English tests are fun to grade. These sentences are why (all real):
- My penis under the table.
- My mother is fat and short. She is beautiful.
- In my new woman our old thin is coming.
- She has a new brain.
- My father is zacoka a dog.
- Our house we have got a chair in it, got a table and shit blue.
- My father is good and a good mother.
- In my bag is the pink color yellow.
- He has small eyes and my mother is love your boys.
- She speaks laughter.
- My father is tall dong.
- My father is not beating the children.
- My father have you got the black brain.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
November Blog
Sometimes it becomes a little too easy to sit back and view the grand picture. Where will Africa be in ten years? What is the impact of my projects? What are the current statistics on infant mortality? Future projected numbers? What is the true impact of AIDs or aid in sub-saharan Africa? It becomes reassuring to encompass yourself in the potential of tomorrow via comparison to today's situation. Impacts can be measured over long durations so the thousands of errors or obstacles today have less weight and cause less worry. Then you put faces to statistics and the whole becomes hazier.
A few weeks ago, I came riding up after class and Husseini (my closest neighbor and friend) told me his son, Adama, was sick. This is hardly news. Most kids are sick from time to time and Husseini always keeps me filled in. A day later and things are back to normal. Sometimes it's three days. When it hit five days, Husseini's voice hit harder in my ears. No food. Hardly anything to drink. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Fever. Five days of hell for a child of a year and a half.
There is a gambit of 'medicine" that is run. Between charms and sacrifices to antibiotics. Adama had anything they could think of. Thus, on that fifth day, I could see the plea in Husseini's eyes. Before I could get off my bike, he was beckoning me into his courtyard. Look at my son. The worry was evident but what really shocked me was his pleading manner. He kept reminding me of how I was smart and white, as if by these two attributes I had some special medical knowledge or healing power. Come, hold his hand. What can we do? His words were stones. Heavy. Shattering. What do I know of medicine? Here the man is desperate and turning my way. What can I say but to see the clinic doctor (which he has already done)? How is my hand touching Adama's going to heal him?
A note on Adama: he was the only baby not scared of white skin. He would never shriek and turn from me as I approached. Instead he would call my name at night until his mother lifted him beyond the wall to shake my hand. He smiled and giggled as if happiness was the only disposition worthy of his time.
Sitting on top of a bowl, supported by his mother, and smiling was Adama. He was weak. You could see it in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the sagging skin on his bones. All of his charm still pulled through those small brown eyes but the body was grieving for itself, a huddled mass of fatigue. With help, he reached out and put his hand in mine without the strength to grab hold. I held his small fingers and palm. Fragile and anemic. I wanted him to pull from my hand the strength to stand and eat. Both nothing flowed.
Later, Husseini explained he could no longer walk because of the antibiotic shots to his legs. The doctor was losing ground with no improvements. Husseini would not ask so I asked him. What can I do? What do you need? He mumbled about not knowing himself what to do, what else to try. I asked him about medical bills. Could he afford them? He said it was expensive but they had found ways to make it work. What power did being white give me? None. But I did have more monetary resources at my disposal. Throwing money at a problem is never a solution but it can help. As was, it was all I could do. I was here to help and was powerless to truly do so.
Adama entered the clinic that night to receive an IV. On my way to school the next morning, Husseini informed me that they tried more than six times to find a vein but could not. His blood was too thick and dry, he said, to take the IV. After class, Husseini was pacing, staring at the ground. It was more than a father's worry. It was grief.
Adama died.
Burkinabe do not cry. They hardly show emotion beyond pleasantries. Tears are hidden. Husseini's eyes were swollen. His face was lost in the dirt beneath his worn sandals. He turned and asked if this happens where I come from. How could I tell him 'no, not really. perhaps rarely'? How could I express that because he lost the lottery of birth, his son is now dead? That, though he will bike 300 km and back to mine gold during the year to feed his family, his work will not gain him what would be easily found in America. I could not directly answer his question. Instead, I made up a story. I said that God had decided he wanted the best company for dinner tonight. Someone that was the best of all those on earth. And when that is decided, no one can change that fact. So, for that day, he had chosen Adama to sit and talk to, the best of all of us. It was his honor to be God's guest. It was a fake story for an unbearable truth. But you could see pride in his eyes for his son. His desire to believe out weighed his need for reality. Somehow I couldn't help believing the story myself.
That afternoon, after the students came back from class, I found Abdoulaye in my courtyard. Alaye is one of my favorites, always a comedian but still a good student. He's my dog walker and burkinabe-cultural guide. He is never without words. But there, facing the wall of my house, he was silent. Tears were hidden in his lowered face, reflecting so many of his father's mannerisms. It was more than I could bear but life hadn't given me a choice. Funny that in those moments, your sense of self is laid down and forgotten. Never have I felt more the teacher. We talked and drank orange juice. He stayed until late in the night beneath my hangar.
The funeral was quick, only a day later. There was a burial and silence broken only by a few prayers. It was the community resting without word in show of solidarity.
A bit over a week later and Fango has started. The work in the village is over. For nine days, the villagers will meet around the market and dance in lines for hours on end. They dance for the coming year and in thanks of all that they have gained from the previous. Drums fire long into the night while heads bob up and down. There is not drama, not cinematic, not even 'authentic'. It is routine. Another part of life here.
Just before the first day of the festival, Husseini hands me a chicken. Chickens are not free, though they run loose around the compound. They are not cheap though you constantly see one beneath your feet. It was a present. He explained to me how happy he was with me, how happy his family was with me. I felt a fraud. Anything I had done to help his family seemed unimportant given the events of weeks past. I was more powerless than helpful but here was gratitude undeserved in the form of a squawking bird.
Alaye and I killed, plucked and gutted the chicken. He gladly took all the best parts (those I wished not to eat anyway) such as the head, liver, etc. Then I fried the rest, southern style. Completely unheard of here. Husseini viewed his fried drumstick with slight concern but the smile rose when the crispy, greasy skin flaked off with his bite. Undoubtedly, we will fry another (though this time I am buying the bird).
So, people constantly tell me how great it is that I am helping out in such a poor country. It is not for modesty that I shy away from such compliments. I shy away because I know what I do here is about shared experience, sharing and relating life between myself and my neighbors. I have no great power to 'heal the world' or save the Africans, poor or downtrodden. But I can share what I have found as true and receive the same in return. It is the basis of all good relationships, mutually beneficial experiences.
My heart will always wrench over the loss of Adama. I will always feel that powerlessness. But those are shared feelings. They have helped solidify the bond between his father and me. A reminder of our humanity and commonality.
A few weeks ago, I came riding up after class and Husseini (my closest neighbor and friend) told me his son, Adama, was sick. This is hardly news. Most kids are sick from time to time and Husseini always keeps me filled in. A day later and things are back to normal. Sometimes it's three days. When it hit five days, Husseini's voice hit harder in my ears. No food. Hardly anything to drink. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Fever. Five days of hell for a child of a year and a half.
There is a gambit of 'medicine" that is run. Between charms and sacrifices to antibiotics. Adama had anything they could think of. Thus, on that fifth day, I could see the plea in Husseini's eyes. Before I could get off my bike, he was beckoning me into his courtyard. Look at my son. The worry was evident but what really shocked me was his pleading manner. He kept reminding me of how I was smart and white, as if by these two attributes I had some special medical knowledge or healing power. Come, hold his hand. What can we do? His words were stones. Heavy. Shattering. What do I know of medicine? Here the man is desperate and turning my way. What can I say but to see the clinic doctor (which he has already done)? How is my hand touching Adama's going to heal him?
A note on Adama: he was the only baby not scared of white skin. He would never shriek and turn from me as I approached. Instead he would call my name at night until his mother lifted him beyond the wall to shake my hand. He smiled and giggled as if happiness was the only disposition worthy of his time.
Sitting on top of a bowl, supported by his mother, and smiling was Adama. He was weak. You could see it in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the sagging skin on his bones. All of his charm still pulled through those small brown eyes but the body was grieving for itself, a huddled mass of fatigue. With help, he reached out and put his hand in mine without the strength to grab hold. I held his small fingers and palm. Fragile and anemic. I wanted him to pull from my hand the strength to stand and eat. Both nothing flowed.
Later, Husseini explained he could no longer walk because of the antibiotic shots to his legs. The doctor was losing ground with no improvements. Husseini would not ask so I asked him. What can I do? What do you need? He mumbled about not knowing himself what to do, what else to try. I asked him about medical bills. Could he afford them? He said it was expensive but they had found ways to make it work. What power did being white give me? None. But I did have more monetary resources at my disposal. Throwing money at a problem is never a solution but it can help. As was, it was all I could do. I was here to help and was powerless to truly do so.
Adama entered the clinic that night to receive an IV. On my way to school the next morning, Husseini informed me that they tried more than six times to find a vein but could not. His blood was too thick and dry, he said, to take the IV. After class, Husseini was pacing, staring at the ground. It was more than a father's worry. It was grief.
Adama died.
Burkinabe do not cry. They hardly show emotion beyond pleasantries. Tears are hidden. Husseini's eyes were swollen. His face was lost in the dirt beneath his worn sandals. He turned and asked if this happens where I come from. How could I tell him 'no, not really. perhaps rarely'? How could I express that because he lost the lottery of birth, his son is now dead? That, though he will bike 300 km and back to mine gold during the year to feed his family, his work will not gain him what would be easily found in America. I could not directly answer his question. Instead, I made up a story. I said that God had decided he wanted the best company for dinner tonight. Someone that was the best of all those on earth. And when that is decided, no one can change that fact. So, for that day, he had chosen Adama to sit and talk to, the best of all of us. It was his honor to be God's guest. It was a fake story for an unbearable truth. But you could see pride in his eyes for his son. His desire to believe out weighed his need for reality. Somehow I couldn't help believing the story myself.
That afternoon, after the students came back from class, I found Abdoulaye in my courtyard. Alaye is one of my favorites, always a comedian but still a good student. He's my dog walker and burkinabe-cultural guide. He is never without words. But there, facing the wall of my house, he was silent. Tears were hidden in his lowered face, reflecting so many of his father's mannerisms. It was more than I could bear but life hadn't given me a choice. Funny that in those moments, your sense of self is laid down and forgotten. Never have I felt more the teacher. We talked and drank orange juice. He stayed until late in the night beneath my hangar.
The funeral was quick, only a day later. There was a burial and silence broken only by a few prayers. It was the community resting without word in show of solidarity.
A bit over a week later and Fango has started. The work in the village is over. For nine days, the villagers will meet around the market and dance in lines for hours on end. They dance for the coming year and in thanks of all that they have gained from the previous. Drums fire long into the night while heads bob up and down. There is not drama, not cinematic, not even 'authentic'. It is routine. Another part of life here.
Just before the first day of the festival, Husseini hands me a chicken. Chickens are not free, though they run loose around the compound. They are not cheap though you constantly see one beneath your feet. It was a present. He explained to me how happy he was with me, how happy his family was with me. I felt a fraud. Anything I had done to help his family seemed unimportant given the events of weeks past. I was more powerless than helpful but here was gratitude undeserved in the form of a squawking bird.
Alaye and I killed, plucked and gutted the chicken. He gladly took all the best parts (those I wished not to eat anyway) such as the head, liver, etc. Then I fried the rest, southern style. Completely unheard of here. Husseini viewed his fried drumstick with slight concern but the smile rose when the crispy, greasy skin flaked off with his bite. Undoubtedly, we will fry another (though this time I am buying the bird).
So, people constantly tell me how great it is that I am helping out in such a poor country. It is not for modesty that I shy away from such compliments. I shy away because I know what I do here is about shared experience, sharing and relating life between myself and my neighbors. I have no great power to 'heal the world' or save the Africans, poor or downtrodden. But I can share what I have found as true and receive the same in return. It is the basis of all good relationships, mutually beneficial experiences.
My heart will always wrench over the loss of Adama. I will always feel that powerlessness. But those are shared feelings. They have helped solidify the bond between his father and me. A reminder of our humanity and commonality.
Common Now (Oct 29th)
So much of my life is transition. In Rambo, the people here are as settled as is possible. Ouedraogos have been here for as long as anyone can remember. Nothing much changes beyond seasons. It is the opposite of my life. This little settled piece is another station on my ever-changing track.
Here, people bond to me as if I was going to stay but it is well known I am leaving in a year. The idea of my departure has little bearing on how open they are to relate to me. Am I deceiving them or are they deceiving themselves? Really, I think neither. For if there is one thing we share, it is the sentiment of now.
In Rambo, life is taken as it comes and the now is what matters most. Seasons will change and nobody can predict the weather (the all important force in their lives) so why try to view beyond today? In a wandering life, the future is always uncertain, the past is your haven but the present is the essence of life. It is the crossing of their now with mine that allows us to exchange a greater sense of community and relationship than might otherwise not be possible. Somehow we both prioritize what exists in front of us, though for those far different reasons.
Our views on what to build for the future and where to place our work varies significantly. Yet, as the sun sets, Husseini and I reflect on the day and the coming evening as if it was just another piece of a continuous cycle, as if we will always be standing there at that hour. It is a sort of liberty that defies ideas of preparation. Though such ideas still haunt me a bit.
After all, are we not suppose to gather sentient pieces around us? Friendships and relationships should exist to support and nourish our future, right? We should build houses in neighborhoods filled with our friends and family, n'est pas? It seems so often I hear that voice (speaking from my former life in small town Midland, Texas) echoing along, making me wonder if I should not be trying to build something more for tomorrow.
Remember the story of the ant and the grasshopper? The grasshopper spent his time playing and the ant working. Grasshopper starves. Ant survives winter. Is it really so cut and dry? Work or play? Is it all about tomorrow or all today? Of course not. Like all things, it is a matter of degrees. My degree of now is higher but that suits the temperature here in Burkina. When things exist at 100F without much shade, it overwhelms your ideas of tomorrow. It supplants you directly into the sweat and stickiness of the present moment.
Here, people bond to me as if I was going to stay but it is well known I am leaving in a year. The idea of my departure has little bearing on how open they are to relate to me. Am I deceiving them or are they deceiving themselves? Really, I think neither. For if there is one thing we share, it is the sentiment of now.
In Rambo, life is taken as it comes and the now is what matters most. Seasons will change and nobody can predict the weather (the all important force in their lives) so why try to view beyond today? In a wandering life, the future is always uncertain, the past is your haven but the present is the essence of life. It is the crossing of their now with mine that allows us to exchange a greater sense of community and relationship than might otherwise not be possible. Somehow we both prioritize what exists in front of us, though for those far different reasons.
Our views on what to build for the future and where to place our work varies significantly. Yet, as the sun sets, Husseini and I reflect on the day and the coming evening as if it was just another piece of a continuous cycle, as if we will always be standing there at that hour. It is a sort of liberty that defies ideas of preparation. Though such ideas still haunt me a bit.
After all, are we not suppose to gather sentient pieces around us? Friendships and relationships should exist to support and nourish our future, right? We should build houses in neighborhoods filled with our friends and family, n'est pas? It seems so often I hear that voice (speaking from my former life in small town Midland, Texas) echoing along, making me wonder if I should not be trying to build something more for tomorrow.
Remember the story of the ant and the grasshopper? The grasshopper spent his time playing and the ant working. Grasshopper starves. Ant survives winter. Is it really so cut and dry? Work or play? Is it all about tomorrow or all today? Of course not. Like all things, it is a matter of degrees. My degree of now is higher but that suits the temperature here in Burkina. When things exist at 100F without much shade, it overwhelms your ideas of tomorrow. It supplants you directly into the sweat and stickiness of the present moment.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
death and school
(from October 2 2009)
it is a season of death in Rambo. over the past two weeks, there have been at least seven deaths amongst my neighbors in and near my compound. one could wonder what plague is sprouting its fingers into our water or air, what devil is hiding in mosquitos swirling about or what tainted potatoes lay waiting to spear us with poison. truth be told it is age and humidity. over the wreck of this season, we have seen torrential downpours that lay waste to Ouagadougou and pushed the crop yields higher here. the barrages and streams spilled over into our lives and left so much water about that it soaked into the very air. that sort of humidity is like a blanket sewn with heat. the burning day hides itself in even the smallest of drops floating on the breeze.
so this season of latent warmth drives the aged into a final sleep. they have become too old to adjust and continue the fight against the warm-laced wet that fills up their lungs. who can blame them for giving into the cooler night and resting there for eternity? at ages around 80 years old, they are truly titans falling back to earth to be buried beneath. such longevity is hardly the norm and is looked upon with awe by those villagers left in the swelter.
funerals here the quietest of occasions, the time of sitting and resting amongst those that knew the deceased. pieces of cooking and small amounts of money may change hands or find themselves in the pockets of mourners but there is hardly a fanfare. no wakes. no grand ceremonies. simple quiet with a motion of dirt on top. funerals here are vigils, the members of the congregation becoming the candles burning beneath the blaze of the midday sun.
in this, begins the school year. from the season of death and change will come the new sprigs of life and education. for these first few weeks, we will adjust to sitting in tin-roofed rooms amongst a hundred before we truly dive into any material. then the days of test will come and go, the heat and humidity will pass. before long, it will be another semester's beginning and end. we will have survived the latent heat of summer's end but find ourselves one step closer to the day our neighbors hold our vigil.
it is a season of death in Rambo. over the past two weeks, there have been at least seven deaths amongst my neighbors in and near my compound. one could wonder what plague is sprouting its fingers into our water or air, what devil is hiding in mosquitos swirling about or what tainted potatoes lay waiting to spear us with poison. truth be told it is age and humidity. over the wreck of this season, we have seen torrential downpours that lay waste to Ouagadougou and pushed the crop yields higher here. the barrages and streams spilled over into our lives and left so much water about that it soaked into the very air. that sort of humidity is like a blanket sewn with heat. the burning day hides itself in even the smallest of drops floating on the breeze.
so this season of latent warmth drives the aged into a final sleep. they have become too old to adjust and continue the fight against the warm-laced wet that fills up their lungs. who can blame them for giving into the cooler night and resting there for eternity? at ages around 80 years old, they are truly titans falling back to earth to be buried beneath. such longevity is hardly the norm and is looked upon with awe by those villagers left in the swelter.
funerals here the quietest of occasions, the time of sitting and resting amongst those that knew the deceased. pieces of cooking and small amounts of money may change hands or find themselves in the pockets of mourners but there is hardly a fanfare. no wakes. no grand ceremonies. simple quiet with a motion of dirt on top. funerals here are vigils, the members of the congregation becoming the candles burning beneath the blaze of the midday sun.
in this, begins the school year. from the season of death and change will come the new sprigs of life and education. for these first few weeks, we will adjust to sitting in tin-roofed rooms amongst a hundred before we truly dive into any material. then the days of test will come and go, the heat and humidity will pass. before long, it will be another semester's beginning and end. we will have survived the latent heat of summer's end but find ourselves one step closer to the day our neighbors hold our vigil.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
with no rush
Seasons determine time in Rambo and now I have lived through my first round of each. Of course, I plan on thriving through the rest. With my new short hair (yep, I am finally ridiculously good looking again. check out the photos) and a nice little re-energizing from the summer, I plan on rocking the face off this next school year.
School actually does not start until the first of October so there is still plenty of time to just chit chat. During these lulling hours, I have started collecting pieces of Moore to better my local language (now that my french has at least settled into being understandable). Part of my expanding Moore vocabulary comes from my tutored students. At any given time, my house has a few stragglers that are learning a bit of math or english. It would be absurd to demand payment for teaching them but I do anyway. That's right, now they have to give me a few words in Moore. Yep, what a miser I am. Right up there with Scrooge McDuck, himself. In all reality, they are often thrilled to see me take an interest (especially, since they know that it has no real practical purpose for my work here). It is an effort that is appreciated (and I can finally undertake). So thus pass my last days of summer.
On the cultivating front, all the corn and millet are now almost twice my height. The brown, Sahelian feeling of Rambo has been turned into tranquil greens. I cannot recognize my village anymore. We have had a full week of rain (so much that Ouaga was threatened by overflowing dams). It has only added to the lushness of the countryside. Husseini (my neighbor) keeps coming to my house with extra African eggplants (which I take, smile and then secretly give to someone else, yuck). With the plentiful rain there is an abundance of crop.
Of course, when I first heard this I thought Great! However, the reality of the situation is that everybody has extra so there is no real use in selling Husseini's eggplants in the market. Everyone already has too many, themselves. Thus, in some ways, it means he will have less currency in his pocket. Yet, it does mean that there is plenty to eat for the moment. With crops like corn and millet, it also means they will be able to put more into the granaries which will then be the main source of food for the rest of the year. Harvest time has not officially begun yet but you can see people pulling a few choice specimens to grill over the fire that evening (or to hand to me so I can fake a smile and feed someone else). It really is a bittersweet. Of course, having a variety of crops would help to eliminate such overabundance of similar items. We have actually been applying for a grant from the Millennium Corporation (good ol' America!) to help fund the purchase of seeds and irrigation equipment to help bring diversity to the local fields. The applications are in english so mostly I just help make sure it is clearly written and understandable to 'my fellow Americans' (that last part I did in a Nixon voice in my head, 'i am not a crook').
Other news; this month also happens to be Ramadan. While most of my villagers are muslim, it hardly is a strict environment. After all, it was a muslim neighbor that slaughtered his pig and gave me some of the meat before his family chowed down. Here, Ramadan seems to be mostly about the Eid (holiday) at the end of it. In some ways that actually makes religious sense. After all, Ramadan is suppose to be a month of fasting in which people can reflect on what it means to be impoverished and without necessities such as food. It is a full month devoted to understanding the poor man's situation. My villagers live such a life throughout the year so it hardly makes sense to change much throughout the month of Ramadan.
Now, we have not yet come to the celebration at the end (Eid) of Ramadan (Sept 21st or so) but there are already whispers in the air. All my neighbors have popped by to asking if I am making anything and to tell me about all their plans. Instead of the usual to' or beans, they are patting their stomachs in anticipation of freshly slaughtered lamb and riz. To hear my kids speak of it, you would think Christmas was coming (though, a very bloody Christmas. mmmmm lamb). For my part, I have been thinking of trying to put together something American in nature whether that be pancakes or just some kind of cake. Of course, finding ingredients is difficult and my only oven is a dutch oven that can cook all of two cookies at one time (it is tiny) but I will manage something. So far, I have caught the attention of my fellow compound-goers with my pancakes, biscuits (with honey) and tortillas. The women are astounded by this weird white guy that cooks and the kids think of it as utterly exotic goodness. It is the luxury of being different. The critics are easy to please. Thank goodness!
On a more personal note and as I mentioned before, Kris came to Burkina and bummed around with me. It was a nice bit of a vacation that pulled so much stress from my bones (one could call it major homesickness). It was unbelievably fulfilling to finally be able to share some of this experience with someone I love. It has been incredibly hard experiencing so much so far from the fam and friends. To say I miss home is a complete understatement. So, connecting back to home via Burkina was a nice release (this blog is a piece of that, too). After her visit, I have found that village life is not nearly so distant from what can be called my life. Instead, it has been incorporated into the whole, instead of remaining some anomaly (some extended vacation or rabbit trail apart from the rest). Thus, where I once felt as if I was breaking from my life, it has now become an understandably congruent stretch of the Thomas narrative. Thus, it is getting easier to see the arc of betterment that results from the barrage of those pesky life lessons always being thrown one's way.
To expound; I have learned to allow things the time to mature. In village life, nothing can be rushed. It is a waste of energy. If you truly want something to happen then you set the wheels in motion and let it happen. There are times to maintain pieces but pushing it too hard will just cause pain and/or damage. Now, I have always been the kind of person to wear my new clothes home or immediately sit and play with whatever new device I just bought. It's a now fascination. Somewhere over the past year, I began living as if there is a good bit in my life worth the time it takes to mature. Kris is a major example but so are the little interactions I have everyday that equal up to a full service. I have no idea the impact I will ultimately have here or whether or not it will fade. I could lose my entire will to continue focusing on that particular point. Yet, I find that I am fulfilled by the relationships and interactions I have with my community. More than just simple conversations, friendships and trust have been built and not because that is what I came here for. None of the people that weave themselves in and out of my day are a part of it because of obligation. Instead, I truly enjoy having them around (and I can guess by their reactions, vice versa). While I am still a stickler for getting to class on time (and deadlines do mean something), I have found that allowing for that patience and African-time mentality has worn away so many of the loose strings hanging in my life.
I will close out this long rant by saying that I miss my family and friends (that probably includes you, I'm sure) and life is going well. I can only hope the same for them.
Oh and check out the pictures I put up of Kris and I, the haircut and a few I thought were lost.
School actually does not start until the first of October so there is still plenty of time to just chit chat. During these lulling hours, I have started collecting pieces of Moore to better my local language (now that my french has at least settled into being understandable). Part of my expanding Moore vocabulary comes from my tutored students. At any given time, my house has a few stragglers that are learning a bit of math or english. It would be absurd to demand payment for teaching them but I do anyway. That's right, now they have to give me a few words in Moore. Yep, what a miser I am. Right up there with Scrooge McDuck, himself. In all reality, they are often thrilled to see me take an interest (especially, since they know that it has no real practical purpose for my work here). It is an effort that is appreciated (and I can finally undertake). So thus pass my last days of summer.
On the cultivating front, all the corn and millet are now almost twice my height. The brown, Sahelian feeling of Rambo has been turned into tranquil greens. I cannot recognize my village anymore. We have had a full week of rain (so much that Ouaga was threatened by overflowing dams). It has only added to the lushness of the countryside. Husseini (my neighbor) keeps coming to my house with extra African eggplants (which I take, smile and then secretly give to someone else, yuck). With the plentiful rain there is an abundance of crop.
Of course, when I first heard this I thought Great! However, the reality of the situation is that everybody has extra so there is no real use in selling Husseini's eggplants in the market. Everyone already has too many, themselves. Thus, in some ways, it means he will have less currency in his pocket. Yet, it does mean that there is plenty to eat for the moment. With crops like corn and millet, it also means they will be able to put more into the granaries which will then be the main source of food for the rest of the year. Harvest time has not officially begun yet but you can see people pulling a few choice specimens to grill over the fire that evening (or to hand to me so I can fake a smile and feed someone else). It really is a bittersweet. Of course, having a variety of crops would help to eliminate such overabundance of similar items. We have actually been applying for a grant from the Millennium Corporation (good ol' America!) to help fund the purchase of seeds and irrigation equipment to help bring diversity to the local fields. The applications are in english so mostly I just help make sure it is clearly written and understandable to 'my fellow Americans' (that last part I did in a Nixon voice in my head, 'i am not a crook').
Other news; this month also happens to be Ramadan. While most of my villagers are muslim, it hardly is a strict environment. After all, it was a muslim neighbor that slaughtered his pig and gave me some of the meat before his family chowed down. Here, Ramadan seems to be mostly about the Eid (holiday) at the end of it. In some ways that actually makes religious sense. After all, Ramadan is suppose to be a month of fasting in which people can reflect on what it means to be impoverished and without necessities such as food. It is a full month devoted to understanding the poor man's situation. My villagers live such a life throughout the year so it hardly makes sense to change much throughout the month of Ramadan.
Now, we have not yet come to the celebration at the end (Eid) of Ramadan (Sept 21st or so) but there are already whispers in the air. All my neighbors have popped by to asking if I am making anything and to tell me about all their plans. Instead of the usual to' or beans, they are patting their stomachs in anticipation of freshly slaughtered lamb and riz. To hear my kids speak of it, you would think Christmas was coming (though, a very bloody Christmas. mmmmm lamb). For my part, I have been thinking of trying to put together something American in nature whether that be pancakes or just some kind of cake. Of course, finding ingredients is difficult and my only oven is a dutch oven that can cook all of two cookies at one time (it is tiny) but I will manage something. So far, I have caught the attention of my fellow compound-goers with my pancakes, biscuits (with honey) and tortillas. The women are astounded by this weird white guy that cooks and the kids think of it as utterly exotic goodness. It is the luxury of being different. The critics are easy to please. Thank goodness!
On a more personal note and as I mentioned before, Kris came to Burkina and bummed around with me. It was a nice bit of a vacation that pulled so much stress from my bones (one could call it major homesickness). It was unbelievably fulfilling to finally be able to share some of this experience with someone I love. It has been incredibly hard experiencing so much so far from the fam and friends. To say I miss home is a complete understatement. So, connecting back to home via Burkina was a nice release (this blog is a piece of that, too). After her visit, I have found that village life is not nearly so distant from what can be called my life. Instead, it has been incorporated into the whole, instead of remaining some anomaly (some extended vacation or rabbit trail apart from the rest). Thus, where I once felt as if I was breaking from my life, it has now become an understandably congruent stretch of the Thomas narrative. Thus, it is getting easier to see the arc of betterment that results from the barrage of those pesky life lessons always being thrown one's way.
To expound; I have learned to allow things the time to mature. In village life, nothing can be rushed. It is a waste of energy. If you truly want something to happen then you set the wheels in motion and let it happen. There are times to maintain pieces but pushing it too hard will just cause pain and/or damage. Now, I have always been the kind of person to wear my new clothes home or immediately sit and play with whatever new device I just bought. It's a now fascination. Somewhere over the past year, I began living as if there is a good bit in my life worth the time it takes to mature. Kris is a major example but so are the little interactions I have everyday that equal up to a full service. I have no idea the impact I will ultimately have here or whether or not it will fade. I could lose my entire will to continue focusing on that particular point. Yet, I find that I am fulfilled by the relationships and interactions I have with my community. More than just simple conversations, friendships and trust have been built and not because that is what I came here for. None of the people that weave themselves in and out of my day are a part of it because of obligation. Instead, I truly enjoy having them around (and I can guess by their reactions, vice versa). While I am still a stickler for getting to class on time (and deadlines do mean something), I have found that allowing for that patience and African-time mentality has worn away so many of the loose strings hanging in my life.
I will close out this long rant by saying that I miss my family and friends (that probably includes you, I'm sure) and life is going well. I can only hope the same for them.
Oh and check out the pictures I put up of Kris and I, the haircut and a few I thought were lost.
Friday, August 28, 2009
worlds apart
the last few weeks have been something of another world. to start, any confidence i put together from standing in front of 100 students left when Kris stepped off the plane. suddenly, i was my students sitting at the front of the class and looking at my shoes. nervous.
our time went amazing. between a haircut and a missed bus, we took our time getting out of Ouaga. what a trooper, too! though there was the long ride out to my village, the heat, the sickness and any number of crawling things, she took it all in stride. and my villagers were impressed. i didn't realize there were so many girls in my compound. where were they hiding?
so she charmed my Rambo then watch me go into shock as we headed south. apparently, Burkina is divided much like the Christian afterlife. you have the Sahel (the north, just 'hel for short) and Paradise (the south). waterfalls, hippo lakes, picturesque sugar cane fields, huts with A/C... the list goes on and on. i had to check my pulse a few times to make sure that i really hadn't died and crossed over. Lord knows, if i did, it wouldn't be too far different. needless to say, future visitors (that group hopefully includes M&D) will definitely have a southern tour on the itinerary.
then, it was back to Ouaga to hangout with the collection of PCV's, ISO teachers and other acronymed types. any number of people were in town for Swear-in and general mayhem. we added to such.
the airport and saying goodbye was the difficult part. it is that reach of uncertainty. when you live worlds apart from those you love, it gets harder to remember why you are on the path you are on. fortunate for me, i have all the time in the world to mull over those thoughts. though honestly, it never hurts to have reminders of connections tempered with patience. this country has taught me how to wait for those things that are truly important. there's no need to rush the truly important parts of life. it is far better to do them right.
at the moment, i'm as homesick as i have ever been but i'm by no means unhappy. now, it's back to village and my rowdy courtyard of students. wish me luck.
our time went amazing. between a haircut and a missed bus, we took our time getting out of Ouaga. what a trooper, too! though there was the long ride out to my village, the heat, the sickness and any number of crawling things, she took it all in stride. and my villagers were impressed. i didn't realize there were so many girls in my compound. where were they hiding?
so she charmed my Rambo then watch me go into shock as we headed south. apparently, Burkina is divided much like the Christian afterlife. you have the Sahel (the north, just 'hel for short) and Paradise (the south). waterfalls, hippo lakes, picturesque sugar cane fields, huts with A/C... the list goes on and on. i had to check my pulse a few times to make sure that i really hadn't died and crossed over. Lord knows, if i did, it wouldn't be too far different. needless to say, future visitors (that group hopefully includes M&D) will definitely have a southern tour on the itinerary.
then, it was back to Ouaga to hangout with the collection of PCV's, ISO teachers and other acronymed types. any number of people were in town for Swear-in and general mayhem. we added to such.
the airport and saying goodbye was the difficult part. it is that reach of uncertainty. when you live worlds apart from those you love, it gets harder to remember why you are on the path you are on. fortunate for me, i have all the time in the world to mull over those thoughts. though honestly, it never hurts to have reminders of connections tempered with patience. this country has taught me how to wait for those things that are truly important. there's no need to rush the truly important parts of life. it is far better to do them right.
at the moment, i'm as homesick as i have ever been but i'm by no means unhappy. now, it's back to village and my rowdy courtyard of students. wish me luck.
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Thursday, August 13, 2009
my pulse reads: anticipation
i am at the middle. MSC (Mid-Service Conference). mostly these past few days have been taking stool samples, TB tests and physical exams. the results: i'm in waaaaay better health than i was before i left. my resting heart rate was 92 (really really horrible) just two years ago. now, it's 60. way to go biking! blood pressure 110/70. weight 155 (down from the 190 or so before i left). besides all the weird bacteria swimming in my stomach, all is on the up and up.
of course, none of that is really on my mind at the moment. in only a few hourse, i will have my first visitor from the good ol' USA! yep, my wonderful girl is coming on the red eye! i have been pushing it from my mind, trying to occupy myself with everything else. it's so close now that i can hardly ignore that pounding in my chest. to think, she's in Morocco at the moment, while i've been out buying fruit (everybody wants a nice snack straight off the plane). anticipation.
at this point, the itenerary is to spend a day of rest in Ouaga, then head out to my village. i'll show her around Rambo; showing here off to all my kids. actually, they are just as excited as me. they've heard about her nonstop since i arrived. plus, they are excited to use their english. all the great phrases i have taught them like "i kill you" and "you are very beautiful". all the important things.
after village, will be a bike ride to some other volunteer spots (BOB) on the way to Ouhigouya. there we can say hi to my host family from training. then, it is off to the south towards hippos, mountains and waterfalls. sounds like a horrible time, huh?
i must say, it is hard not to think of myself as extremely fortunate and it has little to do with money. by the American standard, i'm poor. broke. by African standards, i am not necessarily rich but i'm not starving (and that is important). thus, i have enough money to not have to worry about it and that makes a big difference. life is clear from monetary concerns for the moment. these next few days will be about sharing this experience with someone who has found a way to speak my language, all while seeing the best parts of the Faso.
a long time ago, i read a story where a man gave up a posh life to be poor and in love while living in a small apartment in Sofia, Bulgaria. it was my idea of happy. i'm hours away from that moment in my own life. happiness.
oh and here's a pic of the new little guy:
of course, none of that is really on my mind at the moment. in only a few hourse, i will have my first visitor from the good ol' USA! yep, my wonderful girl is coming on the red eye! i have been pushing it from my mind, trying to occupy myself with everything else. it's so close now that i can hardly ignore that pounding in my chest. to think, she's in Morocco at the moment, while i've been out buying fruit (everybody wants a nice snack straight off the plane). anticipation.
at this point, the itenerary is to spend a day of rest in Ouaga, then head out to my village. i'll show her around Rambo; showing here off to all my kids. actually, they are just as excited as me. they've heard about her nonstop since i arrived. plus, they are excited to use their english. all the great phrases i have taught them like "i kill you" and "you are very beautiful". all the important things.
after village, will be a bike ride to some other volunteer spots (BOB) on the way to Ouhigouya. there we can say hi to my host family from training. then, it is off to the south towards hippos, mountains and waterfalls. sounds like a horrible time, huh?
i must say, it is hard not to think of myself as extremely fortunate and it has little to do with money. by the American standard, i'm poor. broke. by African standards, i am not necessarily rich but i'm not starving (and that is important). thus, i have enough money to not have to worry about it and that makes a big difference. life is clear from monetary concerns for the moment. these next few days will be about sharing this experience with someone who has found a way to speak my language, all while seeing the best parts of the Faso.
a long time ago, i read a story where a man gave up a posh life to be poor and in love while living in a small apartment in Sofia, Bulgaria. it was my idea of happy. i'm hours away from that moment in my own life. happiness.
oh and here's a pic of the new little guy:
Saturday, August 8, 2009
a long walk and a hog
if only it could have been a long walk off a short pier! it would have been nice and short with a wonderfully cool ending. unfortunately, my helmet lost itself on my ride into Ouaga and i had to walk across the capital city under the morning sun. all the way from the west end (road to Kongoussi) until our Transit House. Three hours, pulling my bike along.
now, you ask, why not ride the bike? without a helmet, it is both forbidden and completely dangerous to ride around Ouaga. so, not wanting to be killed nor kicked out, i took the step by step motion of my own pedals known as feet. of course with my two heavy packs, soon the leaning motion of the bike was drilling my knee. thus, i kept switching between sides and even did the straddle the middle, pushing with feet. none of it really helped so now i can complain about being an old man with a bum knee. though one day i'll use the "i use to have to walk across Ouaga, uphill both ways" bit.
on a more up note, Bruce got a new bud. he's tiny but already off mother's milk (i made sure he'd eat insects when the kids gave him to me). i'll put pics of my new hedgehog up. now, why do i want to? Bruce is an old grump but Campbell is already proving himself much more likable. meaning he doesn't mind being held (even fell asleep on my palm). oh and why Campbell? well, there is the ever great Bruce Campbell (that had a part in Bruce's name) plus the kids want to make soup out of hedgehogs (mmm... good). fun stuff.
now, you ask, why not ride the bike? without a helmet, it is both forbidden and completely dangerous to ride around Ouaga. so, not wanting to be killed nor kicked out, i took the step by step motion of my own pedals known as feet. of course with my two heavy packs, soon the leaning motion of the bike was drilling my knee. thus, i kept switching between sides and even did the straddle the middle, pushing with feet. none of it really helped so now i can complain about being an old man with a bum knee. though one day i'll use the "i use to have to walk across Ouaga, uphill both ways" bit.
on a more up note, Bruce got a new bud. he's tiny but already off mother's milk (i made sure he'd eat insects when the kids gave him to me). i'll put pics of my new hedgehog up. now, why do i want to? Bruce is an old grump but Campbell is already proving himself much more likable. meaning he doesn't mind being held (even fell asleep on my palm). oh and why Campbell? well, there is the ever great Bruce Campbell (that had a part in Bruce's name) plus the kids want to make soup out of hedgehogs (mmm... good). fun stuff.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Subsistence Agriculture
Agriculture in Burkina is life. Most of my neighbors are 'unemployed' in the sense of having no documented job. They feed their families and survive by raising crops (millet, corn, black-eyed peas and peanuts) also known as subsistence farming. Their methods are rudimentary (not differing far from our ideas of medieval farming methods). To further complicate the matter, my region lies on the edge of the Sahel where rain only comes for three months during the summer (and often only once a week). It is a short window in which every member of the family must work the fields each day (all day) in order to grow enough food for the coming year. Even school takes a backseat to cultivation, as students will not start coming to class until the harvest has finished around the beginning of October.
While villagers in Rambo have been blessed with sufficient crop production and adequate rainfall, most are still malnourished as the variety of crops grown are void of vitamins and minerals necessary for healthy living. Children, while having enough to fill their bellies for the day, will still suffer from malnutrition causing them to have large bloated stomachs, hair loss, stunted growth and any variety of health complications.
Currently, my village is applying for grants via US government aid programs. These grants will go towards developing a larger variety of crops and introducing irrigation systems to Rambo. While my expertise is nowhere near agriculture, I have been able to assist by translating their grant applications from french to english and helping them to refine their program objectives, as the application has to be submitted in english and are thoroughly reviewed.
for a little more info check out wikipedia:
"Subsistence agriculture is self-sufficient farming in which farmers grow only enough food to feed their family. The typical subsistence farm has a range of crops and animals needed by the family to eat during the year. Planting decisions are made with an eye toward what the family will need during the coming year, rather than market prices. Tony Waters[1] writes: 'Subsistence peasants are people who grow what they eat, build their own houses, and live without regularly making purchases in the marketplace.'"
While villagers in Rambo have been blessed with sufficient crop production and adequate rainfall, most are still malnourished as the variety of crops grown are void of vitamins and minerals necessary for healthy living. Children, while having enough to fill their bellies for the day, will still suffer from malnutrition causing them to have large bloated stomachs, hair loss, stunted growth and any variety of health complications.
Currently, my village is applying for grants via US government aid programs. These grants will go towards developing a larger variety of crops and introducing irrigation systems to Rambo. While my expertise is nowhere near agriculture, I have been able to assist by translating their grant applications from french to english and helping them to refine their program objectives, as the application has to be submitted in english and are thoroughly reviewed.
for a little more info check out wikipedia:
"Subsistence agriculture is self-sufficient farming in which farmers grow only enough food to feed their family. The typical subsistence farm has a range of crops and animals needed by the family to eat during the year. Planting decisions are made with an eye toward what the family will need during the coming year, rather than market prices. Tony Waters[1] writes: 'Subsistence peasants are people who grow what they eat, build their own houses, and live without regularly making purchases in the marketplace.'"
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Thomas' Field Guide to Burkina Farming
In daylight, Rambo is almost a ghost town. The rains have come, washing away all thoughts but cultivation, pure subsistence farming. Thus, I have been out in the fields toiling away with my neighbors, planting peanuts, corn, millet and the eggplants cousin (less tasty cousin at that). Having earned the callouses on my palms and the ache in my back, I thought it would be nice to put together a field guide for all those interesting in farming here in Burkina.
Thus, click below to check out Thomas' Field Guide To Burkina Farming:
Thus, click below to check out Thomas' Field Guide To Burkina Farming:
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Friday, June 26, 2009
IT in ville
over the past week, i have been in Ouaga pouring over my computer and code. we are just on the verge of launching our website for our program here. i've done the html design while others have worked on sharepoint/server issues (and internal content). never did i think i would be building a website under such conditions. yet, here i am trying to leave some sort of legacy that goes beyond the boundaries of Rambo. if luck strikes, maybe we'll revolutionize the way we share documents and resources in the PC. perhaps it's a far off goal but it's possible. best part of all, it costs A LOT less to run what we are running than the current system. who knew nerds could do so much?!
being in Ouaga has also been a bit of a relief from village life. my life seems more productive, the work more instantaneously rewarding. too often in village, progress moves at a snail's pace. in the capital, i can work and see results while others around me continue on that same pace. there is no need for motivation, as it is built into our work ethic. such an ethos does not exist in village. any single person has a reason to be late or slow in the uptake, which only encourages the same idea amongst the others. it's an African idea of time and expended effort which has major consequences.
for instance, if you combine such an idea with the inherent racism (built from less than fair colonial era issues) then you will find that Burkinabe see work ethic as a result of genetic makeup of which Africans got the short end of the stick. two of my students literally told me that whites can study for longer because they are smarter than blacks. they were using it as a reason to not study or work harder. they truly accepted that idea. they manipulated it to their advantage. further, it was nearly impossible to get them to believe it was an issue of drive and will. after all, we have African American volunteers working for us that do not have the same cultural setbacks. truly, such thoughts are setbacks for development just as certain substitions and myths can hault empowerment and education in a village. what can you do but continue the fight?
on that note, development is like the water pressing against the dam. what so many see as a static lake is realy large hydrolic pressure pushing against the concrete barrier, looking for a crack. that continues force and a small weakness in the wall can cause major breakdowns, possibly a flood. so we continue to put pressure on that wall. time is on our side.
unfortunately for the site though, it has left behind the IT committee. i am quickly running out of town to continue my quick intro into web design (just as i was starting to understand some javascript). the site will be up soon, then it's back to village. one can always use more time but i'm sure Bruce misses me. lord knows he probably hasn't found enough people to hiss at without me there.
being in Ouaga has also been a bit of a relief from village life. my life seems more productive, the work more instantaneously rewarding. too often in village, progress moves at a snail's pace. in the capital, i can work and see results while others around me continue on that same pace. there is no need for motivation, as it is built into our work ethic. such an ethos does not exist in village. any single person has a reason to be late or slow in the uptake, which only encourages the same idea amongst the others. it's an African idea of time and expended effort which has major consequences.
for instance, if you combine such an idea with the inherent racism (built from less than fair colonial era issues) then you will find that Burkinabe see work ethic as a result of genetic makeup of which Africans got the short end of the stick. two of my students literally told me that whites can study for longer because they are smarter than blacks. they were using it as a reason to not study or work harder. they truly accepted that idea. they manipulated it to their advantage. further, it was nearly impossible to get them to believe it was an issue of drive and will. after all, we have African American volunteers working for us that do not have the same cultural setbacks. truly, such thoughts are setbacks for development just as certain substitions and myths can hault empowerment and education in a village. what can you do but continue the fight?
on that note, development is like the water pressing against the dam. what so many see as a static lake is realy large hydrolic pressure pushing against the concrete barrier, looking for a crack. that continues force and a small weakness in the wall can cause major breakdowns, possibly a flood. so we continue to put pressure on that wall. time is on our side.
unfortunately for the site though, it has left behind the IT committee. i am quickly running out of town to continue my quick intro into web design (just as i was starting to understand some javascript). the site will be up soon, then it's back to village. one can always use more time but i'm sure Bruce misses me. lord knows he probably hasn't found enough people to hiss at without me there.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
what happens now
the semester has now come to a close. but what happens now? the rains have started to fall and it amazes me to have been here for almost a year. a year that i can heard believe has passed. so many stories and lessons. there is the good and bad. frustration and reward. even that longing that we can connect to that keeps the drive in us alive. thus, i will share a bit with you of what has been and hopefully what will be.
when i arrived, hardly any words were spoken. for one, hardly any words could be understood. my french was terrible. their french was barely adequate. it was simply a struggle. further, i was not the playful and somewhat touchy volunteer that my predecessor was. thus, it took time to get introduced into the surrounding compound and its families.
part of this was accomplished by my wonderful volunteer neighbor, Lauren (who lives only an hours bike ride down the road). between her amazing french and well-established moore, i was able to go beyond introductions with a few in village. then, school started and the kids came to know my name. they came to slowly understand my french (after multiple repetitions). within a few days, i was approached by a junior high school student from one of my classes. he introduced himself and mentioned how he would like to have a few extra exercises. i was thrilled! there was a hunger to understand here, i thought. i would probably been closer to correct if i had realized it was to get a good grade.
in any case, i began by giving out exercises in class then handing a few extra out to neighborhood kids. soon, they would find their way into my courtyard to spend an hour with me, talking about how to distinguish different types of symmetry. in time, i would turn on the light and spread out mats. i don't suppose there was ever a tutoring agreement setup but it fell into place naturally. (of which, i can think my predecessor for having given the solar panel to power the light) soon it was a crowd of fifteen kids coming regularly and staying till later and later, reaching almost midnight routinely.
after the older kids, there came the smaller kids. at first it was just pointing and laughing to try to get me to understand they wanted the light on the outside of the courtyard. the older kids would translate. then, as the year progressed, i was able to get them to start knocking at my door to ask, instead of just screaming into my one of my two windows. after a few more months, they would ask politely, in proper french, for me to turn on the light outside maybe two to three times a week. now, it is pretty much standard. they come, giggle, ask nicely, then clap and cheer as i turn on the light. in return, i have granted them (and showed trust in them) to use the mats outside the courtyard, even to play with my deck of cards until later.
often the children on the back of the house are merely playing games. they like to run and scream. they even sing songs in way that mirrors studying. it's normally along the same melody but the subjects trace through their lessons. they will sing of brushing their teeth or doing math. it's as if Sesame Street had been recreated in my backyard, spontaneously. people always ask if the noise bothers or frustrates me (and it is noisy. Kristy always ends up telling me she can hear them a bit too well when she calls and i am inside). of course it is hard to adjust to at first but the roar of rain on my tin roof is far strong, yet i sleep through it. (actually, i woke this morning with my ears still ringing from all the banging from the rain). in the end, the sound of them playing reminds me of the hope that resides on this continent.
so often, i look out at their parents who are busy grinding millet or replacing mud walls and feel saddened. i see the disconnect between the lives of the adults and the children. there is so little interaction other than orders. kids take care of kids. older taking care of younger. it is marriage that separates adults from children and often at young ages like 14, the girls become 'adults'. such happened to my laundry girl. one night she was taken on a moto to a new village to be married and that was it. she should have been in school. i had hoped my money would go towards such.
thus, at night time, i find myself amongst a handful of students. those students then have taught me more than anyone here. in so many ways, i have felt the students this first year. my aim now is to become a greater teach in the second. thus, as summer is starting, i have collected together math books for each grade, the physics curriculum and english materials. with these, we are starting a summer school. i know that my predecessor had worked with the kids over the summer as well but i am looking to expand that program.
in short, we are building a student run school. well, no real building is involved. instead, this weekend is my first meeting to discuss plans with those same kids that came to my courtyard each night. they will be the teachers and helpers in each class. (all of them passed onto the next grade except one. he actually got a really good grade in my class but did horribly in biology. thus, i was unaware he was struggling) i will then act as the principle or head teacher, a role which i actually hope diminishes. the point is to give my helpers all the material they need to teach their peers, while showing them how they can pull more from the books and their own logical deductions. thus, allowing them to step beyond their need for my guidance before the following summer.
so far, they are all truly excited about becoming helpers. i promised them, in return, to continue helping them in classes that currently have no helpers as of yet (such as physics/chemistry).
in all of this, i have sat down and asked myself what are the major challenges of kicking off this program. my first thought, as i'm sure most will think, was of money. but that was easily resolved. my school was willing to give chalk and one set of resources books. in all reality, this is enough to run the summer school. anything else is really a luxury. instead, i find that i worry most over motivation.
i mentioned above at being thrilled to see a "hunger to understand" which was only partly correct. i have seen the kids striving to understand the material for the class in order to pass the tests. they will repeat phrases over and over into the night until they have it set in stone in the minds. yet, that rigid way of filing informations passes just by education. they can repeat almost anything i have said in class but can hardly ever put it into their own words. if i ask them to give me the definition in their own words, i get silence. they have no framework for how life and school combine. thoughts and wonder to do not make the jump into their daily lessons. i will watch them figure out how to solve a problem like getting water from a well with a broken bucket but that same critical thinking is left outside the school door.
thus, my greatest challenge is to bridge that gap amongst my helpers. if they can see how important it is to think critically to express these ideas to another person (and have them understand), then by all means the program will be a success. for once, the students will not be learning how to think from a white stranger but from their older brother or neighbor. they can reach places i can never go. i will always be the outsider even though the lessons apply to us all.
so that my challenge, to keep the helpers motivated to solve the problems they will have to face (and answer) in their classrooms and to show them how far they've grown once they have. i guess you could say that is the beauty and reward of being a teacher.
a few random notes:
last night it rather flooded. since it was the first major storm of the year, ten goats drowned and now their is a big pow-wow. they'll be eating the goats tonight and thanking the heavens for the rain.
a small boy passed me recently and asked if i wanted meat. he then showed me a rat half his size (about the size of a large cat). i thought i had seen big rats before but suddenly i realized why people like to eat them here. there's more meat on them than on a chicken. it was partially rotted so i didn't buy it. plus he wanted 1500 cfa ($3) for it. talk about an expense rat!
my leaking roof turned into a total gain. i have put nails around leaking points so the water would collect and drip off at the nail. then, placed buckets beneath them. no big deal. the positive, i had run out of water in the house but had forgotten to get some before they closed the pump for the night. but, turns out the fresh rain water was nice and cold. thank heaven for my filter!
i had an end of the year party for my top students. i gave them fantas (a very rare treat here) and made them crepes with chocolate custard. they just sat their stunned. they had never had chocolate nor even heard the word dessert (same in french by the way). when i explained it was made with milk, they seemed even more worried. what was the weird white guy trying to feed them. i finally pulled out my computer and watched part of Kongfu Panda and they relaxed. they enjoyed the food but i think were still a little culture shocked. i could not imagine how these kids would be if they reached their goal of going to America. could they survive without someone there to help them adjust? i've decided that i'll be at least a resource for those kids when i return back home. if they do make it stateside, then at least they will have a familiar voice to call and ask questions.
Bruce is an ornery old man. i think perhaps the kids pulled out his quills and really scared him before i got him. he is always frightened even though i only even come with food. he often will not eat it in my presences. maybe i'm just running a retiring home for the guy. who knows. i even had to cut up the hand-sized lizard we killed for him (via slingshot) before he'd eat it (though he munches down the baby ones whole).
my slingshotting abilities are improving. i put a rock through my quaker oats can from across my courtyard the other day. i didn't want to say anything but i'm kind of a big deal.
my birthday was fantastic. i video chatted with the fam. i talked to Kristy. i made a lemon cake. i bought a new phone (old one died on the way to Ouaga). i even had a breakfast of BACON and eggs! there was even a game night at the AO's house that we all went to. i haven't laughed that much in country. good times. my only regret, i didn't get around to updating my blog and running errands at the post. (don't worry C&B, C&T, Kelly, Erin, Tyler and Grandpa, i've got letters for you all though the post was closed due to Ascension Day. will try again after posting this).
my wonderful neighbor gave me a Tasty Tom (tomato paste brand here) tshirt. it rocked my face off!
my hair has gotten horribly long (check the pics). i'm seriously contemplating cutting it off when Kris gets here. after all, the heat is killing me! so much hair!
my neighbor had a rod go through his palm and out his wrist. his whole had swelled up to double its size. it looked like a mickey mouse glove. freaky. i gave him ibuprofen that i had brought from home when he ran out but really could not do anything for him. when he finally pierced his hand and let the swelling down, there was about a millimeter of dead skin that stayed behind as a tough looking shell. interesting and creepy.
i am trying to figure what i will do after the Peace Corps. if you have any ideas whatsoever, email them to me. if you don't know my email, leave a comment and i will send it to you.
Friday, May 1, 2009
on the ground
within three weeks, the final semester of my first year teaching will come to a close. working daily with the faculty, students and staff has given me at least an idea at the inner workings of the educational system in Rambo. in that framework, i have then tried over the last three semester (sometimes successfully, but not always so) to adapt my own experiences into a creative and interesting mode for learning math. in so many ways, however, i find my role as a math teacher hardly the tip of the iceburg.
first, it is best understand a basic background on schools in Burkina villages (see also Kaityln's wonderfully informative blog). thus, i will breakdown the student, school and situations of both.
the students i teach are between the ages of 10 to 18 years old. in the states, we would equate the grade level to between 7th and 9th grade. on average, they are boys. girls make up less than half of a class, but often more than a third. each is required to wear a uniform of khaki (shirt, pants/skirt) of which most are hand-me-downs that have started to wear. they not allowed to wear clothes are too degraded but not a single set in any of room looks partially new. they have all been worn and sewn many times.
their attitudes range from the most nerdishly shy kids to the bully and even the popular sporty types. there are those that wish to participate and those that hide from any glance i push their way. in no way can one take for granted some sort of homogenous idea of their behavior or learning styles. some are creative and quick, others will take an hour to give you a full sentence (though it will often be an enlightening one).
what they do share is a common restlessness in the classroom. you would probably diagnose it as ADD in the States but truly it is a disconnection from their normal life style that becomes distraction. what i mean is simply that, the elementary school that these children come out of is hardly a strict or even fully academic environment. couple this with the idea that students have no exposure to school activities at home and you began to realize that they are as much fishes out of water as i am in that classroom. therefore, one should expect that a day of lectures while sitting on a crowded wooden bench in 100F heat would be difficult to manage.
outside of school, their home situation is of two degrees. for the girls, it is often vast amounts of chores that leave little time for studying. washing, cooking, taking care of smaller children are hard enough chores to complete in a full day (given that there are no machines, electricity or modern conviences to aid them). the boys often allowed much more liberty and free time that they use to spend playing and being children. in this case, you can see that there develops a rather different set of study habits for the boys than the girls. (their ability to stay awake in class can be correlated to gender, as well)
to complicate matters, most children are absent from their parents for most, if not all their day. the responsiblitiy for a child often rests on the sibilings. to illustrate this, a number of the boys that come to my tutoring sessions live in a seperate building away from their parents (almost like dorms). one boy, who lives with his parents, is required to sleep in the garden when is father is home from working. throughout the day, the lack of supervision continues. for example, i have had children fall asleep in my courtyard while studying. the next morning their parents had not noticed their lack of return to the compound nor were concerned about where they had slept and under which conditions. it is assumed that they were fine and all was well. they would be notified in any case of real trouble, so it goes.
parents of students, can also have very different educational backgrounds, though the most common is none at all. for those that did go to school, it is rarely beyond what is provided in Rambo (if even that). you can find many parents that simply dropped out when the classes were too difficult or interferred with "real work" in the fields. there are rarely any examples of parents that use or even simpley need a middle school education.
further, students are able to retake a grade after failing (but only once). thus you will find that the basic knowledge in your class can fluctuate dramatically (especially as one can pass math but fail the grade, thus having to repeat all the courses). it is also possible (and often happens) that students who have failed twice will find another school in the region to retake the courses (as you cannot in the school in which you failed twice). thus, some kids will be on their third time through the material while others have never seen it in their lives.
the school itself is a concrete building with a tin roof. it is basically, four rooms all in a row that can hold 100 students when packed three to bench-desk. my particular school only goes to the 10th grade (equivalent). students wishing to continue must find another school outside the department (as none exist nearby).
the staff of the school consists of professors, a direct of the school, a disciplinarian, a secretary and a treasure. in our case, the director doubles as a professor, as well. most professors will teach more than one class. (being new to Rambo and French, i had only one subject this year. next year may speak differently)
the resources of the school amount to chalk, paper, blackboards, typewriter and enough books for 90 percent of the students. all in all, it is sufficient to teach a class but would be far below the worst of schools in the States. amazingly, chalk and a chalkboard go a very long way with a little creativity.
professors are also outsides, not from the village. their houses are provided and are next to the school (a km from the market). nor are they all from the same village. they often come from all over (including even the Ivory Coast). they are selected based on grades that they receive on stadarized tests.
thus, this is the situation in which i find myself standing, speaking a foreign language, trying to convey math. in that, i find most of my lessons are more about how to get to the idea of the material, than the material itself. often the subject of the course is very simple and straight forward enough to understand. however, in an environment with very little appreciation for academics, school-based-creativity and critical thinking are almost unknown.
for instances, students often learn that schools are for simply repeating information quickly (comprehension is not required). kids are taught this in the free elementary schools where they are first exposed to French (nothing else is spoken there though they do not speak it themselves at that age). often the elementary cirriculum is based on memorizing songs about french, hygiene or math. kids are taught to read in a specific rhythmic patter but are not often asked comprehensive questions about that reading. thus, many can repeat French phrases with no understanding of what is being said (or a very warped understanding due to having to intuitively divine one).
thus, critical thinking in the classroom is rare and difficult to commence. much time is spent on teaching study skills to my students. proving to them that practice is what makes math understandable and easy or that there are applications for these numbers and figures requires most of each class period. it has thus been my goal to continually experiment and discover new ways in which to reach them while demonstarting the daily lessons.
this further extendes beyond the classroom, as my novelty as a white man does not end at the class door. therefore, i have the unique oppurtunity of continually being the professor or, at least, a big brother type mentor to my students. this means i can get to know them personally, adapting ideas to assist them while also getting direct feedback otherwise unatainable. in so many ways, i started out as a math teacher but found it better to be part of a big brother program that happens to use a lot of math.
in future blogs, i will outline specific action i find to be effective (both in and out of the classroom), including more specific events from this past school year.
here are also some random pics for the last month or so around village. the wounded foot was from my 130km bike ride that i did in one day, during the hot season. yep, i was going to the Hard Corps party. no big deal ;) though it did make me buy a pair of sandals made out of car tires. other pics... the kids are my students and neighbors. the mouse was hunted and killed. the white girls are giving a haircut to the surprise of villagers. oh and proof that i can have a ponytail. the woman selling things on trays are a typical stop on the road to Ouaga. and the woman bending over are pounding down clay to make the floor of the courtyard (substitute for concrete). enjoy.
first, it is best understand a basic background on schools in Burkina villages (see also Kaityln's wonderfully informative blog). thus, i will breakdown the student, school and situations of both.
the students i teach are between the ages of 10 to 18 years old. in the states, we would equate the grade level to between 7th and 9th grade. on average, they are boys. girls make up less than half of a class, but often more than a third. each is required to wear a uniform of khaki (shirt, pants/skirt) of which most are hand-me-downs that have started to wear. they not allowed to wear clothes are too degraded but not a single set in any of room looks partially new. they have all been worn and sewn many times.
their attitudes range from the most nerdishly shy kids to the bully and even the popular sporty types. there are those that wish to participate and those that hide from any glance i push their way. in no way can one take for granted some sort of homogenous idea of their behavior or learning styles. some are creative and quick, others will take an hour to give you a full sentence (though it will often be an enlightening one).
what they do share is a common restlessness in the classroom. you would probably diagnose it as ADD in the States but truly it is a disconnection from their normal life style that becomes distraction. what i mean is simply that, the elementary school that these children come out of is hardly a strict or even fully academic environment. couple this with the idea that students have no exposure to school activities at home and you began to realize that they are as much fishes out of water as i am in that classroom. therefore, one should expect that a day of lectures while sitting on a crowded wooden bench in 100F heat would be difficult to manage.
outside of school, their home situation is of two degrees. for the girls, it is often vast amounts of chores that leave little time for studying. washing, cooking, taking care of smaller children are hard enough chores to complete in a full day (given that there are no machines, electricity or modern conviences to aid them). the boys often allowed much more liberty and free time that they use to spend playing and being children. in this case, you can see that there develops a rather different set of study habits for the boys than the girls. (their ability to stay awake in class can be correlated to gender, as well)
to complicate matters, most children are absent from their parents for most, if not all their day. the responsiblitiy for a child often rests on the sibilings. to illustrate this, a number of the boys that come to my tutoring sessions live in a seperate building away from their parents (almost like dorms). one boy, who lives with his parents, is required to sleep in the garden when is father is home from working. throughout the day, the lack of supervision continues. for example, i have had children fall asleep in my courtyard while studying. the next morning their parents had not noticed their lack of return to the compound nor were concerned about where they had slept and under which conditions. it is assumed that they were fine and all was well. they would be notified in any case of real trouble, so it goes.
parents of students, can also have very different educational backgrounds, though the most common is none at all. for those that did go to school, it is rarely beyond what is provided in Rambo (if even that). you can find many parents that simply dropped out when the classes were too difficult or interferred with "real work" in the fields. there are rarely any examples of parents that use or even simpley need a middle school education.
further, students are able to retake a grade after failing (but only once). thus you will find that the basic knowledge in your class can fluctuate dramatically (especially as one can pass math but fail the grade, thus having to repeat all the courses). it is also possible (and often happens) that students who have failed twice will find another school in the region to retake the courses (as you cannot in the school in which you failed twice). thus, some kids will be on their third time through the material while others have never seen it in their lives.
the school itself is a concrete building with a tin roof. it is basically, four rooms all in a row that can hold 100 students when packed three to bench-desk. my particular school only goes to the 10th grade (equivalent). students wishing to continue must find another school outside the department (as none exist nearby).
the staff of the school consists of professors, a direct of the school, a disciplinarian, a secretary and a treasure. in our case, the director doubles as a professor, as well. most professors will teach more than one class. (being new to Rambo and French, i had only one subject this year. next year may speak differently)
the resources of the school amount to chalk, paper, blackboards, typewriter and enough books for 90 percent of the students. all in all, it is sufficient to teach a class but would be far below the worst of schools in the States. amazingly, chalk and a chalkboard go a very long way with a little creativity.
professors are also outsides, not from the village. their houses are provided and are next to the school (a km from the market). nor are they all from the same village. they often come from all over (including even the Ivory Coast). they are selected based on grades that they receive on stadarized tests.
thus, this is the situation in which i find myself standing, speaking a foreign language, trying to convey math. in that, i find most of my lessons are more about how to get to the idea of the material, than the material itself. often the subject of the course is very simple and straight forward enough to understand. however, in an environment with very little appreciation for academics, school-based-creativity and critical thinking are almost unknown.
for instances, students often learn that schools are for simply repeating information quickly (comprehension is not required). kids are taught this in the free elementary schools where they are first exposed to French (nothing else is spoken there though they do not speak it themselves at that age). often the elementary cirriculum is based on memorizing songs about french, hygiene or math. kids are taught to read in a specific rhythmic patter but are not often asked comprehensive questions about that reading. thus, many can repeat French phrases with no understanding of what is being said (or a very warped understanding due to having to intuitively divine one).
thus, critical thinking in the classroom is rare and difficult to commence. much time is spent on teaching study skills to my students. proving to them that practice is what makes math understandable and easy or that there are applications for these numbers and figures requires most of each class period. it has thus been my goal to continually experiment and discover new ways in which to reach them while demonstarting the daily lessons.
this further extendes beyond the classroom, as my novelty as a white man does not end at the class door. therefore, i have the unique oppurtunity of continually being the professor or, at least, a big brother type mentor to my students. this means i can get to know them personally, adapting ideas to assist them while also getting direct feedback otherwise unatainable. in so many ways, i started out as a math teacher but found it better to be part of a big brother program that happens to use a lot of math.
in future blogs, i will outline specific action i find to be effective (both in and out of the classroom), including more specific events from this past school year.
here are also some random pics for the last month or so around village. the wounded foot was from my 130km bike ride that i did in one day, during the hot season. yep, i was going to the Hard Corps party. no big deal ;) though it did make me buy a pair of sandals made out of car tires. other pics... the kids are my students and neighbors. the mouse was hunted and killed. the white girls are giving a haircut to the surprise of villagers. oh and proof that i can have a ponytail. the woman selling things on trays are a typical stop on the road to Ouaga. and the woman bending over are pounding down clay to make the floor of the courtyard (substitute for concrete). enjoy.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
a few pics to share
This first set of pics are from around my village. Everything from getting water from the well to separating fighting bulls. we got everything.
This second set is my hedgehog Bruce. He may look cute but really, he's tough.
Last, here is what happens when your region runs out of Butane to cook with:
This second set is my hedgehog Bruce. He may look cute but really, he's tough.
Last, here is what happens when your region runs out of Butane to cook with:
Monday, March 23, 2009
intuitively over the magic hedge
the rain fell and my village cooled. for the first time in months, real relief was pouring from the sky. you could see it in the eyes of everyone at the market. refreshing pertains to cokes, rebirth applies to rain. a fitting end to the second semester of school and the beginning of spring break.
it was a semester of experimentation in learning. from daily exercises to extra points. i looked for motivation. the only true method i have found is continual creativity. what works today will work only until tomorrow. this is true of punishments as well. sticks and carrots, some say. well, i often change the stick and keep a variety of vegetables around to keep the class going. i feel like a lecturing market vendor.
the greatest question of this term was simply magic. in evening chats and the exchanging of stories, i came across a number of enlightening 'histories'. what can be cast off as the absurd back home, is reality here. where time and space have fixed quantities in western thought, here they are fluid rivers. what exists today can be manipulated and maybe is simply a yesterday for someone else. i found many examples of the mystical dangers that my kids adamantly warned me against.
first, never throw dirt from the ground of Rambo onto another person or this person will die. the ground is sacred and holds the essence of life which bears fruits (and vegetables). along side this is the common knowledge that those that know each other (biblical sense) on the open ground shall perish, as well.
never pick up money on the side of the road. witch doctors come and place money along routes to attract small children and thieves. when they take this money, they become large serpents that vomit money. if you are lucky, you can be changed back into a human being.
further, on the subject of animals regurgitating money. a man five kilometers away was, according to the kids, taken and arrested by police for having fed children to a crocodile. his reason: the croc would spit up money for each child it had eaten. (note: i have not seen or heard of crocodiles anywhere nearby, other than this particular story).
the lists go on. i shocked my kids by picking up cellphone credit that i found on the side of the road in a village. by all means, they swore in must have been a witch doctor and were concerned for me. when the credit did not work for my phone, they said the magic must have been used up by someone else.
how does a math teacher speak of these stories? i see such a strong sense of intuition in my students, then find them unable to make simple logical steps towards calculating a quantity. repetition is what the learn from school. intuition is what they receive from life. logic is my outsider's tongue. thus, i ask one simple question when i hear these stories, 'who here has witnessed it?'. i find no one has seen or even knows of the victims, perpetrators or even exact locations involved. then, i ask for numbers or formulas that the kids remember. they happily oblige their memories for the repeated information. i then set out to show them how i can come to the same information without knowing about those formulas or math. in essences, showing that math is verification, a quantification, of the world around us. i take one of anything, then another. suddenly, i have two. one plus one equals two. simple. the kids often still do not make the association, so i simply ask who can verify any of these magical stories. it soon comes to taking the idea on faith. to this, i say that one chooses where to put their faith, yet in math, one can never choose which is the right answer. the answer is right or wrong by its own nature.
i then go into myths and legends of our American lands. i often tell the story of Pecos Bill though and profoundly disappointed to find that my fellow volunteers know nothing of his legacy. (apparently Paul Bunyan is more important) i show how we've made up great stories to amusingly explain our country side and heritage but how they are only myths. we do not actually believe them to be true.
then comes the creative pieces. we make up my own stories. i caught the attention of my sixieme math students one day by telling them the following:
one a distant day in the past, a student decided to venture from her home in Rambo. she headed north, into an area much like Rambo with little in the way of scenery. there she found a village along that flat plain, much smaller than Rambo. the name of the village was Tikare. she was highly disappointed to have traveled far from home only to discover even less than her own village had. a waste she thought. just then, a genie appeared before her on the trail. he lambasted her for her mockery of his region and protected village. he challenged her ideas of Tikare to which she replied "it lacks any true beauty, has no market and surely no landmarks. if i were to improve it, i'd give it mountains." in reply, the genie made a bet with the girl, if she was to win a race against him, he would build mountains. if she was to lose, she must be his slave.
she rushed home, scared and alone, knowing she must race the genie. the next day at the market, she was so distraught that a vender noticed she was distracted and asked her what was wrong. she related the story. afterwards, the vender handed her two pairs of shoes. one set she could hardly lift and the other were light as air, even floating a little. he told her the heavy ones were hers and would win her the race and that she must be sure to let the genie know the others were his.
the next day, just beyond Rambo, the genie again appeared and demanded the race. the girl said she would race but only with shoes, as all proper races have shoed contestants. thus, she demanded the genie wear the pair of shoes the vender had given to her for him. the genie, worrying of the girl's trickery, said he would not take the shoes but would race with her shoes. she gladly handed over the heavier shoes, then wore the lighter, causing her to easily win the race. thus, the genie was forced to build the mountains that i so love to climb in Tikare.
all the children thought highly of my story. i made sure to make a point of how i had only made the story up right at the moment and yet it had an air of believe. after all, it fit common culture and explained why there are mountains in Tikare and not Rambo. the only problem, i made it up.
i am no one to deny these students their paradoxes. they can choose their own paths of belief and i will not demand anything differently. yet, through my time here, by the very nature of what i teach, i force them to hold at least two opposing ideas in their heads; we can verify all that is around us and magic exists. it is then their choice as to the extent they will allow those conflicting ideas affect their lives.
another lesson viewed in village, dealt with parenting. at times, i have noticed myself surrounded by kids for hours without ever seeing an adult. the ages range from two years old to sixteen. there are no inquiries, even when i've found students that have slept beneath my courtyard's thatched hangar. even on days when adults gathered around to grind millet and chat, the interaction amongst them and their children seem minimal, simply a set of chores and requirements needed to be fulfilled. it is often that responsibility goes to the next oldest. the hierarchy of the family is built on age. at one point, i was amazed to see that a fight break out and no reaction from the lingering adults. immediately, i pulled the two boys apart. their battle of words (in Moore, beyond my understanding) went unnoticed. only by marching them directly, hand on shoulder, to their respectful houses, could i clear the matter. the world continued.
thus parenting, is set of top down rules that mean to establish communal order. children are not the sole responsibility of the parents. they are raised as children of the compound with a set of understandings as to where in the line of succession they fit. in turn, by being the chief's son or the strongest kid, one can build himself as parental figure to younger kids, though one always must remember the person just above them. it seems there is a strong understanding that abuse of power can have major consequences. no one is ever the biggest fish in the pond. at least not amongst compound.
of course, i work beyond the parameters of such. i am a stranger and teacher. thus, i have very different relationship to my students, one that i am forced to define. thus, i must insist on rules and establish habits, predictable behavior. rewards are a part of that, as well as establishing the my worthiness of their respect. in all i do, i am watched. thus, i find myself explaining why continuously, though such helps raise their level of respect for my abilities and thus my person. a feat, i am sure i have not mastered but have gained ground on.
in that more fluid dynamic, i am also able to speak on the level of my students and have them speak, with trust, in turn. i find out their concerns and thoughts, what is fair and unfair. i have found them comfortable enough with me to say when i have done something they see as unjust and i then either explained or corrected the situation, showing them that their trust in me is just as valuable. a level of interactions they do not necessarily share with other adults.
for instances, i have a policy of no sleeping in my courtyard. students are to go home when i turn out the light for the night (though often it is on till midnight). i've wished to avoid having any of their parents complaining about their whereabouts and the idea that they spent the entire night somewhere else. well, recently the kids took me on a tour of the compound. they showed me a shared kids room of a piece of foam and a mat. they showed me the places where their parents slept (another building just beyond a small walled fence. one even showed me where he sleeps when his dad comes home and he is unable to sleep in his single room house. (one can expect this means his father would like to know his mother without the watchful eyes of children). the locations was the garden beyond my wall. thus, i took to asking questions, the answers to which have led me to amend my house rules. the children that are studying can spend the night but must sleep on a mat (i have five) and never on the ground. plus they must keep the courtyard door open so that anyone can see what is happening in the courtyard. and, as always, they are not to enter into my little two room hut. simple changes that would radically alarm student's parents back home. i'd have court orders resting on my door before sunrise.
so, there is much to be learned. while the adventure seems more to be in the stories than any actually craziness in village, i still find much to learn from.
to rap up this particularly long post, i wish only to mention that i now have a pet. at the end of semester/teacher's party, the children captured a hedgehog to eat. i convinced them that it was better for me to raise it, then for it to be eaten. thus, i now have a new rodent running around my house. luckily he eats bugs which has really ended up being a major plus. in a fit of unknown genius, i decided to call him Bruce. the simplest reason, the french word for bush (aka hedge) is brousse (pronounce bruce). plus, later on my evening bike ride, i listened to my most recent podcast of Wait Wait Don't Tell Me. the guest star was Bruce Cambell, promoting his new dvd "My Name is Bruce". can one ask for a better sign? maybe it magically appeared to me. i don't know. it's either a coincidence or a faith issue. as i do with my students, i'll keep my full believes on that to myself and let you decide.
it was a semester of experimentation in learning. from daily exercises to extra points. i looked for motivation. the only true method i have found is continual creativity. what works today will work only until tomorrow. this is true of punishments as well. sticks and carrots, some say. well, i often change the stick and keep a variety of vegetables around to keep the class going. i feel like a lecturing market vendor.
the greatest question of this term was simply magic. in evening chats and the exchanging of stories, i came across a number of enlightening 'histories'. what can be cast off as the absurd back home, is reality here. where time and space have fixed quantities in western thought, here they are fluid rivers. what exists today can be manipulated and maybe is simply a yesterday for someone else. i found many examples of the mystical dangers that my kids adamantly warned me against.
first, never throw dirt from the ground of Rambo onto another person or this person will die. the ground is sacred and holds the essence of life which bears fruits (and vegetables). along side this is the common knowledge that those that know each other (biblical sense) on the open ground shall perish, as well.
never pick up money on the side of the road. witch doctors come and place money along routes to attract small children and thieves. when they take this money, they become large serpents that vomit money. if you are lucky, you can be changed back into a human being.
further, on the subject of animals regurgitating money. a man five kilometers away was, according to the kids, taken and arrested by police for having fed children to a crocodile. his reason: the croc would spit up money for each child it had eaten. (note: i have not seen or heard of crocodiles anywhere nearby, other than this particular story).
the lists go on. i shocked my kids by picking up cellphone credit that i found on the side of the road in a village. by all means, they swore in must have been a witch doctor and were concerned for me. when the credit did not work for my phone, they said the magic must have been used up by someone else.
how does a math teacher speak of these stories? i see such a strong sense of intuition in my students, then find them unable to make simple logical steps towards calculating a quantity. repetition is what the learn from school. intuition is what they receive from life. logic is my outsider's tongue. thus, i ask one simple question when i hear these stories, 'who here has witnessed it?'. i find no one has seen or even knows of the victims, perpetrators or even exact locations involved. then, i ask for numbers or formulas that the kids remember. they happily oblige their memories for the repeated information. i then set out to show them how i can come to the same information without knowing about those formulas or math. in essences, showing that math is verification, a quantification, of the world around us. i take one of anything, then another. suddenly, i have two. one plus one equals two. simple. the kids often still do not make the association, so i simply ask who can verify any of these magical stories. it soon comes to taking the idea on faith. to this, i say that one chooses where to put their faith, yet in math, one can never choose which is the right answer. the answer is right or wrong by its own nature.
i then go into myths and legends of our American lands. i often tell the story of Pecos Bill though and profoundly disappointed to find that my fellow volunteers know nothing of his legacy. (apparently Paul Bunyan is more important) i show how we've made up great stories to amusingly explain our country side and heritage but how they are only myths. we do not actually believe them to be true.
then comes the creative pieces. we make up my own stories. i caught the attention of my sixieme math students one day by telling them the following:
one a distant day in the past, a student decided to venture from her home in Rambo. she headed north, into an area much like Rambo with little in the way of scenery. there she found a village along that flat plain, much smaller than Rambo. the name of the village was Tikare. she was highly disappointed to have traveled far from home only to discover even less than her own village had. a waste she thought. just then, a genie appeared before her on the trail. he lambasted her for her mockery of his region and protected village. he challenged her ideas of Tikare to which she replied "it lacks any true beauty, has no market and surely no landmarks. if i were to improve it, i'd give it mountains." in reply, the genie made a bet with the girl, if she was to win a race against him, he would build mountains. if she was to lose, she must be his slave.
she rushed home, scared and alone, knowing she must race the genie. the next day at the market, she was so distraught that a vender noticed she was distracted and asked her what was wrong. she related the story. afterwards, the vender handed her two pairs of shoes. one set she could hardly lift and the other were light as air, even floating a little. he told her the heavy ones were hers and would win her the race and that she must be sure to let the genie know the others were his.
the next day, just beyond Rambo, the genie again appeared and demanded the race. the girl said she would race but only with shoes, as all proper races have shoed contestants. thus, she demanded the genie wear the pair of shoes the vender had given to her for him. the genie, worrying of the girl's trickery, said he would not take the shoes but would race with her shoes. she gladly handed over the heavier shoes, then wore the lighter, causing her to easily win the race. thus, the genie was forced to build the mountains that i so love to climb in Tikare.
all the children thought highly of my story. i made sure to make a point of how i had only made the story up right at the moment and yet it had an air of believe. after all, it fit common culture and explained why there are mountains in Tikare and not Rambo. the only problem, i made it up.
i am no one to deny these students their paradoxes. they can choose their own paths of belief and i will not demand anything differently. yet, through my time here, by the very nature of what i teach, i force them to hold at least two opposing ideas in their heads; we can verify all that is around us and magic exists. it is then their choice as to the extent they will allow those conflicting ideas affect their lives.
another lesson viewed in village, dealt with parenting. at times, i have noticed myself surrounded by kids for hours without ever seeing an adult. the ages range from two years old to sixteen. there are no inquiries, even when i've found students that have slept beneath my courtyard's thatched hangar. even on days when adults gathered around to grind millet and chat, the interaction amongst them and their children seem minimal, simply a set of chores and requirements needed to be fulfilled. it is often that responsibility goes to the next oldest. the hierarchy of the family is built on age. at one point, i was amazed to see that a fight break out and no reaction from the lingering adults. immediately, i pulled the two boys apart. their battle of words (in Moore, beyond my understanding) went unnoticed. only by marching them directly, hand on shoulder, to their respectful houses, could i clear the matter. the world continued.
thus parenting, is set of top down rules that mean to establish communal order. children are not the sole responsibility of the parents. they are raised as children of the compound with a set of understandings as to where in the line of succession they fit. in turn, by being the chief's son or the strongest kid, one can build himself as parental figure to younger kids, though one always must remember the person just above them. it seems there is a strong understanding that abuse of power can have major consequences. no one is ever the biggest fish in the pond. at least not amongst compound.
of course, i work beyond the parameters of such. i am a stranger and teacher. thus, i have very different relationship to my students, one that i am forced to define. thus, i must insist on rules and establish habits, predictable behavior. rewards are a part of that, as well as establishing the my worthiness of their respect. in all i do, i am watched. thus, i find myself explaining why continuously, though such helps raise their level of respect for my abilities and thus my person. a feat, i am sure i have not mastered but have gained ground on.
in that more fluid dynamic, i am also able to speak on the level of my students and have them speak, with trust, in turn. i find out their concerns and thoughts, what is fair and unfair. i have found them comfortable enough with me to say when i have done something they see as unjust and i then either explained or corrected the situation, showing them that their trust in me is just as valuable. a level of interactions they do not necessarily share with other adults.
for instances, i have a policy of no sleeping in my courtyard. students are to go home when i turn out the light for the night (though often it is on till midnight). i've wished to avoid having any of their parents complaining about their whereabouts and the idea that they spent the entire night somewhere else. well, recently the kids took me on a tour of the compound. they showed me a shared kids room of a piece of foam and a mat. they showed me the places where their parents slept (another building just beyond a small walled fence. one even showed me where he sleeps when his dad comes home and he is unable to sleep in his single room house. (one can expect this means his father would like to know his mother without the watchful eyes of children). the locations was the garden beyond my wall. thus, i took to asking questions, the answers to which have led me to amend my house rules. the children that are studying can spend the night but must sleep on a mat (i have five) and never on the ground. plus they must keep the courtyard door open so that anyone can see what is happening in the courtyard. and, as always, they are not to enter into my little two room hut. simple changes that would radically alarm student's parents back home. i'd have court orders resting on my door before sunrise.
so, there is much to be learned. while the adventure seems more to be in the stories than any actually craziness in village, i still find much to learn from.
to rap up this particularly long post, i wish only to mention that i now have a pet. at the end of semester/teacher's party, the children captured a hedgehog to eat. i convinced them that it was better for me to raise it, then for it to be eaten. thus, i now have a new rodent running around my house. luckily he eats bugs which has really ended up being a major plus. in a fit of unknown genius, i decided to call him Bruce. the simplest reason, the french word for bush (aka hedge) is brousse (pronounce bruce). plus, later on my evening bike ride, i listened to my most recent podcast of Wait Wait Don't Tell Me. the guest star was Bruce Cambell, promoting his new dvd "My Name is Bruce". can one ask for a better sign? maybe it magically appeared to me. i don't know. it's either a coincidence or a faith issue. as i do with my students, i'll keep my full believes on that to myself and let you decide.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
poor folks have poor ways
volunteering back home is straight forward. you understand the needed advancement, the hunger to abate, the thirst to quench. you grow up as the hero, knowing where the dragon lies. salvation armies and desert industries can point them out to you.
on foreign soil, the story fades. what is hunger? when is one scorched by thirst? in a land of environmental hostility and a sheer lack of resource, what dragon can you handle with no sword? there is no equivalency in the tales of home. people here speak of new paradigms.
as the questions mount, i find i push further into the fundamental pieces of my life. as interesting a subject as is politics, it falls quickly aside. history and philosophy become worn. engineering capability hardly applies to a place without steel and cement. my life, as a building, is reduced to a slab, a simple solid foundation. is that enough to be of any help?
it does not take long to see the value of such a foundation, especially in the heat of the current day. so many children pass in and out of my courtyard with no mode to take charge of their lives. i cannot feed them all. their need for resources, i cannot satisfy. all i have is a start, my foundation.
what is this solid structure that i find at the core of my life? a simple, yet strong, idea given to me by my parents; responsibility. be responsible for not only your actions, but for the progress of your life. in any given situation, there are a million reasons not to move forward. there are difficulties aplenty. when you take on the responsibility for your own life, those difficulties no longer become overwhelming, instead they are merely obstacles.
i often demonstrate this to my classes by putting complex problems on the board. immediately, everyone complains that it is too hard. they are left staring blankly, hopeless. i then write another problem on the board, much easier, and they quickly calculate the answer. again, i write another and another. watching them as they figure each out quickly. then, it is back to the original question. the stares start to go blank but are shaken when i tell them the answer has already been calculated. piece by piece, i write the other problems' answers inline with the original problem, explaining each step again. the complexity falls away. the kids find it an interesting game, a trick i've played on them. if i could only get them to see that this is the core of life. take responsibility for the first step, move one calculation, one step, at a time.
i grew up in a family unlike many i've seen globetrotting. my parents were not well-to-do. we did not have money when i was a small child. quite the opposite. did i ever know this? partially, but i never really felt it. why? endurance and clarity in the face of struggle are my parents greatest assets. whether it was abusive parents, lack of resources, glass ceilings, degrees never obtained... they found ways to meet the current challenge and continue on. no problem was solved over night. there was no jump to the good life. every piece, they have earned and i cannot think of anyone more deserving. now, can i give this to those around me?
it would be easy for me to say, be like my Mom and Dad. they are the example, not me. after all, i could never compare to all that they've accomplished. i could tell stories and let it be enough. but it isn't. so, after so many years of independence and seeking my own way, i find the greatest good i can be in my life is to be what my parents were to me, role models. true role models.
there are dashing heroes in the world. knights slay dragons. emperors conquer wild lands. politicians make grand speeches and debate over vast laws. all have their interesting, captivating side. yet, all require more, something much more basic to truly make a difference. from my parents, i was given a true example of lives well lived, of making a difference in difficult circumstance by standing on firm ground and taking a step forward.
i may go and slay dragons one day. i think it might be fun. but fun is hardly the essence of my life. being a good man, that is much harder and more fulfilling. there is a saying in my family, "poor folks have poor ways." it is well understood amongst us that it is not a slight against the poor. it means instead that we find ways of doing what we can with what we have, even if it isn't the established way. no greater example is there than my parents. no greater role models. i can only take a step towards being one myself, whether i ever make it... we will see.
currently, i am working on a number of projects with the children. first off, we work on school material. obviously, there is the time when i am teaching in class but also we have the evenings when children huddle in my courtyard. i often find the evenings are more important. it is one on one time for detailed explanations (and a few jokes).
also, i'm trying to develop certain individuals into tutors or leaders of their class. students that can extend my reach farther by assisting others with exercises and explanations when i am helping others or gone from country.
thirdly, there are projects to start their creativity. whether that means taking photos and developing them or writing stories of our creation in english and translating them back to french. (i get a kick out of genies, aka bush demons, that they all talk about here. apparently, they eat children. everyone has their fairy tales) i've even thought about what can be done to get them involved in using the computer and simple electronic equipment. perhaps making a short video with the digital and showing them the editing process might help.
finally, we've talked about building a kid based library, where kids are the ones to introduce material (either developed by them or about them) which they can take responsibility for. kid content and kid resources pooled together. back to the basic idea of what is a library.
what comes of these small projects really doesn't matter in the grand scheme. a story here and there means hardly anything. but, the foundation that we can build for understanding how to elevate yourself and change your situation is worth every frustration and setback. speaking of which, i have devices to go fix. must find the ductape. after all, poor folks have poor ways. just ask my folks.
on foreign soil, the story fades. what is hunger? when is one scorched by thirst? in a land of environmental hostility and a sheer lack of resource, what dragon can you handle with no sword? there is no equivalency in the tales of home. people here speak of new paradigms.
as the questions mount, i find i push further into the fundamental pieces of my life. as interesting a subject as is politics, it falls quickly aside. history and philosophy become worn. engineering capability hardly applies to a place without steel and cement. my life, as a building, is reduced to a slab, a simple solid foundation. is that enough to be of any help?
it does not take long to see the value of such a foundation, especially in the heat of the current day. so many children pass in and out of my courtyard with no mode to take charge of their lives. i cannot feed them all. their need for resources, i cannot satisfy. all i have is a start, my foundation.
what is this solid structure that i find at the core of my life? a simple, yet strong, idea given to me by my parents; responsibility. be responsible for not only your actions, but for the progress of your life. in any given situation, there are a million reasons not to move forward. there are difficulties aplenty. when you take on the responsibility for your own life, those difficulties no longer become overwhelming, instead they are merely obstacles.
i often demonstrate this to my classes by putting complex problems on the board. immediately, everyone complains that it is too hard. they are left staring blankly, hopeless. i then write another problem on the board, much easier, and they quickly calculate the answer. again, i write another and another. watching them as they figure each out quickly. then, it is back to the original question. the stares start to go blank but are shaken when i tell them the answer has already been calculated. piece by piece, i write the other problems' answers inline with the original problem, explaining each step again. the complexity falls away. the kids find it an interesting game, a trick i've played on them. if i could only get them to see that this is the core of life. take responsibility for the first step, move one calculation, one step, at a time.
i grew up in a family unlike many i've seen globetrotting. my parents were not well-to-do. we did not have money when i was a small child. quite the opposite. did i ever know this? partially, but i never really felt it. why? endurance and clarity in the face of struggle are my parents greatest assets. whether it was abusive parents, lack of resources, glass ceilings, degrees never obtained... they found ways to meet the current challenge and continue on. no problem was solved over night. there was no jump to the good life. every piece, they have earned and i cannot think of anyone more deserving. now, can i give this to those around me?
it would be easy for me to say, be like my Mom and Dad. they are the example, not me. after all, i could never compare to all that they've accomplished. i could tell stories and let it be enough. but it isn't. so, after so many years of independence and seeking my own way, i find the greatest good i can be in my life is to be what my parents were to me, role models. true role models.
there are dashing heroes in the world. knights slay dragons. emperors conquer wild lands. politicians make grand speeches and debate over vast laws. all have their interesting, captivating side. yet, all require more, something much more basic to truly make a difference. from my parents, i was given a true example of lives well lived, of making a difference in difficult circumstance by standing on firm ground and taking a step forward.
i may go and slay dragons one day. i think it might be fun. but fun is hardly the essence of my life. being a good man, that is much harder and more fulfilling. there is a saying in my family, "poor folks have poor ways." it is well understood amongst us that it is not a slight against the poor. it means instead that we find ways of doing what we can with what we have, even if it isn't the established way. no greater example is there than my parents. no greater role models. i can only take a step towards being one myself, whether i ever make it... we will see.
currently, i am working on a number of projects with the children. first off, we work on school material. obviously, there is the time when i am teaching in class but also we have the evenings when children huddle in my courtyard. i often find the evenings are more important. it is one on one time for detailed explanations (and a few jokes).
also, i'm trying to develop certain individuals into tutors or leaders of their class. students that can extend my reach farther by assisting others with exercises and explanations when i am helping others or gone from country.
thirdly, there are projects to start their creativity. whether that means taking photos and developing them or writing stories of our creation in english and translating them back to french. (i get a kick out of genies, aka bush demons, that they all talk about here. apparently, they eat children. everyone has their fairy tales) i've even thought about what can be done to get them involved in using the computer and simple electronic equipment. perhaps making a short video with the digital and showing them the editing process might help.
finally, we've talked about building a kid based library, where kids are the ones to introduce material (either developed by them or about them) which they can take responsibility for. kid content and kid resources pooled together. back to the basic idea of what is a library.
what comes of these small projects really doesn't matter in the grand scheme. a story here and there means hardly anything. but, the foundation that we can build for understanding how to elevate yourself and change your situation is worth every frustration and setback. speaking of which, i have devices to go fix. must find the ductape. after all, poor folks have poor ways. just ask my folks.
beast of burden
strength, vitality, just pure domination. the association is American Gladiators or Darwin. rarely do donkeys come to mind. but be afraid. Very.
on that small trek home, i ride along without care, usually taking in the peaceful calm that settles over the village around midday. i turn towards and pass the house of the school director and laugh at two donkeys playing, one child and its mother. suddenly, they began to move. it's a sense of something brutish. then, i spot a younger male donkey with lust in his eyes head straight for that ass. she panics and pushes the little one along.
"don't worry child. mom is here" she seemed to say.
the younger donkey pushes closer, coming along side the mom. she can't buck him from the side. he slams his head into her side. they're in a full gallop now. her heart raising. his hormones the same. they've circled the director's house twice. i'm just watching.
then a cry pierces through the turmoil and i turn to see a much larger male raising towards and beyond me. i'm a mere portion of scenery to his focused and flared view of events. his passions strides past the mare and slams into the side of the young buck. he's shocked and suddenly distraught. again, the young one races, this time, the chased.
nothing here surprises me. it's a typical scene. those slow moving beats of burden suddenly hitting thirty clicks an hour to trample another's hormones. they often race through the night. race after race. but this had surprise intertwined.
the older ass was hardly satisfied with the fatigue of the younger. out of breath, the young one slows and is suddenly caught by the jaws of the brute. on the flank, the back side of the thigh, teeth are gripping. the move paralysis him momentarily. he tries to buck but can't move his gripped legs. he only causes them to hang now completely from the jaws of the dominate male. they dangle in the air, in a semi-bucking action, unable to touch the ground. the young one is trapped and left without option. he gives up the struggle. victory is the elder's. yet this is not satisfying. lessons need be learned.
in the vice of teeth, the elder drags the poor boy. his front legs sliding in the dust, surrounding them in a cloud of fine brown. panic rises in the younger's eyes. stiff panic. then, action. a mistake. he tries to turn his moment toward the teeth, gnashing with his own. without unlocking his jaws and with a sudden rearing spring, the elder pushes the torso of the buck into the dirt, the legs flipping upward. the buck is pressed into the dirt with a sharp angle, jack-knifing his body, spine drilling him downwards. the pain is obvious in the wiggling struggle. there are no more bold movements, just jitters of fright in the beast. he knows surrender only fails him. the elder wants blood.
from exhaustion the teeth loosen. the fight is already minutes old (years for pulsing testosterone). the buck kicks and frees himself to crumple fully into the ground, a mere mass. the jolt of teeth along his mane catches him into a sudden rise. there is no more fight in him. his body speaks of regret and submission. his now the parade toy for the older general. and parade they do. the elder marches him around, displaying his pride.
it was then that i realized, i had caught my onlookers. those eyes down the way were watching this foreigner so preoccupied with the mundane actions of an ass. i left the submitted and parading for home, the facade of slow treading beasts of burden forever crumpled and driven into the dirt.
on that small trek home, i ride along without care, usually taking in the peaceful calm that settles over the village around midday. i turn towards and pass the house of the school director and laugh at two donkeys playing, one child and its mother. suddenly, they began to move. it's a sense of something brutish. then, i spot a younger male donkey with lust in his eyes head straight for that ass. she panics and pushes the little one along.
"don't worry child. mom is here" she seemed to say.
the younger donkey pushes closer, coming along side the mom. she can't buck him from the side. he slams his head into her side. they're in a full gallop now. her heart raising. his hormones the same. they've circled the director's house twice. i'm just watching.
then a cry pierces through the turmoil and i turn to see a much larger male raising towards and beyond me. i'm a mere portion of scenery to his focused and flared view of events. his passions strides past the mare and slams into the side of the young buck. he's shocked and suddenly distraught. again, the young one races, this time, the chased.
nothing here surprises me. it's a typical scene. those slow moving beats of burden suddenly hitting thirty clicks an hour to trample another's hormones. they often race through the night. race after race. but this had surprise intertwined.
the older ass was hardly satisfied with the fatigue of the younger. out of breath, the young one slows and is suddenly caught by the jaws of the brute. on the flank, the back side of the thigh, teeth are gripping. the move paralysis him momentarily. he tries to buck but can't move his gripped legs. he only causes them to hang now completely from the jaws of the dominate male. they dangle in the air, in a semi-bucking action, unable to touch the ground. the young one is trapped and left without option. he gives up the struggle. victory is the elder's. yet this is not satisfying. lessons need be learned.
in the vice of teeth, the elder drags the poor boy. his front legs sliding in the dust, surrounding them in a cloud of fine brown. panic rises in the younger's eyes. stiff panic. then, action. a mistake. he tries to turn his moment toward the teeth, gnashing with his own. without unlocking his jaws and with a sudden rearing spring, the elder pushes the torso of the buck into the dirt, the legs flipping upward. the buck is pressed into the dirt with a sharp angle, jack-knifing his body, spine drilling him downwards. the pain is obvious in the wiggling struggle. there are no more bold movements, just jitters of fright in the beast. he knows surrender only fails him. the elder wants blood.
from exhaustion the teeth loosen. the fight is already minutes old (years for pulsing testosterone). the buck kicks and frees himself to crumple fully into the ground, a mere mass. the jolt of teeth along his mane catches him into a sudden rise. there is no more fight in him. his body speaks of regret and submission. his now the parade toy for the older general. and parade they do. the elder marches him around, displaying his pride.
it was then that i realized, i had caught my onlookers. those eyes down the way were watching this foreigner so preoccupied with the mundane actions of an ass. i left the submitted and parading for home, the facade of slow treading beasts of burden forever crumpled and driven into the dirt.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
the progressive
we all speak of change these days. oh the audacity! well, i thought it would be interesting to see the marks of change over the past nine months in my own face. so here goes:
May 2008 (Before the Peace Corps)
August 2008 (After two months of in-country training
December 2008 (After my first semester at site)
February 2009 (Still going strong)
May 2008 (Before the Peace Corps)
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| From Thomas in Burkina |
August 2008 (After two months of in-country training
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| From Thomas in Burkina |
December 2008 (After my first semester at site)
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| From Thomas in Burkina |
February 2009 (Still going strong)
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| From Thomas in Burkina |
Saturday, January 31, 2009
mountains beyond mountains
there are not a lot luxuries in my small area of the world but we do have beautiful semi-mountains (not big mountains but good for hikes). when time gets a bit stressful or i need a moment to myself, they are a gorgeous sanctuary where i can read in peace.
here are a couple of videos from the higher points.
here are a couple of videos from the higher points.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
an introduction
coming out of college, i thought long and hard about the Peace Corps. i even had the chance to talk to former ambassadors and a former national security advisor about the government program. what ultimately kept me from going? a girl. well, that's love for ya.
three years later, i no longer had the girl but i had 'should have' running around my brain. in Aug of 2007, i got the amazing honor of meeting President Barack Obama (then just Sen. Obama in an underdog position in the primaries) during his trip to Utah. out of that encounter, i gained a renewed vision. i wanted to be proud of what i was doing with my life. service abroad seemed the way.
now i'm six months into my two year stay. i live in a small village named Rambo in the north of Burkina Faso, a west african country. hearing the name for the first time, i had laughed. my friend Kait even remarked on how she thought i'd end up being the volunteer to such a place with such a familiar name. well, she was right and i couldn't be happier.
my village is the head of its department but is not very large, definitely deserving the 'village' title. in village, i am a math teacher at a local C.E.G. (school) that goes through the equivalent of 10th grade. i teach somewhere around 250 students all in french, a language i only started to really learn in the last six months.
village is a challenge that keeps me on my toes. i wake everyday to something new that is broken and has to be fixed, normally without proper tools. but, as Grandma says "poor folks have poor ways". the kids make sure i'm always thinking. if i can gain their respect and be a mentor to them, then perhaps i can make a difference. the language is trying but rewarding, as is the rest of life in village.
in future blogs i'll try to let you know my ideas on development and progress. also, i'll explain more about life in village and teaching.
three years later, i no longer had the girl but i had 'should have' running around my brain. in Aug of 2007, i got the amazing honor of meeting President Barack Obama (then just Sen. Obama in an underdog position in the primaries) during his trip to Utah. out of that encounter, i gained a renewed vision. i wanted to be proud of what i was doing with my life. service abroad seemed the way.
now i'm six months into my two year stay. i live in a small village named Rambo in the north of Burkina Faso, a west african country. hearing the name for the first time, i had laughed. my friend Kait even remarked on how she thought i'd end up being the volunteer to such a place with such a familiar name. well, she was right and i couldn't be happier.
my village is the head of its department but is not very large, definitely deserving the 'village' title. in village, i am a math teacher at a local C.E.G. (school) that goes through the equivalent of 10th grade. i teach somewhere around 250 students all in french, a language i only started to really learn in the last six months.
village is a challenge that keeps me on my toes. i wake everyday to something new that is broken and has to be fixed, normally without proper tools. but, as Grandma says "poor folks have poor ways". the kids make sure i'm always thinking. if i can gain their respect and be a mentor to them, then perhaps i can make a difference. the language is trying but rewarding, as is the rest of life in village.
in future blogs i'll try to let you know my ideas on development and progress. also, i'll explain more about life in village and teaching.
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Kong Comp Lab
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| From Kong |
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a little about burkina faso
Burkina Faso (formerly Upper Volta) achieved independence from France in 1960. Repeated military coups during the 1970s and 1980s were followed by multiparty elections in the early 1990s. Current President Blaise COMPAORE came to power in a 1987 military coup and has won every election since then.
Burkina Faso's high population density and limited natural resources result in poor economic prospects for the majority of its citizens. Recent unrest in Cote d'Ivoire and northern Ghana has hindered the ability of several hundred thousand seasonal Burkinabe farm workers to find employment in neighboring countries.
Location:
Western Africa, north of Ghana
Geographic coordinates:
13 00 N, 2 00 W
Area:
total: 274,200 sq km land: 273,800 sq km water: 400 sq km
Burkina Faso's high population density and limited natural resources result in poor economic prospects for the majority of its citizens. Recent unrest in Cote d'Ivoire and northern Ghana has hindered the ability of several hundred thousand seasonal Burkinabe farm workers to find employment in neighboring countries.
Location:
Western Africa, north of Ghana
Geographic coordinates:
13 00 N, 2 00 W
Area:
total: 274,200 sq km land: 273,800 sq km water: 400 sq km