and an AC.  I'm satisfied.  No running water?  Son I invented no running water.  Give me a giant barrel of water and a few buckets and I'm happy.  I slept in 18 degrees C with a big smile on my face.

This morning (today is Monday) I get in touch with my info guide and he tells me how to get to the Grand Bassam, where my planned hotel is.  I'm 500 meters from the beach and I'm paying $10 a night.  The lodging is spartan, but remember that I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer.  This place has a fan and running water! I can take a bush taxi into Abidjan for $1 anytime I want.  I'll go explore a couple of markets, a couple of city sectors, and the beach.

3 days till my flight leaves.  Or I could just live here and set up a frozen banana stand.

Thanks for all the fun Burkina Faso, but I've got a train to catch.

In about 12 hours I'll board the Ouaga-Abidjan train.  It should take about 40 hours.  That's a whopping 17.5 mph.  Lot's of small town stops I guess.  A bus does it in about 20 I think.

A little bit about the Ivory Coast.  There are no confirmed cases of Ebola yet (8/8/14), despite being a neighbor to Liberia with it's closed borders and everything.  Abidjan is practically American level of development.  I speak french and a bit of Jula, which is also spoken there, so I'll be prepared to handle the less-than-friendly people.  Taking the train, I won't have to worry about road bandits.  I'm travelling light, one backpack and one clothes bag that I can jettison real quick if things get nasty.

About the train.  I missed out on a first class seat.  They have one single first class car and it always sells out.  I even tried to buy 5 days in advance.  So I'll have to sit in one of the like 30 2nd class train cars.  So many times in west Africa I see missed opportunities on maximizing profit.  1st class is only 40000 Francs as opposed to 27500 for 2nd class.  40000 Francs is like a decent sized fan, if you pay the tourist price.

I guess that's why it's so easy for European and Middle Eastern businessmen to come in and run everything. The seats in 2nd class are basically plastic McDonalds benches.

I took a couple of long train rides when I studies abroad but the Ivory Coast could easily be the most beautiful trip.  Hopefully the scenery is nice and my appetite for reading stays firm, because this guy just died on me.

My bro gave that to me on like the last day before I left for Burkina Faso IIRC.  Travelling in-country is one of the biggest complaints from volunteers who have to deal with Burkinabe pestering them for money or to take them to America.  Me, I just put on my gigantic headphones and descend into a wonderful world of Led Zeppling, Girl Talk and trance music and I'm there in a heartbeat.  Anyone bugs me, I just stare blankly at them and mouth (in English teehee) that I don't understand.  Jeff definitely gets the award for most valuable addition to my pre-Burkina packing list because genius Barry wasn't planning on bringing a music device.

I have someone who I'll meet in Abidjan, friend of a friend, so I won't be alone.  It should be a nice relaxing end to my time in Africa.  If it's not, I hid the rubies in my latrine.  Trust me, they're down there.

Last 10 Days in Village

I'm sitting here in the Bobo office about to go catch a bush taxi to my village for the last time and trying to think of other times in my life where I faced that wall and had to climb it.

During high school soccer tryouts we had to run 2 miles in 13 minutes in order to qualify.  Tryouts lasted 3-4 days and you had to keep attempting the run every day until you made it.  The earlier you made it, the easier it would be otherwise.  I would hit 14:15 maybe on the first day.  Mid 13's on the 2nd or 3rd.  I think I made it every year.  I'm not entirely sure because it was a soft requirement to make the team.  I remember lying in bed at 5:15am, knowing what I had to do and, especially the first day, how unlikely it would be to get the time.  There's always been that moment where something inside warms up and I just got out of bed and went.  It's always the hardest part of the experience.  Running isn't even that bad.

Seeing all my village friends won't be that bad.  Even knowing it's the last time, I'll still enjoy tea and conversation when I'm there.  After I leave I'll be sad but the last bus ride out won't actually hurt.  I'll listen to music and try not to step on the goats tied up on the bottom of the bush taxi.  I'll go to Ouagadougou and say bye to all the PC staff.  I'll finish up my preparations for teaching certification in Texas.  I'll get my Peace Corps pin and, on August 9th, I'll get on a train for Abidjan and head back towards the US.

But right now I'm still in bed before tryouts.  I'm thinking about the cold air, the wet grass and coach Jenkins with his stopwatch yelling times at us as we cross the line.  There's no way I ran enough over the summer to get 13 minutes, and there's no way I'm going to hold it together when I drink my last tea, eat my last Attieke and wave goodbye to my neighbors.  I'm strong enough to do this but it's warmer in bed, and I'm scared.

These people were my life for 2 years.  They taught me how to cook, clean, eat and speak and they just ate up every single thing I said about the outside world.  Now I have to leave them behind.  Hopefully not forever.

Well here goes.

My Last Rainy Season

The rains have come again and it's time to plant.  My neighbor is around 70 but still always up and about.  The kids plow the fields with dabas fitted like shovels and then she sows the seeds.

                                                                                                                                                                   

Awa can do hectares of this in a morning.  You just go on down the row and scoop out to make the seed beds.  I did one 100 foot long row and had to lie down for a while.  You can fit many different metal endings to the end of the daba tool.  I plan to bring a few back with spade attachments for weeding or whatever gardening I do.  I won't be needing the shovel/plowing attachment.

Not many people have the means to use a donkey pulled plow, so its all by hand.

The majority of my neighbors' corn field.  They also have rice and yam fields.

She carries a cane that she smacks into the ground to make a hole for the seeds and then she drops them in.  When you get used to the process it can go pretty fast.  I love the square sombrero.  It's about 9am and maybe 90 degrees in this picture, but ole grandma Ouattara isn't phased by such things as heat.

Donkey Surprises are getting more common

Walking next door to buy some bouillon cubes from my neighbor and there's a donkey.  Back when I first arrived in country and did 3 months in a village south of Ouagadougou with a host family, there was a donkey just outside my bedroom window.  It would bray right when my tiredness would overcome my heat discomfort as I fell asleep.  They are number 2 on my most annoying animals list, not as bad as guinea fouls, but worse than pigs and goats and chickens. 

 We just stood there and looked at each other.  I have it on very good authority from another volunteer that all the donkeys died from an epidemic in mine and surrounding villages a while ago, and are slowly being reintroduced.  For the past 18 months though, its been pretty quiet. 

I think he felt safer than he really was.

So That's What That Burning Smell Was

 I was taking a bus from Leo to Ouagadougou today when we started smelling some burning (rubber it turned out).  This isn't unusual, engines are in bad repair, roads are blistering hot and car fumes make a small city smell like the most polluted ones in USA.

 This was a little unsettling though.

At least we didn't get stopped on the road by bandits.  Yes.  Bandits.

Celebrating Easter

The standard operating procedure for a Burkinabe holiday:

1) Find a big shady tree
2) Invite all your friends.
3) Get the women cooking.  They are only to approach the men with prepared food or questions about how the men would like their food prepared.  (I'm being a little harsh here, it's not a strict rule, it's just the accepted rule)
4) Crank up the music so conversation is nearly impossible
5) Leap frog the chairs in time with the movement of the sun. So the receding edge of the shade is always moving to the leading edge.
6) Leap frog, eat, drink, nap, repeat (10am to 10pm)

Usual fare includes rice with various sauces, popcorn and these fishy tasting chip things, palm wine, sodas and maybe some meat of some mysterious species.

 That big yellow jug in the center is full of palm wine (banjii).  Straight out of the palm tree it is a sweet juice.  Left alone for a few hours it ferments into a beer level alcohol strength.  Left over night and out in the sun all afternoon it's about as strong as moonshine.

 Look out!!!  The sun is touching him!  Get that man some shade!  But seriously, a square inch of sun hits you and the whole group is clucking about moving out of the heat.

These festivities are fun for an hour or two.  Like American holidays, you get bored if there's not a football game on.

Mango's are back

My last mango season.  I doubt I'll ever be able to match the one's from the tree by my house anywhere in USA.  I'm comforted by the fact that I'll be trading mangos for burritos in August.

I still like to eat mangos with a knife.  Most volunteers eat them like apples the village way.  I haven't gone that native.  My village friends think it's really funny the way I cut up the mango halves into squares:

I still haven't found a translation for fancy in Jula.

The doors are always open at the Bobo office

 Whenever I want to spend a couple of nights away from the simple life in village, I can come to the PC office in Bobo Dioullasso.  It's a small regional office that supports volunteers who are in the southwest of the country and a little more distant from the capital.  It's a magical place.

 Sometimes our work requires access to a computer or internet that we just can't get in site or even in cities near site:  quarterly reports, looking up information for a project or looking at opportunities for after service has finished.  There's a small library with all kinds of information on languages, project ideas, lesson plans and even novels left behind by years of previous volunteers. 

There's a kitchen complete with fridge and stove for cooking.  A bathroom with a toilet.  A room with AC!  It's practically America.  

 

 There are mango trees everywhere in Burkina, but we have one within the walls of the office compound, so they don't all get poached by wandering packs of elementary school kids. 

Sometimes you have one of those days where you have giardia.  I had a couple of those days last August.  If a volunteer is sick, they can go all the way to Ouagadougou to visit the main office medical unit, but that's such a hassle.  Buses are slow and not always air conditioned.  It can take 6 hours from Bobo to Ouaga.  Luckily, there is a private medical room that you can only use if you're sick that has it's own bed and AC and privacy from the rest of the house.  If you're sick, but not too sick, a couple days here is just what the doctor ordered.

 It might not look like much, but its our little slice of heaven

 I can't imagine what life would be like without this getaway in Bobo.  I love being in my village,  but I've experienced a strange phenomenon that I know has affected other volunteers.  After a couple of years in your village, you get to the point where being around other languages makes you uncomfortable.  Even going from my region of Gouin/Jula speakers to Mossi country in Ouagadougou is unsettling.  Sometimes you need to get back into a city to keep from immersing too far.

 

And sometimes you just want to read a book on a porch surrounded by walls next to a pretty pink tree where people can't walk by and yell "hey whitey" at you.

Sugar Cane Harvesting

I haven't been able to get a good explanation of why they burn the sugar before harvesting.  But they do and then a bunch of squirrels and snakes and stuff run out from the fire and there is a line of guys with their dogs to kill the snakes.  Maybe its the snake hazard that makes them burn it or the burning helps harvesting.  All I know is that it is still delicious despite the burning.  See previous post for eating sugar cane.

The Importance of Headphones

Notice anything missing in this picture?

The pot handle fell off.  I was wondering what to do with it and decided to keep it in case I needed it someday.  My engineering education makes me see everything as a piece with which to solve a problem, so I hold on to a lot of junk.

Then, a couple of days later, my headphones snap.  The wire wasn't damaged, but if I wanted to listen to music I would need to hold the left headphone on my head and who wants to do that?  When I get bored in village, music is a big pick me up.  It's essential for bush taxi rides into town, it's no fun riding along with a cow in the back seat and a villager next to you asking if they can have your bike.  No one bothers you when you're in the zone and nothing says "the zone" like a pair of over the ear headphones.  As a side note, I doubt I'll ever go back to ear buds.  The sound quality is lower, the ear damage seems like it would be worse and I don't mind the big headphones sitting on my head in public, I already had a big head to begin with.

I had to fix my headphones and I needed a piece of metal, slightly rounded like a head, that I could use as a splint.  Now where was that pot handle...

                                                       

I took about an hour, but these kind of repair jobs are fun for me.  I enjoy the distraction, it takes me back to my K'nex days.  I had a bunch of old wire laying around from when I made an extendable light switch so that I could sleep outside in the hot season and still control the lights with my door locked.  I took of the insulation and tore up my fingers tying it real tight around the handle, but I got it on there nice and tightlike.

Now I can rock again.

And my headphones have a handle now that I can also wrap the cord around during travel.

Parking

Parking spot outside of my bank in Banfora.  Donkeys and motorcycles only.  Sorry, no camels.

Making Tomato Sauce in a 3rd World Country

Ingredients:

Village                                                      

4-5 tomatos and one 70g packet tomato sauce

2 cloves garlic

1 medium onion

1 bay leaf

Salt and pepper

Pasta
Palm Oil
Powdered Spicy Pepper

City
Basil
Oregano


Tomatos
Cut out the center by stabbing a square into both ends.  Boil them for 30 seconds and, when they've cooled, the skins will peel right off.  If you are really fancy, like me, you can scoop the seeds out.  Cut them up into chunks.

Sauce
Heat up some palm oil in the sauce pot, then simmer the garlic and onions for a minute.  Add 2 or 3 cups of water (adding too much just means that you wait a little longer for it to boil off).  Add the tomato paste, a dash each of basil and oregano, salt and pepper (I don't have measuring spoons, I just imagine I'm salting and peppering a plate of fries and stop when I think it's enough).  Drop in the bay leaf and the cut up tomatos.  I also like to spice it up with some peppers.  There are powdered habanero-esque peppers available here.

Cover the sauce and let simmer for 15 minutes, so the flavors can mix up.  Uncover the sauce and let it boil down to desired consistency, it can take 15 more minutes for me sometimes.

If you are in a city instead of a village, you can even add some mozzarella cheese.

I think he came from the Sahara

I hear about volunteers north of Ouagadougou seeing camel travelers often, but this is my first one.  He was stopped in my village with his buddy getting water and maybe food.  I had no idea how huge camels are, I always thought of them as roughly horse sized.  I can't pretend to guess where he came from; I don't think he spoke much of any language I know.  As cool as the idea of tearing around the Sahara sounds, after spending almost 2 years in my relatiely tropical climate, I don't think I would want to go dryer.

Cotton harvest

January means the cotton is being harvested in my village.  This is a load that will sit for a day or two until it is ready to be shipped out.  I've seen 2 or 3 big dumptruck loads taken away now.  What the farmers do is sell it in bulk and then divide the profits based on each perentage contribution to the overall total weight.

They grow cotton as a cash crop seemingly because that's how it's been done for years.  Some younger farmers have said that it isn't the most profitable.  Sesame can be grown cheaper, using fewer chemicals (fertilizer?) and gives more money in the end.  But tradition is king here and if that's how it's always been done, then by golly that's what we're gonna do.

I got invited to a fellow teacher's wedding (wedding description a little NSFW)

I was a little worried that I wouldn't be able to show what a wedding is like in a Burkinabe village because the pictures would likely be inappropriate by American standards.  Luckily, I got invited to a more 'city' wedding and everyone was fully covered.  Be warned, I'm going to get a little serious about the nature of weddings here, and it can be pretty bad for women.

My friend and coworker Drissa (center) had his wedding ceremony for his side of the family in a small city named Toussiana, about an hour from Siniena (my village).  Government workers (i.e. teachers) often work very far from their hometown or village and Drissa is lucky enough to teach in the same region where he grew up.  I guess the government likes to mix up languages and cultures to encourage cultural unity countrywide.  Left is my village buddy Jacques and right is some family members that I was introduced to, but the music and celebration makes it impossible to remember or hear names.  They had a different ceremony for her (pictured in red) side of the family in her family's village a few days before. 

It was a lot of fun and fairly similar to American weddings.  This was the more official of the two ceremonies and took place at the government building where they signed the Burkina equivalent of the license.  There was food and singing and dancing and everyone gets shirts made from matching fabric chosen by the husband (I think).  There was the reading of vows and at the end everyone shouted kisskisskiss!

There is always nonstop food at Burkinabe weddings.  The usual rice and tô (i need to make a post about tô) and there are often sacrificial chickens, beef and sheep.  Cokes and Fantas and beers for everyone.  I usually go for Fanta or beer even though I prefer Coke.  I can still only drink Coke ice cold.  

People gave speaches, the bride and groom had their dance, followed by the traditional convey through town where everyone gets on their motorcycles and constantly honks their horns.  Now here is where it gets more interesting.

Like I said. I can post pictures of the city weddings because they are somewhat wattered down compared to village weddings.  You might doubt the wildness, but the picture above is considered a formal reception photo for guests to take.  For the vows though, she was wearing a white dress. 

I've been to two other weddings in my village and they can be a little intimidating and depressing.  Intimidating because they go nonstop for 36 hours at least (no joke) and depressing because the girl can easily be as young as 15, though the two that I saw were 19 and 22.  There is also a point where the wife to be and her mom take a collection basket around and everyone pops in a 10cfa piece or two.  For the really village weddings, the wife to be dances up to all the guests and because she is a little sweaty you can stick the coins to her shoulders or forehead, and her mom follows with the basket and picks them up.

From my experience, it's hard for me to imagine Burkinabe villagers marrying for love.  Drissa really seems to love his wife, but they are both functionaries, well educated, and in a small minority.  I went to a wedding where a girl from my village was marrying an Ivoirian (from Ivory Coast) businessman who came into town seemingly to pick a nice docile village girl.  Like you would pick an apple out at the store.  I've had converations with villagers where it's taken a disturbing amount of time to explain that in America you can't just buy a wife and then take her home with you.  I get the smooth condescending smiles that say "you just don't understand life in Africa".  I can't count the number of times that some woman in the market has informed me (jokingly) that she is going to come be my wife.  Take care of my house for me.  It's kind of a funny turnaround, like now I'm the commodity.  A ticket out of the village.  Marriage tends to be a social transaction everywhere, but I can only distantly compare a small town American wedding to an African village one.  Everyone seems to win; the man gets a house manager and the woman gets to leave her family compound, possibly even gets to live in a city, but I haven't witnessed love yet.  I don't doubt that romance exists in Burkina Faso, it just exists on a level that is undetectable to my eyes, and covered by a layer of ambition and hunger.