Just a quick update to let everyone know all is going well here. We swore in yesterday as volunteers after two months of training. It was a big ordeal with the U.S. ambasador and local government and press. The buz here is that, of the entire group that came to Burkina in October, no one has left yet, which we are all very proud of.
Most of us still have about a week in Ouahigouya before going to site, during which we will be doing our shopping and other things to get ready for service. On my list is a lipico mat, a gas stove, and a table and chairs. I leave the day after Christmas.
My counterpart, Valantin Bako, who I will be working with for the next two years, is the mayor of neighboring Godyr (see previous post). Valantin is a hell of a charater and stole the show during our "counterpart workshop" by showing up a day late on a rigged motercycle with a dead rabit on the back. He had left Godyr at three in the morning and hit the rabit on his way during the night. It was roadkill but the first thing he did after introducing himself was insist that I take it home for rabit stew. Jury is still out on rabit meat, but I think I could go without it. Others here disagree.
There is a lot of talk of Maranga trees these days, a tree that sheds a leaf seemingly more nutritious than pretty much everything in the world. A plant called Djtrofa (sp?) is next in line, as it seems to have the potential for being an amazing source for bio-fuels. Additionally, both stop desertification and could be in the works for projects I'll be working on for the next two years. I will keep everyone posted.
I love you all, and hope everyone has a great christmas this year. I'll be trying to send some emails out over the holidays to catch up more individually, so be on the lookout. Also, please give me a call if you get a chance, as I would love to talk.
All the best,
Love,
brekke
ps : FAMILY: call me!
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Dancehall Protestantism
My host father, Zideouemba, is a deacon for the local protestant church. On Sundays, we walk in together and sit at the front, and my host mother, Mariam, moves to the right side of the room with the other women, and my sister, Grace, moves to the left with the children. The service is more than three hours long, which is long.
but you wouldn't notice for at least two hours. I promise. The reason is that my dad, the deacon, is in charge of the music, and he is a real rock star. At first, he walks to the front of the church and someone hands a mic over. It's wired directly to a single huge speaker at the side of the sanctuary. He's wearing his Sunday morning best, a traditional Mossi outfit called the boubou which is kind of like a sheet with arms that you put on over a pair of pants. The pants are also like sheets or maybe like sleeping bags, but this time for your legs.
There are two boys sitting on wooden boxes who wait for his cue, and for a second it is quiet and then there is a bit of distortion while he clears his throat. but suddenly he starts to sing and boogie out of nowhere! The section of women who sit on the right start to yip and yell in response. The two boys start pounding on their boxes and make a mean beat and then I wait for it, because this is my favorite part: the old woman who sits two pews ahead of me starts to move with the rhythm. Its just a bit at first, but pretty soon my dad is tearin' things up up front and grandma just jumps out of her pew and really starts getting down.
The music will kick your ass. You might even cry, because sometimes it all just happens perfectly and you realise you are in this concrete church in Africa where it seems like people have nothing, but once you come to church with them, you're not really sure if it's that they have nothing or that they have everything. and it is hot and dusty and uncomfortable outside, but, the music is killing you and it is just too beautiful. Bite your teeth and keep on swaying. It's cultural faux pas in Burkina to shed a tear, especially out of joy.
Grandma is all the way out on the dance floor now and others have joined her. They form a dance circle and people even show off their moves in the middle. Everyone is clapping, and the melody is swift. When my dad yells out during the song he does it in the way someone would yell out "Chicago, make some noise!" at a concert, but he says, "Bark Wend Na!" which means Praise God, and everyone yips and yells in response again, like we did when we were little kids playing cowboys and indians. I get the shivers every time.
We go home after church and clean house and do laundry. The Sunday afternoon meal is banga which is exclusive to Sundays. It is rice and beans with oil but it is delicious like you wouldn't believe. After we eat, I go to my room and promise myself that next Sunday I won' be such a wall-flower. My host dad is the deacon after all, it would be bad form to keep showing up with such stiff legs.
but you wouldn't notice for at least two hours. I promise. The reason is that my dad, the deacon, is in charge of the music, and he is a real rock star. At first, he walks to the front of the church and someone hands a mic over. It's wired directly to a single huge speaker at the side of the sanctuary. He's wearing his Sunday morning best, a traditional Mossi outfit called the boubou which is kind of like a sheet with arms that you put on over a pair of pants. The pants are also like sheets or maybe like sleeping bags, but this time for your legs.
There are two boys sitting on wooden boxes who wait for his cue, and for a second it is quiet and then there is a bit of distortion while he clears his throat. but suddenly he starts to sing and boogie out of nowhere! The section of women who sit on the right start to yip and yell in response. The two boys start pounding on their boxes and make a mean beat and then I wait for it, because this is my favorite part: the old woman who sits two pews ahead of me starts to move with the rhythm. Its just a bit at first, but pretty soon my dad is tearin' things up up front and grandma just jumps out of her pew and really starts getting down.
The music will kick your ass. You might even cry, because sometimes it all just happens perfectly and you realise you are in this concrete church in Africa where it seems like people have nothing, but once you come to church with them, you're not really sure if it's that they have nothing or that they have everything. and it is hot and dusty and uncomfortable outside, but, the music is killing you and it is just too beautiful. Bite your teeth and keep on swaying. It's cultural faux pas in Burkina to shed a tear, especially out of joy.
Grandma is all the way out on the dance floor now and others have joined her. They form a dance circle and people even show off their moves in the middle. Everyone is clapping, and the melody is swift. When my dad yells out during the song he does it in the way someone would yell out "Chicago, make some noise!" at a concert, but he says, "Bark Wend Na!" which means Praise God, and everyone yips and yells in response again, like we did when we were little kids playing cowboys and indians. I get the shivers every time.
We go home after church and clean house and do laundry. The Sunday afternoon meal is banga which is exclusive to Sundays. It is rice and beans with oil but it is delicious like you wouldn't believe. After we eat, I go to my room and promise myself that next Sunday I won' be such a wall-flower. My host dad is the deacon after all, it would be bad form to keep showing up with such stiff legs.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Semaga
Site Announcement, Baby
So, all of the Peace Corps Trainees received information this last week on the communities they will be living in for the next two years. My future home is a small farming community in the mid western part of Burkina called Semaga!
Semaga is lcated about 60k north west of Koudougou, which you can see on the map above. I will be the first PC volunteer in Semaga. As PC training has progressed, it seems more and more like much of the work I will be doing will be focused on agro-business development.
As far as I can tell, there is no market in Semaga, and I will have to ride my bike a couple K to a village called Godyr for fruits, veggies and so on. We should all cross our fingers for cel phone service though I've heard climbing a tree sometimes helps. Will let you know how things pan out in that department!
If you want a better idea for where Semaga is, go ahead and type "Godyr, Burkina Faso" into google maps and the general area should come up.
More information soon!
So, all of the Peace Corps Trainees received information this last week on the communities they will be living in for the next two years. My future home is a small farming community in the mid western part of Burkina called Semaga!
Semaga is lcated about 60k north west of Koudougou, which you can see on the map above. I will be the first PC volunteer in Semaga. As PC training has progressed, it seems more and more like much of the work I will be doing will be focused on agro-business development.As far as I can tell, there is no market in Semaga, and I will have to ride my bike a couple K to a village called Godyr for fruits, veggies and so on. We should all cross our fingers for cel phone service though I've heard climbing a tree sometimes helps. Will let you know how things pan out in that department!
If you want a better idea for where Semaga is, go ahead and type "Godyr, Burkina Faso" into google maps and the general area should come up.
More information soon!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Step One
It is customary to visit the chief upon arrival.
Bring him one white chicken if you can. It should be white to represent that you have come in peace. It should definitely not be black.
The chief is a generous man, and if you think you have done good in bringing a chicken, you will be surprised to see that he will not let you leave without first giving you a goat. It will also be white.
You will have to, of course, wait for the chief like we did. But his house has many comfortable wooden chairs and when the chief comes out in enormous blue robes and a petite red hat, you will know it has been worth the wait. Stand.
Later, when you ask what is most important in life, during your Q and A with the chief, he will say respect. The two men that lay at his feet will click their tongues when they hear this answer.
If you get to speak with the chief, do not look him in the eye. But note his ring-tone as he pauses to take a call mid response.
The chief lives in a white concrete house with a large courtyard. He will walk you to his gate after your meeting. When you look back at him a few meters down the road, he will still be smiling a great smile. Wave.
The chief is an elected official that has won the respect of his people. If you come to Ouahigouya do not _not_ visit the chief. If you forget, he will be offended. The chief's people will reflect the emotions of their leader.
The chief will give you his business card. Do not misplace it.
Bring him one white chicken if you can. It should be white to represent that you have come in peace. It should definitely not be black.
The chief is a generous man, and if you think you have done good in bringing a chicken, you will be surprised to see that he will not let you leave without first giving you a goat. It will also be white.
You will have to, of course, wait for the chief like we did. But his house has many comfortable wooden chairs and when the chief comes out in enormous blue robes and a petite red hat, you will know it has been worth the wait. Stand.
Later, when you ask what is most important in life, during your Q and A with the chief, he will say respect. The two men that lay at his feet will click their tongues when they hear this answer.
If you get to speak with the chief, do not look him in the eye. But note his ring-tone as he pauses to take a call mid response.
The chief lives in a white concrete house with a large courtyard. He will walk you to his gate after your meeting. When you look back at him a few meters down the road, he will still be smiling a great smile. Wave.
The chief is an elected official that has won the respect of his people. If you come to Ouahigouya do not _not_ visit the chief. If you forget, he will be offended. The chief's people will reflect the emotions of their leader.
The chief will give you his business card. Do not misplace it.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Contact Info
Whammy:
So, here's the DL on how to get me in Burkina. For regular post, the address is:
Corps de la Paix
01 BP 6031
Ouagadougou 01 Burkina Faso
Note: At this address, mail will go to the PC office in the capital which means it might sit there for a while before I get it. but i Still love letters!
As for phone, to call from the states one should use country code 226 plus my number 75525083. I think skype would work well for this, or calling cards of course. If when you call I seem confused, I promise it's just because I am still learning how to work my phone, and that I still love you!
email is still the same old deal
So, here's the DL on how to get me in Burkina. For regular post, the address is:
Corps de la Paix
01 BP 6031
Ouagadougou 01 Burkina Faso
Note: At this address, mail will go to the PC office in the capital which means it might sit there for a while before I get it. but i Still love letters!
As for phone, to call from the states one should use country code 226 plus my number 75525083. I think skype would work well for this, or calling cards of course. If when you call I seem confused, I promise it's just because I am still learning how to work my phone, and that I still love you!
email is still the same old deal
Premier Post
A fellow volunteer, Christina swears that if you just stay up late enough, or maybe if you just get up early enough, the night is completely silent between three and four.
But when I go to bed, cricket-chirps buz relentlessly through the air, and the frogs who meet nightly around my latrine croak to each other like frightened dogs. (presumably passing around the latest gossip at the local watering hole) There is a disco down the street that is four mud walls and no roof. It plays into the evening as long as the there is enough gas for the generator. Motobikes rocket by. People laugh at the boutique down the street and buy each other cigarettes by the one. They sit together under a blue light that barely illuminates cans of condensed milk, phone cards, and individual packets up laundry detergent.
At five it is still dark and at four fifty-nine, I was dreaming about irregular french verbs, lying on a bed of crinkled hand-outs on Burkinabe agriculture practices and UN statistics, but now I hear the chanting melody of morning prayers coming from the local mosque. It's a man on a loud speaker and I can anticipate all of his off pitch notes, but I hope I never get so used to his songs as to sleep through them. I can't imagine a better way to wake up.
You wouldn't believe the sounds donkeys make at dawn, and I wonder why only the rooster is known for its morning song, as he is clearly only a part of the chorus as the sun rises. By six all of the wives are out in the courtyard pounding millet and sorghum for the evening meal. It's a slow food culture here, but that's the point. They exchange greetings and I say the words in my head along with them as they ask again about how the job and family are, even though I'm sure nothing has changed since last night.
The day starts and it is loud out, but the loudness is aliveness. The aliveness is the rhythm that defines this place. At ten, we will be sweating and in class and I'll be daydreaming about the riz gras I'm going to have for lunch and I'll have forgotten I'm even in Africa. But as I get up and hear all of the sounds, I can't believe I'm in Burkina and I can't help but smile and be so thankful.
I started this blog to write about my experiences in Burkina. The posts might come slowly. but I hope I can help you understand the beauty of this country through my words and stories.
But when I go to bed, cricket-chirps buz relentlessly through the air, and the frogs who meet nightly around my latrine croak to each other like frightened dogs. (presumably passing around the latest gossip at the local watering hole) There is a disco down the street that is four mud walls and no roof. It plays into the evening as long as the there is enough gas for the generator. Motobikes rocket by. People laugh at the boutique down the street and buy each other cigarettes by the one. They sit together under a blue light that barely illuminates cans of condensed milk, phone cards, and individual packets up laundry detergent.
At five it is still dark and at four fifty-nine, I was dreaming about irregular french verbs, lying on a bed of crinkled hand-outs on Burkinabe agriculture practices and UN statistics, but now I hear the chanting melody of morning prayers coming from the local mosque. It's a man on a loud speaker and I can anticipate all of his off pitch notes, but I hope I never get so used to his songs as to sleep through them. I can't imagine a better way to wake up.
You wouldn't believe the sounds donkeys make at dawn, and I wonder why only the rooster is known for its morning song, as he is clearly only a part of the chorus as the sun rises. By six all of the wives are out in the courtyard pounding millet and sorghum for the evening meal. It's a slow food culture here, but that's the point. They exchange greetings and I say the words in my head along with them as they ask again about how the job and family are, even though I'm sure nothing has changed since last night.
The day starts and it is loud out, but the loudness is aliveness. The aliveness is the rhythm that defines this place. At ten, we will be sweating and in class and I'll be daydreaming about the riz gras I'm going to have for lunch and I'll have forgotten I'm even in Africa. But as I get up and hear all of the sounds, I can't believe I'm in Burkina and I can't help but smile and be so thankful.
I started this blog to write about my experiences in Burkina. The posts might come slowly. but I hope I can help you understand the beauty of this country through my words and stories.
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