Mango season, again

With the hottest months of the year – March, April, May – comes mango season. During these three months sleeping at night is practically impossible, people’s tempers are shorter, and sitting still doesn’t stop one from sweating profusely. (The quantity of salt I consume regularly is half-amazing, half-sickening.) However, Orodara, located 80 km southwest of Bobo-Dioulasso, is the fruit basket of Burkina and is blessed with the sweetest oranges and mangoes selling for a dollar a bucket (20-some pieces of fruit a bucket) along the side of the road.

I’ve met one other foreigner in Orodara, an American Peace Corps volunteer who is finishing her second year of service. We’ve exchanged text messages since July and finally met in January, when I was in Orodara for meetings and she joined us for lunch. I liked her immediately. My collaborators seemed to enjoy learning, as much as we did, that we were from neighboring towns in California. She’s been kind and generous, sharing her knowledge of the area and customs, and validating that it’s okay to cry (especially when one’s colleagues are all Burkinabe males who respond to tears with, “You will not cry again!”) She introduced me to a friend of hers – a 50-year-old woman who made rice and peanut sauce lunch for us one day – and helped me furnish my house by taking me to the carpenter near her home.

Rainy season arrived in early May with a deluge of rain on a Friday night. On Saturday morning, the coordinating team left Orodara to travel to the village where the survey team was based. The road was washed out just 2 km from the village center, delaying our arrival for our weekly team meeting while we were on one side of the “river”, the team on the other. The rain stopped and we waited for the water to recede to a level safe enough to pass, about 30 minutes. Two hours later, there was not a trace of washout. Everything is becoming green again; the signs of life are refreshing. The sad, lone tree in front of my house has grown new leaves and is no longer so pathetic – it actually provides some shade for the guard so the garage isn’t the only respite from the sun.

Life here is pretty quiet (apart from my neighbors’ two small children, rooster, and puppy). I’m learning to appreciate it for what it is, rather than what it’s not here. I don’t have the internet installed at home, and the connection at the office is sporadic; it’s alternately frustrating and liberating. Occasionally, I feel lonely and wish to be able to contact family or friends via email or Skype; the lack of connection is especially difficult to accept at those times. I spend evenings and weekends reading and writing, and enjoying the solo time for these activities. It’s still too hot to contemplate any form of exercise other than launching myself into one of the pools in Bobo. My activity for the moment is walking into town and back, often carrying a bag of oranges or mangoes. I can ride home from the office on my bike in 5 minutes, so I come home for lunch around 1 in the afternoon and sometimes even take a nap before returning to work later in the afternoon. I’ve adapted to the local schedule and am think it may difficult to eventually re-adapt to quick lunch hours in the U.S.

My 32^nd birthday was a memorable one. The two medical officers for the project (one of whom is my neighbor) walked into the office that morning and wished me happy birthday and gave me the traditional Burkina festive greeting of four head bumps (akin to New Year’s). I baked Mexican chocolate cake (and even made frosting since I found powdered sugar in Bobo, and real butter in the best-stocked shop in Orodara) and brought it into the office to share with everyone, and invited the coordinating team to my house for spaghetti dinner that night.

One afternoon recently, the study physicians and I went to a party at the district health office, hosted in honor of the new physician in charge of the health district. It was a classic Burkina ceremony and party: speeches by important people recognizing all the important people in attendance (following protocol!), loud music, drinks, and grilled chicken. It was a nice time, and I recognized many people present. Even though solely work-related, I feel like I am finally getting to know more people here – in particular people like the nurses and physicians and administrative staff – and I appreciate their support of our project. I often see individuals zipping around town on their motos and they’ll always smile and wave when we see each other. They love to give me a bad time about riding my bike or walking around town – they call it “sport” and say, “Ah! You like to do sport!” even though I wouldn’t exactly consider it “sport” when I coast downhill on my bike en route to work or town.

The logistics coordinator/administrator walked into my office the other day and delivered an envelope addressed to “Mr. le Director, Projet ZINK, Orodara” which made me smile for the formality of the address and the assumption that “le director” was a man, as well as the all-caps zinc with a “k” and shortened version of our project name (which I quite like since, as far as I know, we’re the only zinc project in Orodara and I appreciate the conciseness of it). I turned the envelope over and saw that it was from the Kung Fu club of Orodara. (I didn’t know there was a Kung Fu club here, or that they knew of our existence.) Inside was a slip of paper with an invitation to their show and ceremony on Saturday. I asked the administrator to post the invitation in our common area and then I kept the envelope, simply because it makes me smile.

Resuming the blog

Since I’ve not had steady internet connection since moving to our field site, Orodara, in mid-March, the blog has taken a long siesta. It’s been hard to summon the energy to write during the past couple of months as it’s been extremely hot and the transition has been difficult. I’ve never really embraced transitions; as exciting as something new can be it’s hard to leave something familiar. After 6 months in Bobo-Dioulasso, I was beginning to feel comfortable there but recognize that if something’s too easy, it’s time to move on. I recently read a quote by Alain Bashung that has stayed with me: “If everything’s complicated, it’s not working; if everything’s simple, it’s not enough.”

My first impressions of my new home were pleasant surprise: a newly constructed home with tile floors, a ceiling fan in the living room area, 2 bedrooms, a bathroom with a toilet, shower, and a sink (albeit the size of an airplane sink). There’s even a kitchen, although no sink, no counters, and one plug outlet. It’s on the edge of town, literally at the border, with an empty field across the dirt road: a colleague visited and remarked, “The view reminds me of my village; it’s quiet, nothing in sight!” Yes, not much in sight, but my main collaborator lives next door to me and around the corner is a new acquaintance – the woman who works at the copy shop where we photocopied hundreds of test survey forms during our first two weeks in town.

Leslie stayed with me for the first week, helping us with the survey training before she returned to California. I was grateful for her company and her enthusiasm about the house, despite a lack of furniture other than two deck chairs, no running water during the day, a leaky shower head, and a broken toilet. We’d run outside to turn on the water at night for a shower and then run outside after to turn it off, lest the shower drip all night. And not just drip-drop, but a continuous stream of water that could collect 5 liters of water in just a few hours.

For breakfast, we ate packages of biscuits and drank Nescafe made with room temperature bottled water. Lunches and dinners for the first week were variations of rice and sauce, eaten with the team during the training sessions, and at the restaurant in the evenings. My ankles were swollen by the end of each day after eating so much MSG in the Maggi cubes added to all meals prepared here. I spent each evening laying on the floor of the living room, with my legs outstretched up against the wall in attempt to reduce the swelling. Leslie found this highly amusing and would occasionally join me.

Unfortuantely, my nice welcome to Orodara was interrupted. Not two days after Leslie left, I returned home from the last day of survey team training to discover my front window torn apart. A thief had broken the weak iron shutter and twisted the window covering to force entry. My belongings were scattered everywhere; it looked like a windstorm had blown everything around the living room. My neighbors (3 of my collaborators sharing the “bachelor pad” next door) came over right away; two of them went straight to the police to file a report and returned with two officers. I paced frantically, unsure of the extent of the damage and assuming the worst.

My senior collaborator arrived with the team driver and gave me hug. Already fragile and on the verge of tears, I was so surprised by this gesture, and from him, that I started crying. (Burkinabe greet family, close friends, colleagues, and strangers alike, with a handshake. One of my American colleagues once tried to hug a Burkinabe colleague upon her departure and it was so awkward that we all laughed about it.) When we went inside, I discovered that the thief took things that, although adding up to probably a couple of hundred dollars’ worth, were replaceable: my radio, voltage regulators, fabric, my backpack. Passport and other personal items were okay, and fortunately, I had not been home and was safe and in good health.

After the police wrote down the items missing and left, my colleagues sat with me on the porch and told story after story. Maybe it’s just the Burkinabe way, to tell a good story and get a laugh out of the audience for the love of a good story, or maybe just how they’ve learned to pass time when there’s not enough electricity to stay awake reading, no television, no internet. I half-listened; my French isn’t fluent enough to fully understand, and I didn’t have the energy to concentrate hard enough. But I was grateful for the distraction and the company. They brought food and beer, and though I had appetite for neither, I nibbled some bread and rice and sauce and took a few sips of beer and shared the rest with my neighbor. We sat outside until midnight then everyone retired. I was quite touched by their support. My main collaborator, and neighbor, slept at my house, on a spare mattress under the broken window that night, and the driver organized for the window to be replaced the following morning. My senior collaborator facilitated the placement of 24-hour guards at the house the following night; they’ve been here ever since.

It’s taken a while for me to feel comfortable at home again. Some nights I would lie awake, afraid that someone would try to break in again. On multiple occasions I considered moving to another house, closer to our office and closer to town, but discovered that housing is limited, especially with indoor plumbing. Other times I felt angry and wanted to simply toss in the towel and leave. But, running away was not the solution. I’d think about how someone had tried to steal my car in Seattle as a reminder that no place is immune to crime.

As expected, with time, it’s gotten better, and I’m feeling more at home. I’m grateful to live next door to my collaborator and close friend, and to have become more at ease with the team and my new surroundings. I’ve also figured out that the water is on from 8 pm until 6 am, and again from about 1 pm until 3 pm, so I can stock water and have a shower during those times. I also hired a woman to clean the house, wash clothes and dishes, and do some food shopping for me, which makes life exponentially easier. The guard calls me “Patron” even though he knows my name. He greets me, “Bonjour, Patron!” and occasionally asks if I would like him to wash my bicycle. I keep insisting he call me Shelby but I can only assume that Patron is easier.

The transition has been smoother as I’ve started to make it my house my home: I now have an armoir, bed, table and chairs, bookshelf, gas stove, and small refrigerator. The night that my bed was delivered by the carpenter, it felt almost ceremonious to take down my camping tent, hang my mosquito net, and declare to myself, “I live here.” It felt wonderful to sleep on a mattress that was off the floor and I almost felt giddy to take my clothes out of plastic bags on the floor and fold them on a shelf or hang them in the armoir.

Furthermore, after working on this project for a year, we have finally started to collect data (a major milestone in any research project). It’s exciting to see it in motion after months and months of writing protocols, calculating personnel needs and budgets, revising timelines, developing staff training programs and data collection tools.

Third time is indeed a charm, when it comes to office space. We initially planned to renovate a government-owned building that would have been rent-free and close to town. However, the list of repairs kept growing, faster than the marks left by termites who were in the process of taking down the building, which was more of a tear-down than a fixer-upper. Relieved to hear that our team was abandoning that option, the next possibility was a new villa not far from the two houses rented for my collaborator and me. Although I was wary of living next door to the office, the convenience factor was favorable and the building was available. There were just a “few finishing touches” to be completed before we moved in. However, the installations were anything but speedy and this was quickly abandoned when the amount of work left to be completed far outweighed the work that had been completed.

For a while, we created space to work wherever we could: under a tree, in my living room, or borrowing a meeting room at the district health office. Our search for office space stopped when we discovered two houses located just off the paved road and halfway between the town center and my house. The houses are nearly twins, and across the road from one another; while one has larger rooms, the other has an enormous mango tree with lots of shade. Space for staff won over the mango tree (although we asked–-only half-jokingly—if we could move the mango tree to the other house) and we moved in two weeks later. Our office is spacious, with rooms for the coordinating team, data entry team, survey managers, logistics and administrative staff, a kitchen that will be transformed into the laboratory, and a driveway to securely keep the two study vehicles and the dozen motorcycles.

On Verra

Off we go to Orodara, our field site. It's been a move delayed several times but we are finally packed and going. Orodara is the fruit basket of Burkina; luckily we're arriving at the start of the mango season! I have a feeling that sitting under a mango tree will be my respite from the 95-100F temps lately. I am still perplexed by how much stuff I have managed to collect; fortunately most of it will stay here when the time comes for me to return home. The study staff and drivers are helping me move, for which I am grateful. Apparently there is no such thing as too much stuff piled on one car. The finesse of packing logistics.

There are two houses located around the corner from our study office -- one house is for me and one for my main collaborator, who will be my neighbor. I haven't seen the inside of the house yet but from the outside it looks nice and, well, blue. I only recall the paint is very blue. We start another training session on Wednesday, with 30 interviewers who will collect data for our phase one survey (collecting socio-demographic information and interviewing caregivers of young children about health practices). Soon we'll be out of the office and into the field -- visiting households in urban and rural areas of the health district -- finally!

The Palud

I wasn’t feeling well for a while, and after some serious GI issues and a fever overnight, I went to the clinic in the morning and the doctor prescribed an antibiotic, a de-worming tablet, and Immodium (to cover the broad spectrum of issues). He also took a blood sample to check for an infection and malaria (paludisme, or “the palud” as my coworkers call it).

I started the antibiotic and drank a lot of fluids and lay in bed for a few hours. I visited the clinic again in the afternoon to get the results, which showed that I had malaria, too. Awesome. The doctor explained that when the body is run down (like with diarrhea), even while taking daily malaria prophylaxis (and taking other preventive measures like sleeping under a bednet and using bug spray) it is possible to get malaria. He said that if I weren't taking the doxycycline, it is likely I would have a severe malaria, but not the case now. He prescribed a 3-day course of treatment which my housemate went to the pharmacy to fill for me. The treatment was 4 pills in the morning and 4 pills in the evening for 3 days. My system was a bit of a wreck after all the meds at once and no food in it.

My housemates were extremely helpful, feeding me lots of fluids and rehydration salts until my system could handle something solid. During this time, the water was cut several times, making it nearly impossible to hang in there while the daytime temperatures rose to 104F, with little relief at night. I was out of work for a week and only left the house to go to the clinic twice.

Despite how miserable I felt, there were lots of people helping to take care of me, with coworkers calling to check in on me (or stopping by the house even), and the doctor said I could call any time (in fact, he's the director of the clinic and at first asked if I were a Peace Corps Volunteer since he treats most of them). My coworkers were impressed that I managed to get myself sick with both of our major study outcomes simultaneously (diarrhea and malaria). Somebody, (Jess, this is your cue) find a vaccine!!

La Petite Shelby

Recently I received a message from the plumber who fixed our kitchen sink a few weeks ago. He wrote, "Bonjour, I would like to inform you that I gave your prenom, Shelby, to my daughter, born 21/01/10. I hope you will come to meet her." Although I had to read it a few times to make sure I understood, I immediately thought it was quite endearing.

My housemate, upon hearing this, exclaimed, “La petite Shelby!” She read the message and suggested that they may be looking for a "godmother" from the U.S. Unsure of how to proceed, I asked one of my Burkinabe collaborators for advice. He’s a father of teenage kids and a huge smile spread across his face when I read the text message. He confirmed that they wanted me to be the godmother; which meant that when I visit, I should bring a gift. He elaborated, “They like the name, and you must have left a nice impression. It’s very nice! OK, since it’s a girl, bring four pieces of soap as cadeau.”

I asked, “Why four?”

“Because girls get four, and boys get five. They’re supposed to get three, according to tradition, but three is too few and it must be different than what girls receive, so boys get five,” he explained. “Anyways, give soap and maybe a piece of clothing or something for the baby.”

I thanked him for his advice and checked with a female collaborator regarding exactly which type of soap one buys. She advised well because after I went to visit last week, the family sent a message saying, “A thousand thanks for coming to visit and for bringing us a gift. Infinite thanks. Stay in contact and have a good evening.”

I took a taxi to a landmark in Bobo (the “sweeping lady” statue – a bronze of a woman with a broom in her hand) and Petite Shelby’s dad picked me up on his moto. We drove down the main paved road, then turned off on an unpaved road and drove to the house through a busy neighborhood with lots of kids playing in the courtyards.

When we arrived, I was offered a chair and introduced to Petite Shelby’s grandmother, mother, two aunts, and a neighbor. All the women, except one aunt, spoke only Dioula, so it was the usual mix of French and charades and a few key greetings in Dioula. It was very sweet, mom nursed the baby then wrapped her in a cloth over her outfit and handed her to me. She’s a beautiful little baby and looks healthy. Her ears were pierced already and a few pieces of string through them, signifying that she’s a girl. She was nearly asleep by the time I gave her back to mom!

I presented the gift to Petite Shelby’s grandmother (as her dad said is protocol) and she thanked me but did not open it. I was hoping to watch them open it, not only because half the fun of giving gifts at home is watching the reactions of the recipients, but because I had tucked into the bag a small box with a silver keychain-become-pendant with “Shelby” engraved on it. My parents sent it from Seattle for me because my mom is seeing magnets and the like with my name written on it (a rare find when I was a child), but said that it would be a nice gift for Petite Shelby.

I stayed for about an hour, then as it turned dark, “asked for the road” (as is protocol here). As I left the house, I had a brief lesson in Dioula farewells and exchanged lots of laughs with all the women before Petite Shelby’s dad took me home on his moto. I hope to see them all again before long.

Santé, Prospérité, Moins de Problemes

In Koudougou there was lots of head-bumping: left, right, left, right. It’s the traditional New Year’s greeting, accompanied by the phrase, “Santé, Prospérité, Moins de Problemes” (health, properity, few problems) and sometimes an additional “best wishes.” For the following week at work, we were still bumping heads and wishing everyone happy new year. It still makes me laugh every time I shake someone's hand and they bump my head four times. I can't imagine the same greeting in America, but it makes me smile and reminds me that I find Burkina is remarkable for the people. I’m most impressed with the sense of pride that people have in their country and their traditions, and their sense of humor, particularly in light of limited resources. Most people I have met here through work say they wouldn’t want to leave: this is home.

Once in a Blue Moon

As Christmas approached I was feeling homesick and wishing I had booked a ticket home to be with my family and friends there, despite a few jovial souls keeping me company as my two housemates and I prepared for our first Christmas away from home. I decided that a change of scenery was necessary. My housemates were easily convinced into the idea of taking a trip to the beach in Ghana, until we realized that we could fly to Paris for the same price as a ticket from Ouagadougou to Accra, and the same route by bus would take 25 hours. Instead, we opted to travel within Burkina, avoiding the hassles of getting a visa and reducing our bus travel time by about 23 hours. We chose Banfora, located about 80 km southwest of Bobo, as our destination for Christmas as we’d heard that there are peaks to climb and hippos to see, and that it’s a beautiful, green area with waterfalls, sugar cane and rice fields.

Our friend Bo gave us the name and phone number of a good friend of his in Banfora and we contacted him when we arrived. In typical Burkinabe hospitable fashion, he asked when he could meet us to show us around, and we settled on meeting at our hotel at 5pm. We had a cold bissap and learned that he teaches English in Orodara, where our study will take place. He led us on foot around Banfora, bustling with traffic hauling goods along the main road (from Ouagadougou to Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire), tourists, and the end of the market day. We stopped three times so he could greet people he knew.

We ate Christmas Eve dinner at a restaurant called McDonald’s – fortunately not the yellow arches (which I have yet to see in West Africa) but a charming family-run place serving grilled fish and frites (French fries). We returned to our hotel to find a concert in progress so we ordered a ½ bottle of wine and enjoyed the music… until we went to bed and suddenly the disco next door started blaring techno so loud that it caused the masks decorating our walls to thump and thud with the bass. I was afraid one would come crashing down on my face. Not exactly my idea of a Merry Christmas.

Christmas morning was sleepy, sunny, and hot. We lazed around, drinking coffee and going to the pool at the hotel. Feeling the urge to “do something” we made arrangements for a guide to take us to the domes of Fabedougou, volcanic rocks that apparently are a favorite spot for West African artists to film their music videos. We climbed to the top and enjoyed the 360-view by ourselves for a bit, then were joined by another group of people. We were perched atop one of the domes, admiring the view of the sugar cane fields and waiting for the sunset, nearly half-asleep enjoying the peace and quiet of the area, when our guide lit a cigarette and started playing music on his cell phone, piercing the silence. My heart sank and I couldn’t help but scowl and think, “Why would you spoil a such perfectly chill moment?” just as the other group of people looked up at us with what I interpreted to be the same thought. But then someone laughed and we all giggled and started to boogie.

My housemate Robin heard the other group speaking Spanish and liked their reaction to the music sparring between our domes, so she sauntered over to chat. As with every resident of countries outside the US, these folks spoke nearly flawless English and were a group of friends from Barcelona traveling around Burkina for two weeks.

The next morning we were up early and met Bo’s friend at 8 and set off in search of hippos. We drove on motorbikes to Lake Tengrela, about 10 km from Banfora on a red dirt road, and spent the morning floating on the lake. We didn’t see any hippos but it felt great to be out on the water, especially since someone else was paddling (and made us flower necklaces as cadeau!).

We set off on a second hippo hunt after lunch, this time with a brother of a friend of a second cousin of someone leading us along another red dirt road to an unnamed lake. We stopped for a minute on the motorbikes to wait for a couple of others to catch up after stopping to buy fuel, and 10 children came running out of the courtyard connecting of a set of banco (traditional construction materials, a mix of mud and straw and earth) homes together, yelling “La Blanche!” and shyly shook my hand and stared at me, giggling wildly.

We flew down the road on motorbikes, over a small bridge under which people were washing clothes in the river and past sugar cane fields. We left the main dirt road and continued along singletrack to a clearing where I could see a lake covering in lillypads, framed by the surrounding fields and hills. We arrived wind-blown and sun-kissed, and walked down a path to the water’s edge where we found two pirogues (wooden canoes) sitting on the dry land. One of the guys picked up a huge branch and jumped into one of the canoes and pushed off into the water to check for leaks in the boat. Once we established that water was not collecting in the boats, we took the boats out on the lake in search of hippos. After 2 hours of floating along, watching the fishermen cast their nets, birds flying overhead, and the irrigation system in action over the sugar cane fields, we turned back towards dry land. At that moment, we heard a noise that was a hippo, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

We rode back into Banfora as the sun was setting. I had the feeling that I often have at the end of a day skiing or hiking: content, exhausted, wind-blown, and purely spent… only I had spent the day sitting in a canoe while someone else did the hard work, or sitting on the back of a motorbike. I was filthy by the end of the day – both Robin and Nancy told me that I looked like a street urchin, covered in dust and dirt combined with sweat and sunblock – but happy. It felt like one of those days in Africa where anything seems possible.

We showered and met Amadou and his wife and son for dinner, to say thank you for the tour of Banfora. It was a really lovely dinner, and their 16-month-old son was both a comedian and a charmer. As we said goodbye outside the restaurant, a group of people arrived in a 4x4 and approached the front door. I was in the middle of tickling the 16-month-old when I looked up to see it was the party of traveling Spaniards. The restaurant was closing and we were on our way to another place to go dancing, so we decided to go together and ended up dancing the night away before returning to Bobo the next morning.

The following Monday, we received a text message with an invitation to join the Spaniards in Koudougou to celebrate the New Year. One of them was involved in the design of a new cultural center and there were special activities planned for the weekend. Robin and Nancy and I live together and work together, and the Christmas holiday was approaching borderline too much togetherness. As keen as we were to meet up with the others (new people!), not everyone had equal enthusiasm for traveling together.

Robin wrote a message to me at work on Skype saying, “I need a vacation from work and work people.”

I wrote back, “Including me?”

“Especially you,” she responded, then looked up at me across the table and started giggling. “Oh, Shelby.”

In the end, we decided to go and survived the 7-hour bus ride, with live chickens on board, no air conditioning, Robin sitting on top of my lap for most of it, and me sitting on Nancy while we shared my headphones. (7 hours thanks to someone forgetting to attach the wheel after the bus had been in the shop for 6 months of repairs!) It was well worth it; we had a blast touring the newly constructed cultural center, dinner at the mayor’s house, dance party ‘til 4 in the morning under the blue moon, and another party the following day, with traditional dancing and music from local and traveling troupes. The best part? An open invitation to visit Barcelona anytime.