Eureka!

Alternate titles for this post include:

"S-W-P Family Dynamics" and "Pre-Pre-Service Training."

For starters, in case I haven't mentioned this before:

We had our In-Service Training (IST) at the beginning of December, and it was the first time our training group was all together since swearing in and going to our sites.

So during IST, everyone's really excited to talk about their sites, and see each other, and talk about their sites, and eat non-village food, and talk about their sites.

In one of our training sessions - I think it was Medical: "Resiliency and Coping Strategies" - we were talking about some of the daily things that wear us down. For some people, it's when Burkinabe shout "Nasara" as they walk by; for others, it's the constant low-level sexual harassment; for some, it's fighting requests for outright money or goods (which is so not what peace corps is about, and way beyond the means of any one volunteer).

There were many others, and I can understand aspects of all of them - because it is tough, and these little (and some, not so little) things can really grate on you after a while.

But there was one that, when I heard it, made me think, "Yeah, I understand why that would be frustrating...but wait...I understand the frustration, and I think I experience that situation too, but why doesn't it bother me the way it bothers that person?"

And here's what it was: this person is often at neighbors houses, but not long after being there, conversation returns to local lang (i.e., not French).  So the frustration is this: in some cases, the volunteer is outright invited to this house, and yet, within minutes of arrival, is not able to share in the conversation.

So this frustration (and my confusion over not really experiencing the actual frustration aspect of it) is kind of simmering in my consciousness for a while. I come back from IST to realize just how often I don't understand the conversation around me. Then again, maybe that's not completely accurate...I don't understand all the words (or even most of them), but I can understand the body language and a few words here and there -- enough to tell that the conversation likely has little to do with me.

And all the while, I'm wondering, why doesn't this bother me?? They know I don't know Mooré.

This leads me to my preliminary hypothesis (which I now believe is only a small piece of the puzzle): it doesn't bother me because some part of me knows that it's my own damn fault I don't understand Mooré yet.

I've had plenty of time to learn, but I've been filling that time with other things.

I know there are people willing to teach me, I just haven't found those people yet.

(Teach me in a more formal setting, that is; everyone is eager to try and teach me fifty new words at random moments, like when I'm washing my clothes or trying to buy vegetables or just don't have a piece of paper to write down any of these very strange combinations of sounds that they're telling me are words.)

So my musings had led me to a perfectly logical explanation, and I filed that issue away - or so I thought. Fast forward a week or so, and I'm talking to the fam on the phone (in the morning, their time) and my stepdad is on his way to an early meeting so he starts his goodbyes.

Now, my parents have always worked together - sometimes peripherally, lately less so.

I'm the youngest, and the "middle-est" (as my mom likes to call her) often worked through summers in her college town. So apart from holidays, I was the only kid regularly around the house since sophomore year of high school.

That translates to quite a few dinners and morning coffees where it was just the three of us - and a fair amount of shop talk. I never really noticed it much at the time; it'd usually just be a reminder as someone was leaving, or a three minute conversation amidst the many others.

Obviously it never bothered me, because hello, they're both right there and one of them thought of something the other needed to know - is it really necessary for them to make a note to discuss it later, just because I'm there? Of course not.

SO back to present day:

Johnny is walking out the door and mom goes, "oh wait, Johnny, you're meeting with X, right? Can you tell him blah blah blah? Yeah and don't forget blah! Okay thanks!"

The whole exchange takes maybe thirty seconds, and I've got the lizards to entertain me, so I hardly even notice it. But it must have sparked a memory for my mom because then she continues, "Sorry Chlo! It's just like you're here!" (Insert her own cackle here)

And then we keep chatting per usual...

It's not until another afternoon, when I'm drinking dolo at my neighbors' house with about ten random people, that I realize that it's happening again - people are speaking Mooré all around me - and once again, it didn't bother me; in fact, I hardly noticed it. But then I remember what my mom said - "It's just like you're here!"

EUREKA!!!!!!

That's it!!! It doesn't bother me, NOT because of some great awareness that I have about my own role in the situation, but because my whole LIFE has been training for this scenario!

So with that, I think it's clear that I owe a big thank you to my parents:

Thanks Mom and Dad, and thanks Mom and Johnny, for starting my pre-pre-service training early, and making this aspect of life in Burkina a little less difficult.

Also for all that other stuff, like raising me and supporting me and such. ;)

"The horror! The horror!"

...or rather, "The shame! The shame!"

Y'all. I'm so ashamed to admit it. But in the interest of honesty...a Burkinabe beat me in an impromptu bike race this afternoon.

Why is this so shameful, you might ask? After all, the Burkinabe practically LIVE on bikes!

Well, first and foremost, he was on a Burkinabe bike. i.e., single speed.

If emojis worked here, I would insert the monkey hiding his eyes/face.

x5, because y'all know I'm not one for single emojis.

IN MY DEFENSE!!!!! :

(Yes, these are all just excuses that will help me recover from the enormity of my shame)

- He started ahead of me!! (said every loser of every race ever. but in this case, also true)

- My bike needs a new chain. When I tried to kick it into high gear, my bike protested with a lovely "crkkk" sound...or two or five. I tried oiling it up the other day, but Cambari, the Peace Corps bike magician, told me that if it keeps making that sound, he can get me a new chain and that should fix it.

SILVER LINING:

I was on my way home from Tenkodogo when I was challenged, and -- likely as a result of the race -- I set a new record!!! 19 minutes from juice stand to courtyard!

NB: Previous 19min achievement was from the end of the paved road to my courtyard; the juice stand is about a minute down the paved road, so this is an improvement!

I need to map this distance, now that I've decided on the official start/end points. I know courtyard to middle of Tenkodogo is 9-10 km, so I'm thinking from the juice stand it's 8-9. In the unlikely event that you were wondering. ;)

That was really it, so until next time!! :)

Happy holidays, all!

xo, chlo

Observation: Sass is Appreciated

...or maybe the better word is respected? You can decide.

So I get off my bus in Ouaga, and I'm greeted by a taxi hustler of sorts.

Him >> Taxi?

Me -- Yes!

>> Where?

-- Zone du bois, behind the Red Cross.

>> Okay 1,500.

-- No way, I know the price is 1,000.

>> Okay, okay, come on out front.

He goes and gets the taxi, already filled with three people in the backseat, and I sit in the front. Another guy gets in the back, and we're off. I'm assuming he told the driver where I want to go, because the driver doesn't ask me. We drop off a couple people nearby, pick up one more, drop him off, and then we're finally heading in the right direction for me.

Uh oh, I know this is the right area, but it's not a route that I'm familiar with. Hope he knows where he's going.

We pass a couple restaurants I've heard of, and that I know are close to the transit house, but then he goes, "okay, Red Cross, we're here."

Um, no we're not.

He suggests that we ask at the pharmacy across the intersection. While waiting to cross, a friendly pineapple vendor comes to the window, so I ask him if he knows where the Peace Corps building is - PRAISE THE LORD! He does, we're just a couple blocks off the street that I DO know. Wonderful, thank you sir.

We turn down the street where the actual Red Cross is, and the driver tries to tell me that because we had to ask for directions, it's going to be another 500.

Conveniently enough, right as he says that, we pass the real Red Cross, so I get a little sassy and say, "No, THAT is the Red Cross, if you had brought me here before, we wouldn't have needed to ask directions. It's 1,000."

Him >> But you said Red Cross, Red Cross is 1,000, but this is further

Me -- No, I told the man at the bus station that it was behind the Red Cross, it's not my fault if he didn't tell you that. Turn left.

>> Okay well add something

I'd already had my 1,000 bill out and ready to pay, so I think to myself "add something, eh? I'll add something, ya brat" and sift through my bag in a huff for my wallet. Damn, no 25 or 50 cfa coins, it'll have to be a 100.

We roll up to the bureau (the transit house is next door):

>> here?

-- yeah fine this works. (Still in a bit of a huff)

I hand over the 1,100 (making it clear that I am unhappy about that extra coin) and go to get out of the car. His face when he realizes that it's only a 100 cfa coin was priceless - first indignant, then kind of a resigned amusement when I point out, "you said add something - I added something."

He chuckles a bit and admits that that's true, and gives me a "have a good night" before leaving.

Considering a part of me was afraid that he would be so annoyed about driving further that he'd drive off with my bike still in the trunk, I'm counting that as a win! :)

xo, chlo

More about my host family

So I wanted to name this post "how I ended up with the best host family ever," but that was too long. 

Part 1: How I got them

(Some of this may be review for regular readers ;) )

A stroke of genius, on my part, if I do say so myself. We had to fill out a survey to better match us with host families...

> How confident do you feel about biking? Fairly.

>>> How do you know? (Yes, it actually asked this) Generally good physical fitness, also my crazy friend decided it was a good idea to bike to a festival 5 miles across town in May in Nola, and against all odds, I didn't die then. (Amiright Alex? Just kidding Tay... ;) )

> Do you have a preference about the religion of your host family? Nope.

> Do you have a preference of the age of your host siblings? 

No preference, but if tiny siblings are a possibility, I'd be into that. Actually checked "no preference" for every age group and added the "yes please" check to 0-3 and 4-8.

I knew I was arriving into this Francophone country knowing how to say little more than "bonjour," but I thought to myself...you don't really need to talk to kids to play with them. So I figured if there was a little one around, I could play with him/her, and show my family that I was interested in them before my French abilities developed enough to tell them.

And it worked!!!

Ranea was two (she turned three in November), and her fascination with me that first night made all the difference in making me feel slightly less awkward. Upon Mami's (birth name Basadequoa, you can see why she goes by Mami) later arrival, we became besties.

I also had three older host brothers (14, 19, and 21), but the youngest was mostly off being a hooligan, and the older two were mostly in Ouaga for university/other stuff.

All that said, my host family was one of the further ones from the training center, and they're Muslim -- so it's a good thing I left the options way open on things that were less important to me!

Part 2: How they're the best

Things above like the age of siblings, can kind of objectively make them the best, but also...

-- the first night, my host dad realized I knew zero French, and so told me that he was from Ghana, so he knows English, but I have to learn French so tonight is the only time we're going to speak English!

>> "But you shouldn't change too much about your diet too quickly, it's not good for you. So what do you normally like to eat for breakfast?"

>> "When do you like to go to bed?"

>> "When do you need to be at the training center in the morning? Okay, you should probably leave at 7:30. Do you remember the way? Sala will go with you in the morning just to make sure."

-- in general, they were just so sweet and cautious about not overwhelming me. Even though I had five host siblings, I only met Ranea the first night, my youngest host brother the next night, and Mami the next night (she had a sleepover at her aunt's). And then of course the two oldest a couple weeks later when they were home from university.

-- the first weekend, my host mom showed me how to wash my clothes, and helped me. The second and third weekends, she entrusted the "helping" (/supervising) to Mami, which made me feel like slightly less of a scrutinized for some reason

-- my host mom noticed midway through stage that I wasn't a big meat or fish eater (long story), but she was concerned about my protein so she started giving me a boiled egg with every dinner instead of a chunk of meat/fish

-- midway through stage, we found out our sites and left for a week to meet our counterparts and visit our sites. When I told my host mom where my site was and that they spoke Mooré in my village, she told me that "c'est bon" in Mooré is "yaa soma," because she knew it was one of my favorite fall-back French phrases, hahaha

-- (the end of) Ramadan is a huge party, and most everyone gets a new outfit made for it if they can. My host mom and Mami presented me with pagne they got for me, and Mami was going to take me to their tailor to get measured and they'd have something made for me! Mami was telling me I should get a skirt, and so I said that was fine by me, but then my host mom goes, "no, Chloe prefers pants!" because obviously she had noticed that I brought a ton of pants from the US. While I actually do like skirts too, it was so sweet of her to notice/say that of course I didn't say anything to the contrary. :)

and saving the best for last...

-- so Ramadan was towards the end of stage, and every night my host dad would break his fast with something called bouillie, which my French dictionary says means "baby's cereal." But I think "porridge" would be more accurate, because it's kind of like cream of wheat, made from petite mil. 

During Ramadan, I quickly discovered that I very much liked bouillie, and this did not go unnoticed by my host mom. Two days before we left Leo, I came home and she told me that she was making bouillie, and it was clear that she was doing it to teach me how to make it!!! It's a pretty involved process (don't worry, I have it all written down), including two bouts of pilé-ing (pounding with a giant wooden mortar/pestle), and it was deeeeelicious.

Fast forward two days later to the day I'm officially packing up and leaving their house, and as I'm waking up, I hear pilé-ing from the kitchen area.

"She is not making me bouillie. She is not making me bouillie. That would just be too much..."

She was making me bouillie. Sweetest angel woman ever to walk the earth. (Besides my actual mom, of course!)

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!

xo, chlo

Observations (part 2)

Hi friends!!! It's been a while! Here's my second installment of observations...

7. The Burkinabe love to dance. They also love to watch themselves dance. The first time I went to a "club" here (one Saturday night of stage with my host dad, lololol), I was amazed by both the mirrors and the dancing in front of them. Although when thinking about it for the purpose of this post, I think the mirrors in clubs are the biggest mirrors accessible to most people, so it's kind of understandable.

8. There's always a crier. When we were little, there was always that one friend/sibling/classmate who was always crying, right? (Yes, I know, Tess, when it comes to the siblings, it was me. But don't make me talk cause and effect...)

Well turns out that's kind of universal. In my neck of the woods, Diviney (DIH-vih-nee) is the crier. I've only lived here (in this village, that is) for four months, but I can already distinguish the sobbing of dear sweet Grâce Divine from (at least) 100 yards away.

9. Rain on tin roofs is very misleading. From inside, it sounds like it's almost a torrential downpour, and then you go outside and it's barely sprinkling. Talk about disappointing.

10. I think Obama has more star power in Africa than he could ever know. There's underwear for sale here that say Obama on the waistband. I would have taken a picture except for the fact that they were sticking out from a child's pants, so that would have been creepy.

11. (continuation of sorts from 10) I've seen more USA flag/various USA themes t shirts here than ever before. I want one.

Okay let's talk animals. (Please, you all knew there would be some about animals)

12. Bats make very mechanical sounds. It's very eery. As if bats weren't eery enough. 

13. Relative to the size of their bodies, goat testicles are enormous. Also, pregnant goats always look like they're literally about to pop. I see a lot of goats, but I've never seen one that only looks, ya know, moderately pregnant. They're either normal sized, or almost as wide as they are long. Or they have testicles the size of oranges.

14. The phrase "running around like a chicken with it's head cut off" is kind of redundant. How so? Well I don't know if you know this, but chickens run around like that even when their heads are attached. When chickens come into my courtyard, if I make a move anywhere near them, they start freaking out and running around in circles. Both amusing and sad.

The end...for now.

xo, chlo