15 days in Ghana - transport woes

Our two weeks leave was not as refreshing as we would have hoped - but it certainly was interesting.

A couple of weeks ago we took a long bus ride south, in search of the coast. After two days traveling, we found ourselves lost in the chaotic capital of Ghana, Accra, at about 8:30pm having hardly eaten all day. We had gotten off a 13-hour bus trip, and hailed a taxi.

We had miscalculated how much money we would need to get to our lodging in the capital, where we had organised to get money out. A disgruntled taxi driver left us at a service station, because we were unable to find our accommodation (we were working off outdated instructions). We had the equivalent of $2 left.

A man and his young son overheard us talking to the petrol station attendant. He said we looked tired, and that he would help us. He, somewhat remarkably, made sense of our poor instructions, and dropped us at the front gate of the SIM mission compound which was a couple of kilometres from the petrol station. We thanked God.

A missionary welcomed us with a bowl of hearty soup and some roast chicken and vegetables. We thanked Him again.

This transport 'experience' was a sign of things to come.

One week later

We spent a couple of days at a sea-side location. While hotel and food prices were very reasonable, it was so secluded that taxi drivers charged $US15 to get you out of there and back into town. This was clearly unreasonable, but devoid of an alternative most people paid the exorbitant price.

We believed we could beat the system, so we started looking for an alternative. We considered trekking 45 minutes to another beach which had regular transport, but carrying our bags that distance in 90 per cent-plus humidity, over soft sand, wasn't that appealing.

So we asked the locals. Surely they go to town. We found out they did. Once a week. On a Wednesday. In a shared van, called a tro-tro. We happened to be leaving on a Wednesday.

On Wednesday morning we found the pick-up spot and waited. A couple of young boys were waiting with two huge televisions from the 1980s. They were going to town to sell them. "At least no-one's taking goats in the tro-tro," we thought, after seeing many vans on the roads crammed with people and livestock.

A rickety 12-seater, which had it been in Australia would have been turned into a television many decades before, hobbled to the pick-up. The driver wouldn't let the televisions on-board, so we started the 30-minute ride without them.

Several minutes later we stopped for more passengers. They piled in, along with their goods. The driver finally decided that we were full when we had 20 adults, two children, and plenty of produce (red capsicums and tomatoes) packed into the 12-seater.

I pondered what the crash scene would look like with all those tomatoes inside the bus. The only thing more morbidly amusing, I was thinking, was the crash we had seen days earlier between two vans, both of which were packed full of eggs.

We paid 80 cents each to get to town.

Two weeks later

After weaving our way west down the Ghanaian coast towards Côte d'Ivoire, we started to plan our return route. We opted for the path less traveled.

I accept full blame for the return route, because it was my idea to zig-zag home, rather than taking two long, boring but reliable bus rides to Ouagadougou. We spent a night in Tamale, in the north of Ghana, before taking a tro-tro to Bolgatanga. (Many of these towns are well-known because they were slave-trading routes a few hundred years ago).

Toilets were always a low-point during our trip, but Bolgatanga's rest stop beat the rest. The public rest-room was a toilet block where the plumbing had long since stopped working, and faeces were just piled up.

The toilet 'attendant' tried to charge 20 cents for the privilege; I negotiated our way down to 10 cents, because I figured he'd stopped doing his job many years ago, and now just stood there collecting money.

As a side note, the serious business of 'relieving yourself', as they politely say in Ghana, is not something I thought much about before coming to Africa. As I'm writing this blog I'm thinking about what one Burkinabé friend said to me. He lives in shared accommodation with no sewerage system. He told us once that 'relieving yourself' is simply a 'not very nice' experience that one has to do every day.

After grabbing a drink and some rice in Bolgatanga, we took a shared taxi to the border town - or la frontier - of Paga. It was 3pm, and all we needed to do was pass through customs and find a tro-tro that would take us 150km to Ouagadougou before it got dark. Several tro-tros were waiting, but it was a slow afternoon and they wouldn't leave until they were full, so that the 150km journey would be financially worthwhile for the driver.

We waited...and waited...and waited. "We're about to leave," they kept saying, but two hours later we were still waiting on the Ghanaian side of the border.

Traveling after dark is generally a bad idea. A combination of terrible roads, beaten up cars that may or may not have working lights, no seat-belts, and the threat of bandits are a cause for concern.

The border guards told us if the tro-tro didn't fill up, they simply wouldn't leave tonight and we'd have to find somewhere to sleep...like under a tree. At about 5:30pm, we grabbed our luggage and started walking away, hoping that the threat of losing two clients would spur someone into action.

It did. Finally, as the sun was setting we started making our way to Ouagadougou in a beaten up car (1 driver, two other passengers in the front, and four in the back). The car stalled whenever it slowed down, and then had a lot of trouble starting up again. I thought the car had no chance of making it.

I was in constant prayer during the 2-hour night-time journey. Huge chunks of the road were missing, and trucks came towards us with high-beams on, making it impossible to see. Goats, sheep, cows and oxen roamed about. The car stalled several times, in the middle of nowhere, but somehow managed to keep kicking into gear.

At about 8:30pm, we rolled into the mission compound, mentally exhausted, but relieved. Cathlin calculated that during the 15-day trip we took 16 taxis (often shared taxis), five tro-tros and four buses.

I wouldn't call the vacation relaxing, but it certainly was interesting.

Jon

The first Christmas

...we celebrated Christmas near the border of Ghana and Côte d'Ivoire, after trecking, or more accurately, covering hundreds of kilometres by bus during the past week.

(Forgot to mention on the blog we were heading south of Burkina for our 2 weeks' leave).

We ventured out in the extreme humidity (still hot season in Ghana) to find a local church on Christmas Day, but it was being painted. We haven't seen any Christmas trees or decorations anywhere, and the coastal villagers are going about their usual business of fishing and drying their catch.

At first we thought it didn't 'feel' like Christmas. But, then again, perhaps it is very much like the first Christmas.

God bless, Jon & Cathlin

Motorbikes and mutton

We left our apartment last Monday to attend a party held by one of our friends (who is also a student of ours) to celebrate the Muslim festival of Tabaski. Little did I know that by 8pm that evening, I would be the one hollering louder than any of the party-goers.

As we journeyed to our friend's place, a mud-brick house situated among intricate rows of identical structures, our little motorbike, or moto, conked out. After several minutes we got it started again, only to break down about 20 metres from his house.

As the guests, we had no time to worry about the moto. One family member grabbed it to wheel it inside, while another started serving us drinks. Cathlin was even given a seat among the men, and within minutes we had a plate-full of food.

Tabaski, one of the most important dates on the Muslim calendar, is exceptionally interesting, and is concerned primarily with the roles of Abraham and Ishmael.

We ate salad, rice and for the finale, mutton. Cathlin was pleased she didn't see the thousands of sheep being killed in the streets of the capital earlier that day (usually one sheep for each family).

After we ate the mutton, the night started to wind down, and the gas lanterns were brought out. We were a little surprised to see tv antennas popping out of some of the houses, when it was a non-electric zone, however we were later to find out they use batteries to watch the odd big sporting event...normally football.

We used the traditional phrase to indicate we'd like to leave: "Je demande la route", which means "I am asking the way" (this doesn't translate well), and the whole party got up to see us off.

It appeared everyone had forgotten about the broken down moto, but after a few failed attempts to get it started we had half the neighborhood there giving their opinion. The next-door neighbor (a mechanic) changed the spark plugs, refused payment for his service, and the moto spluttered into action.

I knew if we stopped it wouldn't start again, as it didn't sound healthy, so we tried to make a quick get-away, only to be mobbed by about 30 kids who obviously hadn't seen a white person in their neighborhood for some time. They all wanted to shake our hands goodbye (we shook all their hands when we arrived hours earlier), but I decided I had to pick up speed. They thought this was a fun game and they literally started throwing themselves at us (Cathlin was on the back), grabbing at our arms and backs, as we made our escape.

We made it to the highway without too many dramas, before the moto started spluttering again...and we were still a good 8kms from home. "This is going to be a long night," I thought, contemplating having to push the moto home. Somehow, the moto continued, and we proceeded at speeds ranging from 5km an hour to 40 km an hour, depending on if the moto decided to click into gear.

I was concentrating (and praying) so much, that I almost missed the turn-off. Cathlin reminded me where to turn and as the festival goers 'yipped' and 'yahooed' on the side of the road, I let out a relieved 'whoopee' as we rolled into the mission compound.

Jon

New threads

This post is just an excuse to show off my new threads...not to be confused with pajamas.
Jon

Why we filter our water

This is the reason we filter our water...and why those who can't afford to, get sick.

West African Winter

Yesterday, December 4th, was the first time we didn't feel hot in the seven months that we've been here. Not even at midday did we feel like putting the fan on. It was glorious. When I told this to my class last night, some of whom arrived wearing thick sweaters, they responded with cries of "today was so cold!" I thought it was just perfect. Then during the night the temperature dropped so much that it was 29 degrees when we went to sleep, and then 21 when we woke up. I had to put slippers on this morning. We are so thankful for the hot water heater in our bathroom...never thought I'd say that!
If only I'd brought my ugh boots...
It's strange to think that the cold season, which lasts from December til about February, is quickly followed by the stinking hot season in March and April.
Cathlin

African stars

The days go by and we rarely take time to just sit, 'be still and know that He is God ', as it says in Psalm 46.

So, late on Sunday afternoon, we took some 4-wheel-drives, fled the chaos of the city, and found a deserted patch of land in the middle of nowhere. We had some food and then just watched the light drain from the sky.

In the late afternoon, we saw two bright stars. This turned into about 30 stars as the sky grew darker. And as the last remnants of light vanished, the millions or billions or trillions of stars came out, leaving us city-dwellers, who've rarely seen an unspoilt sky, gaze in awe.

Jon & Cathlin

Hot dogs and roast lamb

In the late afternoon, as the sun drained from the sky, he started sharpening his knife. Late that night, the dog started barking. Then it howled. Then it was silent. Hot dog, anyone?
The incident occurred on our first night in our new lodging – which is where we will be spending our final four months in Burkina. We are on the second storey, with a clear view of our neighbours; the suspected dog-eaters.
Needless to say, we were both a little disturbed by their appetite. Eating dog is inherently wrong … isn’t it? After a little time passed, I decided to ask around, to see how widespread the practice was. “Dog,” my French teacher responded. “Of course we eat dog. It’s tender, oh so tender.”
“What I don’t understand,” he continued, “is why you white people treat dogs like, well, people.”
(I instantly thought of those French dogs sitting on cushions in Parisian cafés.)
I looked around for a leg to stand on.
“Well, I prefer lamb,” I said sheepishly, not honestly being able to compare it to dog. “Lamb,” he replied, astonished. “You eat cute, little lambs.”

Jon

Searching for the paved road

Every other Friday night, a group of missionaries forgo oily rice and eat out together at a restaurant. Last night we went to a Thai restaurant (the only one in Ouaga) located in a new development area.

It is where the wealthy people live; the houses are monstrosities, especially so when compared with the nearby slum suburbs. We drove home via the new freeway interchange, a Western-style engineering feat that seems unnecessary for this city where there are so many other human needs.

This interchange was meant to spit us out at the start of ‘Babanguida’ road, which leads all the way to the suburb where our apartment is located. So we took the assumed exit and followed some cars and motos down a road that became decidedly less road-like and more dirt track.

There were people and shops around, so we figured we were going in the right direction, but none of us really knew where we were. A decision was made to turn left, heading for what looked like a paved road (there are limited paved roads in the capital so if you are on one you generally know where you are).

So we travelled along this bumpy stretch (fortunately we were in a 4WD) for a while, and then took another turn. As we travelled past open shops where groups of men were crowded around a small TV, and women were standing behind their food stall tables with huge pots of rice and beans, a moto (small motorbike) occasionally dashed past us and cyclists rode in front of us to catch the light of the car.

The road became narrower and bumpier, and there didn’t seem to be any sign of a paved road ahead. Eventually, we came to the end of the road, literally. In front of us was a large locked gate with a concrete fence on either side. Around us were small African-style mud brick houses.

So we turned around and went back the way we had come. We convinced ourselves that we would eventually run into a paved road, but privately we were thinking it was just as likely we'd head further from the city and wind up in Mali, Ghana or Niger (granted that would be a full day's drive).

Thankfully, we did, finally, run into a road we recognised. We all breathed a sigh of relief as we drove smoothly (relatively-so) home.

Cathlin

Ageing in Africa

After a quick visit to Australia to see my sister successfully married, I returned to Burkina to meet my new English students (that's students of English, not students from England). As usual, I started the class by getting the students to ask me ten questions, which serves as an introduction and helps me get to know their language level.

As usual, one of the first questions was, 'How old are you?"

"Guess," I replied.

"Forty-six," a student said.

This response is not uncommon, although forty-six was at the upper end of the usual estimates. The response started a conversation about ages, in which they told me how difficult it was to guess the ages of white people.

"Of course it's difficult," one of my students said. "You all look the same."

Jon

"The shoulder is our car"

Recently, I was at the new ministry centre, where we now hold the ESL classes, checking the work that the electrician had done fitting new lights and ceiling fans. He and his assistants walked out with me after I had closed up, and I noticed they had a ladder with them, in addition to their leather 'tool' bags. I was about to get on my bicycle and ride home. They all had their 'motos'. I asked how they would take the ladder away, since they didn't have a car or van. Mr Kaboré, the electrician, responded by patting his shoulder - "the shoulder is our car here in Burkina." And it's true. In a country where a car is a luxury, most people get around on a bicycle (if they are poor) or moto (if they are lucky enough to have a job or an uncle with a job so he can buy it for them) Mostly, it's white people, government people or the very few rich Burkinabé who drive. We do see rusty old delivery vans every now and then, loaded down with so much cargo so that they almost scrape the bottom as they bounce down the dirt road.
So tradespeople improvise, as does anyone else who needs to transport something from one place to another. We see people riding their moto down the bike lane, holding a long metal pole in one hand, so that all other motorcyclists have to keep a safe distance behind for fear of being poked in the eye. Need to transport some car tyres? Sit on your moto, and have your friend place them over your head and stack them around your waist, just leaving enough space so you can manouevre the moto with your hands.
I've even seen two men on a moto, the passenger clutching the handlebars of his bicycle which is being dragged alongside the moto.
Yesterday I did the African thing and rode my bicycle home from the ministry centre, holding a metre-long light globe in one hand. Apart from my white skin, I didn't look at all out of place.

Cathlin

Civil disobedience...Burkinabé-style

Last year, angry bicycle and motorbike riders staged protests by burning things in the streets and knocking down traffic lights. What in the earth caused such a laid-back population to do such a thing?

The waitress at our favourite ice cream bar - and only ice cream bar in town - explained to us recently why people don't wear helmets in Burkina Faso. We were talking about Australia, and how you have to wear a helmet if you ride a bicycle or a motorbike, and she remarked that it's mostly white people who wear helmets in Burkina. She herself owns a helmet but doesn't wear it because it's too hot and, well, it disturbs a woman's carefully coiffed hair (usually extensions or a wig).

We asked her why the government doesn't introduce a law making helmets compulsory, especially when the majority of the adult population uses a 'moto' as their main form of transport (cars are only for the very rich). Apparently, such a law was introduced last year in the capital. However, the people were not happy having this law imposed on them...so they revolted.

Police were given the power to confiscate the moto of any rider who wasn't wearing a helmet. The offender then had to go to a special police station where all the motos were taken, and pay a fine to retrieve their moto. This did not please the Burkinabé, even though the law was put in place to help reduce the number of road accidents (we see them almost every day).

So these unhappy 'moto-ists' staged protests by burning things in the streets and knocking down traffic lights...basically causing havoc until the law was reversed. Perhaps the RTA needs to lend their road safety campaign to this country - 'if you don't need a head, you don't need a helmet.'

Cathlin

Photo: An old mosque in Bobo

As we traveled to the southern city of Bobo-Dioulasso (a five-hour bus ride from the capital) last month, we heard the passengers at the front of the bus gasp.

We then heard a thud, thud, thud... as something, or someone, went under the bus.

We feared we'd just witnessed another useless death on the roads of West Africa, caused by a bus driver going way too fast, swerving around people on bicycles and motos who disobey road rules and don't wear helmets.

Thankfully, somehow, the moto rider survived. After a brief interlude, the bus driver started up the engine again, and hurtled towards Bobo.

On a lighter note, we visited some waterfalls and accompanying forest near Bobo, which are quite remarkable as they are surrounded by hot, dry, dusty sub-Saharan terrain. (Click on the photo below to see some more pics.)

Bobo

The art of negotiation

Most things in Burkina Faso are negotiable, including taxi rides, food, appliances and clothing, to name a few. As a white person (‘nasara’) we can expect the starting price to be three times the real price…which means buying the simplest item takes quite a bit of time, patience and negotiation.

I’ve discovered that westerners living in West Africa take two different approaches to negotiating; they either negotiate passively and pay a premium, or negotiate until they get the African price.

The thinking behind the passive negotiator is that prices aren’t that high anyway, and the vendors don’t make a lot of money, so paying an extra 30 cents for a pineapple is ok (especially for those foreigners enjoying strong home currencies). My wife, and generally all the other nice people I know, fit into this first category.

I (Jon), on the other hand, have adopted the motto, “It’s either the African price, or I’m going elsewhere.” I have a desire - perhaps too big of a desire - to be treated equally and my thinking is that no-one really benefits if you teach someone they can inflate the price on you. The art to this type of negotiation is to keep bargaining until the vendor is happy to let you walk away…then you know you’ve hit the real price (or just under).

You can then go back and buy the item or know for next time what the real price is. The biggest pitfall to this approach is that by refusing to budge you can make life exceptionally difficult for the sake of a dollar (like the time I knocked back a reliable taxi ride to the bus terminal for the sake of $1.50, only to spend a whole afternoon and night wondering whether the cheaper taxi would actually pick us up from our house in the morning).

Interestingly, if the competition watchdog operated in Burkina, it would have to close down many corner stores, because they collude. Vendors are known to work together to protect their premiums. All vendors in a given radius selling the same type of product will almost always have the same ‘real’ price (finding it is the difficult thing)…and they will never undercut another seller. This means you end up with 10 people crowding around you all selling a big bag of peanuts for $2.50, refusing to budge on their price.

I actually think this is a good thing because you do hear of sad stories of people being severely underpaid – in an environment of rising food and petrol prices – because a low-paid job is better than no job. And with so many fruit and vegetable sellers, there is so much power with the buyer that they can potentially negotiate their way to an unfair price.

Jon

Water is life

‘L’eau, c’est la vie’. You often hear this phrase uttered in West Africa. It translates, 'water is life'. Although the expression is self-explanatory, it has even more meaning when you consider the 40-plus degree daytime temperatures and harsh surrounds of this arid Sahel region.

As a Sydney city-dweller, I’d never spent much time considering the attributes of this most precious liquid, as it was just always there. I think Australian farmers 'get it', as do residents of West Africa. It's so important, we even have a couple of missionary friends here who dedicate their lives to locating and drilling for water, so that others may drink.

As if the life-giving attributes of water were not enough, I’ve found it to be a great curing agent. A couple of months ago I awoke from an uncomfortable sleep with an itching sensation on my back. I went to the mirror and lifted my shirt to find my back was covered in huge, red welts (caused by some insect of sorts).

I quickly consulted a medical resource specialising in self-treatment, designed to aid those in isolated locations where there isn’t an abundance of medical supplies. Under the section for welts, it simply recommended running cold water over the affected area. After 15 minutes in a cold shower, my back was almost back to normal. I appreciated water that day.

And, we've found that flushing you body with water will eventually cure just about any stomach bug, even if they are severe. Water is one God-given gift I am very grateful for. Yet, despite all these amazing qualities, I recently contemplated its deficiencies. Namely, it takes about 15 minutes in the African sun for the thirst quenching attributes of water to wear off… then you are thirsty again.

As I pondered this, I thought of the conversation between Jesus and a woman drawing water from a well in John, chapter 4. I can picture Jesus standing over a well under the hot Middle Eastern sun, telling the woman that ‘everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again.’ (Isn’t that the truth, and didn’t the woman know it!) Jesus then adds, ‘…but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst.’

Now that is some water worth thirsting after.

Jon

A different life

If Cathlin and I grew up in a south-western Burkinabe village, and our parents arranged for us to be married, we might live with them in a home like this.

Our aunts and uncles, grandparents and children of any of the aforementioned would live with us (oh happy days). The kids would sleep in the first room of the red, mud-brick structure that leads to the forecourt, and the women would sleep in the adjoining room.

I would sleep next to my father-in-law, brothers, uncles et al upstairs, next to the millet silo. When I or dad-in-law get hungry we’d simply tap on a wooden log, or pillar, that stands in the middle of the house, and goes from the ground to the top storey. Our wives would hear the log vibrating, and come up to see what we were after. Hopefully they’d bring up couscous and sauce, but more likely a millet concoction would have to suffice.

And if I ever have to make a quick escape (perhaps during washing-up time) I can climb down the wooden branch on the right of the picture, without anyone noticing.

Jon

Africa's favourite coffee

On a recent trip to the southern city of Bobo-Dioulasso (a 5-hour bus ride from Ouaga) we found proof of Nescafé's dominance in the African coffee market. [See Jon at left with his dream-sized mug - but not brand - of coffee.] The Ivory Coast produces a lot of coffee, but unfortunately (depending on how much of a coffee snob you are) most of it ends up in the instant coffee tin.

So the ground coffee we buy here is from France, but could originate from the Ivory Coast. There are little coffee bars (not exactly like our idea of a 'café' back home) on every street corner in Ouaga, where instant coffee kept luke-warm in thermoses is sold.

It's almost always the men who are sitting at the bar on the stools, listening to the radio or chatting with the guy behind the bar (the barista?) They only serve Nescafé. Perhaps people believe the spiel on the can of Nescafé coffee: 'drinking coffee in the morning gives you a good mood' and 'experts say that drinking up to 4 cups of coffee a day is not harmful to your health' (or words to that effect)

Note: This large mug, on the side of a busy main road in Bobo, is actually a coffee stand. The part with 'Nescafé' on it folds down creating a little serving window.

Cathlin

Kung Fu Fighting

West Africans have a love affair with Kung Fu movies. When I ride to a near-by village, I go past a hut that is completely covered with straw to stop any light, or prying eyes, pervading the darkness.
The straw, however, does little to stop the noise entertaining scores of people sitting outside. It is the sound of Kung Fu; ‘Pow’, ‘kabow’, ‘ah-yay’ go the films (apologies to batman fans for borrowing his noise descriptions). A mix of amusing dubbed French voices are heard between the exaggerated punching and kicking sounds, which rise and fall according to the importance of the fight (i.e. If it’s the final fight between the good guy wearing white and the bad guy wearing black, the volume is intense).
Amusingly, the unreal movies have a lasting impression on real life Burkina. Namely, people of Asian descent are rarely the target of crime, because there is an assumption they are experts in Kung Fu fighting.
Jon

The approaching storm

[(Photo: I visit a friend who lives in this mud-brick 'house' every week to read the Bible. When you see clouds like this in the late afternoon you have two options; ride home quickly or spend the night. I rode home quickly (takes about 30 minutes), and beat the storm by a matter of seconds.]

If you appreciate a good storm, you’d love this time of year in West Africa.
We experience a downpour every second day which almost always knocks out our electricity for the duration of the storm (not that we mind since watching a storm in the dark is a great past-time).
Rolls of thunder last more than a minute at a time as lightning dances across the sky. The huge trees sway violently as the storm chooses its victims, such as one of our poor, paw paw trees which did its last jig a couple of rains ago.
Aside from the spectacle, the rainy season brings many positives including relief from drought and relief from the heat. Water is plentiful and the temperature drops from the uncomfortable 30s and 40s to the pleasant 20s during a downpour, before the mercury starts climbing again.
Unfortunately, there are some negatives; the mosquitoes come with the rains, which means most of the population experiences bouts of malaria, and the flimsy shelters of the beggars are usually no match for the fury of the storm.
Jon

The reason we are tired

There is a scrap metal yard opposite our house, owned by a Muslim family who live behind the ‘yard’. Most of the time, there are around 20 men working there during the day, banging pieces of metal which will be turned into large cooking cauldrons. The area is littered with old cars, old car parts and anything else that is made of metal and could be used again.

When we got home from our weekly prayer meeting last Wednesday, we noticed that the scrap metal had all been cleared away to one corner, and some marquees were being set up. There were some people sitting on the ground hacking into a meat carcass, which was covered in flies. We asked our guard what was going on, and he said that a wedding was taking place there the next day, with five couples getting married at the same time.

We went to bed to the sounds of earplug penetrating African techno music, which didn’t stop until around 4am. I made some enquiries with the neighbours about how long a Muslim wedding usually lasted. “One week,” I was told.

By 5pm the next day, the end of our street (an intersection, not a cul-de-sac) was completely blocked off as people crowded around the marquees for the entertainment. This consisted of a man ‘singing’ into a microphone, while two other guys chanted into the other mic. It sounded like the Muslim call to prayer, but much louder, and the guy didn’t take a break for seven hours. (Or if he did the changeover was so slick you couldn’t even tell.)

While the man in the middle of the circle did his song – he was exalting the five bridegrooms (we were told) – two guys sat on the ground drumming calabashes. The little girls we often see playing hopscotch outside our place were dancing in the circle, while the crowd clapped. The girls, and the rest of their family members, were all dressed in outfits made from the same fabric. At weddings here in Burkina, the family of the groom chooses a special ‘wedding cloth’ that everyone buys to get their outfit made for the special occasion.

I watched the proceedings for a while, with our young neighbour giving me a running commentary. The excitement of the crowd increased when some of the brides arrived. Their ‘bridal car’ was an old delivery van, preceded by several men speeding up and down the street on their motos, honking their horns and whooping. While everyone crowded around, two of the veiled brides got out of the car and were spirited off inside the compound – perhaps to meet with their grooms in private.

That night, I ended up sleeping at a friend’s place nearby, while Jon stayed at home because he didn’t want to leave the house when there were so many people hanging around. We do have a night guard, but we figured he would probably join in the celebrations instead of watching our house. Jon managed to get to sleep around 1am, only to be woken up by the motos racing around the streets honking their horns until the early hours of the morning.

Cathlin

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WORKER?

Missing: This worker has big ears, large nostrils and a tuft of hair on his head. Many people think he is stupid and stubborn but he is in fact intelligent and focused. APPROACH WITH CAUTION. Witnesses say he is in the later stages of his 30-odd year life, because he was clearly 'graying'.

When this worker goes missing, fields are not plowed, rubbish starts piling up and building materials don't make it to half-finished huts or houses. In Burkina Faso, you often hear about such and such who is in trouble because they have lost their means of income: the donkey.

They are a target for thieves, but they also go AWOL on their own accord if they have a bad owner and an opportunity to escape presents itself (...not so stupid after all).

They are used extensively in the fields, as a cheaper source of labour than oxen and they have many attractive work qualities, such as tough hooves which don't require horse shoes. They also have a great poker face which makes them good with company secrets.

If you do see this missing worker, please contact us right away, as there are plenty of people here looking for their lost donkey.

Jon

Garbage women

It’s around 1pm and the rubbish ladies have just come to collect. Every week, 2 women arrive with their donkey and cart, knock politely on our front gate and then come into our yard with their worn straw mat. They speak no French, and I only a little Moré, so our conversations are short. But gestures transcend spoken language, and I know that on a hot humid day (pretty much every day in Ouaga) they’re asking for water. I bring out a large bottle of chilled water from our fridge, and they drink cup after cup until it’s almost all gone. They smile at me, and laugh kindly when I respond to them in Moré.

One lady appears much older than the other and some of her front teeth are missing. She wears a crucifix around her neck, and both are dressed in worn, dirty clothes. The smell from their open rubbish cart follows them as they take the path beside our house and empty the half-gallon drum that serves as our ‘wheely bin’.

The rubbish goes onto the straw mat, which they lug back down our path, one lady holding either end. The rubbish is dumped onto the pile in their cart, buzzing with flies, while the donkey waits patiently. I wave the ladies goodbye, say ‘barka’ (thank you) and lock the gate after them, wrinkling my nose at the horrible smell. And then I come inside where the air is nicer.

We’ve seen where some of the rubbish gets taken – an open air dump that we have to ride through to get to one of our English classes. At this dump, the ladies arrive and unload their donkey carts then sort through the rubbish to remove what can be re-used (empty cans, plastic bottles etc). We don’t know what happens to the unusable rubbish – it may get buried there on the site, which is right next to the canal where little kids play. I hate riding through this place, because of the smell. But I ride past and then it’s gone. The other people work there, while their kids play amongst the discarded plastic ware, plastic bags and other junk.

We pay the equivalent of $2.50 a month for this once-a-week rubbish collection service. A fairly well-dressed lady comes around at the end of the month, on her bicycle with her baby tied to her back, and collects the money. She is the ‘middle-man’. She collects for a man who runs the business. So we can only speculate how much of that $2.50 goes to the garbage ladies who do the dirty work, who have the stench of rubbish on them all day, and who walk around in the heat urging their donkey to keep going.

Cathlin

Never felt so white

[Photo: Introducing Max - our friend's pet turtle (not a nasara)]

When our neighbours ‘King Davey’ and ‘Boris the Curious’ see us leaving or returning home on our bicycles, they start yelling “nasara, nasara, nasara”.

This means white person in a local language called Moré. For the three and four-year olds, respectively, seeing two white people is an event well worth telling everyone about. They then race over to us and offer a limp hand shake (sometimes forgetting which hand to offer).

Their nicknames – our inventions – are a good description because Davey (le Roi) thinks he owns the street, and Boris (le curieux) is incredibly mischievous and curious. Both are adorable.

Every day, I (Jon) spend a couple of minutes explaining to them my name isn’t in fact ‘nasara’. I repeat my name several times until they join in the game and I think they have memorised it. I then say “bye bye” which is coincidently the same words they use in Moré to say goodbye (not sure of the origins of this, but I presume they have just borrowed the English).

Davey and Boris then say “Bye bye ... (pause) … nasara” before racing off.

For children, the use of the word “nasara” is not an insult; it is simply a funny word. But during a typical day, a couple of adults (mostly young men) will say “nasara” as we walk past, which is meant to insult. Sometimes we stop and try to talk with the people. At other times we simply ignore it and keep walking. (Being referred to as “nasara” really, really bugs Cathlin.)

There is also the extra African francs added to food prices and constant hassling for a hand-out to serve as constant reminders we won’t ever really fit in.

We also have stories of how generous and polite the people are here. The man who guards our house on Sundays while we are at church (great time to rob a missionary), calls me 'le patron' (the boss) despite attempts to get him to call me Jon.

But even though I’ve progressed to warrant the special hand-shake - ends with a click of the fingers - with some of the nationals, and I visit their houses and we spend hours talking, we are all aware our circumstances keep us separated.

It is no doubt the most commonly quoted ‘difficulty’ of being a missionary in the region, even when the missionary has dedicated their entire life to the people.
The experience has, however, helped our ministry enormously. It is a constant reminder that the ultimate goal is to do ourselves out of a job, by training Burkinabé to take over the work.

If the ministry involves teaching English to open job opportunities and help people secure a better future, then we should be teaching potential teachers to take over this work. If the ministry involves sharing the good news of Jesus Christ, then we should be striving to take a back seat by strengthening Burkinabé to take over this work.

Jon

Cure for social ailments

Not dissimilar to finding an amazing medical cure in the middle of the Amazon, we had to go to West Africa to stumble across the solutions to four of life's trickiest situations.

These include: making a dignified departure from a social function; filling an uncomfortable silence during a conversation; running into someone you really should have contacted weeks or months earlier; and appropriate greetings (to kiss or not to kiss).

We've all struggled making a dignified exit from a function, often resorting to blaming a friend or partner for having to leave, because for some reason we feel the need to excuse ourselves.

"[Fill spouse name here] has to get up early tomorrow." Or, "I'm getting a lift with [name of friend] so unfortunately I have to go", are two common exit strategies.

The friend or partner (the blamee) just raises their eyebrows with a look of sorrow, then mouths the word 'sorry' ...pause...then 'thank you' to the host before heading for the door, which works well in a crowded event.

In Burkina Faso, the etiquette is to say, "Je demande la route", which literally translates to "I am asking the way/direction". The host ignores the statement two times, but after the third time the host says, "Je vous accord la route" ("I agree to give you the way")

The host then walks the guest to the door or gate. Everyone is aware of the etiquette, so there is no need to come up with a parting statement or excuse.

The Burkinabé have also come up with a way to make sure a potentially awkward silence is filled. "On est là, on est ensemble", translates, "We are here, we are together."

It is a statement used to reaffirm 'togetherness' and can be dropped into a conversation at any time, and several times if needs be.

Then there is that unplanned encounter with someone you feel guilty for not having contacted earlier.

In Burkina this is not a problem at all. You just say, "Ca fait deux jours". This translates, "It makes two days", meaning we haven't seen each other in two days. You can say this regardless of how long the absence has been...it may have been several years, but you still greet each other with "Ca fait deux jours".

Perfect.

Finally, the question of whether you greet with a kiss, a hug (half hug or full hug) or shake hands never raises its head here.

You shake hands with everyone. Be it your wife, husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, boss, shop assistant, mother or random guy down the street...you only shake hands.

Jon

It's Fada than it looks

Thanks to Rob Smith for the witty headline (others may say it's a dad joke, but it works...and Rob's a dad so it is permitted).

We've put up a couple of pics taken during our time in Fada, which is less than 200km from Niger. We walked up 'Fada Mountain' (not its real name), and got a taste for the African plains.

The mountain is kind of like a small-scale Uluru. On the way up, we passed a hut where people sacrifice animals as part of their rituals. Sadly, we were told albino babies (human) are sometimes sacrificed.


I was quite sick in Fada (please see blog post below), but feeling much better now. 'Prescription only' notices on drugs are ignored here - you can get most drugs over the counter at the pharmacy, which is often open 24 hours...handy if you were to get an onset of malaria at 3am.

Cathlin (click on the photo below for more pics)

It's Fada than it looks (July '08)

The ride home

As the passenger’s head flopped to one side, looking for a shoulder to fall asleep on, and a father nursing a child used my leg for support, one thought ran through our heads.

“I’m so glad it’s Sunday morning.”

The bus ride back from Fada – a little town four hours drive from our home in Ouagadougou – provided a great African experience… we hope not to repeat in the near future.

To understand just how uncomfortable this trip was, I first have to rewind a couple of weeks, and provide a bit of background.

Cathlin and I have spent the last 10 days in Fada; one week of which was spent running an English/Bible outreach course for 17 students. Not long after we arrived Cathlin came down with what we thought was malaria, creating our most challenging week on the mission field thus far.

Without the medical facilities of the capital city, missionaries self-diagnose and-self treat in Fada. Showing all the signs of malaria – fever, headaches, and several other symptoms – we started the appropriate treatment, while making last minute plans to keep the course going, with three different missionaries taking over Cathlin’s classes.

Cathlin’s temperature returned to normal after some medication, which we thought was a sign of a quick recovery… but then the vomiting started.

So we were left with the decision: do we make a dash to return to the capital to get properly diagnosed, or start treating for a different ailment?

Convinced the four-hour bus trip was out of the question, we stayed put (and finished teaching the course), changed medication, and waited until Sunday morning to make the journey… as Cathlin was feeling a bit better.

But when we arrived at the bus terminal, the old mini-bus was already close to capacity, which meant we were in the aisle. There were some flimsy fold-out chairs, so we were able to sit down… however we had to stand up at every stop to let people climb past, and leg room was non-existent.

At every stop, people would crowd around the bus, selling everything from cold water to eggs and hot chicken to passengers.

So, I was uncomfortable, but healthy… and Cathlin was uncomfortable and feeling miserable. But throughout the journey we were thinking the exact same thing: “I’m so glad it’s Sunday morning.”

Why?

Well, deodorant is a luxury item here, and Saturday night is shower night.

(This may sound like we are having a bit of fun at the Burkinabe expense, but in this humidity and heat, body odor can be extreme... and there are times you simply need to leave an enclosed space.)

For the record, Cathlin is recovering, but still weak… so if you believe in the power of prayer… please pray for her.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t take pictures of our plight, as it would have been culturally inappropriate… but just imagine two white people crammed into a 24-seater, carrying about 30 Africans… and you’ll get the picture.

Jon

You gotta see me bike

Don’t be duped by the pale blue … some would say ‘sky blue’… paint-job. She’s an absolute beauty.

The basket might also have a feminine look about it, but I can tell you it’s so I can carry me heavy-duty tools. And the speed … you gotta see how quick she is. She goes from 0-100 metres an hour in less than 10 secs.

Couple of mates heard some guys talking about seeing some lightning the other night … I reckon they saw me fly by and was confused, coz I've been carving up the streets of West Africa.

Still got some tinkering to do. When I’m done it’ll be fully sick.

Jon

Tear-gas Tuesday

Jon was at his usual Tuesday morning French class, revising verbs, when he heard what sounded like gunshots. His tutor turned on the radio and said (in French) "No need to worry, it's only tear-gas. And the problem (a student demonstration) is a long way away...it's at the university."

"But we live next door to the uni," Jon replied, "and my wife is at home... alone." So he hopped on his feminine-looking pale blue bicycle and raced home.

After a bad night's sleep, I was still in bed...I figured the shots were fireworks. (Jon was slightly amused I was still in bed.) We started to smell the tear gas as it wafted into our yard. So we shut our windows and checked our front gate was locked, then Jon peeked over the fence to see students running down the street, chased by authorities.

We don't have a radio, or TV, so didn't know what was happening but we didn't feel unsafe and the neighbour's kids were still making loads of noise playing outside. At the height of excitement, we heard a knock on the front gate. After peering over the top of the gate, Jon unlocked the entrance to allow two women and their donkey in, who come every week to collect the rubbish. The day's activities weren't going to stop the rubbish collectors doing their job.

We received a couple of phone calls from friends (and one local minister) just advising us that everything was fine, but better to stay indoors, so we went about our ESL preparations (it was test night Tuesday night for our 70-odd ESL students).

Things quietened down, and our friend who lives nearby came past in her car and invited us for lunch. She lives right near the entrance to the uni, so was even closer to the protest. Her housekeeper had freaked out when the students tried to push their way through the gate into the property, as they were trying to hide. So she went and hid under the bed! We thought this was kind of funny, but she was obviously scared something bad was going to happen.

We ate lunch together and things were starting to heat up again, so we stayed for a siesta at her place. We were a bit anxious about getting home as we hadn't finished preparing the tests for our students (warning against procrastination!). When we eventually walked home late in the afternoon people were just hanging around on the streets like they do everyday.

Our friend told us to pack an overnight bag as we may need to stay somewhere else, but everything was fine, and our classes weren't cancelled and all the students came for the test (some even came early, for once!).

Cathlin

Cereal wars - which one is home-made?

Breakfast cereals are really expensive here in Burkina - a small box of basic (ie. not Kelloggs) rice/wheat flakes costs about $5 and it isn't even that tasty. Kelloggs cereals are sometimes on special here (when they're about to expire) for about $7.50 a box. So, as you can imagine, we don't buy cereal. We've been exploring other breakfast options, and Jon has made many a batch of muesli with loads of dried mango, coconut and pineapple (cheap and available everywhere here). Can you guess which one is his muesli, and which is the cereal I used to eat in Paris (for special treats only), that I'm missing a bit?

Working with poverty

We were sitting outside, preparing our ESL lessons for the evening class, when we heard the front gate open, which was unlocked because we had lots of visitors that morning. Before we had a chance to assess the situation, a man – shabbily dressed – was standing in front of us, showering us with French greetings, which is the local way of being polite. In quick succession he asked: How are you? How is the family? How is the house? Did you sleep well? Are you having a good day?

He said he knew the previous missionary who lived in the house (and provided his name), and that the missionary was a ‘god parent’ of sorts, who took care of him in Ouagadougou. He said he had just arrived from a town up north and didn’t know anyone else. He said he was sick, and needed money for heart medication urgently. He showed me some scars and empty medication.

Missionaries in this part of the world are faced with this type of situation every day, and unfortunately, there’s no set of rules on how to deal with it. Sometimes it is a young student wanting some money to pay school fees. Logically, you may ask why not contact the school or pharmacy and see if they are legitimate requests. But the school or medical clinic may be a long way away (as things invariably are here), and may not even have telephones.

Some of the giving guidelines used by people in Western countries don’t work here; for example I know it makes sense in Australia not to hand out money, but perhaps support social services that look after the needy. But what do you do when social services are minimal, or not there?

Usually the sums of money being requested are anywhere from the equivalent of 25 cents to $20. This man at our doorstep was asking for $7.50. As the price of food and essential living costs rise, the frequency of these visits are expected to rise.

To complicate matters, if you do give money and it’s a con, you can expect to receive the reputation of being a soft target and be inundated with requests. On the other hand, you may say no to someone who desperately needed that money, when you had the resources to help. Some missionaries have beautiful stories of, for example, giving some money to a young girl who said she needed money for school fees, who becomes one of the few women in the region to receive an education.

The Bible warns in James chapter 2 not to wish someone in need well, and do nothing about his physical needs. Also, Matthew 25 reads: 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?' He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.'

For the record, after speaking for several minutes with this man, his story started to change, and the amount of money that the medication cost fluctuated. He also became aggressive (but we weren't sure if this was a sign of desperation or a bully tactic). We sought some advice from a missionary friend on the telephone, and ultimately decided to feed him, but not give him any money.

We have no idea if we did the right thing.

Jon

The heavens opened...

Yesterday we experienced our first downpour...and it lasted for hours. The storm began on Sunday morning while we were sweating in our seats listening to a sermon at church. We saw the wind whipping up the dust in a frenzy, and people rushed to close the windows before they banged shut (obviously they've learnt from experience as some panes were already cracked).

The pastor tried to keep his flock on track, but he had a hard job, competing with the wind and rain while the children tumbled back into the building from their outdoor Sunday school classroom. But he soon adjusted to the conditions and added an extra 30 minutes to the sermon (because no-one could leave if they wanted to).

When we finally got out of church it was like stepping into a new world, such was the difference in temperature. I (Cathlin) actually had goose bumps on my arms from the fresh chill in the air! It was a wonderful feeling, to be cold.

Meanwhile, the streets had been transformed into rivers so we waded home through the murky water, trying not to think about what we were stepping in. Only the main roads and downtown streets are paved in Ouaga, so when it rains dusty streets disappear. It was eerily quiet on our way home. Life stops when it rains here, as the Burkinabé think they'll get a cold if they go out... and if they get sick they won't be able to go to work (or afford a doctor) and so will lose their income.

As we approached our house the neighbourhood watch (kids in our street) came to greet us. Some were dressed in long-sleeved tops and jackets, even though after the initial chill the temperature had since risen back into the mid-twenties.

I saw one guy in a beanie. Crazy stuff. One little kid had improvised a rain hat by perching a large hessian flour bag on his head. Jon went out in the rain to take photos (that's our street in the pic above) and entertain the kids.

In our street - Jon & kids

This is him in the brightest shirt I've managed to get him to wear. The bucket was my idea to collect rain water for our water filter...then the kids came in and washed their hands in it. Oh well. We were so thankful for the beautiful rain.

Cathlin

African church ululation

We've visited 3 different churches here in Ouaga, and each one has lived up to my expectations of African worship - lively, joyful and with a smattering of dance moves. Oh, and women ululating (long, high-pitched sounds) at any given moment. It's all a lot of fun to be part of. The first church we visited was a Baptist one up the road from our place. It was quite large, with ceiling fans, a data projector, full band and a choir in matching 'uniform'. The music was great, and everyone around us (who wasn't white, which was most people) knew all the actions to the songs. I found myself wriggling my hips along with the rest of them - you just feel stupid standing there motionless.

The 2nd week we went with some missionaries to a church which is part of the 'Evangelical Churches' union here and is supported by SIM (our mission organisation). It was a long car ride away in a village-like setting where everyone lives in mud brick houses. This church was a world away from the Baptist one of the previous week's visit. The church was a simple small building with backless benches for seats, and mats on the floor for the kids. Instruments were improvised and sounded fantastic! I don't think they even do music rehearsal before church. One guy played a bongo drum, and just picked up a beat after the ladies in the choir started singing. Another guy sat on a wooden box and played it like a drum. So natural!

Jon committed a cultural faux pas by sitting down with me on the left side - only to realise that he was surrounded by women and all the men were sitting on the right side. Thankfully another missionary couple came in, and sat together on the women's side. They whispered some helpful advice, that it was sometimes good to break with tradition and show others that it is more important to keep families together. Jon stayed put.

The whole service was in French and Moore (pronounced 'moray'), which is the dialect most spoken in Ouaga. The songs were all in Moore and there were no song books (and obviously no data projector). This church was obviously poorer than the Baptist one, but the people were very welcoming. Everyone wanted to shake our hand afterwards, and we had to stand up and introduce ourselves during the service.

Yesterday we went with some other missionaries to another SIM church that meets in someone's garage. They were having a special 'women's day' where women from all the SIM churches in Ouaga come together and perform in their choirs. It means a much longer service than normal...try 4 hours, from about 8am to midday. The church association prints special fabric to celebrate such events, so it looked like a lot of people were in uniform. But such a cool uniform it is - 'Jesus saves' and selected Bible verses are printed on the fabric.

The service was long and the room was hot. I carry a straw fan with me, and a large bottle of water, while the Africans carry neither. Again the service was in French and Moore, and again there were really unique instruments. One lady carried a large bowl with cowrie shells attached to its rim. She threw this repeatedly in the air in time to the music, spinning it slightly as she threw. A man clanged 2 pieces of metal together - with rhythm.

The visiting pastor spoke in Moore (with a French translator) about the importance of forgiveness, as the theme for the day was 'pardon'. He was dressed for the occasion in a white shirt and sparkly-striped vest and bow tie.

And Jon sat with the women again.

Cathlin

Mammoth mangoes (and other food) in Ouaga

It’s 4pm and 28 degrees in our bedroom, where we’ve just had the air con on for about 1.5 hours. The rest of the house feels like a sauna. In fact, I don’t need to moisturise my skin much here as the humidity is enough. We got up from our siesta about half an hour ago. Jon, who has always been a great napper, loves the daily siesta, and I am slowly taking to it. Not everyone takes a siesta here, and we don’t always, but it is a nice break in the heat of the day, especially if we have risen early to beat the heat.

It's 2 weeks into our stay and we have so much we could write. There have been ups and downs, especially for me. Mostly feelings of acute culture shock because everything is so different here; which is not a bad thing, it’s just that it requires more time to get used to. The heat is really intense, zapping our energy so that a trip to the market to get fruit is about all we can handle for a few hours. Once I realised that everyone sweats a lot here, and thus smells a lot too, I felt more comfortable! The heat is intense, and seems unbearable at times…and then we remember that we have the blessing of fans in the lounge room, air con in the bedroom, and a fridge - and our next door neighbours don’t have any of those. To them, we live in absolute luxury.

Our neighbours have become some of our first Burkinabe friends. Pictured here is Raqieta (pronounced ‘Racketta’), whom I met on my way to the market the other day, as she was sitting outside her house and asked me if I wanted her company. Shopping with a local is much better as she tells me when I’ve been given an inflated price by the vendors (there’s a ‘white’ price and an ‘African’ price). She’s helped me buy some fabric to take to the tailor to get clothes made. There are tailors (always male as far as we’ve seen) everywhere in Burkina, perhaps as much as there are boulangeries/patisseries in Paris.

Raquieta lives with 9 other people including her “uncle” (not her real uncle but somehow in the family) Jean, who is our night guard. All the children who hang around their house (some live there, some across the road) call out ‘Nasara’ whenever we walk past. This means ‘white thing’ in one of the local dialects. Burkinabe kids find us hilarious and fascinating, because we have pale skin and straight hair (they often line up to shake our hands). One girl even asked me if my hair was real – women here sometimes wear wigs of straight black hair so she assumed mine must be a wig too!

Last night, Raqieta was making the African staple food, ‘To’ (pronounced ‘toe’) for her family. They eat this most nights. It’s a dish with corn flour and water that is stirred until it becomes thick like porridge, and is eaten with a sauce that’s similar to our gravy. Sometimes they have pieces of meat in the sauce. I took some photos of Raqieta preparing the ‘To’, and of her family. They love getting photos, but we ask permission each time in case it offends them. There is a belief among many Burkinabe that when a white person takes a photo, they are going to take it back to their country and use it to make/raise money (so we can't just walk around town taking snaps). See photos of our neighbours and our house here:

First pics in Ouaga

So we tried our first real Burkinabe meal, and it wasn’t at all bad. Raquieta brought some ‘To’ over to our place and stayed with us on our porch as we ate it. We got her to try some Vegemite and the verdict was ‘good’ – although Burkinabe are very polite so we don’t know for sure if she really liked it.

The food that we generally eat here is not too different from home in some ways. We just have to be more resourceful and adapt recipes because you can’t buy all the ingredients that you’d get at home.

Because many imported foods like cereal and yoghurt are so expensive here, we’ve begun making our own. Jon made a great batch of muesli this week, complete with dried pineapple, banana chips (yum!) and coconut shavings. I’ve learnt how to make yoghurt – because it’s so hot here you just leave the mixture to incubate on the kitchen bench for 6 hours then pop it in the fridge!

Unfortunately we don’t think we’ll be able to make our own ice cream. In the shops a regular brand from France costs about $20 a litre.

We get really cheap mangoes, tomatoes and avocados from the markets – about 30 cents for a mango. The huge one pictured at the top of this post is a 'pineapple mango' – so it tastes like a combination of the two. We also have some mango trees in our front yard.

All salad and unpeeled fruit and veges have to be washed in a bleach solution here, and then rinsed in filtered water (because of all sorts of bacteria). The first time I did this I left the lettuce for too long (over 10 mins) and it tasted terrible! As a result we don’t eat much salad and prefer fruit that we peel first.

There is a meat market just 2 mins from our house. Every morning at about 8-9am meat that has been freshly killed arrives here and the butchers chop it up and sell it throughout the morning (and sometimes into the afternoon). The meat market is a huge shed with glass-less windows and no refrigeration. As such, we’ve been told to only get meat there early in the morning before the flies get to it. Outside the meat ‘shed’ vultures wait patiently for the butchers to throw the scraps they can’t sell onto the ground. When this happens, 8 or more vultures nose dive from the roof of the house opposite and fight it out for their prize. They really are ugly creatures up close.

We ventured out one night in search of food as we didn’t have the makings of a meal in our fridge. People operate open-air food stalls where you bring your own bowl and buy rice or cous cous and some kind of sauce for about $1 all up. We’re not sure what’s in the sauce so haven’t dared to try it yet, but will do so when we can go with a local. They also sell a lot of dried fish from the coastal countries, which we’ve been told to stay away from. The one time we have had fish here was in a restaurant and it was ‘safe’ – it was a type called ‘capitaine’ in French (no idea what this is in English).

There is a man here who sells and delivers baked goods to many of the missionaries. We ordered from him this week and were so excited to discover his ‘German hamburgers’. These are white round buns with a filling of savoury mince and cabbage baked into the middle. I think they’re going to be a weekly lunch order for us.

We've been having power cuts most days around lunch time (but before siesta time!) so we keep lots of frozen water bottles in our fridge to keep our food cold. The cuts don't usually last more than 20 minutes, but can go up to 4 hours.

Casualties of the power cuts, to date, include a tub of yoghurt and some cheese.

Cathlin

Thank God for the geckos.

We arrived at our new home to find geckos on the walls, in the cupboards, in the pots and pans, in the toilet and just about everywhere else. While I’m not against geckos per se (I think they have attractive qualities such as very cool web feet), living in such close proximity is a little unsettling, especially when they come near your cereal bowl.
At the time of our arrival, I was reading a book about Corrie Ten Boom; a woman who was placed in the concentration camps after becoming active in the Dutch underground. She also helped protect Jewish people during WWII (thank you to those who gave Cathlin the book). Corrie records her sister (who took part in the same work and went to the same camp) giving thanks to God when discovering there were fleas in the concentration camp sleeping quarters.
Why did they give thanks? Because the Bible says in 1 Thessalonians to “give thanks in all circumstances”, and they trusted that God was in control of the dire situation. Turns out, the guards stayed away from the sleeping quarters because of the fleas, leaving the prisoners free to read, be comforted and teach from their “illegal” Bible.
I thought I too could give thanks to God ... but this time for the lizardy creatures (of course I’d prefer geckos 100-times over to fleas.)
The next day I was advised they are great to have in the house because they eat mosquitoes and other insects that carry some of the most-feared diseases in Africa.
So, thank God for the geckos. They can share my cereal anytime.

Jon

Settling into Ouagadougou

The scrap metal collectors are just outside our front gate, the meat market on the corner comes complete with swooping vultures, there are shanty-style shops all around and a row of beggars just down the street.
Some chickens are running around our front yard, and there are goats and oxen kicking up dust outside, near the 10 or so people seeking shade under the biggest tree on the street.
Any romantic notions we tied to Burkina before arriving have quickly disappeared, and we have been busy adjusting to life in one of the poorest countries in the world.
The heat and humidity, as we expected, are extreme (it was 30 deg-plus when we touched down in Ouagadougou at 3am one week ago), which will take some getting used to. However, we're thankful for the air con in our bedroom - we couldn't sleep without it.
After spending a couple of days in the missionary compound, we've moved into a house about 10 minutes away, which was being used by another Australian missionary who is back home for a few months.
Along with discovering the necessities to life in Burkina (buying food from the local markets, getting a working water filter, hand washing clothes in large tubs et al), last week we met the students to whom we will be teaching English, and the Bible. We are both teaching classes this Tuesday and Thursday, and Cathlin will be taking over the running of the ESL program (there's six classes of about 15 students each), on top of the teaching role.
I (Jon) am spending some time tomorrow (Monday) learning about the computer outreach work, where Burkinabe are trained in using Word, Excel and the Internet, and are exposed to the Gospel during the training.
There are 100-other ministry opportunities that we will learn more about in due time.
We have just experienced our first dust storm (and are very thankful to the missionary who called us just in time to tell us to close all our windows), but unfortunately the anticipated cooling rain didn't come, leaving the temperature in the high 30s on a Sunday evening.

Jon & Cathlin

Frankie goes to Ouagadougou

We're due to leave Paris, for Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso), in a couple of hours, and thought we'd take the opportunity to publish one last post from France...and reflect on its peculiarities.

We sometimes like to watch the French equivalent of ‘Who wants to be a Millionaire’ so we can practice our French and learn some random facts at the same time. One of the questions the other night was dead easy: In 1984 which group released the hit single ‘Relax’?

Among the four potential answers, one caught our eye. "Frankie goes to Ouagadougou". (The contestant did guess the correct answer, which was, of course "Frankie goes to Hollywood".)

We also took the opportunity to visit a few sights during our last couple of days. One of those sites we walked past was a cafe called "Les Deux Magots", situated in the Latin Quarter. Aside from its unusual name, it is famous for being the cafe of choice for many of France's literary heros (Albert Camus et al) during the past half-century or so.

However, one thing we know for sure is that the next great literary work won't be penned at "Les Deux Magots", unless the writer comes from the aristocracy, due to its now exceptionally pricey menu.

One of the many observations of French life is the status of the baguette. It’s not a myth that in France you see people walking around at midi (lunchtime) and in the evenings with a baguette wrapped in a bit of paper. It’s a daily ritual to buy ‘le pain’, and boulangeries (bakeries) take their bread baking very seriously.

On our walks around Paris we’ve noticed two separate boulangeries that proudly advertise in their window that they have won the prize for the ‘best baguette in Paris’ (and this is not like the much-touted ‘best coffee in Sydney’ claim, this is official) or another that boasts of being the official supplier of bread to the French President. In the display window there is even a letter from one of Sarkozy’s aides thanking the bakery for their bread.

Can you imagine Michel’s Patisserie publicising the fact that they supply Kevin Rudd with his sliced bread?

Jon & Cathlin