Just Can't

It must have been the motorcycle.  My back, my ribs, my throbbing head; they said “REST!” and wouldn’t let me leave the side of fatigue for four days. 

                Praise our God who knew exactly what he was doing in delaying the trip we were planning for those four days. 

                Last Tuesday we wanted to take our trip to the capitol city, Ouagadougou, to complete some business.  We packed everything and hurried to the bus station.  Rakieta buses couldn’t take the size of motorcycle we had.  Rahimo didn’t have space until Sunday. 

                We sat at the Rahimo bus station for a long time, deciding what to do.  A helpful bus-hand said they could fit the motorcycle right then and take the two of us on a different bus at either 11:00 p.m. or 7:00 a.m.   Adama kept asking me what I wanted to do.  Being the impatient me, I was thinking ‘let’s please just go now…I really don’t want to ride all the uncomfortable way home on a loaded motorcycle again.’  But I did have an idea that it would be wiser to let him decide since I didn’t have any idea what the trip might be like.  He chose to wait until Sunday. 

                We went home, stopping many places to buy groceries along the way. 

 The beef market, where three sellers vied vehemently for our business, and the fourth actually got it.

Fruit vendors along the street.  Some avocados can be found about 6 huge fruits for $1.50.

                My stomach, head, etc. fell ill the next day.  They wanted to take me to the hospital.  The last thing I wanted to do was bounce on a motorcycle again. 

                I learned that I should be careful how I express pain if I don’t want the whole neighborhood coming to urge me to go to the hospital.  Nobody would want me to die.  They would even prefer a Burkinabè to die, because if this American happened to pass out of this world while in Burkina Faso, it would ruin the name of the country - even the whole continent - for all of you, dear readers and friends.  If I died, any of you cultivating a desire to come visit this beautiful land would likely never come. 

                In the same way that I am the only faint connection you have with West Africa, here I represent all of America to them.  Adama notes how important is my every word and action, and that I don’t realize each response being observed.  Wow, the weight of a nation, or even a whole race.  Too bad I have to be tired sometimes, and can’t always be Madam strong woman. 

Folks, as I learned again while waiting out the rain in the bus stop, you just can't have everything when you want it, how you want it.  Even in America, we're just kidding ourselves.   And guess what; it always turns out better than what I could have made it my way!  Just let it go...

                Well, as always, all is in the hands of our Almighty God!

Sunday

This morning we visited a church in town, arriving just before a rainstorm hit.

 This church had a guitarist and drummers – for drumset and djembe.  It was hard to hear in a large echoing room with rain pounding on the roof.  The rain slowed down, however, when they began the message. 

As in the suburb church that we attended the past two Sundays, many languages were spoken here.  They spoke in French, another person interpreted in Moore, and they invited several Djioula speakers to sit with a certain person who would interpret for them.  And Adama interpreted for me. 

We had to drive home slowly because of the pwata-pwata (mud).  It was raining as it often does in America… “chor, chor" as they call it here.  

Pictures of the new motorcycle...

... and the pwata-pwata, taken on our way to the cyber cafe today.  

Funeral

Friday night we heard that a neighbor’s wife passed away.  Saturday morning as we were finishing breakfast Adama’s mother came to the door and said he should get ready to go to the visitation.  He said I could come if I wanted or could stay home. 

I decided to go, realizing, but not fully, that it would be a different kind of experience.  We hopped on the new motorcycle and followed Mouonton, with another neighbor, down the bumpy red road.  Following Adama’s mother made us go faster than what Adama ever took me! 

                We rode until we got to streets downtown I’d never seen before, and then kept going.  I thought we were only going next door. 

                After a 20-minute ride we were parking in a cluster of motorcycles under a tree and near a tent crowded with men.  Mouonton pulled tissues out of her purse and handed them to us.  Adama unfolded his and touched his eyes (due to the occasion or the wind of the motorcycle ride?)  He said I would go with his mother.  I guess he stayed outside with the men. 

                Our neighbor, Mouonton and I entered the courtyard and passed benches of women dressed in all colors.  We found ourselves where they were cooking an enormous pot of rice over an open fire – 50+ lbs for a guess – and were given very short wooden stools to sit on.  I guess it was too hot outside, so we moved up the steps into a long corridor. 

                We sat there, children beside us on a mat, with the woman Mouonton must have known best in that gathering.  I don’t know who she was, although she may have been one of the neighbor’s other three wives. 

                They sat and talked; I sat and watched.  Some other women came and sat on the floor, one with a smiling baby.  

                Every time men filed through the far end of the corridor, the gathering at this end got up and turned as if to exit.  When they had carried the corpse through, we sat again on the low stools.  Some women followed the coffin and we watched silently as they wailed. 

                I had been told that people only put their chin on their hands when they are burdened with some great trouble.  Here, people rested head on hand, were sorrowful, and were also okay with smiling at the baby. 

The baby, for her part, was happy with life and interested in the different colored “tu baboo.”  She played with my finger and I finally asked her mother if I could hold her, “C’est bon?”  The mother changed her diaper: a cloth held on with a string and covered with pink cotton shorts. 

At the other end of the corridor a woman sat down, sobbing, and some people gathered around her.  We were quiet. 

                The woman we were sitting with was dressed in blue, with the usual matching headpiece and long gold earrings.  Her daughter came in and toyed with the earrings.  Another girl, also about 7 years old, came with her, and they looked at me.  They must have known Deborah, because Mouonton told them something about me in relationship to Deborah, so they would know who I was.  They started whispering – obviously about me.  I watched, smiled, and pretended I was whispering to the baby.  The daughter hid under her mother’s chair; the other girl grinned. 

                Another mother and baby joined us.  This baby was scared of me, although the mother (seeing the comfort of the other baby) tried to get her to come to me.  We all sat there, having already sat for two or three hours with little concept of time.

 I looked out the door toward the boiling pot of rice and this time I saw Adama.  We stood up, shook hands with the women there, and walked back past the benches of colorful ladies.  Outside the courtyard, the crowd of men was much smaller.  Adama maneuvered the motorcycle from the cluster and we hopped on, me doing the usual “make sure your skirt isn’t in the mechanism.” 

Before I came, I remember being uncertain about the pleasure of motorcycle riding.  Now I find it to be fun, although – not being used to it – it can cause soreness the way horse riding can. 

On the way home we stopped at a fruit and vegetable market.  And when we reached the suburbs I got the usual “tu baboo!”

After lunch at home there was a commotion inside the neighbors’ clay fence. 

I went to the door and all of a sudden a stone came speeding toward me.  It was Adama, knocking a snake off the clay fence.  While I didn’t hear his warning, the stone fortunately fell at my feet as I gaped at the neighbor man and Adama beating the snake with sticks and stones.  Aicha (visiting that day), Deborah, and Mouonton ran over.  After the snake was dead, Mouonton beat it, too.  I guess it was the first snake they’ve found since they moved here ten months ago. 

  Later I saw a chicken dragging what looked like a rope, but was really its snake dinner. 

Family and home

 This is Adama's mother, Mouonton (front), his sister Deborah and sister Aicha (back).  Barak (Deborah's twin brother) was away with Adama. 

 This is the front of our house.....  I would post more pictures, but these took two hours to download...

Miss you.

Today, I miss home.  I miss the convenience of running water, hot or cold.  I miss home cooking and people who know me.  I miss being able to do things right, rather than needing correction.  

The moon was full again last night… a month since our marriage.  We went on a spin around town on the new motorcycle that kept stalling.  (It’s with the mechanic today.)  I got to see parts of town I didn’t know existed, and we traveled large roads, roads that had street lights, were divided highway, and had a few stop lights.

 We rode a long way.  Past Adama’s old school, and the way he used to bike home.   When we got to his old neighborhood, we ran into Moussa, and then Moses, two friends he hadn’t seen for six years.  It was a wonderful evening and surprisingly cold for a tropical country… too cold, almost, for a motorcycle ride.  

When I go into town, the suburb children often wave to me.  I feel like a celebrity, waving back.  “Tu Baboo!  Tu Baboo!” they shout, “White lady, White lady!”  Indeed I feel like a rare bird riding through the town.  People aren’t afraid to stare.  I don't feel bad about it; sometimes it makes me feel happy because the children wave when I pass and smile when I wave back. 

We greet people everywhere we pass, a common courtesy.  “Bon jour, bon suar…”  People say I should learn Dioula, too, while today I don’t even want to speak French.  Well, I know a few words: “Aniche”(thank you), “Niya”(come here), “potto-potto”(mud).  

Adama read a story about an American immigrant to help cheer me up, and it made me think about all those people struggling – often alone – who are neighbors to you, my friends and family in America.  

Then he went to check out solar panels.  They turned out to be much more expensive than what he thought.  It seems like prices did rise while he was out of the country.  At least gas isn’t expensive, for all these trips into town. 

While he was there today, he saw people chasing two thieves on a motorcycle.  People would kill those thieves if they fell.  They dropped the motorcycle and ran toward the police station for safety. 

 

Later today, Adama says we can go to the bush and hunt lizards with the BB gun.   Then we can make lizard stew to eat with fried plantains tonight.  Hmmmm….

Matches and Showers

I had no idea it was like this here.  To strike a match in this corner of the globe, I have to hold it upside-down from what I’m used to.  All that so it won’t break.  And I have to strike a breakable match more than once a day in order to light the gas burner. 

I had no idea it was like this here.  We take showers twice a day, before sleeping and when waking up – when it hasn’t rained, meaning the days it is hot. 

Shower prerequisites:  Water (precious in this country) We use plastic buckets (maybe 3 gallons) as the sink and the shower.  This means there must be some water left in the bucket, and if not, then it means a trip to the water barrel.  It also means that there must be water in the barrels.  Yesterday Barak borrowed a donkey cart and took several hours to purchase water at the public fountain. 

With water in bucket, we then scoop a margarine tub full of water and splash it over our hands or head.   Washing hands takes maybe a pint of water, and a shower takes maybe 1.5 gal. 

 Hopefully more pictures later!  They take a ....LONG time to download because internet has very slow connection here.  

Love you all and God bless you!

First Week

Thursday, August 28

Thank you, Mama, Papa, and Greta, for staying with us during the wait for the airplane.  It seems like only God let you come past security and watch us depart. 

Flying toward time was a big surprise for me, and it seemed like that small plane carried us to Dulles, Washington D.C. in no time.  I even wondered if we boarded the right plane!  We found our flight to Brussels without trouble, although Adama had to graciously put up with my worrying. 

The night passed very quickly.

Friday, August 29

Then we were in Brussels, waiting four hours for our final plane to Ouagadougou. 

Six hours and many sore body parts later, we descended on Ouaga. 

(The police lady wouldn’t let us take a picture outside the airplane)

The plane stopped out in the middle of the runway, and we stood in a jam-packed bus to the airport.  Immediately inside, we were asked to sanitize our hands and were checked for temperature.  Adama would have been left behind (to be checked for Ebola) if his temperature was 38°C; it was 37°.  We paid a very friendly official (friendly, perhaps because of business) to change some dollars to CFA, then wheeled our luggage past inspection - thank God, they didn’t confiscate anything! - and onto the sidewalk outside the little airport.

Hearing we wanted a taxi, a boy standing there ran to find a friend.  We packed the luggage into the taxi car and bumped through Ouaga to find a bus to Bobo Dioulasso. 

At the first stop, young sellers crowded around the car, but Adama didn’t find a bus.  At the second stop, he found a Rakieta (air conditioned bus!) leaving for Bobo in two hours.  While we waited, I talked a little English to the taxi driver. 

We bought some water – the bottles come in 1.5 liters. 

And we bought a phone card to call home and say we safely arrived!

Bouncing – slowly – through the darkness, we passed Muslims praying and small shops open late into the night. 

At a bus stop, very late, children crowded up the bus steps.  “Madam, Madam,” Bananas?  Eggs?  Bisquit (crackers)?  Money?  I was uncomfortable and pretended I didn’t know the language… well, that was true.  Adama says it’s what you have to do, there is so much selling and begging. 

Bobo Dioulasso.  Maman hugging Adama, hugging me.  Smiling, thanking God.  How well he protected us during the long travels.  Little did I know the likes of our journey’s remainder! 

When we arrived at the home compound 1 ½ hours later, we greeted Barak and Deborah, and they showed us our own little house.  There was a table in one room and a mosquito net in the other, and buckets of water standing ready in the shower room.  They brought us chairs and a mattress. 

Before sleeping at about five in the morning, I learned how to use the toilet and how to shower.  How good that strange kind of shower felt after the long way here.

Saturday

The heat woke us up late in the morning.  Saturday held my first sight of this place in daylight, my first experience of a tropical country rainstorm, and my first taste of guinea fowl – a very expensive meat, prepared by Adama’s mother in a delicious sauce and serve with couscous.  Barak and Deborah carried dishes and food to our house so we can eat there.  In the evening, we gather after dinner to talk. 

Sunday

La iglèse is about a fifteen minute walk, at a slow pace so we don’t get too hot.  We hear praying as we come down the path.   The church doors and windows are open.  When we arrive, the pastor greets us at the door.  Throughout the service he walks around the building, and other people freely move about also. 

The congregation sings and sings and claps.  Accompaniment is a tambourine and a square drum played by a young boy.  The youth sing, the women sing a song, and a girl leads the children in two songs.  Songs in French and Dioula.  A song during offering.  A song of triumph.   We are asked to lead a song in English before the sermon.  And the service closes with a song (of course) and shaking almost every person’s hand.

The son returned from America and his American wife were greeted many times. 

Adama translated the entire service for me.   And someone translated to Dioula, for those there who didn’t know French.  During the singing it wasn’t hard to stay awake, but listening to a long list of news in a different language, followed by the translation, was kind of hard on a backless bench.  I took a nap when we got home.

September 1, 2014

I am sitting inside with rain pounding the tin roof and wind flinging up the curtains.  Adama is working on some screen frames to keep out the endless supply of flies.  I have seen fewer mosquitos, although we take many precautions against them.  The flies, however, are readily available, especially as Deborah prepared un pullet (a chicken) this morning. 

I can hardly see Adama working in the dark house because we have the door shut against the rain.  Normally we have the door open all day, with a curtain covering the opening.  This lets in more air.  Happily, today is mild because of the rain, and it isn’t very humid here. 

Yesterday Adama bought some cereal and butter, American food for my adjusting stomach…  so I ate some for breakfast.  Other days, breakfast food has been milk (made with milk powder) and bread, maybe with sardines.   

We go to sleep a few hours after dark, around 9:30, and wake up early.  Already this morning Deborah taught me how to wash dishes here – not so different from home, only you bend over and do it on the ground.   

We were planning to go shopping today; not sure when, because of the rain.  Hopefully we can get to a cyber café also, so I can post these entries. 

Sanitation

Mouonton (Adama’s mother) is a nurse, so she is cautious about all things being sanitary.  Washing hands thoroughly – and many times – is an adjustment for me. 

First of all, the way we wash our hands is different since there is no running water.  When preparing to eat, I must use soap, rub under my fingernails, and then pour water over them.  Then I might use some hand sanitizer also. 

Fruits and vegetables are washed in eau de chavel, (which smells to me like chlorine) and then rinsed.  Then peeled.  For cooking, they needn’t be washed in the chlorine. 

The soap we use for dishes and bathing is very strong.  Apparently it will kill a worm if you put some suds on one – haven’t had a chance to experiment yet. 

We put mosquito netting over the windows to keep out unsanitary flies.  Adama hates the flies, so this job got done quickly! 

We wear shoes every time we step outside the door, and take them off when we come in. 

Only a little bit of plastic trash is collected in bags, and I have yet to find out where they put that.  Garbage is dumped in a pile behind the house. Today a neighbor boy was playing barefoot and walking all over the pile.  Then again, the chicken and dogs clean up peelings and bones.  And people don’t make as much trash as in the USA. 

Wednesday

The computer ran out of battery, so I didn’t write yesterday.  We spent ALL DAY at the bank.  I had a few minutes to check email at a cyber café but wasn’t equipped to do anything else internet. 

Then we went to a bank.  We needed this and that to be able to do what we wanted, so we left the bank.  We had to get photo IDs, for which they charged us exorbitantly.  Then we returned to the bank, but still didn’t have everything required.  So we left to go home. 

Instead we went to a bank on the other corner of the street.  Like the first, this one was large and fancy, with many people waiting inside.  You get a number when you arrive, then wait to be called up.  This bank had more friendly people (and there was a bit of English on the signs.)

By then it was after noon.  The people worked as efficiently as they could, but we didn’t leave that place until we were very tired and rather hungry.  Over four hours after arriving at the bank, we had an account opened.  

Most things take a long time here, including getting home.  We stopped to try buying some dish washing tubs, but when merchants see a white person, they raise the price.  Barak and Adama could see through that, so we just went home.  I guess I will have to trust him to get the right household items for me – yikes! 

Actually, that’s just what he did today, and now I have nice tubs and draining baskets.  He was gone a long time because of price bargaining. 

Also yesterday, we ate yams; they are very starchy.  And on the way home on the busy streets of Bobo, I burned my leg on the exhaust pipe of the motorcycle.  There was no cold water for it until we got home, where Mouonton poured huile (oil) over the burn.  Does anyone know if that’s okay?  A book I have says you should never put grease on a burn, but here they say that when water goes into the skin it will make it bubble with pus.  Mouonton was told to use oil, both to keep off flies and dirt, and to keep the burn from drying out.  I used tea tree lotion last night, and oil again this morning, and it hardly hurts anymore.  So I don’t know.