Precedent Bush.

Ah, evening English lessons in village. So simple, so disorganized, so ill-attended. Nevertheless, at the end of such sessions I feel good, because my "students" feel good, and everyone hopes that they're getting something out of this. English teaching is by far the most popular activity I have started in my village, and everyone expresses a strong interest, even if no one ever actually shows up. I would be annoyed if I weren't relieved; one to three people is a much easier group to handle than 10 to 30. With such small numbers, there is a greater chance that they might actually learn something. Just this last class, a few days ago, my most enthusiastic (and usually most hopeless) pupil did quite a good job with pronunciation—always a big issue. And even some of the local teachers swing by now and then for a combination of language instruction and debate on the differences between American and African culture.

Actually, the more I discuss certain American customs with my friends in-village, the more embarrassed I get. How twisted is it that with all our wealth and advancements, our poor people are frequently worse off than their Burkinabé counterparts? Here in Burkina they can rely on the charity and food of their communities, while in the States many have a uncertain existence on the streets. Another example of how, in general, the sense of community is much stronger in Africa is that an American can live in an apartment building with dozens of other people and not know one of them; such a concept is mind-boggling for my villagers, who greet even perfect strangers cordially. I sometimes try to refute the perception that all Americans (i.e., white people) are rich, by agreeing that, yes, we make a lot more money in the States, but everything in our country costs exorbitantly more. Take the example of a beer I can buy in my village for the equivalent of $1, that would certainly cost $5-8 in the US. (Oh yeah, and the bottles here are about double the size of their American cousins.) However, I recently realized that a Burkinabé who went to live in the States and took a minimum wage job would probably still think he was living in the lap of luxury; the fact that he didn't have the latest model flatscreen TV or a hot car with satellite navigation capabilities wouldn't bother him at all - he'd be too busy loving the electricity in his home. True, there is a period of adjustment... after six months of such living conditions, that same Burkinabé might join the throngs of Americans bitching about how little they make and how they can't afford "anything."

For those of you Dear Readers who have been requesting for a "slice of daily life in the bush" post, I wrote the following blurb with you in mind. As I was biking to visit another PCV's site a few days ago, I stopped about a mile out of my village to help a fellow traveler, who was trying to attach a trussed-up and uncooperative pig to the back of his bicycle. Whenever we got close to securing it, however, the pig would freak out and cause either the guy to drop it or the entire bike to tip over. Meanwhile, in its excited state, the pig was also shitting all over the place... so while I was perfectly happy to help anchor the bike there was no way in hell I was going to lay hands on the panic-ridden pig. I could sympathize with its struggling, but that didn't stop me from fantasizing about kicking it in the head after over 20 minutes of grappling with it. The owner must have picked up on my vibe, because a moment later he walked to the side of the dirt road, picked up a rock the size of his fist, and then proceeded, for the next five minutes, to brain the pig. The first dozen wet smacks, the pig protested violently, but by the time I realized that I had blood droplets spattering my flipflops it had ceased moving. I couldn't decide whether it was strangely touching or hysterical that, after he had finished his assault, the owner frustratedly berated the now-comatose pig for bringing him to do this, as he might to some misbehaving child under (hopefully) different circumstances.

On a side note to this story, I got a glimpse of how my perspective is starting to change after nearly nine months of living in Africa. In the middle of our efforts to get this pig on the bike, another man passed us on his bike. The pig's owner called out to this newcomer, asking him to help us. The other man reluctantly stopped a few yards beyond us, then as he saw that my friend was distracted he slowly started to pedal away. I was absolutely outraged as I watched him make his escape... outraged that a man had not stopped to help two perfect strangers—a perfectly normal occurence in the States, but easily something to get incensed over here in Burkina Faso. Here, particularly in the bush, people help each other. It's not expected, it's not repaid, it's just done.

All for now, Dear Readers. Please stay tuned, for this week in Ouagadougou is dominated by FESPACO (that's "Panafrican Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou"), the largest and most important film festival in Africa, and (according to Wikipedia) "the biggest regular cultural event on the African continent". As Peace Corps' principal (i.e., sole) Hollywood expatriate in Burkina Faso, I am going to be all over this event, like flies on the dead cow in the road I saw earlier today.