tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-285524202024-03-08T03:10:37.342+00:00A Dabbler's Diary: The Burkina FilesI am a dabbler. I know a little of everything, but not enough of anything for it to be truly practical. I have a wide variety of interests and goals, none of them especially connected to each other. I had a <a href=http://dabblerdiary.blogspot.com>diary</a>, once. Then I joined the Peace Corps. This is my <i><b>new</b></i> diary...Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-6141428196709929612008-08-01T09:28:00.003+00:002008-10-13T14:44:09.783+00:00Like, Au Revoir!Today is <strong>The Day</strong>. In a few hours I catch my flight out of Ouagadougou, and in twenty-four more or so after that I will find myself back in the United States of America. Yes, it is true, as of today I am no longer a Peace Corps Volunteer (or PCV). I am now a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (or RPCV)! I can tell you this much: I am not going to miss our government's inane love affair with acronyms. And after all the anticipation of this day arriving in the last few months, I caught myself wondering late last night, <em>Do I really <strong>want </strong>to go back?</em> I was stunned that these words had actually crossed my mind. But what I think my sudden case of cold feet comes down to is this: for over two years now, I have redefined my identity, forging it around the experiences, frustrations, and relationships that were all part and parcel of service in the Peace Corps. Now to return to the United States for good, to pick up where I left off... as I observed in <a href="http://dabblerinburkina.blogspot.com/2008/05/breaking-news-peter-pan-ods-on-pixie.html">a previous post</a>, it often seems like in some ways I am standing still, and, from way out here in West Africa, looking back at my friends and family in America, it often seems as though life sped up for them after I left. I am scared of reaching out to old friends and discovering that we have become different people since I left, and are now little more than strangers with a strong sense of <em>déjà vu</em>.<br /><br />Still, I cannot pretend that I am not ready to leave Burkina Faso. I will be back, I have no doubt, in the following years to visit the various friends I made here, but right now I am ready for a <em>looong</em> break. The last several weeks, most of my possessions have been breaking or tearing, prices have been rising, my tolerance for African harrasment has been plummeting; everything these days points to the simple fact, "It is time to leave Burkina." And now that I am finally at that moment where I can look back and attempt to encapsulate my Peace Corps experience in a few sentences, I can say that, as exasperating as I regularly found my life here to be, with all the disappointments, heart-ache, and minor breakdowns, I do not regret signing two years of my life away to the Corps. I am glad I did it, and I would recommend it to anyone.<br /><br />And thank you, Dear Readers, for walking some of this journey with me, if only on the nebulous paths of cyberspace. I am uncertain as to whether this blog helped keep me sane or only encouraged my existing insanity, but it meant a great deal for me to be able to share my thoughts and experiences with you. I hope at least a few of you gained something worthwhile from it in return. I leave you now, to seek out the final signatures and stamps that will release me from service, as well as the plane ticket that will deliver me back from whence I came. It has been illuminating... with a sprinkling of the absurd.<br /><br />Here endeth The Burkina Files. The Burkina Files are dead. Long live the <a href="http://dabblerdiary.blogspot.com/">Dabbler's Diary</a>.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-13194437645904752632008-07-10T18:34:00.002+00:002008-10-13T14:44:52.940+00:0028 Years Later.It is my birthday today. It is also in exactly twenty-two days, to the day, that I shall depart Ouagadougou by airplane, bound for the Home of the Free and the Bush. I have thus far observed the passing of three birthdays here in Burkina Faso, and am quite ready to celebrate my next one in my homeland.<br /><br />All right, I will admit it: this post is more for me than it is for you. I have found that very few Americans, when I tell them that I am serving in the Peace Corps, understand what that entails, particularly when it comes to how long that service lasts. Not that I blame them—it is not exactly an easy job to explain. I would like to clarify this much, at least: this is not a job you do until you feel like you have had enough, and then you just quit. Okay, I take that back: it can be <em>exactly</em> that, but, technically, each and every Peace Corps volunteer signs a contract that states they will serve at least two years in their assigned country. And I would like to give my friends and family an advance heads-up that, in just a few weeks, I will finally be back among them, no longer a cyber-ghost:<br /><br /><em>"Where's Dabbler?"</em><br /><em>"Somewhere in Africa, I think."</em><br />Yes, well... <strong>no longer, Dear Readers.</strong><br /><br />My imminent return to America is something I have been looking forward to for quite some time. And yet, as the day itself approaches, I find myself more and more intimidated by the prospect of this homecoming. For starters, as I have mentioned before, I no longer know where "home" is; my old apartment is long-gone, leased to someone else; the social network I relied on to further my career in the entertainment industry is dead, having been neglected for ages; and I do not even know what city I will settle in, or what job to now pursue. It is also difficult to accept that many of my friends have gone on with their lives during the time that I have spent here in Burkina Faso, that we cannot all just pick up where we left off two years ago.<br /><br />This is not to say that I do not want to come back. Believe you me, I am <em>more</em> than ready! I'm just feeling... a little displaced, I suppose. But I wanted to let people know, once and for all, that YES, I am coming back, and NO, I did not turn hippie. I'm still the same me, the same Dabbler, albeit with a few more stories to tell, a few more scars to show off, and a <em>lovely</em> new mail order bride. (Okay, that last part isn't true. She said no.) And this is not my last post in <em>The Burkina Files</em>... I have something else entirely planned to close out this pseudo-journalistic experience. This is just my friendly way of telling you all, back in the Western World, that I am finally coming back home—once I figure out where that is, of course.<br /><br />Be prepared. Be very prepared.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-77526849489295347512008-05-22T13:50:00.006+00:002008-10-13T14:48:01.873+00:00Breaking News: Peter Pan OD's on Pixie Dust.<em>At last, concerned parents can stop locking their children's windows in fear each night. The tiny titan, demagogue of disobedience, has fallen. Officials on the tragic scene refused to comment, but one unnamed member of the infamous gang styling themselves "The Lost Boys" tearfully declared: "Poor Peter. He just kept saying he never wanted to grow up, he just wanted to get higher and higher, you know, to fly away from it all." And so he has, his last hit of pixie dust his final one. Pixie dust, merely one of many names for a notoriously intoxicating and addictive substance, has been suspect in the early demises of many rising artists, including the likes of Oscar Wilde, James Dean, Jim Morrison, and, most recently, Heath Ledger. Nearly all of the mentioned deceased had been heard to say, "I want to live life to its fullest," shortly before shooting for the stars (second one to the left, and straight on till morning, so an anonymous source tipped this reporter). Mr. Pan's alleged supplier, one Tinkerbell, rumored to be a "fairy" dealing exclusively to male minors, has been unreachable for comment, and his long-time nemesis, a Captain James Hook, had only this to say: "Crow </em><strong>now</strong><em>, you little [expletive deleted]."</em><br /><br />I do my best to amuse. My apologies for the lapse in correspondence. Truth be told, for the past several months I have not been happy here in Burkina Faso. I have been restless, eager to move on. This has always been my way, or at least as far back as I care to remember: the way of the Dabbler. But my interest in my work, and my reasons for being here, have recently been reinvigorated. I now find myself in a position of justifying my projects to my superiors, and to fighting for the right of "my" village to host another American volunteer after my departure. I do not know if it is a battle I will win. But in my efforts I have re-discovered my convictions for why I came, and why I stayed, and I am starting to learn how my experiences in West Africa have changed me.<br /><br />A person whose opinions I value recently suggested that my frustration of feeling that I was not a "good" volunteer came from my inability to decide exactly what kind of volunteer I wanted to be. Was I the well-integrated stranger, the spoiled expat, the worldly writer, or the Peace Corps party socialite? They all seemed attractive choices to me, and so I tried to be all of them at once, or each of them during different phases of my service. I didn't come to Burkina Faso to significantly change anything. I came for the arguably selfish reason to learn, believing it to be the height of arrogance to try to "save" someone without understanding them, but I got caught up in the excitement and peer pressure of my more idealistic colleagues, and in my rush to prove myself I made some incredibly naïve mistakes. In my second year I calmed down, and I tried to focus on organizing activities that would be productively beneficial to my village rather than earn me a mark that I could show off as a badge of my competence. (Please note that I am not accusing all of my fellow volunteers of the same fallacy; many of them have done remarkable work.) Today, only a handful of weeks remain before I take my leave of Burkina Faso and return to the United States. All of my personal goals for joining Peace Corps have been accomplished; what remains is the consuming need to fulfill my part of the bargain—not to Peace Corps, but to the people who have been my neighbors and friends for nearly two years. How can I repay them for the things that I learned from them, that they shared with me? This isn't guilt, nor is it charity, that I'm talking about. It is a sense of responsibility.<br /><br />And here is where I have changed. I have always been reluctant to commit—to people, jobs, locations, <em>anything</em>—for the fear that I might miss something better. Imagine the future as a jarful of candy: you stare at it longingly, but delay approaching it because you're not certain of what sweet you want, while everyone around you is plunging their hands in; you panic, seeing this choice piece get snatched up, then that one, but you remain motionless, so terrified of making a wrong choice that you don't make any at all. As a result of my phobia, I feel like I am standing still, watching everyone I know moving onward, building foundations, and growing up. And, in spite of my best efforts to prevent it, I too am growing up. The Peter Pan life I have devoted myself to, flying from one place to another without direction, must come to an end. I see my friends who are settling down: they're getting careers, they're getting 401Ks, IRAs, mortgages... they're getting married. I observe the stability they are attaining, and I covet it. And yet... if I stay in one place too long, will I grow stagnant? The structure I choose to build, will it climb up into a spire of distinction, or will the ground I settle on turn out to be a mire of mediocrity, in which I will stay stuck? I want to settle without settling, if you can see the difference. I want to go home, but I do not know where home is.<br /><br />Being a Dabbler, I believe, is not a choice, but a calling. You find yourself intrigued by a multitude of possible paths, and instead of choosing you wander several steps down one, before abruptly breaking off to skip down another, and then another, sampling this and that, promising yourself (and others) that eventually you will find the "right" one. It makes for many amusing stories and treasured memories. And then sometime, perhaps years later, you find that you have arrived back at your exact original starting point. The thirst for experience can be intoxicating, consuming... but at the end of this binge lies the inevitable hangover: who, and what, are you? Is this all there is to life? A series of photographs and accomplishments you can tack up on some wall somewhere?<br /><br />Perhaps I am making something out of nothing, you think. It is possible that these words are the self-obsessive ravings of a scattered individual who is mere weeks away from officially crossing the chasm between his mid- and late-20s. But I <em>know</em> that at least one reader out there, maybe more, is wrestling with the same damnable Rubik's Cube of a problem: how can one remain forever youthful, if not young, and become venerated without sacrificing vigor? And not that I'm equating myself with the late great Jim Morrison (my record deal is still pending), but I am trying to make a point, of the danger of seeking experience for its own sake, without keeping an eye toward the future, towards advancement, growth. I'll tell you now, I have no intention of giving up dabbling, for when I ask myself that crucial question "What do you want?", I find—to my glee and gloom—that I <em>still</em> do not know. The pixie dust is still surging strong through my system. But when I get back to the States, I am looking forward to starting to <em>move</em> forward, instead of eternally sideways. Simply put: I have found, if you must dabble, dabble responsibly.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-65678531964891173562008-03-09T18:00:00.007+00:002010-10-28T20:57:15.673+00:00Just for the Record, Paul Theroux Is Better than You.<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">…And he <span style="font-weight: bold;">really </span>wants you to know that.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>In his <span style="font-style: italic;">Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Cape Town</span>—</span><span lang="EN-US">part history book, travel guide, and adventure memoir—Mr. Theroux gleefully points out the idiocies and self-indulgences of American and European travelers in Africa, all the while cleverly disguised as one of them.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>In a impressive show of stamina, after all his sneering at the banal conversation of rich, khaki-clad safari vacationers, he still manages to find time to turn around and blast those annoyingly energetic, clueless, penny-pinching backpackers.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>The only fortunate souls the great Theroux magnanimously spares from his merciless pen are the Africans themselves, whom he knows to be generous and wise, exploited and patronized, and tragically misunderstood… unless they happen to piss him off, and then fuck ‘em, the miserable, ignorant freeloaders. Readers, take note: <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> Mr. T pities NO fool.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Yes, he is intelligent, and worldly, too.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>But neither of these qualities eliminate the fact that Mr. Theroux is a smug, arrogant, self-righteous, obnoxious, crotchety snob.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>And I say this as someone who admires him.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-style: italic;">Dark Star Safari</span>, as the full title indicates, is an account of his trek from the northern tip of Egypt all the way down to the Atlantic coast of Africa’s southernmost nation, all by road, rail, or water (with the exception of one short flight to Sudan’s capital, due to that nation’s continuing land border complications).<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">During his travels, nothing appears to afford Mr. Theroux more pleasure than to judge anyone and everyone, and to find them lacking.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>Apparently no one except clever old Paul gets it, whatever the hell “it” is.<span style="font-size:78%;"> </span>In his contempt for the unwashed (and washed) masses, he alternately praises or scorns Africans and their customs, depending on whether he wants to belittle his fellow Westerners or to simply place himself on a pedestal above the rest of mankind.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>I suppose this is one of the hazards of living purely as an observer and not a participant: you may forget from time to time that you, too, are human.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>On the other hand, it is refreshing (for me) to read the prose of a former Peace Corps volunteer (Mr. Theroux served in Malawi from 1963 to 1965) that does not gush about the magic of Africa nor the innocent nobility of the people there.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>Mr. Theroux is obviously fond of the continent and its inhabitants, but he does not do them the disservice of over-romanticizing them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Although his initial goal is to travel through Africa to satisfy his own curiosity on how the place has changed in the 30+ years since he last lived there, over the course of several months his trip becomes more and more a critical examination of development and aid efforts in Africa, both foreign and domestic, assessing them on their concrete effectiveness instead of their ethereal intentions.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>His findings are disturbing: rather than eliminating Africa’s endemic problems, over the years many aid organizations have become entrenched, more devoted to maintaining their budgets and presence than to combating the dilemmas they are supposed to be solving.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>In general, Mr. Theroux has a low opinion of the aid workers (or “agents of virtue”, as he derisively labels them) he observed on his voyage. In his words, “they were, in general, oafish self-dramatizing prigs, and often complete bastards.”* <span style="font-size:0pt;"></span>He comes to the conclusion that foreign development groups can, in some cases, even hurt development efforts, fostering a sense of entitled helplessness in a country’s population while engaging in projects that should be their government’s responsibility, relieving it of most obligations and thus encouraging (or at least accommodating) corruption and waste of resources on a monumental scale.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>He is not alone in his thinking, as many Africans he interviews in the course of his trip complain that such groups drain local talent from the public sector and often have no idea what the true needs of the people they claim to help actually <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span>.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>Even more discouraging, he comments on how the agents of virtue he encounters are pursuing development agendas identical to those of their predecessors from 40 years ago, with few positive results to show for their efforts.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>To boil it down, more and more money is being thrown at a problem, in a manner proven not to work, with little to no variation in strategy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As caustic and cynical as Mr. Theroux tends to be, I find the majority of his criticisms—from development efforts to the idiocy of tourists wearing shorts with knee socks—to be right on the money.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>I could even see myself turning into this guy in 30 years’ time: cantankerous, sarcastic, and dismissive of others’ efforts to change the world for the better.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>(Wait—in 30 years?<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>Hell, that’s me <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span>.)<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>My real problem with Paul Theroux is his casual hypocrisy, ridiculing other travelers for their actions, but then later partaking in the same doings himself.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>He makes fun of those who don’t take local transport, but by the end of his trip eschews all rides that are not luxury bus or via first-class train compartment; likewise, he takes great pride in being the anti-tourist, but makes a prolonged stop at a high-class wild game reserve, where he sips fine wine in a ritzy lodge in between animal sightings.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>It may come as no surprise, as Mr. Theroux undertook his transcontinental safari on the eve of a milestone birthday, that he appears to resent younger travelers, backpackers especially.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>He never misses an opportunity to mock their attire, their tendencies towards caution and budgeting, their ignorance of obscure local customs, and even their musical preferences.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-style: italic;">Dark Star Safari</span> is not all doom and foreboding future. Time and again, Mr. Theroux notes examples of the resilience of Africans, and their ability to steadily survive anything, from power-mad dictators, to collapsing currencies, to well-intentioned but uninspired missionaries. He even notes signs of progress in some countries, such as Uganda, where parents are now encouraging their children to stay and build in their homeland. All the same, speaking as someone who has been trying to work in Africa for some time now, I for one would appreciate it if, now and then, Mr. Theroux ceased his jeering and offered some constructive criticism... the operative word here, Paul, being "constructive." For some real kicks, read this book simultaneously with Jeffrey Sachs’ <span style="font-style: italic;">The End of Poverty</span>, another book concerned in part with the issues facing developing African nations.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>Both authors are insufferably arrogant know-it-alls, but on opposite ends of the spectrum, Theroux being the cynic and Sachs the optimist when it comes to foreign aid.<span style="font-size:0pt;"> </span>In the end, you may be surprised by how much the two men agree on the problems with the development industry as it stands now… starting with the fact that it <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span>an industry.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">__________________________________________________________<br />*<span style="font-style: italic;"> Paul Theroux,<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><u>Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Cape Town</u> (New York: Mariner Books, 2004) 146.</span></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-70309787189093713412008-02-15T19:35:00.003+00:002008-10-13T14:51:45.603+00:00Notes from the Undergrowth.<em>From the Dabbler's In-Village Diary, February 6, 2008...</em><br /><br />People keep pissing on my house. It really bothers me, but I have no idea if that action is as much a cultural taboo here as it is in America, so thus far I have not made a big deal of it. The first time it happened (to my knowledge), a couple weeks ago, the guy chose a spot right next to my back window. I happened to be inside at the time, and when I heard the familiar pattering of liquid hitting a surface I looked out and there he was, not two feet away from me, relieving himself on my wall. I was so surprised at his brazenness that I said nothing for a while, merely stared at him, slightly embarrassed for violating his privacy, but simultaneously outraged that he was exercising said privacy against my wall. When he had finished, I almost apologetically accosted him, speaking to him from my window (again, not two feet away). There was no anger in my voice, and I bashfully requested that "next time" would he please find another spot? The man glared at me in sullen irritation, whether from the disrespect of my demand or the fact that he understood no word of the French I was speaking, I cannot say. I should add that I am the frequent witness of people—usually children, but not always—urinating in front of and all around my mud-brick home (among other public areas); my issue with this guy is why did he have take the trouble to do it directly <em>on</em> my house?<br /><br />Anyway, it just happened again. I was bunking down for an afternoon nap, finishing a book, when I again heard the memorable sound of water flowing from a hose, directly outside my bedroom window. But I'm learning: I didn't bother to stare this time, just let him do his thing (yes, I <strong>am</strong> assuming it was a guy... or at least hoping), sparing us both a good deal of confusion and awkwardness. I have so many cultural questions now, and no one to ask. Is it socially acceptable to relieve oneself on a person's house? And, if so, even if the resident is witness to it? If I do not enjoy this custom, how might I politely indicate my disapproval to the perpetrator? And, perhaps most importantly, why the <strong>HELL</strong> do you always have to do it right outside the window of the room I'm currently occupying?!<br /><br />Is this some sort of symbolic gesture, a middle finger of defiance extended by the African man to the Western system that routinely pisses on him? I doubt it. In my experience, it is the American that is more likely given to passive-aggressive, abstract gestures. No, I would wager a guess that these individuals simply have the need to "go"... and apparently, my house is ideally situated in the village for that need.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-78971072891843774712008-02-15T18:48:00.004+00:002008-10-13T14:53:32.898+00:00On Pins and Needles.Shortly after the arrival of the New Year, I embarked on a pilgrimage of sorts, through the countries of Togo and Benin, Burkina Faso's neighbors to the south. The purpose of this journey was twofold: to attend the annual Voodoo Festival in Ouidah, a small city on the coast of Benin; and to undertake a substantial voyage on my own for the first time ever. Some handy background information on Voodoo: the Beninese government recognizes Voodoo (or Vodun, as some call it) as a legitimate religion, and over 60% of that nation's population are practitioners of the faith; Ouidah, once a major center in the colonial slave trade, played host to the various ethnic and religious groups who eventually combined their beliefs into one system—Voodoo—which was subsequently exported (along with its unfortunate founders) to places like Haiti and New Orleans. As such, Ouidah is held by many to be the international capital of the religion, a sort of Voodoo version of the Vatican.<br /><br />On my way to the event, I passed through Togo, wanting to check out a country often overlooked by Burkina Faso's Peace Corps volunteers, passed over in favor of Ghana or Mali for their international explorations. I pause here in my tale to acknowledge the Peace Corps volunteers of Togo, whom I found to be genial, generous people. They helped me plan my route, included me in their outings, welcomed me into their homes... and are probably all going to Hell for their irreverent senses of humor. (I will see them there, naturally.) While in Lomé, Togo's capital, I decided to start my Voodoo education early, by visiting the famous fetish market on the outskirts of town. For the curious (and the perverted), allow me to explain the significance of a "fetish" here in West Africa: it is a magical charm, varying in size and shape, which may alternately protect its owner or harm others. The African spiritual tradition of Animism relies heavily on the belief in and use of these fetishes. I won't go much further into the details here, for while it is a subject that fascinates me, its secrets are notoriously well-guarded, and I do not wish to misrepresent it. I will add, however, that it is from this general tradition that the more organized practice of Voodoo evolved.<br /><br />My visit to the fetish market marked my only real negative experience in Togo, and it was entirely my fault. Simply put, I acted like an American fresh off the airplane, and got taken big time by the savvy market sharks. The set-up there is an impressive sight: tables and urns overflowing with crocodile and monkey skulls, mummified snakes, antelope horns, beaks of dozens of bird species, elephant tusks—wait, did I say elephant tusks? I meant horse hooves, of course, because <i>everyone</i> knows elephants are a protected endangered species. Anyway, there were enough exotic Voodoo ingredients present to fill a dozen safari snuff films. (And yes, there were also the requisite pincushion dolls, a must-have for every self-respecting bush sorcerer.) I arrived with the attention of buying nothing beyond a camera permit, and left with two Voodoo fetishes for which I'm pretty sure I paid at least five times the real price. It happened like this: my self-appointed guide took me to meet the market's <i>féticheur</i> (the person who constructs the fetishes and communes with the spirit world—again, <b>not</b> to be confused with "fetishist"), who demonstrated various items and detailed their significance. I was well aware that most of the lesson was tourist bullshit, my skepticism compounded by the fact that whenever he explained something, the gang of kids hanging out nearby would burst into laughter, obviously amused by the story he was making up on the spot. Then the <i>féticheur</i> pointed out a few pieces that had been "made for" me, offering them, along with his blessing, for... well, for a lot of money. I didn't have that sum on me, but I didn't dare refuse him a slightly less exorbitant tribute. The bottom line is that I was wary of offending someone so deeply involved in Voodoo; I had been cursed in both Mali and Ghana (that trip as of yet unreported here), and I did <b>not</b> want to be hexed again, particularly in such circumstances. (Also, in one of the nearby villages, several people had recently been murdered and decapitated, their heads supposedly taken for sinister ceremonies... and who knew in which market they may have ended up?) Out of the somewhat extortionary deal I received a cowry shell pouch to be worn around the neck (don't ask what's in it), and a diminutive figurine I was supposed to occasionally feed cigarettes and booze. I concluded the two of us would get along great, but over the course of my travels the little guy fell apart on me. Literally. Perhaps I was a bit hasty in fearing the power of this particular witch doctor.<br /><br />And now, on to the main event! Ouidah was an easy bush taxi ride over the border, and was, as could be expected, ridiculously touristy. Everywhere you went you had to pay a fee, because it was "sacred". I'm almost surprised they didn't try to charge me for breathing the holy air. My host, a colonel in the Beninese army (a friend of a friend of a—you get the idea, yes?), arranged for me to stay in his opulent-yet-unfinished villa. My first night in town, I was the sole occupant, unless you count the compound's security guard. The Colonel, still absent, also commissioned a guide to show me around Ouidah. For some reason the guy, Franck, really grated on my nerves. He was attentive, but annoyingly so; he talked nonstop, and had an exasperating habit of demanding "You understand?" every three minutes (I didn't, because he mumbled and slurred his words together, but I lied and said I did in the hope that he would shut up); and he kept dragging me to tacky tourist spots where I had to fork over handfuls of cash. He brought me to Ouidah's sacred forest (entry fee, camera tax, guide charge... <i>but free air</i>), in reality an enclosed grove home to dozens of plaster statues built to cater to visiting vacationers, and where I was expected to pay off a tree—it was really a transformed king, you understand. After I placed a grudging donation at the base of the royal roots, Franck did the same, but <i>then</i> had the brass, hours later, to tell me to reimburse him. Our last couple hours together, he kept clumsily hinting about how "all" his American friends give him gifts; I bought him dinner, and he expected beer as well. I finally gave him 3000 West African francs to screw off, and managed to evade the dubious pleasure of his company for the rest of my stay, choosing instead to wander the streets of Ouidah in peaceful solitude.<br /><br />Enter the Colonel. Upon meeting this man I was introduced to a side of African life I had not yet experienced... that of luxury. During the Festival, I lunched with my patron and his family at the mayor's house, just off the beach; we were then chauffeured, by soldiers in Land Rovers, to several Voodoo ceremonies around town, where we were always seated in the VIP section; and we still made it back to the Colonel's villa in time for champagne and escargot. Mind you, I don't eat snails, but in deference to my hosts I managed to choke a few down with the aid of generous chasings of seven-year-old French red wine.<br /><br />As for the Voodoo Festival itself: it was flamboyant and colorful, but I couldn't help but feel that most of it was arranged for the benefit of foreigners like me, rather than being a genuine celebration of the religion. (This suspicion was validated a few days later in the city of Cotonou, during lunch with an expert on Voodoo, who better illuminated the subject for me.) All the same, the whirling dances of the revenants—performers gaudily dressed and masked as returned spirits—were enthralling. At times a dancer would break away in a swooping attempt to seemingly attack onlookers, but they were always held at bay by their guardians, serious young men who brandished long sticks at the capricious spirits. Documenting the events with photography was an exercise in frustration, as my friends would encourage me to take a picture, and then, just as I focused the shot, they would urgently hiss at me, "No, not <i>now</i>!", causing me to nearly drop the camera in my effort not to offend the practitioners. I finally gave up my attempts altogether, realizing I stood more to enjoy and learn by simply watching, instead of stressing over creating the perfect digital photo album.<br /><br />The day following the Festival, the Colonel himself drove us to Cotonou, Benin's largest city (and capital in all but name), where I cooled my heels for a few days in the swank apartment of an American expatriate (friend of a friend of a...) while waiting for my onward travel visa to clear. An enforced period of calm, to be sure, but a much-needed one after over a week of frenetic movement. I made the most of my being grounded, visiting neighboring villages, sampling palm wine, meeting with the afore-mentioned Voodoo expert, and enjoying the incomparable cooking of my American friend's full-time chef. Then it was onto an overnight bus up to the border of Burkina, some more visa stampings, and a jump off as my ride passed the great eastern Burkinabé city of Fada N'Gourma. I had observed the famed Voodoo Festival, lounged in the seductive embrace of privilege, and met dozens of intriguing characters... all without a traveling companion holding my hand through the process (or angrily threatening to abandon me in the middle of nowhere). Just yours truly, in a deft demonstration of determinedly dauntless, day-to-day dabbling. Walla-walla, bing... bang.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-16349879155540311912008-01-03T16:49:00.004+00:002008-09-23T07:33:27.572+00:00McCulture.<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Does anyone else notice the irony in the Peace Corps' insistence that all cultures are legitimate and should be respected, while at the same time endeavoring to change fundamental cultural aspects of the countries in which they operate? Of course, Peace Corps is a program under the jurisdiction of the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region> government, which makes no pretense at valuing other cultures while trying to replace them. A hundred years ago, for example, Americans used to comment on the "barbaric" practices of Arabs, but were content to coexist with a live-and-let-live policy. Nowadays, while we go on and on about respecting the human rights and sovereignty of certain occupied territories, we are also trying to force American-style democracy and capitalism on regions where they have not developed naturally. It's like trying to wedge a square-shaped puzzle piece into a circular hole; with enough force it might stick for a time, but it will never properly fit. How hard can it be to take a step back to learn how the current culture came to be, respecting (or at least understanding) the differences?<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Take my assignment here in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Burkina Faso</st1:place></st1:country-region>: as an agent of Girls' Education and Empowerment, I am supposed to spread a Western concept of female liberation in an area where a traditional division of gender roles has been practiced for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. If I come barreling in now, loudly declaiming that the genders are equal, polygamy is demeaning to women, men should fetch water and cook for their wives, and girls should have career options beyond motherhood, I'm going to get nowhere. I might provoke a few arguments, but most of my neighbors will smile and agree with me—because civility to strangers is another tradition here—and then continue going about their daily business. As a large part of why I signed up for the Peace Corps was my desire to learn about another culture, I try to start each project by doing just that: I listen and watch, interjecting now and then how we do something differently in America, but striving to do so without implying judgment. The only way I am going to convince a Burkinabé to change his ways is by demonstrating the benefits of another option. With respect to gender equity, I don't start with the argument that men and women are equal; that needs to be the end result. Ideally, my neighbors will eventually come to that conclusion on their own, after seeing that they are capable of the same accomplishments and that breaking down gender barriers will help the community. As any historian back in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region> can tell you, Women's Lib wasn't built in a day... or even a century.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family:georgia;">I would like to take this opportunity to point out that not every instance of the subjugation of women in Burkina is perpetrated by The Man. Let's examine Africa's most abhorred (by the West) action against women, female genital cutting (FGC), the partial or complete removal of the clitoris: in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Burkina Faso</st1:place></st1:country-region> it is an honored tradition, performed on nearly every girl. And it is carried out by <em>women</em>, old matriarchs cutting their granddaughters. Now, because of Western pressure, the government has officially condemned FGC, but making it illegal has merely forced its practitioners underground, inducting girls of younger and younger ages, in even less sanitary conditions. There you have it: not only is this mutilation of women a treasured cultural ritual, but it is carried out by its own assumed victims. Before my feminist readers come at me with accusations of indifference or complicity, let me ask: how do you prevent women from oppressing themselves? You can tell them it's wrong, but that's subjective, just one society judging another. You can tell them it's unhealthy, but is that enough to counter the prevailing belief that it is an important rite to womanhood?<strong>* </strong>They could easily ask us why many white people intentionally tan themselves on the beach, courting a future with skin cancer. Is it possible that a large part of why we believe FGC to be wrong is because we were brought up to believe it, molded by our culture in the same way Burkinabé are molded by theirs?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;">But what gives us the right to impose our ideals and rules on another society? (Aside from military and economic clout, I mean. Or is that all that is required?) Are we trying to change the world to make it better, or just better for us? The Peace Corps will be celebrating its 47th anniversary in the coming year; personally, I don't think you should be too proud of the fact that you went into a country to help raise its standard of living, and now, over four decades later, you're still there! Not only that, but in many cases the living standards are now lower than it was when you first got there. In my book, this would be something to be embarrassed about. Not that I am suggesting Peace Corps is a useless institution; it is invaluable in exposing Americans to alternate sets of values and styles of life. I think if more people went through this kind of in-depth international experience, we would suffer less conflict with the rest of the world, because we would be better equipped to deal with cultural differences. In fact, it is this intercultural perspective Peace Corps has afforded me that now enables me to criticize the development industry as a whole.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;">So, what is the reason for our continued presence in countries like Burkina Faso? You could blame all sorts of factors: corruption, terrorism, lack of infrastructure, lack of education, etc. I would like to suggest another one: lack of compatibility with Western social mores. We need a new approach to development; the current model promotes as its goal a Euro-American style of life which will simply not work in a society that emphasizes the community over the individual, upholds polygamy, contains over 60 languages, and maintains strong ties with its Animist roots. Either the model fails, or we systematically destroy that which makes the target country unique, effectively turning it into a mini-America (complete with a Starbucks hut in each and every village), its proud heritage reduced to a stop on "Africa!" the politically correct Disney theme park ride. It all depends on where our priorities lie, what kind of a global community we are trying to build. Sometimes it seems like our efforts are going into creating a fast food democracy: yes, it will have all the seasonings of a tasty society, but God help you if you find out what the meat's made of.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>_____________________________________________</strong></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>*</strong> <em>I should add, to be fair, that FGC is considered an important rite to womanhood at least in part because it is widely believed in many African cultures that a woman who has been "cut" will make a more obedient and faithful wife.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>This nautrally predisposes men to support the practice, putting pressure on women to continue it.</em><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-79224323342989644462007-10-21T17:08:00.001+00:002008-09-23T07:35:16.252+00:00Children of the Millet.They materialize suddenly from the maze of millet fields, stumbling after you, eyes glazed, hands outstretched, moaning over and over, “<em>bonbon, bonbon</em>.” They are bonbon zombies, and they are five years old. Welcome to Dogon country, Mali.<br /><br />Several weeks ago, I went on vacation in this region with a couple other Americans, to hike part of the famous <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bandiagara_Escarpment">Bandiagara Escarpment</a>, a series of high crags once home to the cliff-dwelling Tellem tribes, who built their structures into the very sides of these looming precipices. Although located in the middle of the arid Sahel Desert—a short camel caravan away from the fabled city of Timbuktu—the valleys hidden among the towering rock formations were surprisingly lush, with flourishing gardens and waterfalls. Even during the West African hot season, when temperatures often rise above 110ºF, there are water pockets here that never go dry—no mean feat, I’ve learned after living a year in Burkina Faso.<br /><br />As may be guessed from the name, the current primary residents of this region are the Dogon, and it was through their villages my companions and I backpacked, following a guide down mud streets and through familial courtyards literally perched on the jagged cliff edges. In the last few decades, Dogon country has become quite the sightseer hotspot, and while they have certainly benefited from the money now flowing through their land, the people have been irrevocably changed by tourism. Examples of foreign funding by wealthy, well-intentioned visitors abound. Our guide steered us through villages with "That's Italian, that's Japanese," pointing out schools and other buildings, all soundly made, all brand-new. But with few exceptions, these structures stood on the outside of communities, pristine yet alien, neglected by the Dogon in favor of the crumbling mud-brick houses to which they were used.<br /><br />Once I grudgingly admitted to myself that in this situation I was indeed a <em>tourist</em> (Peace Corps volunteers generally hate being grouped in with travelers-for-pleasure), I grasped the sad relationship I was to have with the Dogon villagers during my stay: for us, they were merely part of an exotic landscape to be observed and photographed, unapproachable, inscrutable but for the insights offered by our guide; and for them, we were outsiders wandering through their streets and homes, possibly bearing gifts (from bonbons or kola nuts to straightforward, hard cash) as toll for our intrusion. To neither group was the other completely human, more like strange ghosts drifting through each other’s lives.<br /><br />Of course, it would be hypocritical for me to completely bemoan the touristization of Dogon country, because it is exactly this system that allowed me to visit this beautiful, fascinating region. I just wish there were a way to see it without getting stared back at, feeling judged (sometimes envied, even disliked) for being a foreigner... a large part of the reason I joined the Peace Corps in the first place. The lesson learned here: if you want to play the tourist game, you're going to have to wear the neon tourist nametag as well; grit your teeth, get used to the idea... then go take a look at that fascinating little hard-carved, locally-made, genuine, authentically-African trinket that would look absolutely <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">splendid </span>in the living room!Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-14902453083859759682007-10-18T18:36:00.001+00:002008-09-23T07:37:29.496+00:00Farewell My Peuhlotte.She lived among the Peuhl, a tribe apart from all others in Burkina Faso. Known by many names—the Fula, Fulani, Foulbé—they could easily be called the Gypsies of West Africa. A traditionally nomadic people, they were among the first Africans to be exposed to Islam, by traders coming from the north, and today are almost exclusively Muslim; traces of Arabic can be heard throughout their musical language, Fulfulde. Peuhl-worked leather is prized by all, and both women and men frequently dress in colorful robes and scarves, the women plaiting silver discs in their hair and rings in their ears. Their shy and reclusive Peuhlottes are renowned throughout the region as the most beautiful, exotic, and desirable of African women.<br /><br />Acknowledged by other Burkinabé as the masters of animal husbandry, the Peuhl are still distrusted (and sometimes disliked) for their wandering lifestyle and their refusal to intermix with outsiders or compromise their traditions, and are envied for the wealth derived from owning herds of cattle. Indeed, many of my Gulimancé and Mossi neighbors quietly suspect a Peuhl influence behind every bandit strike on local roads. Perhaps the greatest reason for this friction between the Peuhl and other Burkinabé is their commitment to herding rather than farming, leading to conflict when Peuhl-owned livestock wander onto others’ lands and devour their crops. Perhaps this is why—aside from scattered, isolated villages—the Peuhl have chosen the Sahel desert in the north of Burkina for their homeland, far away from angry and suspicious farmers.<br /><br />For two years she dwelled in a city in the Sahel, learning the customs and language of the Peuhl, determined to become integrated into their carefully-guarded community. Accustomed to being mistaken for a Mexican or Arab at home, in Burkina Faso she encountered a different kind of casual racial profiling, where her competence with Fulfulde and her skin tone convinced many Africans she was a Peuhlotte in truth, and they treated her accordingly. She shared another trait with the women of the Peuhl: a sharp tongue, which she used mercilessly on anyone who crossed her, be they African or American—quite frequently, me. Her sarcasm was tempered, however, with the sweetness and vulnerability that flashed out when one least expected it. Not a blindly bleeding heart, she still cared intensely for the well-being of her Burkinabé friends, and diligently worked for their benefit when many of us, her fellow volunteers, were thinking about our next break with a much-craved cold beer.<br /><br />She liked me in spite of herself. She admitted to me on numerous occasions she had tried not to. I represented a distraction from her work, her goals. That, and I was a cynic and a flirt, not to be trusted. Now, several months after our first kiss, I reflect on all I learned from her, about Africa and her own culture, and I marvel at the privilege I gained in being with her, her sharing of herself. She’s gone now, an American having triumphantly spent two years in the African desert, and still she worries whether she had any effect, made any difference, during her time here. Let this be my testament that indeed she has… from the city women with whom she worked to start a savings and credit club, to the artisans she helped organize into a certified association, to the little boy who lived in her courtyard and whom she practically adopted… to me, a lone, lonely Dabbler, pondering his experience here in Africa now that he is once again on his own.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-16880199466595977102007-08-12T21:54:00.001+00:002008-09-23T07:43:28.083+00:00Director Strangelove.He was to have been my greatest ally. He became my greatest nemesis: the Benedict Arnold to my George Washington; the Judas to my Jesus; the Darth Vader to my Obi-Wan Kenobi, if you will. To date, this man has terminated or sabotaged every single project I started in our shared village since my arrival. Prepare yourselves, Dear Readers, for the long afore-promised lengthy tale, and observe the sad (and painstakingly detailed) list of <em>Herr Direktor’s</em> heinous crimes against his fellow man, i.e., me:<br /><ul><li><strong>July 2006, My First Visit to Village.</strong> I was still a young trainee, not yet sworn into service as a gallant volunteer of <a href="http://www.maniacworld.com/George_Bush_Middle_Finger.jpg">His Majesty’s</a> Peace Corps, alone in Africa for the first time, for a 24-hour visit to the village I was to soon call my home for the next two years, seated at a roadside drinking establishment, temporarily abandoned by the villager who was supposed to be my guide for the duration of my introductory sojourn. My grasp of the French language tenuous at best, and my knowledge of the local language, Gulimancema, <a href="http://dabblerinburkina.blogspot.com/2006/07/lassie-method.html">nonexistent</a>, I was feeling somewhat vulnerable. A man I had never seen before sat himself at my table, facing me. He took a good look at me and nodded, then a look at my drink and sneered (I had ordered a soda, rather than the beer I was craving, out of courtesy to my hosts, since I was not certain whether this was a predominantly Muslim village) and ordered a beer, after which he lit up a cigarette and proceeded to ignore me. 15 minutes or so passed, at which point my drinking companion turned to me and irritably demanded, “Why aren’t you talking? You should talk more.” I apologized politely and explained in my halting French that since I was new here I thought it was best for me to observe and wait for people to talk to me. This failed to impress him, and we sank back into silence. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when another bar patron greeted my companion as “<em>Monsieur le Directeur</em>”, that I realized the man sitting across from me was the village’s school director, the equivalent of a grade school principal, and the official I was to work most closely with during my assignment as a Peace Corps volunteer. I then hastily introduced myself, and the great man forgave my tactless failure to immediately deduce his identity with another gracious nod.</li></ul><p></p><ul><li><strong>November 2006, Idealist Project #1: Student English Club.</strong> I had been a resident of the village for two months and, although I was supposed to spend the first three months there in a strictly observational role, was anxious to start justifying my presence to my neighbors. The goal was simple: once a week I would instruct students from the primary school’s most advanced class in simple English phrases for greetings and presentations. I informed the school director and parents of my intentions several weeks before the club’s first session, and asked permission to use a school classroom after-hours as a meeting place. The school director said he wasn’t certain if he could spare such a space, and, being the important man he was, delayed giving me an answer for weeks, until finally I decided to hold the first meeting under my house’s hangar. The class was a tremendous success, with several of the students quickly mastering the English I taught them and demanding more. Flushed with the righteous triumph of having educated the children, I visited the school director's house that evening to inform him of the results. He listened impassively to my enthusiastic review and plans for future sessions, then smiled broadly and told me I had to cancel the entire venture. His rationale was ingeniously simple: the students were his charges, and it was his responsibility to teach them French; if I taught them another language simultaneously, it would surely upset their French skills! Innocent enough, unless you consider the facts that: a) he knew of this project well over a month before the first session, and could have at any point told me to halt preparations; and b) I chose to work with the most advanced students for the precise reason that their French skills had already progressed to a point that they could hold conversations in that language, and their studies now focused in other areas. The school director still held a trump card, however, in that he was a government-appointed functionary, and I was merely a volunteer consultant. Well played, <em>Herr Direktor</em>. This battle is yours.</li></ul><p></p><ul><li><strong>January 2007, Idealist Project #2: Girls Theater Club.</strong> I am a thespian by training, and a promoter of female empowerment by assignment. It follows naturally that for my next foray into do-goodery I would create a theater club for young women, in which they could creatively express their concerns and interests. Once again, I informed the school director in advance, and although he offered no support he gave his passive approval, indicating he would only need a list of the names of the club’s participants. A week later, after having delivered the required list to <em>Mein Direktor</em>, we held our first meeting of the club. I was dismayed to see that less than half the girls that had signed up showed for the session, but we went forward with the activities anyway. Half an hour later, the girls were just started to relax and participate in the games, when suddenly the great educator himself roared up on his moto (hint: think pimped-out vespa). The next five minutes were baffling to me: the girls, all of them, immediately split upon his arrival. Several fled behind my house, and two—I discovered later—hid in the darker corners inside the house itself. I didn’t have time to speculate, because I was busy greeting my distinguished visitor—his presence at my house a shock, as he had not taken the trouble to visit for well over three months. He didn’t stay long, once I explained that the girls were no longer present, and it was after his departure that I discovered one of the oldest girls hiding behind a bookshelf in my house. Hysterical, she made me promise not to tell the director she had been at the meeting. She then described how the good director had, behind my back, approached each and every girl on my list, threatening them not to attend. He had intimidated them by warning that their grades had better not slip if they participated in the club, and then for good measure he gave them all extra work in addition to their regular studies. <em>Das schwein</em>! This explained the sudden drop-off in my club’s participants: the girls were all too terrified to attend. So much for club attempt #2.</li></ul><p></p><ul><li><strong>February 2007, Brilliant Solution #1: Intervention.</strong> It’s true: I tattled. I informed the Peace Corps Country Director of the goings-on in my village. Realizing that a direct confrontation with the school director over his saboteur activities would just escalate the conflict, I turned to the 3rd-party system, in order to see if someone else might politely request of the man exactly <strong>WHAT THE HELL WAS HIS DAMAGE</strong>. In the following weeks, our Country Director visited the village, and then the GEE (Girls’ Education and Empowerment) Program Director, in order to open bilateral talks with <em>Das Direktor</em>. Ah, but our man was crafty! He expressed bewilderment of a most profound nature in response to their queries, as well as a general confusion as to what exactly I hoped to do in the village (apparently our many discussions of my goals for the past several <strong>months</strong> had failed to enlighten him). In refusing to recognize that there was any sort of conflict, the school director easily avoided any sort of confrontation. A cautious truce was established, in which it was agreed the school director would choose whatever project I was to work on, rather than my initiating of my own accord. In effect, my colleague became <em>Mein Führer</em>.</li></ul><p></p><ul><li><strong>March-May 2007, Idealist Project #3: Student Theater Competition.</strong> Cajoled by the diplomatic efforts of my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neville_Chamberlain">Chamberlainian</a> Peace Corps superiors, the school director decided to call upon me to exercise my theatrical skills once again, this time under his control. It appears there was a primary school theater competition taking place in the area’s provincial capital, and our academic dictator had determined to place his school on the map by winning the event. He prescribed the guidelines under which I was to labor, and I set to work at once, writing a play for his students that emphasized the importance of hygiene and nutrition in daily African life. This I could have dealt with, had <em>Mein Direktor</em> possessed the civility of keeping his requirements constant. Instead, each week some new alteration would come up: the theme of the play would change (requiring a rewrite of the script); the number of students allowed to participate suddenly dropped to 10 (necessitating my immediate firing of 20 enthusiastic little actors); and the date of the competition itself was forever changing. The last of these trials was the most frustrating for me, for without a set deadline I could not arrange a practical rehearsal schedule with the students. There was also the small matter that our school-turned-theater director was supposed to attend the rehearsals, in order to help with language difficulties and approve each scene, but after the first meeting he dropped all pretense at interest, instead departing to the local bar to get drunk with his friends. We continued in this spirit of cooperation for a couple months, me rehearsing with the students, and him not giving a rat’s ass, with periodic intervals during which I would attempt to persuade him to reveal the date of the competition. With the school director a non-entity at rehearsals, it fell upon me to encourage the students, spurring them with promises of visiting the provincial capital (most of them had never left the village before). Finally, in May, on the eve of the weekend the school director had promised me we were going to the capital (while disregarding my frantic questions of how we were going to provide transport and housing for the students), the man told me the competition had again been “delayed”—or, rather, he had again neglected to find out the date and had made one up—and the competition would not take place until mid-June, when I would be in the United States on vacation. He assured me he would attend the final rehearsal to inform the students of this change, and of course reneged on even that small promise… so I had to tell the students that the promises I had personally made, about them leaving this weekend to visit the big city, were broken, and that I did not know if or when we would compete. That night I lost nearly all of whatever credibility I had built among the students; too many broken promises and last-minute changes.</li></ul><p></p><ul><li><strong>Present Day: La Résistance.</strong> I no longer give any credence to what this man tells me. For some reason still unfathomable to me, he is determined to destroy whatever efforts I make to work with the village’s children. Shortly before I left for the US in June, I managed to arrange a last-minute, but well-received, presentation of our play for the villagers—at my own cost—and organized an award ceremony for all my student participants. This act bought me back a little standing in the village community, along with word of how Herr Direktor has personally mucked up every activity I’ve begun. The villagers are not stupid, and they are well familiar with the director’s arrogance. The situation as it stands now: I await word each week of whether this man will be reassigned to the village for the coming school year; if he returns I have requested from my superiors a village transfer. There is no point spending another year in passive-aggressive battle with someone who should be appreciative of my presence. And if he is replaced by a new director, I will happily stay in my current assigned village, doing my best to work in cooperation with him or her—but as a partner, not a subordinate. I do not avoid school directors, but I do deny them my essence.</li></ul>Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-12438861960023240852007-06-22T01:22:00.000+00:002007-06-21T18:33:56.839+00:00Discombobulated Dabblings.Hello Dear Readers, one and all. It has been quite a long time... indeed, too long. I can, I assure you, offer some explanation for this period of bloggerly silence (tentatively at this time titled “<em>The Saga of the School Director, or How I Stopped Pulling Out My Hair and Learned to Deal with an Arrogant, Passive/Aggressive Jack-Ass</em>”), but that little story must wait for the next post, partly because I would like to drum up some suspense over the reasons for my disappearance. Oh, and I’d rather talk about something else right now.<br /><br />I will have you all know that I just returned from a much-needed 2-week vacation. Where, you might ask? Well, <em>what better way to commemorate my anniversary of living in Burkina Faso,</em> I thought to myself back in February, <em>than by celebrating it in the United States?</em> Nope, nothing inappropriate about that. Fellow Peace Corps volunteers had cautioned me for months of the probable culture shock I would experience upon my return to America. For example, they warned me, how would I deal with the fact that any greetings going beyond the required disinterested “Hey, ’sup?” would cause most Americans to regard me with concern-bordering-on-alarm? That in venturing into a grocery store not only would I find exactly what I desired, but there would be over 20 nearly-identical brands of it, potentially cause for a nervous breakdown as I stood there wracking my brain over which to purchase? That eating anything other than french fries with my hands is considered barbaric? That a female friend placing her hand on my arm did not indicate she was a prostitute soliciting my business? That I could not arbitrarily decide to drive on whichever side of the road I felt like, and traffic rules were enforced laws, not just optional guidelines? And so on, and so forth.<br /><br />So, with some trepidation, after 24 hours of flight travel, and crossing God-knows-how-many different time zones, I again stepped onto American soil… and felt <strong>nothing</strong>. After all that agonizing and preparation, I slipped right back into the ordinary American style of life, with no hitch, as though I had never left. I was again ordering iced vanilla lattés (low fat, sugar free, PETA-approved, with a twist of cinnamon), going out to the movies, and bitching about traffic. The one moment of transition I may have experienced occurred when I determinedly strode into a supermarket, braced against a possible freak-out; I stood in the produce section, relishing the fresh, artificial, air-conditioned breeze, and basking in the knowledge that no matter what season it happened to be I could find practically any kind of fruit or vegetable I wished in this room. That’s it: cultural reintegration consisted of me standing next to the lettuce stand with a stupid grin on my face for about 2 minutes, and then I left the store and reassumed my American identity without another thought. I don’t know whether this makes me an exceptionally adaptable individual, or a failing blow against the hope that people can substantially change.<br /><br />Now, mark me, Dear Readers: I <em>did</em> end up undergoing culture shock, of an extreme nature. I just didn’t get hit by it until after returned to Burkina Faso. After 1 year of living in Africa, it took me just a few hours to get used to visiting America. After 2 weeks of visiting America, it took me a just few hours to start panicking about being back in Africa. For one thing, I discovered that my comprehension of the French language had inexplicably disappeared, and I now had to rely on other volunteers to help me with the most basic errands. Also, it seemed that in the dozen or so days I had spent out of the country I had missed countless doings and happenings, so I felt absolutely lost when speaking to my fellow volunteers. I had no appetite for the food I could eat in Ouagadougou (glamorous in comparison to what nourishment I can find in my village), and no ideas when I tried to think how I would approach work at the beginning of my 2nd year here. All the <em><a href="http://imdb.com/title/tt0108778/">Friends</a></em> episodes (and other various, more manly DVDs) I had managed to smuggle back with me did nothing to assuage my panic. And why was it <strong>so damn HOT here?!</strong><br /><br />Cut to several days later. Things are better. Not perfect, but definitely improved. My French linguistics are slowly returning, I’m getting reused to the food here, and this coming weekend I will be throwing myself back into work by participating in a girls’ empowerment camp with several other volunteers and aid organizations. So, there you have it. I am still very much alive, and revving up for Year 2 of this invigorating, interesting, and oftentimes exasperating international experience. And, as I said before (see above), I promise a detailed explanation of those recent few "lost months" in my next internet opus. So, please, Dear Readers, bear with me, this humble Dabbler, and I swear to bring you to both tears and laughter (though I cannot be held responsible for the ratios of one versus the other). I will do all this for you, and in exchange you will send me beef jerky. Sounds like a fair deal, no? Until the next time, then...Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-30800088416417915232007-03-06T02:04:00.004+00:002008-10-13T23:44:53.772+00:00AfriCannesIt is the largest, most important film festival in Africa. Held every two years in Burkina Faso's capital, Ouagadougou, it is a celebration of the arts and African culture, by Africans, ostensibly for Africans, a gathering point for inhabitants of all African nations, as well as western tourists and film industry professionals. It is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fespaco">FESPACO, the Pan-African Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou</a>.<br /><br />Much to my surprise, upon my arrival in town, I find that most of Ouaga's taxi drivers have—quite against character—not taken advantage of the situation and hiked fare rates. Perhaps only one out of three refuses to take you for anything less than four times the standard fee (the "white price"). Their services are essential to attend the film festival, for the contending films are divided among five movie houses throughout the city, each a long hike from the others. Another surprising feature to the festival celebrating the achievements of African filmmakers is the number of foreign films in evidence. American, European, and even one Haitian film are selections in this year's catalogue. <em><a href="http://imdb.com/title/tt0468565/">Tsotsi</a></em>, last year's Oscars foreign film winner, is representing, as are recent American releases <em><a href="http://imdb.com/title/tt0450259/">Blood Diamond</a></em> and <em><a href="http://imdb.com/title/tt0455590/">The Last King of Scotland</a></em>. My personal favorite—embarrassing, as I came to see <em>African</em> films—is a British entry entitled <em><a href="http://imdb.com/title/tt0800199/">Shoot the Messenger</a></em>, directed by Ngozi Onwurah. It's the film I feel like I've been waiting the past 10 years for Spike Lee to make in the States.<br /><br />The first movie house I enter, cool, air-conditioned air hits me in the face immediately, and for a moment I hallucinate, thinking I have suddenly been transported far away from third-world West Africa, to some surreal, western cinematic oasis. Plush, padded chairs, white faces all around me (which is kind of weird now), quality electronic technology, and—<strong>ooo! There's popcorn!</strong> <em>Where am I?</em> I wonder as I settled down in my comfy seat to watch eight back-to-back film shorts. Then, after the first 3 films, there is a 45-minute delay, followed by a terse announcement that the other five films have not yet arrived, and we are turned out back into the heat and the dust, no apologies, and you'd be crazy to ask for a refund on your ticket. <em>Ah, yes, I remember where I am now.</em> The rest of the week continues in similar fashion, a bizarre mix of the luxury I'd near forgotten and the relaxed schedules and indifference to customer irritation to which I've gotten used. In general, all films are in either Arabic or tribal languages with French subtitles, or French with no subtitles of any sort. (Sorry, all you visiting Americans.)<br /><br />It's also pretty clear that the art here is not made for the sake of mere entertainment; a popular story theme is the frustrated young African man, unable to find work or emigrate, beaten down by poverty and outrage until he at last takes a desperate, ill-thought action and is crushed at the end of the film. Apparently, something seems to be occupying the minds of African filmmakers these days. Ironic, seeing as the majority of my fellow filmgoers here are very, very white Americans and Europeans. On the other hand, if there were more Burkinabé in the audiences, these films would just be preaching to the converted. When a sizeable group of Africans <em>do</em> get into a film screening, they make their presence known to all; here in Burkina, you show your film approval by shouting at the screen and laughing, your disapproval by clicking your tongue and shouting at the screen, and your disinterest by pulling out a cellphone for a chat (and shouting at the screen). Take the film <em><a href="http://imdb.com/title/tt0899129/">Africa Paradis</a></em>, by Sylvestre Amoussou, which presents the United States of Africa, 30 years or so in the future, trying to keep their borders closed to those pesky white Europeans who keep trying to sneak in from their impoverished, war-torn homes. Man, how those Africans in the audience howled with laughter as we watched the scene where the smug black civil servant turned away white visa applicants because one tiny detail was out of order, or because they had advanced engineering degrees and refused to take work as janitors or domestic servants.<br /><br />Anyway, to wrap things up, the French-slash-Nigerian film <em><a href="http://imdb.com/title/tt0923688/">Ezra</a></em> won top prize, the Yennenga Stallion (doesn't that sound sexier than "Oscar"? No? Just me?), at the end of the festival. It centers around a child soldier in the civil war in Sierra Leone, something that our American <em>Blood Diamond</em> touched on too. The film's director, Newton Aduaka, walked away with $20,000... something probably more useful here than a pretty li'l statue. Might even help that filmmaker make another film in the future. And me? Did I shmooze like a Hollywood pro, put all my past training to use? Did I close any film deals? Did I get digits? Um. I did get the contact info for <em>one</em> promising filmmaker, but i wrote it down on my film program, which a fellow unscrupulous volunteer stole from me later that same day. Bastard was probably from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Creative_Artists_Agency">CAA</a>.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-12617587934487986512007-02-26T21:15:00.002+00:002008-10-14T00:36:46.885+00:00Precedent 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.<br /><br />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 <em>still</em> 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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />All for now, Dear Readers. Please stay tuned, for this week in Ouagadougou is dominated by <a href="http://www.fespaco.bf/index_anglais.html">FESPACO</a> (that's "Panafrican Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou"), the largest and most important film festival in Africa, and (according to Wikipedia) <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fespaco">"the biggest regular cultural event on the African continent"</a>. 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.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1167483054876060772006-12-31T23:48:00.000+00:002006-12-31T15:58:41.513+00:00Bullets Over Bubbly.Season's Greetings from beautiful Ouagadougou, Hub of the Universe! My most sincere apologies, Dear Readers, for having neglected my Diary for so long. Let me see if I can mollify you a bit by detailing the extent to which Ouaga has gone to celebrate the holidays. The residents of this town <span style="font-style:italic;">certainly</span> know how to throw a New Year's Eve celebration, shooting off firecrackers and zooming around on their backfiring motos. Unfortunately, these sounds are almost identical to that of the firing of an AK-47 assault rifle, which appears to be yet another popular way to ring in the New Year... particularly among the Ouaga police and the military, who happen to be feuding at the moment. Shortly before Christmas, the 2 groups clashed, apparently over the charge of a concert entrance fee, ending with one soldier killed and several more injured. The military, taking this encounter somewhat personally, retaliated by releasing several hundred convicts out of the city's main prison, over 600 of which are still unaccounted for. Since then, on an almost nightly basis, there has been sporadic gunfights throughout the city, and the main routes leading from the city have been subject to a higher-than-usual number of bandit strikes on cars and buses. 'Tis the Season, no? The Peace Corps volunteers who came into town to fete together have, in general, been left unmolested by either faction... with the notable exception of one who had one of the aforementioned AK-47s poked in his face when his bush taxi arrived within city limits, and a couple others who were compelled to abandon their beers when the bar at which they were drinking was forcibly closed by another gunman. In light of the situation, Peace Corps has become (understandably) concerned, and requested all volunteers to keep staff posted on their whereabouts, and our Country Director has prohibited us from leaving the volunteer transit house after night has fallen. I will give our Country Director this, that she has remained admirably calm throughout the last week, and kept us as informed on developments as possible. This is not to say that we are living under siege... we just are exercising a little more caution than usual, and avoiding parts of the city that could be considered "hot" (police/military stations, government districts, etc.). Flinch though I may at the pop of each and every firecracker set off by kids, I am determined to see the New Year in with a glass of sparkling wine held firmly in hand.<br /><br />On another note, it is difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that it has been nearly 7 months now I have been living in this country. No idea if it has started "changing" me yet, as Peace Corps likes to claim. Hell, I'm having a difficult time starting any projects, and I have serious doubts about my usefulness in the Girls' Education and Empowerment program. Still, I am glad that I came to Africa, and <span style="font-style:italic;">most</span> of the time I don't mind being here (even now). Upon my return to village, I hope to get a little back to my roots by organizing a theater club for village girls, in order to encourage them to address issues that are usually taboo for discussion. Also got an English club for adults in the works, and maybe some math tutoring to help the local kids in school.<br /> <br />Hope the holidays are treating you all well! As for me, looks like I'm getting <span style="font-style:italic;">quite</span> a Ouaga New Year.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1162238462866791832006-10-31T14:06:00.001+00:002008-10-13T23:39:11.049+00:00Requiem for Gildas.Gildas is one of my favorites among the village children who hang out around my house and regularly pester me for my deck of playing cards and other presents. He cannot be more than six years of age, has spindly arms and legs, and his belly is only slighly bloated from malnutrition. He stands out from the ragtag crowd of his peers with his gentleness (not once have I seen him hit another child, a rare occurrence) and his embarrassed smile. Gildas is also a little dancing fiend... whether he has won a hand of cards, wants to get my attention, or is just overcome momentarily with glee, he always celebrates with a ridiculously cute hopping session, that looks half-Russian-folk-dance and half-muppet. He has just started his first year of school, and looks shy and excited all at the same time, standing in front of me in his new shirt and carrying a backpack that is much too big for him. I freaking adore this kid.<br /><br />Gildas died a week ago. He drowned in the lake next to the village. Nothing in my experience is so raw or painful as a Burkinabé mourning: the village women howled and wailed so piercingly, they could be heard throughout the entire area all morning; and the men stood stoically together in small groups, brooding silently as they watched. The funeral took place almost immediately after Gildas's tiny, limp body was retrieved from the shallows where it was found.<br /><br />I did not know him very well or long, but I was fortunate enough to know Gildas for a brief period, and the very least I could do for him and his family is to share with you the side of him I knew, that through our combined memories a part of him might continue to live on.<br /><br />Sarcasm will resume in the next posting, but please allow me this one opportunity for some genuine emotion.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1160763941526629032006-10-14T20:13:00.000+00:002007-12-07T13:21:27.166+00:00My 15 Minutes.I know it has been a while since my last post, but now that I have commenced volunteer service I am supposed to stay in my village and actually work, if you can believe it. Anyway, just for you (and a little for me) I biked 80 km into the city of Fada N'Gourma to post my latest blog entry... and also to have a nice steak dinner and sleep in a room with an electric fan. The bike-ride took almost 6 hours, because I got stuck in a rainstorm for the first 2, but I made it in alive. And no, I did not fall once. But I digress...<br /><br />Like any other self-involved product of bubblegum pop culture, I have often indulged in the fantasy of being famous. Of course, having toiled in various areas of the entertainment industry ever since I was tossed my college diploma, my idea of "fame" naturally leans towards images of pampered film actors and self-congratulatory award ceremonies, rather than distinguished Nobel Prize recipients and crusading humanitarians. With my exodus from the Hills of Beverly to the plains of West Africa, I was certain that I had closed the book on my dreams of seeing my face on the cover of <em>The National Enquirer</em> (next to a caption hinting at my latest slide into drug and/or sex addiction), or at least had put said dreams on pause. I should have known better; in the last year, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt took the celebrity community by storm with the latest fad, proving without a doubt that Aid-Work-in-Africa is the <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">new</span> Adopting-of-Multi-Ethnic-Babies. Hell, I am probably on the verge of my first in-depth interview with <em>People Magazine</em>.<br /><br />I am learning, however, that B-List celebrity status in Burkina Faso has its price. At last, I can understand the Sean Penns, Ben Afflecks, and Paris Hiltons of the world, and commiserate with their paparazzi-related woes. (Well, maybe not Paris Hilton.) Every day, every <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">single</span> day, I have found that it is impossible to leave my house without attracting the unwavering stares of literally dozens of villagers, each and every one of them burning with the desire to know what the fascinating white person is up to. Even in my home, the privacy that ordinary people enjoy - and I crave - eludes me; I need only to glance at my screen door or a window to be greeted by the inquisitive eyes of 3-to-30 children. In enjoying the privileges of being the Burkinabé equivalent of a movie star - a white American - I have surrendered my claim to a private life. The public, apparently, has a right to know.<br /><br />Ah, me… fame is <em>such</em> a burden. The attention, the pressure… the need to sob about my problems to Larry King -- or perhaps, if I’m lucky, Oprah. It’s all too overwhelming. I need a pedicure.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1157376563095038482006-09-04T19:27:00.000+00:002007-12-07T13:20:27.122+00:00Blessed Be the Dabbler.<strong>Blessed</strong> (<em>adj;, English</em>): highly favored or fortunate; enjoying the bliss of heaven.<br /><br /><strong>Blessé</strong> (<em>adj., French</em>): injured, wounded.<br /><br />This past month of August has been a somewhat painful one, for both my dignity and my physical wellbeing. I think I have finally succeeded in securing for myself a solid reputation in the Peace Corps, as "<em>He Who Falleth... Often.</em>" I had not experienced any difficulties in riding a bike since the age of 6, up until the first week of August. Since then I have been engaged in no less than 7 altercations on (and off) my bicycle. Observe:<br /><br /><strong>Fall 1.</strong> Entirely my fault, freely admitted. Doing the "no hands" trick on a rough country dirt road, while listening to my iPod. <em>May</em> have pushed my luck when I turn around in my seat to see if any cars are behind me. Receive a good scrape on my knee and some shallow cuts on an elbow.<br /><br /><strong>Fall 2.</strong> Approximately one week later. Also must assume some responsibility here. Pedalling home to village from Ouahigouya WAY too fast at night, because I am late. Again, listening to iPod (starting to believe this may be a bad idea). Hit pothole in road, lose control of bike at full speed, go sprawling, sliding on dirt and gravel for several feet. Both palms sliced to ribbons, as they end up being my principal brakes. Legs unharmed, remarkable as they somehow got tangled up with the bike during the fall. Deep cuts on hands necessitate smothering with gauze for weeks, causing the mocking of peers and fear among Burkinabé (who apparently surmise from my bandages that I have leprosy).<br /><br /><strong>Falls 3, 4, 5 & 6.</strong> Roughly 6 days after last fall. Alcohol may or may not have been a major factor. Sleepover at friend's house in Ouahigouya. Imbibe healthy doses of rum and local bissap liqueur (i.e., hooch). Riding back at night from bar, friend and I come upon a large mudpatch in road. Friend swerves abruptly to avoid mudpatch. I swerve abruptly to avoid friend, directly <em>into</em> mudpatch. Bike stalls and keels over. I end up covered in filth and losing a flipflop to the mud. No trace of said footwear ever found again. This initial fall sets off chain reaction of subsequent falls, as mud clogs bike gears and Burkinabé hooch begins to take effect. Make ass of self in front of friend, owe him big time for taking care of me. No iPods were involved in these accidents.<br /><br /><strong>Fall 7.</strong> Weeks later. No way in <strong>hell</strong> is this one my fault. Our last night in Ouahigouya before traveling down to capital to take Peace Corps oath. Excitement levels high, everyone decides to go out to bar to celebrate. Use borrowed bike, as personal bike is already in transit down to capital. Borrowed bike has NO GODDAMN right-hand brake, realized only when desperately trying to stop short to avoid collision. Bike swerves, falls. Again use hands as makeshift brakes, in the process tearing off all of the new skin from previous injuries (had <em>just </em>taken off the gauze earlier that day). Blood gushing from hands, decide there's no way in hell I'm going to the party now, go home to hotel room and re-bandage wounds -- first throwing minor tantrum when assured no one is watching. Drug self liberally with sleeping pills and ibuprofen, call it a night.<br /><br />Yes, it's official: I hate August. On a positive note, in addition to be very, very blessé for the past few weeks, I can also add that I am truly blessed. Just over one week ago, I took the formal oath to swear in as a volunteer of the United States Peace Corps in front of all my peers, the US Ambassador to Burkina Faso, and several Burkina government officials. I have been living in my new home village for several days, and while the transition has been difficult and nerve-wracking, I am starting to feel like maybe I can do all of this after all. My neighbors are great, and I am throwing myself into learning 3 languages at once so I can better communicate with them. My hands are healing nicely, and I am focused on looking forward.<br /><br />Final note... To those who are fond of using that familiar cliché, "It's just like riding a bicycle," I respond thusly: "Yes, but what if therein lies the problem?"Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1154273638882013622006-08-13T01:45:00.000+00:002007-12-07T13:18:52.229+00:00Burkinabé Bob: Behind the Laughter.At last, Dear Readers, I have returned to once again regale you with tales of Africa, and of the sarcastic Hollywood expatriate currently residing there... that would be me, for all you new readers (hi, Mom). For this latest post, what with the end of my training being nigh and all, I have decided to finally admit an unfortunate truth to you: I have been struggling desperately throughout this staging period. I was reluctant to come clean for a couple reasons: <strong>a)</strong> I did not want to crush anyone's idealism by slamming the Peace Corps; and <strong>b)</strong> I did not want this blog to get shut down by Peace Corps, as they frown on volunteers and trainees who give them bad PR. However, certain new elements have recently come to light, shifting the responsibility (and blame) for my problems away from Peace Corps, thus allowing me to bitch to my heart's content. And to whose doorstep shall all the blam be laid, you ask? Why, Dear Readers, that would be <strong>Burkinabé Bob</strong>.<br /><br />Please note: the individual known henceforth herein as Burkinabé Bob actually goes by quite a different name during his day-to-day life, but I feel it necessary to conceal this man's identity, for petty reasons such as libel and responsibility for defamatory remarks, and blah blah blah. Also, should he ever find out about this blog (and whatever else he may be, he <em>is</em> literate), and the part he is to play in it, I might worry for my physical wellbeing.<br /><br />Bob was the first person to greet me upon my arrival in the village where I was to reside during my 3 months of training. Being one of the only people in the area who spoke French, he latched onto me and established himself as the point of contact through which all other villagers had to go through to speak with me, thus becoming - as my fellow trainees called him - my "gate-keeper." Initially, I was thankful for his constant presence, but after a few weeks it began to wear thin; it started a couple nights in, with his amusing parable about the 3 Jews who killed each other for a nugget of gold; got worse with his lecturing me for not following the laws of Islam; and I finally was over the honeymoon the night of my birthday, when he made a rather clumsy pass at one of my female trainee friends.<br /><br />Bob had by now fixed it so he was my constant companion, eating all meals with me and making it incredibly difficult to get any studying done in my precious hours of time away from classes. Oh, and his habit of going through my belongings was particularly exasperating. Simply put, I was miserable. Our Peace Corps training staff kept emphasizing the importance of bonding with the members of our community, to further integrate into Burkinabé culture, but the only way I could get through each day was to avoid my house (and Bob) as much as possible.<br /><br />Then, a couple of weeks ago, the day came where my family <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">finally</span> decided to share with me the truth about dear old Bob...just a month and a half after I had been left at his mercy. Firstly, I was informed that I should believe nary a word he says, because he is a habitual liar -- although I had kind of figured that one out already, as everytime I asked him a question about Burkinabé culture for an assignment, the answer invariably turned out to be wrong when I later presented it in class. It <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">also</span> turns out that Burkinabé Bob is a thief with a criminal record (he spent time in prison in Côte d'Ivoire, which explains why he once told me he will never return to that country), and other members of the family have been watching him because they suspect he's been casing my house. Finally, I learned that Bob was the sole reason I was living in this house in the first place, as he was the only family member present when Peace Corps arrived to scout locations for trainee housing, and he had assured Peace Corps that this would be a <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">wonderful</span> place for an American to live. This bastard was the bane of my existence before I even knew he existed!<br /><br />At first, when I received all this news, I couldn't believe it... partly because my host father and his brother were laughing uproariously as they told me all the details. But no, they assured me it was the truth, every word of it, and it began to make sense: the small, inconsequential things disappearing frequently around the house (coffee packets and the like); the pre-mentioned fabricated answers to any and all my questions; and simply Bob's overall creepiness, which every other American here had also picked up on. Once I accepted the truth, the most amazing thing occurred: I felt free - gleeful, even. By all rights, I should have been furious and horrified; instead, I felt as if a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders. No longer would I have to feel guilty for secretly resenting Bob's presence in my life. No longer would I have to berate myself for paranoia when I discovered that yet another item had disappeared from my home. No longer would I have to curse the Peace Corps staff for having screwed up royally in my housing assignment, for they had been just as duped as I by this scam artist. No, now I knew the score, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">and</span> the game, too... and now I could <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">play</span>.<br /><br />And so, life has improved drastically in the last several days. All of my electronic devices and important documents have been slipped out of the house to a secure location. Bob still comes over regularly, but now seems somewhat bewildered by the change in mood, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">chez moi</span>. Oh, I still answer his questions cheerfully enough, but I no longer seek his company nor his advice, and every instance in which I must leave the room I always have a reason for why he should leave too... whether it be to help me with the dishes or just to come out and look at the gorgeous sunset outside. Being such a <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">good friend</span> of mine, he cannot possibly refuse -- but now and then I can see him seething. Best of all, the other family members know exactly what's up, and our newfound sense of camaraderie has made my host family situation so much more of what it should and could be. I leave the village in less than a week, and a week after that swear in to become an <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">official</span> volunteer of the Peace Corps. Yes, Dear Readers, it may sound overly touchy-feely, but Dabbler is on his way.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1152981906082047302006-07-15T23:50:00.000+00:002007-12-07T13:13:22.799+00:00Tô: It's What's for Dinner.Hello, Dear Readers! I am on a sort of vacation at the moment, in Burkina's capital city of Ouagadougou. My fellow trainees and I have been living it up for the past couple nights, as Ouaga has dozens of amazing restaurants: yesterday I had a hamburger, fries, and beer for dinner, and the night before that a group of us dined like royalty at a real Italian restaurant, gnoshing on gourmet pizzas (mine was goat cheese with capers and olives) and ice cream and sorbet. I also received my site assignment for when I finish training this summer... I will be moving out to a small village in the the south-east of the country, where I will then go about my work empowering the women and whatnot. This area is very near country borders with Ghana, Togo, Benin, and Niger - so the eventual vacations should prove interesting - and only several hours of bush taxi rides (don't even ask) from Ouaga for the occasional feast. Still, once I leave this city, I will need to get used to my usual diet here all over again, which for over the past month and a half has been spaghetti, beans... and <b>tô</b>. What is tô, you ask? Well, it's a little hard to explain, but the closest I can come to describing it is a hardened pudding made from millet (or occasionally corn). It's nigh tasteless, but it is <b>The</b> favorite national dish. Seriously, the Burkinab<span >é</span> love it. As for me, and the other Americans here, it's really hard to stomach, but we try to eat what we can of it and smile when it is offered to us -- which is all too often.<br /><br />About a week ago, I wrote an article about tô for the Peace Corps trainee newsletter, <i>Mana Wana, Nassara?</i> (Mooré for "What's Up, Whitey?"), in the vein of my favorite satirical news source, <i><a href="http://www.theonion.com/">The Onion</a></i>. Although I don't think our training staff was that crazy about it, it got a pretty good response from the other trainees, so now I pass it onto you for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!<br /><br /><strong><em>WEST AFRICAN FOOD CHAIN DESTROYING AMERICAN CULTURE</em></strong><br /><br /><em>The popular Burkina Faso restaurant chain McTô has recently expanded its global empire to the United States, opening new locations in several large cities. McTô, a leader in the West African food industries, emphasizes a fast and affordable menu; the most popular item on it being tô, a staple diet of many Burkinabé. In the last few years, the McTô corporation has been plagued with accusations of price gouging and monopolistic practices, but this has not prevented its growth in international markets. Already, McTô's influence can be seen in several American cities, such as New York, where lines of customers stretched for several blocks outside of the ( different restaurant locations, waiting for them to open. Burkinabé cuisine has found an eager consumer in the American youth population... but at what cost? Formal, nutritional foods, such as hamburgers, french fries, and Coca-Cola, are being neglected, in favor of mass-produced foods like tô and bissap<strong>*</strong>. The new trend appears to be wreaking havoc on the long-honored American family structure, and is not stopping at merely changing dietary habits: traditional, cultural American clothing such as jeans and thongs are being tossed aside, as teenagers instead embrace the <a href="http://diary.jp.aol.com/46932f2s/img/thumb_1144411726.jpg">pagne</a> and the <a href="http://www.afrocrafts.com.zm/Carol_Exclusive/grey%20boubou-embroidery%20(men">boubou</a>. Groups of concerned older Americans are clamoring for the government to intervene, but when asked to comment, President Bush merely replied, "Laafi."<strong>**</strong></em><br /><br /><br /><strong>*</strong> Bissap is another culinary product of Burkina Faso, and - unlike tô - is quite delicious to Americans. It's a drink made from hibiscus leaves, water, and lots of sugar. Think along the lines of fruit punch.<br /><br /><strong>**</strong> Mooré, meaning "There is health," or "It's all good."Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1151861252573575322006-07-03T00:20:00.000+00:002007-12-07T13:09:05.995+00:00The Lassie Method.Now that I'm getting a little more accustomed to the incessant heat; the necessity of wearing mosquito spray, and the luxury of bucket baths, there is still one thing that never fails to drive me up the wall on a daily basis: language classes. My apologies to the Peace Corps for criticizing its program, but if I don't vent a little here, I'm liable to assault someone. (No volunteers or instructors were injured in the writing of this post.)<br /><br />Almost every day, I attend Gulimancema class, taught in French. Somehow, when I first arrived in-country, I must have aced my initial French competency exam, because I was subsequently placed in a class where everyone is fluent in French. <i>I</i> am not fluent in French. Not even close. So there's <b>that</b> problem, right off the bat. I would like to preface what I have to say next with the fact that, personally, I like my teacher (or Language Competency Facilitator, or "LCF," because the Peace Corps <b>lurves</b> its acronyms); he's a great guy, very friendly and thoughtful. During Gulimancema class, however, he is The Enemy. He apparently believes that the best way to teach a foreign language is through charades: first, he says a word in Gulimancema, then he makes a gesture. <b>Then</b>, the fun begins! Obviously, at this point, nobody in the class has a clue what he is talking about, so he emphatically repeats the word and the same gesture, then again... and again. Finally, tentatively, one of us will call out a word in French, with the hope that somehow it will be the desired solution to the puzzle. But it isn't, and our LCF shakes his head; and again intones the word; and then everyone starts shouting out words; our guesses becoming more desperate and random. Eventually, one of us will speak the desired word -- the LCF will nod, announce "C'est ça" ("That's it"), and then immediately say another word in Gulimancema, followed by another gesture. And so my personal hell continues. Mind you, the man speaks <b>perfect</b> French, so if he really wanted to he could simply say the word in Gulimancema and then translate it into French. But instead, he subscribes to what I have decided to call "The Lassie Method of Teaching" (at one point, during one of our sessions, I guessed in frustration, "What, Timmy fell down the well?")<br /><br />Who knows, maybe this obscene version of Pictionary is an intentional exercise in frustration, to help us develop patience. If I do eventually end up becoming fluent in Gulimancema through this maddening method, I will take back everything I have written here and whispered under my breath in class.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1151860122909234062006-07-02T23:52:00.000+00:002007-12-07T13:10:54.066+00:00Dabbling Diva.Those of you who have read my old blog knew that I had started dabbling in songwriting. Well, here is another, with original lyrics and music stolen from a very popular karaoke hit. A draft of this song was first composed by a group of us Peace Corps trainees during our orientation back at the beginning of June. About 2 weeks ago, I took the liberty of revising it...<br /><br /><br /><u><b>I'M STILL ALIVE</b></u> (sung to the tune of "I Will Survive")<br /><br /><i>First I got my shots, and was immunized.<br />Still uncertain how I'll live without wifi...<br />Spent my first few nights wondering how I'd get along,<br />If I'd grow strong,<br />So I went and wrote this song!<br /><br />And now I'm here,<br />In this strange place,<br />Where the sun is beating down all day upon my face.<br />I'm learning to speak French:<br />"Je n' sais pas" and "C'est la vie,"<br />And now a man I hardly know has just tried holding hands with me!<b>*</b><br /><br />And so I do,<br />And it's okay.<br />And now the smile that's spreading on my face will never go away.<br />That is, unless I get the runs,<br />Which'll put a damper on my fun.<br />I might not thrive,<br />But I'm alive.<br />ça va aller!</i><br /><br /><br /><b>*</b> Although homosexuality is frowned on in Burkina Faso (and incredibly dangerous to engage in), it is not uncommon for 2 men or 2 women to be seen walking hand-in-hand in public, as an expression of their familiarity and friendship. Ironic, no?Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1150634119350741472006-06-18T18:36:00.000+00:002007-12-07T13:15:57.398+00:00The Dabbler Lives!<i>Ne y windiga</i> (that's Mooré for "Good day") from Burkina Faso! I am writing from the city of Ouahigouya - pronounced "WHY-ee-GOO-ya" - in the northern part of the country. Apologies for the extended period of silence, but Blogger does not seem to work too well over here; I tried posting 3 times in the past couple weeks, to no avail. On top of that, all of the keyboards here are in French, which makes typing even the simplest sentences quite a challenge, as all the letters and symbols are in the wrong places. Needless to say I am psyched to <b>finally</b> be able to send out a message from in-country.<br /><br />At the moment, in addition to participating in classes for cross-cultural orientation, I am brushing up on my French in the most effective way possible (by speaking it non-stop), and I'm learning 2 <i>additional</i> languages, Mooré and Gulimancema. I have also been "adopted" by a host family in Bogoya, a village a few kilometers outside of Ouahigouya, where I sleep and eat most of my meals. Unless it is raining or there is a dust storm, I sleep outside (with a mosquito net, to protect me from malaria infection), because otherwise I literally marinate in my sheets from the heat. Also, since my consitution is not as strong as that of the locals (or, in Peace Corps jargon, "host country nationals"), I have to filter all my water, and <i>then</i> add a couple drops of bleach to every liter, before drinking it. I also have to be extremely careful about what I eat, in case of bacteria or parasites... so absolutely NO salads while I'm here, and all my food has to be thoroughly cooked. Already a couple of my fellow trainees have been laid low by stomach viruses and diarrhea -- here, apparently, it pays to be paranoid. However, let it be known that my hosts are incredibly friendly and attentive, and do whatever they can to make me more comfortable. I've also had many interesting conversations (in my broken French) with <a href="http://dabblerinburkina.blogspot.com/2006/08/burkinab-bob-behind-laughter.html">Bob</a> - my self-appointed guardian in the village - about why I'm here exactly, the differences between life in Burkina and America, and what kind of music we love (he's a reggae fanatic, while my personal favorite is oldies rock 'n' roll).<br /><br />The culture here is VERY different from that of the States: collectivism is the rule, as opposed to that famous American individualism. It is imperative to greet (or "saluer") absolutely <b>everyone</b> you pass, and that means more than merely saying hello; in greeting a perfect stranger, you must inquire how they're doing, how their health is, how their <i>family's</i> health is, respond in kind, then wish them well until the next time you both meet. Anything less than this is considered the height of rudeness. Anyone who has ever lived in New York City can imagine what a change THIS little custom is for me.<br /><br />Now, I will not pretend that the past couple weeks of transition haven't been difficult; until now, I could not remember the last time I was homesick -- but the culture shock hit me <b>hard</b> when I arrived. On my 7th day here, I was honestly asking myself how I was going to last through the summer, much less 2 years. Things are better now, but I'm trying not to think about the big picture for the moment. Right now the goal is to stick it out through the completion of training, at the end of August. If I'm still doing okay then, I'll see how I do until Thanksgiving, and so on. A Volunteer who has been in-country for 10 months told me that's how a lot of people in her group handle it; they love their experiences and their work over here, but it's easier to get a handle on things if they take it step by step.<br /><br />There you have it, Dear Readers: a rather lengthy post from yours truly, to make up for all the time I've been away from cyberspace. I promise to write again the very next moment possible, and I would of course love to hear from absolutely anyone back home in the States.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1149526440343472782006-06-05T19:49:00.000+00:002006-08-10T01:20:16.166+00:00Orientation in DC.Well, Dear Readers, I am taking valuable time away from bonding with my fellow Peace Corps trainees to send you an update from Peace Corps Staging in Washington, DC. It has only been 1 day, yet I already feel like I have gone through so much. It occurred to me yesterday that I must be more nervous than I originally anticipated, when I freaked out around 8:00am, convinced that my bags were too heavy and that I was going to have to leave them behind (the Peace Corps has a policy that you can check no more than 80 lbs. of baggage on your flight). Nothing gets your adrenaline going like re-packing for your entire trip, 15 minutes before you have to catch the bus to the airport. Even so, I don't think the reality of my situation really struck me until I was in a room with 32 other prospective volunteers, going through workshops about the various types of available malaria medications (the most effective of which apparently induces nightmares and psychotic episodes in the user). I then suddenly realized just how thorough a life change this experience will be, and how right now I really have no idea what I'm going to be doing, or whether I have the maturity and instincts to handle this overturning of everything I know about how to eat, speak, interact, and in generally simply <i>exist</i>. Rationally, of course, I had already known all this for months; it didn't really hit me emotionally, however, until I was in that room with everyone else going over to Burkina. So, yes, I did panic for a short period yesterday afternoon.<br /><br />This morning, after a full night's rest, things are going much better. My sarcasm has thus far only gotten the better of me once or twice... such as when we were asked to name any famous Peace Corps alumni we knew of, and I brought up the author of <i><a href=http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0452287081/ref=pd_lpo_k2_dp_k2a_1_img/102-4669486-9325703?%5Fencoding=UTF8>Confessions of an Economic Hit Man</a></i>. I have (shockingly) remembered the names and faces of nearly all my fellow 32 trainees, and thus far everyone seems to be getting along... always a positive beginning. The group seems evenly split between teachers and participants in my program (Girls' Education and Empowerment). Tomorrow evening, we will be flying out to West Africa, with a lay-over in Paris, where we will spend the rest of the summer in-country, undergoing intensive training for both linguistics and our respective assignments.<br /><br />There's a great deal more I would love to share, but I must grab a bite to eat before we're all rounded back up for another several hours of lectures and group discussions. Thanks for all the well-wishes! I will write again as soon as humanly possible... probably after we've landed in Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso's capital city), as there are supposedly internet cafes all over the place there.Dabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28552420.post-1149398490105316682006-06-04T05:14:00.000+00:002006-08-10T01:32:20.530+00:00A Dabbler's (International) DiarySalutations! Dabbler here. You may remember me from my <a href=http://dabblerdiary.blogspot.com>previous blog</a>. Then again, you may not. Long story short, I have left the hallowed halls of Hollywood to join the <a href=http://www.peacecorps.gov>Peace Corps</a>. To be more specific, I will be living in the West African nation of <a href=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burkina_Faso>Burkina Faso</a>, working as a volunteer in a program impressively entitled "Girls' Education and Empowerment," the goal being to help improve the female literacy rate in Burkina. At this moment, I am mere <i>hours</i> away from reporting for service in Washington, DC... 2 days after which I will be flying overseas to Africa, to commence my 2-year service. It's going to be (from what I am told) a life-altering experience, and I hereby invite you to come along for the ride!<br /><br />Most sincerely yours,<br /><br />A DabblerDabblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16949046811641855205noreply@blogger.com0