19 February 2010
The first thing I remember thinking is: I’m gonna shoot those damn pintads. The pintad (just say it like you’re from Boston: “pin-tahd”) is an extremely dumb, loud, tasty bird my neighbor happens to own. I am becoming more and more confident pintards are headed for extinction like their friends the dodo.
The second thing I remember thinking, is that I must be getting up late because I can see sun. This is explained by the fact that yesterday was the marché (“mar-shay”: market). Every three days people line the street and crowd the otherwise empty wooden stalls to sell and buy. And every night after marché, people party. Usually it’s a dance, but last night it was a movie. I counted over a hundred people who paid to crowd around the tiny TV set up in the buvet (“boo-vet”: outside bar). I only lasted about 30 minutes into the movie (previews were pirated Burkinabé music videos for an hour) before I headed home. Despite the English subtitles I could occasionally make out, I only comprehended that the main problem involved a red thong. Seriously.
By the time I finally get up to yell at the pintards, it is late: 7:15. I’m usually up between 6 and 7, though for the rest of my village that’s sleeping in. Women around here are almost always up by 5. I tried it once.
After yelling at the pintards, and visiting the latrine, I sit down to take a look at my Peace Corps cookbook (cleverly entitled: Where there is no microwave. Or refrigerator.) to see what I want for breakfast. Not finding anything makeable with the ingredients at hand, I opt for salad. Since there is no lettuce in my village (or any village near me) I grab the closest thing I have: cabbage. I add some tomatoes and homemade dressing (mayo, vinegar and oil) and presto, breakfast is served.
I grab my bucket to go “shower”, reminding myself I’ll need to get more water if I’m going to do laundry later. After I’m finished, I get dressed; today it’s a complete (“kom-play”: matching top and skirt). Then I tell the last little kid who’s wandered into my court (I counted four different groups this morning) to come back at lunch. I grab my bag and head to the CSPS (abbreviation in French for village medical care center; otherwise known in Mooré as “logtori-yiri”, doctor house).
I bike past my friend Aminata’s house on the way, and stop to greet everyone. All day, every day Aminat cooks (rice and sauce; sometimes chicken if it’s marché). We first became friends when she and her husband offered me free food (the way to my heart), and like a stray dog, I just kept coming back. After all the greetings, I tell Aminat that I won’t be eating lunch with her today because I told all the kids that stopped by my house this morning to come back at noon. But Aminat only speaks Mooré, so what I actually say is something eloquently akin to: “I will no eat today. Kids.” She nods an encouraging nod and blesses me, the way Burkinabé people say see you later. The rest, as they say, is a lot of gesturing.
I continue biking across the gidron (“Guh-drone”: paved road akin to a highway that runs through my village) and yell greetings to the women at the water pump. When I arrive at the CSPS, I park my bike and begin my greetings. I greet all the CSPS staff working and any people waiting for visits I encounter on my way to greet the staff. Sometimes I also go greet the women at the maternity (and their new babies) or the people in the sick room, but that’s another half hour I don’t feel like taking this morning. On some mornings we have baby weighing, I literally greet people for an hour before we start. They’re serious about their greetings here.
So after I greet everyone at the pharmacy, I head to the depot (“dee-poh”: place where people come to get treated) and sit down to talk with the Major (“mah-jor”: head nurse of CSPS, essentially the local doctor). After the usual greetings of course, we get to talking and I mention I really need some paperwork on the CSPS. As part of my job right now, I’m supposed to get to know my CSPS and community (which unfortunately for me, includes looking at a lot of paperwork and crunching numbers). My Major starts to answer when the previous Major (transferred two weeks ago) pops his head in. My meeting now over for all purposes, I leave the two Majors to talk, saying something about getting to the paperwork tomorrow. Tomorrow in West African time means maybe (maybe) next week. Sigh.
I take my things to a bench by my pharmacy and finish making my Mooré flashcards, greeting people and occasionally taking part in conversations until noon. I thank my pharmacist for his invitation to the dolo bar, but explain that I’m doing lunch at home. The kids aren’t there when I get back, so I decide to start on soup, adding a little bit of what I have lying around: chicken stock, sweet potatoes, onions, macaroni, tomatoes, hot pepper, spices, you name it. By the time it’s done there are six kids pitched out on a rug under my hangar (“hanger”: shade shelter) playing memory games with cards. In Burkina when you eat, you always offer to share. So after having them wash their hands with soap (like the good health person I am), I let them finish off the leftovers in the pot.
I’m in a good mood when they finish, so I take out my camera and let them pose for a few shots. I hardly ever get out my camera, so they all beg “Take me! Take me!” Still tired from last night, I kick them out after a little while and fall asleep listening to Christmas music on my ipod. When I wake up it’s to the frapping (hitting) of little hands on my courtyard gate. They want to come back and play (it’s Saturday; they’re bored), but I tell them I’m leaving. And I am… until my neighbor comes over to talk.
When we finish talking about 15 minutes later, I head out the wrong way on the gidron (big, paved road, remember?), so I can bike back past the mosque and say hello. Back at the CSPS I drop some of the soup I made at the Major’s house as a small gift. Then I head off to find a shady spot and write a letter home.
It’s still 90 as the sun sets, and I bike to Verro zakka (Verro “zah-kah”: Verro’s house). I’ve been meaning to drop by and say hello for a while. Verro is the sister of my pharmacist and speaks better French than I ever will. She also serves a mean dolo (“doh-low”: home brewed drink) and has a kid who thinks I hung the moon (Gustav, who I call “little man”). After greeting everyone around, she gives me some dolo (not optional if offered unless you’re Muslim), and I sit down to be with her family for a bit. The entertainment for the evening is an elderly drunk man who only speaks Mooré, apparently convinced I should become his wife. I offer him Yabba (“Yah-bah”: grandparent), Verro’s mother, instead. It’s a good thing she can take a joke.
As I’m leaving, I remember I still need more water. When I get home, a neighborhood kid, Feli , comes up my walk, the mischievous preschool aged Jillian in tow. I ask her to take my bike and go get me some water; I watch Jillian. (It is not unusual here to ask kids to do things for you as a sign of respect to you as an elder… plus I give them candy for it.) Just as I’m getting out my laundry, and Jillian is getting into my garbage, Alice (Feli’s sister and my friend) and her cousin (darn if I forgot her name) come in my court and take over. They just came to talk, but they know I’m hopeless at laundry. I try to help, but all offers are rebuffed because I really just get in the way.
My brother calls as its getting dark and the girls finish. I’m cutting tomatoes by headlamp, the power running my one light bulb not working tonight again. (Supposedly I have power every night from 6-11 and all day marché days. Sometimes this is true.) I bring the girls some small gifts to say thanks (I have a thing about not giving out money), and they head home to bathe and eat. I finish making my spaghetti, and then settle in on my floor to chow down. I still use forks (most times Burkinabé just use their hands), but have gotten used to not eating at a table. I wrap up my day with a desert of powdered milk and powdered chocolate, making a sort of chocolate milk. Yum. I write some of what I did today, listening to Billy Holiday, and think about what I have to do tomorrow. I crawl in bed toting a new copy of Emmerson I borrowed, and fall asleep reading.
The last thing I can remember thinking is: Life sure doesn’t suck.
