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