A Third Year

It has been a while, so I will start with a bit of an intro:

The Peace Corps is originally a two year commitment. However, I applied and was approved to do a third year of service. My first two years were in a small village by the name of Rambo. This coming year will be in Kong (I am shortening the name for security, privacy reasons). In Rambo, I taught both english and math while tutoring throughout the night. In Kong, I am charged with being an IT teacher at the local high school.

Now, a note:

I am expanding/separating this blog out a bit by distinguishing between three areas of interest; personal (that's me!), work-related (that's school) and community (call it the cultural/local news section).

On to the blog...

Personal:
Moving to a new town starts with excitement then wallows in a bit of frustration before settling into some kind of normal. To start, suddenly having electricity and a water facet (albeit it the courtyard and not the house) drastically improve one's ability to do daily activities such as bathing, washing, cooking, reading, ect. However, once you get over the fact that you have this sudden convenience, you find that you now have to fill all the empty hours left over from the daily chores. In other words, my excuses are gone and I have to actually find a way to be more productive. Now, you would think that no longer having to do the menial tasks means that you can move on to bigger and better things but somewhere a piece of me is saying relax. After all, isn't the convenience there so that one doesn't have to do as much work? Shouldn't I now use that time to relax?

Here's the catch: The relaxed Thomas becomes bored. Bored Thomas leads to downer Thomas. Downer Thomas doesn't get his normal work down. Really isn't all it cracked up to be, these extra hours.

Ultimately, those extra hours mean finding more work to do. Of course, instead of it being small chores that fill my time, I can fill my time with farther reaching goals. It means to that my focus has to broaden and expand to fit weeks and not just days, projects can last longer and attention spans must grow. It's a new challenge in the mundane.

Work:

One of the largest of this year's challenges is school work. Perhaps this can best be put anecdotally...

The morning sun is pouring into my house as I dry off the last remnants of my shower and put on my shirt. Soon after, a “koo-koo” sounds at my door and my new counterpart, Benjamin, taps lightly on the metal frame. We exchange morning greetings about how well we slept then hop on our vehicles (I'm using that term loosely so it encompasses my bike and his moped) for the 3k ride to school. Once there, I realize that the mix of bike ride, heat and nerves has caused my shirt to dampen. Luckily, I find I am not the only one suffering from the heat as we enter the office of the Censure.

The Censure is a chubby and pleasant man that often looks bewildered. He seems constantly lost in confusion over how the world did not seem to suddenly mold itself into his own way of seeing it but the smile remains on his face. As I sit and Benjamin starts the introductions, the Censure begins to click and type furiously on his keyboard. I am the volunteer he has heard about, now to bend that world again.

“So what can you teach? Do you teach physics?”

“Umm, as Benjamin said, I am here as an IT teacher.”

“Ok, but what did you teach before.”

“I taught math and english. I have a degree in engineering with a math minor.”

“Ah, so you can teach physics and chemistry then?”

“I can but I was told you need an IT teacher here. We are going to look at the lab later.”

“Oh yes. Well, if not P/C then how about math. Since you already taught math we will sign you up for a few classes. What classes did you teach?”

“I taught 6eme and 5eme but I really would like to see the computer lab and work on build a program for that. Have you talked to the Principle?”

“Yes. Yes. Ok, so we can put you down for five hours of math. And you said you taught English, yes? Good, then we will give you a number of English classes. After all, our English teacher died over the summer.”

“My condolences. I am sorry to hear that. Really though, I am going to be focused mostly on the IT lab. I don't mind helping out with a class or two but my organization really sent me here to work on the lab and there is a lot to do.”

“Ok, then we will only put you down for 10 hours of English in 6eme.” (That is two classes with the youngest kids)

The Censure goes back to typing furiously and Benjamin just looks at me with a shrug in his shoulders. After a few more clicks, he looks up and tells us that the schedule will be ready on the 15th of the month. When I later returned on the 15th, he told me about how he did not yet have my math and English classes ready but would have them on the 27th. It took some haggling but I eventually convinced him that teaching IT and English was enough. Hopefully, I convinced him...

After being introduced to the Censure, we walked around the small administration building to greet people sitting behind aging desks will imposing stacks of files smoldering from the latest smattering of red-tape. Our final intro was to the Principle of the school, a larger, broad shouldered man whose tribal facial scars impose a sense of humility on the on-looker. Out of the tense face the glow of file started and he spoke.

“Man, I am so glad you are here. I know a bit about IT myself but only because I taught myself. We use to have a few others that helped when the computers first arrived but they have all moved on. You will have your work cut out for you but I think you will do alright. By the way, got any idea why my monitor quit working on me this morning?”

By this time, Benjamin had taken his leave to see to an errand he had to run. Thus, it was this gentle giant and myself craning our necks over the side of the computer to look into its tangle of parts. Soon, we found that it was not he monitor but the hard-drive that had gotten loose. A loose hard-drive meant that it was no longer sending a signal to the monitor. Reconnect and done. At the moment, the sweat pouring down my forehead stopped and a sigh of relief found its way out. I had passed the first test and impressed the big guy.

Suddenly, Benjamin was back with a set of keys and the three of us were headed across the campus. At a rusting door, we watched as Benjamin shook and pushed the ancient door until it reluctantly accepted the key and opened. Wasps flew beyond us and the stale sent of dirt and cobwebs followed. The future of the IT program lay before me covered completely in an inch of dust beneath a sagging, wet ceiling. It took my breath away.

After a few coughs, I made arrangements to have some kids come in and clean the room. It was priority number one and only took a few days. Shortly after, I was given the key and free reign to sort through the pile of parts to see what possibilities remained. The Principle had told me to expect only two possible working computers. After a full Sunday of tweaking, I had seven, running Windows 95 or 98 with, at best, 200 MHz processors and 1.5 gigs of memory. They were all mismatched and ragged but they were enough of a start. So much so, that the Principle started collecting parts that had been scattered to other teachers. The number of working computers has now hit twelve. It is not much for a school with almost two-thousand students but it is more than nothing. Some can began to learn to type. We can even use old parts to showcase computer maintenance. Who knows, maybe it'll be worthwhile.

Communtiy:

The biggest issue in the community at the moment is gas. Not gasoline but butane used to cook. Typically, in a town like Kong, households use gas to cook and even to run fridges. In town there is only one supplier, Sodigaz. When I first moved here, Sodigaz said they were running low so they only had small tanks of gas (at too high a price) and none of the larger ones typically used for cooking. The larger tanks would come in after the weekend. This was the thinking at the time.

It has now been three weeks and gas has yet to come. Originally, I searched around town but everyone pointed back to Sodigaz and said they were the supplier. You had to talk to them. One night, while out and about, I stopped by one of the Sodigaz venues and saw a young woman working. This is how the conversation went:

“Good evening. How is business?”
“It goes.”
“I wanted to inquire if you had any gas tanks for sale?”
“He he. No. We are out. He he.”
“Do you know when you will get more?”
“He he.”
“I'm sorry but do you know if any more gas is coming?”
“He he.”
“Do you understand what I am asking?”
“He he.”
“Do you speak French? (switch to Moore at this point) Are you getting any gas tomorrow or after?”
“He he.”

Finally, I left in frustration. I learned nothing useful until I texted a friend in the capital who said that the shortage was happening all over. Supposedly, a refinery or factory (something) shutdown in Togo which ended supplies to Burkina. With any luck the gas would start trickling in but no one knew for sure.

The waiting then started. Every so often, I would head down to the Sodigaz shop and ask if there was any news. If a gentleman was there, I would learn that nothing new had happened. One night, I decided that I had had enough so Molls volunteered to go ask. Ends up she talked to the same younger woman that I had talked to. The conversation went like this:

“Good evening. How is business?”
“It goes. How are you?”
“I am good. Do you have any gas?”
“No, we are all out. Actually, everyone is out of gas, including in the capital. We are not really sure of when we will next receive gas. It could be at anytime. You should check back soon.”

Just for kicks, I went back a few days later to talk to the girl. Again, I got “he he” for a response. Talk about frustration. Is it that impassable of a divide between men and women in Burkinabe culture?

So, there is no gas and I am an outsider when it comes to woman. Welcome to Kong.

Actually, the woman-man issue is nothing new. It is something I have struggle with here from the beginning. As a man, I am a foreigner, kept at a distance. Some of it is out of respect, some out of modesty and chastity. Even as a foreigner, my status as a man keeps me from the inner circle shared by woman across the country. What happens in the homes and with kids is not a man's concern. What conversations lurk just beyond the surface are not for me. Even in my own courtyard, with the four other families that live here, I find that woman often only speak to me when their husbands are already engaged in the conversation. Otherwise, I dare not approach and force conversation and they keep their distance.

The opposite is true for women volunteers. As a woman, they have access to not only the inner sanctum of womanhood but also are enough of a novelty or point of interest that they are often accepted by the men. It does too often come with a price though. They are subject to openly offensive sexual harassment and requests ranging from marriage to proposals to the simple “I want you” with crude suggestions of sex. While they can work and talk to men openly, it is often a far bigger emotional challenge to deal with those moments of harassment. While the vast majority of conversations are pleasant and respectful, it can become discouraging when men, especially young men, loosen their reigns of respect and try to see what they can get away with around a stranger.

All that being said, most interactions are exceedingly pleasant in Burkina. People are always willing to help and share. In the end, Burkinabe tend to be some of the kindest people found anywhere in the world. Their generosity is astounding. Even the harassment or somewhat racist attitudes take more of a joking manner than one of conflict or danger. It is all too often an annoyance more than a matter to alarm your personal security.

The gender issue is one that Burkinabe are confronting as more and more they move to cities where the typical roles of cook and cultivator no longer make sense. In this changing space, where men and women now interact, it is interesting to watch the awkwardness in that transition. Even if we often feel the friction.